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

by Hamilton Crane

  “You mean she could have been missing all night? Why in heaven’s name didn’t someone say something earlier?”

  “Nobody knew about it earlier, sir.” Potter sounded pained. He’d rung Ashford the very instant he’d satisfied himself that the three agitated persons demanding his immediate presence in Miss Seeton’s cottage weren’t imagining things: what more did Mr. Brinton expect him to do? Short of putting her under permanent police guard . . . “Miss Forby, she’d meant to visit Miss Seeton yesterday after school and a bite to eat, only she never did, and when she remembered this morning, she popped across to explain, and there was Martha—Mrs. Bloomer, sir, it being one of her days to oblige at Sweetbriars—and she a bit later than usual arriving, on account of all the bother about her cousin, because her son—”

  “Spare me the family history, Potter! You’re trying to tell me Mrs. Bloomer’s too bothered to remember whether Miss Seeton said anything about anything, is that it?”

  Martha’s voice could be heard in the background, saying that it wasn’t like Miss Emily not to let her know when she was called away unexpected, especially when she was meant to be teaching, and if anything had happened, she’d never forgive herself, because what was a cousin, when all was said and done, with a mother and family to care for him, and poor Miss Emily with nobody but her and Stan?

  “No note, no message, no sign she was in the house after . . . early evening, at a guess.” Brinton barely waited for Potter to confer with the unseen trio and confirm the guess before he hurried on. “I suppose it’s too much to ask if she’s ever had her burglar alarm fixed after that lightning hit the house? . . . Yes, well, I’m not really surprised. Any signs of a struggle? No,” giving Potter no time to reply, “you’d have said, if there was. So what,” he demanded, “was she wearing—does anyone know?”

  “Mrs. Bloomer’s had a quick check, sir. Seems her hat’s gone, and her umbrella—not her best, though,” as Brinton could be heard to mutter. “A light jacket, and her handbag, but her binoculars are still here, so she’s not gone bird-watching, and her shopping basket’s in the cupboard under the stairs, besides which she hasn’t been seen in The Street all day. If she has been kidnapped,” said Potter, “she was tricked into going, that’s for certain. Whoever he was, it doesn’t seem like he had to force her—”

  “If he existed at all.” Brinton scowled at the telephone, then sighed. Who was he fooling? The kidnapper must almost certainly exist. He—Potter—everyone sharing that electric conversation—knew Miss Seeton of old, as they also knew Plummergen. If it was out of character for Emily Dorothea Seeton to wander from home without mentioning her plans to one or other of her friends (with particular reference to the Bloomers and, in the current circumstances, Headmaster Martin Jessyp), it was equally out of character for the whole village not to notice whatever she did around the place—when she was around—and to be able to report fully on same when asked. But Potter had said nothing about any such reports—and he was a good man. He’d have checked . . .

  “I suppose nobody,” said Brinton, with little hope, “has seen anything. No possible leads?”

  “Afraid not, sir. That is,” as a female voice could be heard putting some energetic point of view, “Miss Forby’s of the opinion we should be looking at her sketchbook, sir, as she’s not took it with her—Miss Seeton, I mean, not Miss Forby. She thinks it might give us a clue about where she’s been taken, if she has—Miss Forby, I mean. And, er, Miss Seeton, sir. Er—sorry, sir.”

  Potter would be more than sorry, reflected Brinton, once he was within proper shouting distance—what the hell did the man think he was playing at? Blast Foxon! What did he find so amusing, sniggering like that when heaven-knew-what was going on heaven-knew-where, and nobody with the wits to think straight about it? Miss Seeton didn’t even need to be nearby when the trouble started—just being in her cottage was enough to send an ordinary hardworking copper off his head burbling complete nonsense.

  Nonsense? Perhaps not complete nonsense . . .

