Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15)

by Hamilton Crane

  Foxon uttered a choking cry. “Picture, sir!” Brinton shot him a hostile glance. Foxon ignored it. “Couldn’t we, sir? Ask her, I mean. You were probably thinking of it in your subconscious anyway, sir, and—”

  “No.” The way Brinton uttered that single syllable suppressed Foxon in a way he’d rarely been suppressed before. The look in his superior’s eyes startled him.

  There was a long pause. Foxon hardly dared to breathe. Brinton wrenched his thoughts back from whatever worrying byway they’d been wandering in, and favoured his young colleague with a thoughtful stare.

  “Well, you may be right after all, laddie. About two heads being better than one, I mean—but,” as Foxon opened a tentative mouth to speak, “I can’t agree with you about whose head the other ought to be. I said at the start of all this I didn’t want Miss Seeton involved—and, if it comes down to someone from her own village being a suspect, I want it even less. Just imagine if Chummie is Colveden, and she helps us nail him. How’s the poor old biddy going to feel about facing his parents and the rest of the village once word gets round? Because it would—and pretty damned fast, as well you know. At her age, she can do without that sort of bother.” Brinton sighed. “I’ll take half of your advice, though—the sensible half. You’d like me to consult someone who knows what makes young Nigel tick? Get me the Yard on the blower, will you—and if the Oracle’s not there, I don’t want to talk to anybody else.”

  “Not even Bob Ranger, sir?” enquired Foxon, picking up the receiver to ask for an outside line.

  Brinton shook his head. “For at least two good reasons, laddie. One, in working hours it’s pretty much a case of where the Oracle goes, Ranger goes with him, so if one’s not there, the other won’t be, either. And two, Ranger’s more of an age with young Colveden, like you. Your precious Miss Seeton would know what I mean when I say I’d like a different perspective . . .”

  The different perspective had to wait. Scotland Yard informed Detective Constable Foxon of Ashford that Chief Superintendent Delphick and Detective Sergeant Ranger were working on a drugs investigation, weren’t in the office, and wouldn’t be back in the office until later. Later that same day, yes; as to how much later, no, it wasn’t possible to say. Would anyone else do in their absence? In that case, would DC Foxon care to leave a message? Very well, Mr. Delphick would be asked to ring Superintendent Brinton at Ashford just as soon as—

  The disembodied voice broke off. “Superintendent Brinton,” it said again, with a chuckle. “Ashford. That’s in Kent, isn’t it? Something to do with, er, umbrellas?”

  “Mr. Brinton wants it made clear to the chief superintendent,” said Foxon firmly, “that this has got nothing to do with Miss Seeton. Nothing at all, understand?”

  But Foxon found it hard to sound convincing when he didn’t believe it himself; and the gleeful voice from Scotland Yard obviously didn’t believe him, either.

  A lesser man might have sat and counted the minutes before Delphick phoned him back; Brinton had no intention of wasting them. With the timetable of Nigel’s recent activities—as far as the young man had been able to recall them—in front of him, the superintendent detailed as many officers as he could spare to undertake some discreet checking. He told the desk to put through no calls unless they had a direct bearing on the Blonde in the Bag case. By half past six, after a series of inconclusive reports, he was on his third packet of peppermints; and when the telephone at last tinkled on its cradle, he snatched it up long before it had time to emit a proper ring.

  “Hello? Oracle!” Brinton clutched at his hair. “Where have you been, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Out,” replied Delphick, who could tell his friend didn’t much care where or why he’d gone, but needed to let off steam. “How are things with you, Chris? What’s Miss Seeton been getting up to now?”

  Brinton closed anguished eyes as Foxon, listening on the extension, snickered. “She hasn’t been getting up to anything. Didn’t they tell you I said she’s out of it?”

  “They did.” There was amusement in Delphick’s voice. “I found it hard to credit, however, knowing her usual. . . shall we say proclivities, when there is major crime in the vicinity? Not to mention minor crime, on occasion—though I take it”—he became serious at once—“you don’t wish to chat about petty theft, or our old friends the Choppers going off the rails. The newspapers have given me sufficient warning, over the past day or so, that you’re still preoccupied at present with one particular major case—or sack, I suppose one could say. Or bag.”