  “Foxon, get the car. Potter, dig out that sketchbook—but first, get a detailed description from Mrs. Bloomer of what Miss Seeton’s wearing. We’ll relay it to all cars the minute we reach you—and don’t let anyone go anywhere until we do! Reach you, I mean—oh!” He ground anguished teeth for his own burbling—Miss Seeton’s influence was stronger than ever—but perhaps, just perhaps, it might mean, as it had done on previous occasions, that the case was about to break. And there was only one case right now that interested Superintendent Chris Brinton.

  “Foxon, bring the—oh.” Useless to instruct Foxon to bring the duplicate Blonde in the Bag files with him—he’d already left the office, and was probably sitting in the panda now, with the engine running. He’d know as well as his chief there’d be little time to waste now that things were hotting up. “I’ll bring ’em myself—and we’ll be with you in ten minutes, Potter. Don’t go away!”

  The problem was, brooded Brinton, as Foxon sent the panda racing out of Ashford along the B2070, that he’d never been very good at making sense of Miss Seeton’s weird drawings. That sort of thing, he generally left to the Oracle—and Scotland Yard was forty miles away. There was the Forby female, of course: he couldn’t deny she’d been helpful in the past; and there was the telephone—always supposing the Oracle hadn’t gone off hunting dope dealers again. He ought really to have checked before rushing out of the station . . .

  A short radio call; a nail-biting wait. “Not there,” groaned Brinton, as the panda lurched sharp right at the Hamstreet crossroads and headed for Brettenden. “Step on it, Foxon! Seems we’re on our own, laddie. The sooner we get going, the better!”

  They sped through Kenardington, through the leafy greenness of Great Heron Wood, past the ancient dignity of ruined Clarion’s Hall, and into Plummergen Heath, where for the first time Foxon dropped within the speed limit. “Don’t want to set ’em all by the ears as we drive down The Street, sir,” he explained, as he heard Brinton’s teeth grinding beside him. “You know what they’re like around here . . .”

  Brinton grunted, but said nothing, scowling as they passed the post office, glaring at the startled figure of Miss Nuttel as she closed the front gate of Lilikot behind the plump form of Mrs. Blaine. Five hundred people in this village, and they had to be spotted by the two who talked more than the rest of ’em put together!

  “Too late to do anything about it,” he muttered, as the panda slowed and prepared to swing round in a wide curve to stop outside Sweetbriars. Foxon, intent on his driving, caught his passenger’s final words, and was shocked.

  “Don’t say that, sir! It’s never too late for Miss Ess. She’s had a few hairy moments in the past, remember, and she and her brolly have always bounced back again. Born lucky, I’d say Miss Seeton was.”

  “Let’s hope,” Brinton grimly remarked, as he undid his seat belt, “her luck hasn’t just run out, laddie . . .”

  An anxious little group clustered about the open door of Miss Seeton’s cottage on hearing the panda car’s arrival. Brinton was barely halfway up the short front path before the four of them—PC Potter, Martha Bloomer, Mel Forby, and Thrudd Banner—all started talking at once. Brinton shot a fierce look towards the only one of the quartet over whom he had any nominal authority.

  “Got the description, Potter? Then give it to Foxon, and he’ll pass it on to radio control.”

  “Got her sketchbook, too, sir,” Potter told him, as Foxon hurried back down the path to alert headquarters. “And Miss Forby seems to think—”

  “Miss Forby,” broke in Mel’s exasperated voice, “knows— and darn well, too, Potter! Come inside, Mr. Brinton,” as the superintendent hesitated.

  “Yes, do come in, Mr. Brinton,” said Martha, with great firmness: hadn’t she known Miss Seeton years longer than any newspaper reporter? Wasn’t it far more her place than Miss Forby’s to welcome visitors to Sweetbriars? Mrs. Bloomer was not, she hoped, jealous of her employer’s friendship with Mel
and Thrudd—of course she wasn’t! “Come in, and quick as you can—the sooner you start hunting for Miss Emily, the happier I’ll be.” Much—even the arrest of her cousin Beryl’s son—could be forgiven the man on whom Martha Bloomer had pinned her hopes of Miss Seeton’s rescue from whatever danger she might be in.