  Brinton sighed. “The Blonde in the Bag, Oracle, guessed it in one. And a regular nasty one it is, too.”

  “The details I’ve gleaned from the papers have certainly lent to that supposition. Do I take it that it’s the sheer unpleasantness of the whole affair which prompts you to keep Miss Seeton out of it? It’s a kind thought, if you’re thinking of her nerves, but Miss Seeton’s nerves are—”

  “Oh, I admit it was, to begin with. I didn’t fancy the blame for giving the poor old trout nightmares and a nervous breakdown, looking for lunatic knifemen under the stairs and in the cupboards because I asked her to take a gander at the scene-of-crime snaps—but that isn’t the half of it, now. Because now . . . well, we’ve got a suspect in the frame.”

  “You sound,” said Delphick, as Brinton fell silent, “rather less than overjoyed at this circumscription. Might one enquire as to the reason for such gloom?”

  Brinton took a deep breath. “The suspect . . .” He would never have believed it could be so difficult to say. “Well—remembering that he is only a suspect, Oracle—he . . . he comes from Plummergen.”

  “In which case, I should have thought you could nail him easily without needing to trouble Miss Seeton, even though I would say her nerves were more than equal to—”

  “It’s a friend of hers, Oracle!”

  There was a startled silence. Brinton took another deep breath. “It’s young Nigel Colveden—yes, I know,” as both Delphick and Bob, listening in at his superior’s request, exclaimed. “A friend of yours, too—of Foxon’s, dammit. You could even say of mine, come to that. But the more I look into it, the blacker things seem against the lad . . .”

  Having broken the bad tidings, he was now better able to tell the tale in full. He told of the three witnesses, and their positive identification of one who’d only been roped into the identity parade by chance. He told of the hurried enquiries into Nigel’s almost nonexistent alibi . . .

  “Says he can’t really prove what he was doing most of the time last week, especially not the night of the murder. They’re pretty busy on the farm right now. Easy for him to slip away if he wanted—everyone’d just think he was somewhere else if they didn’t see him around for a while. The trouble is, he’s a good farmer, Oracle. He could easily put on a burst of speed to catch up on the time he’d missed before anyone noticed he’d skived off those couple of hours. His father was sitting on the bench all week to replace someone whose lumbago’s giving ’em gyp—the men’d never dream of doubting the boss’s son, so long as the work was seen to be done in the end—and as for this rubbish about his car breaking down on Thursday night . . .”

  “The night of the murder.” Delphick’s tone was calm, his words unhurried. He, like Brinton, found it almost impossible to see Nigel Colveden as a killer; but step by steady step was, he knew, the only way to clear any sort of path to the truth through the tangles of circumstantial evidence. “What does he say he was doing?”

  “Fixing his car,” said Brinton.

  “Oh, dear.” Delphick knew as well as Brinton the value of mechanical problems as an alibi—unless—

  “Did he call on either of the motoring organisations to help him?”

  “He didn’t, more’s the pity. He says after so many years he knows that MG inside out, and if he hadn’t dropped his torch, he’d have done it in half the time. But he did, and he didn’t—and he says he doesn’t remember that anyone passed him on the road, either
. It was a pretty out-of-the-way spot. He couldn’t even find it on an Ordnance Survey map when I asked him, not for certain, though he knows there was a bit of a slope because he had to push-start the car after he’d sorted out the dynamo brushes. All he can say is that he never got as far as Wisborough Green, which is where he was headed—something to do with the lawn mower race the Young Farmers are running on Saturday. It’s pretty well in the middle of nowhere, over in Sussex. Nigel says that by the time he’d sorted out the car, he was filthy with oil, and thoroughly fed up, so he turned right round and went home, and rang the bloke he was supposed to meet from the Hall to apologise, and to fix another day.”

  “You’ve checked with the Sussex boys in blue in case they spotted him, of course.”

  Brinton was too preoccupied to take offence at what might have been a slur on his professional abilities. “Had a word with Harry Furneux at Hastings. No joy, unfortunately. Well, in view of what Nigel said it was always going to be a long shot—and Harry’s crowd were all having fun and games Bedgebury way, right on the county border. A load of youngsters who sound like second cousins to our Choppers blocked off some of the back roads and started racing their bangers and bikes round the place like lunatics, and Harry’s lads had the devil’s own job chasing ’em. They missed a few of the blighters in the dark—but they wouldn’t have missed a broken-down MG if it had been anywhere near, which if he was heading for Wisborough Green, it wouldn’t. Assuming he’s telling the truth about where he thinks he was in the first place, that is.”

  “Chris, I know as well as you the perils of letting personal prejudice come into it, but suppose we give Nigel the benefit of the doubt, for the moment. What about when he finally completed his repairs and reached home? There’s little point in talking to the man he was going to see, of course—if Nigel is guilty, he could have telephoned from anywhere to set up his alibi. But are his parents able to confirm what time he arrived?”

  “He got home before them. Sir George was sick-visiting the lumbago bloke, to tell him how many cases they’d cleared, or whatever. Lady Colveden was at some meeting about the Christmas pantomime, and it got a bit heated, or so she apparently told everyone next day, so she was late getting back. Young Nigel says he didn’t bother waiting for either of them: he had a hot bath, fixed himself a nightcap, and went to bed. He was asleep before his parents got in—he says,” he added, reluctantly.

  “And at his age,” mused Delphick, “they wouldn’t bother checking to see if he was safely tucked up, of course. This could be difficult, Chris.”

  “Difficult? That’s the understatement of the year, Oracle. His father’s a magistrate. The family’s respected. The lad’s never been in any bother, even as a youngster, and on paper he seems the most unlikely person . . . but you know what that’s worth, in real life. He’s a bright bloke. He’s as capable of working out an alibi as anyone, and better than most, I’d have said. Myrtle was picked up from the bus stop around half past five—well, we’ve already established he could skip from the farm and nobody would notice. As for seeing this man Gavin, what better alibi could there be, if you look at it from Nigel’s point of view? The sun sets,” he added, as Delphick drew breath to expostulate, “quarter or half past six, this time of year, remember. Nobody with any sense expects a working farmer to visit them until it’s dark—and, as he never even got there . . .”

  Delphick was silent for some time. Bob, slowly recovering from the shock of knowing that someone he’d partnered in a cricket match was a murder suspect, ventured—London was, after all, several miles out of missile range—to ask why Mr. Brinton had so strong a wish not to consult—he begged Mr. Brinton’s pardon—Miss Seeton about this unhappy turn of events. Foxon smothered a chuckle, but Brinton, for once, neither groaned nor cursed.

  “Your dear adopted Aunt Em, Sergeant Ranger, is, despite her unholy ability to chuck herself in and out of adventures and come out unscathed, an elderly woman. Even before this thing with Nigel Colveden, I didn’t want to upset her by involving her in something quite so nasty—and now, well, I still think we’re better off not involving her. Never mind how awkward it could be for her in the village if he’s guilty, just imagine taking her as a . . . as a character witness, if that’s what you call her drawing nonsense. It may be instinctive, or remote control, whatever you want to call it—but catch her subconscious letting her spill the beans about someone she’s fond of, even if he did it fifty times over!”

  Brinton did not see the gesture with which Delphick silenced a protesting Bob, though he heard the sergeant’s sharp intake of breath. It was Delphick’s voice which now spoke in his ear.

  “I dislike contradicting you, Chris, but I think you’re wrong, in this instance—oh, I don’t mean about suspecting Nigel, because with what you’ve got I’d suspect him myself. There’s more than enough circumstantial evidence to make him a likely candidate for further investigation, implausible a killer though he seems—but as for Miss Seeton, I really must disagree with you. Her overriding quality, remember, is her conscience. Her strong sense of duty would never allow her to . . . to perform any kind of whitewash, even if she wanted, which I’m convinced she wouldn’t. And neither would her subconscious, which is where her undeniably useful gift seems to spring from. You could do a great deal worse than have a quiet word with her about all this—no need to go into too many details, if you’re bothered about upsetting her, though I honestly don’t see that as a problem. It’s my opinion Miss Seeton hasn’t a . . . a nerve, or a spark of imagination, whatever you want to call it, in her whole body—certainly not of the kind to give her nightmares. What she does have, however, is a remarkable ability to see right to the heart of the matter—and, when things are as confused as they seem to be for you just now, that can’t be a bad idea, surely. Why not give it a try?”

  Brinton took a lot of persuading. Delphick was unable to pull rank, for Scotland Yard has no authority over other forces unless brought in officially to a particular case, which had not happened here. But the Oracle argued long and with conviction. In the end, Brinton agreed to sleep on the matter and see how he felt the following day. He need not, Delphick pointed out to his friend, mention to Miss Seeton the name of Nigel Colveden; he need not dwell on the more gruesome aspects of the deaths of the two young women. All he would need to do would be show her, for example, the witness statements, the (edited) reports from those police officers who had tried to trace Nigel’s movements at the relevant times, and the photograph, passed to the police by her parents, of Myrtle Poppy Juniper Felsted.

  “And then,” advised Delphick, “sit back—and wait.”

  chapter

  ~ 20 ~

  THE SHOCK OF Brinton’s disclosures had entirely driven from the mind of Chief Superintendent Delphick the presence in Plummergen of Fleet Street ace Amelita Forby. A comparable amnesia had also affected the Ashford constabulary, and for similar reasons.

  There must have been some strange quality in the air of southern England that September evening, for Mel, likewise, was afflicted by the same condition—although in her case the cause was far more acceptable. And, as the young reporter spent Monday night in first quarrelling, and then becoming reconciled, with Thrudd Banner, instead of calling upon Miss Seeton as she’d originally arranged, it was not until Tuesday morning that the telephone rang, with a most insistent ring, on Superintendent Brinton’s desk.

  Brinton, having—as promised—slept on Delphick’s proposal, had been on the point of allowing himself to weaken. Foxon, he was about to say, should accompany him on the drive to Plummergen . . .

  “Brinton,” he barked into the receiver. “I thought I’d made it clear I wasn’t to be bothered unless—what? Who?” At his desk, Foxon jerked to attention at the note in Old Brimstone’s voice. “Well, stop wasting time, and put him through, can’t you? . . .Potter? Yes, speaking.” He motioned to Foxon to pick up the extension. “What is it?”

  The cautious tones of Plummergen’s village bobby sounded in
four listening ears. “It’s about Miss Seeton, sir. Your standing orders—”

  “Yes, yes. Take all that as read, Potter—just tell me the worst. What’s the woman been up to now?”

  “I’m ringing from Sweetbriars, sir. I’ve Martha Bloomer with me, and Miss Forby from the Daily Negative, staying at the George, not to mention Mr. Banner, of World Wide Press, who’s, er, staying there, too.” Potter cleared his throat before continuing: “Old friends of Miss Seeton’s, as you know, sir. Not ones to make a fuss, you’ll agree—”

  “I’ll agree to anything you want, if you’ll only get on with it, man!”

  “Well, sir, as to Miss Seeton, it seems like she might be . . . missing.” Brinton and Foxon exclaimed, and Potter hurried on: “Mr. Jessyp, he’d been expecting her at school again today, only when she never turned up, he phoned to ask if she was ill, and Martha was here, and no idea she hadn’t. Course, she could just have had an absentminded sort of fit and popped into Brettenden on the bus, only nobody remembers seeing her at the stop, and she’s not took her bike, Martha says. And she’s not left a note—and there’s yesterday’s supper in the larder and the washing-up from her afternoon tea not put away—and her bed looking like it’s never been slept in. Though with her being such a tidy little soul,” he added in judicial accents, “that’s not to say she didn’t make it soon as she got up, instead of leaving it to air for a bit the way she usually does, so Martha s—”

  Potter’s recital was cut short by an exasperated chorus of voices: three in Plummergen at one end of the telephone, two in Ashford at the other. Brinton’s voice, being not only the loudest but having, to the ear of PC Potter, a greater authority, prevailed.