  “The happier we’ll all be.” Mel gave Martha a consoling pat on the shoulder. “In the sitting room, Mr. Brinton—on the table. Her sketchbook—there are a couple of pictures I—we—think might be worth taking a look at.”

  The siting room was comfortably cosy for one or two: for six—Brinton, Mel, Thrudd, Martha, Potter, and Foxon, who’d come panting back up the path after sending out his message—it was crowded beyond belief. The superintendent took a deep breath, and ran a finger round his collar as he forged his way towards the table. Not his place to ask for a window to be opened: not really his place to ask half of ’em to wait outside. One, perhaps . . .

  “Foxon, what the devil are you doing here? Hop on back to the car in case anyone radios in they’ve seen her. Now, Miss Forby—let’s have a look . . .”

  “It’s those cartoons of hers that matter,” said Mel, as Brinton began to leaf back through the most recent sketches in the waiting book. “Don’t bother with trash like that—a complete waste of time, for our purposes,” as a dainty landscape in pen-and-ink wash came to light.

  Martha drew in her breath to expostulate—she’d thought Miss Emily’s little picture very pretty—but Mel, as Brinton turned a frowning face towards the young reporter, grinned wickedly.

  “Haven’t you cracked the code after all these years, Mr. Brinton? She takes pains over it—it’s pointless. Dump the detailed stuff—any fool could do it,” with a fond wink in the direction of Thrudd, looming thoughtfully in a corner of the room composing paragraphs in his head. “We had an idea that might mean something, though . . .”

  That was a swiftly executed sketch which bore all the hallmarks of what Mel was wont to call a Seeton Special. With the Taj Mahal and its long reflecting lake in the background, with turbanned figures about him at a respectful distance, a man posed in eighteenth-century costume, complete with wig—yet with a twentieth-century face that was unmistakeable.

  “The Duke of Windsor—what the devil’s he got to do with anything?”

  “You can see why the others are wearing turbans—it’s their national costume, for heaven’s sake—but there must be a reason for his fancy dress,” said Mel, bright-eyed.

  Martha tossed her head. “Always going on tours of the Empire, he was—the Prince of Wales. The Delhi Durbar, and shaking hands with people till he got so tired he had to put his arm in a sling—or was that his dad?”

  Thrudd, staring in his turn at the picture, said that he had an idea the Durbar had been for George the Fifth, not his son, but that he didn’t see how either of them came into this at all. And, much as it annoyed him to say so, he had to agree with Mel. Why the costume? When Edward wasn’t even wearing a crown . . .

  “That’s in one of the other pictures,” said Mel, barely containing herself. “Go on turning back, Mr. Brinton!”

  Brinton reached the composite picture in which Miss Seeton had doodled so many animated—instantly recogniseable—figures. Stan Bloomer, the basket of fruit in his hands—Martha, bejewelled, with a crown on her head—Sir George at attention, his wife—Nigel with the decorated umbrella . . .

  Brinton said nothing as he stared at the face of his latest murder suspect and longtime acquaintance, looking up from the paper with a merry, open smile . . .

  Sir Stanford Rivers in his strange attire . . .

  “The other sort of Indian, this time.” Brinton stabbed a finger firmly towards the conductor’s feathered headdress. “Don’t I know this chap’s face? Wait—let me . . . the Last Night of the Proms, of course. Well, I know they go in for fun and games, but I don’t ever remember. . . and just look at the Britannia woman! How can anyone be expected to sing when they’re standing on their head?”

  Not for the first time, Brinton found himself wondering whether Miss Seeton might not be starting to show her age, although with the eyes of so many of her friends fixed upon him he would never have dared say so. He sighed, and turned another page.

  “Now this chap,” he said at once, “there’s no doubt he’s singing, is there? Or whatever passes for singing, with his sort.” He revised his opinion of Miss Seeton’s mental abilities: nothing old-fashioned about this particular picture—or pose. “Must be more than a bit uncomfortable for him, twisted around like that—but you can almost hear the noise he’s making, can’t you?”

  With bold, flowing, swift strokes of her pencil, Miss Seeton had drawn a long-haired, leather-clad, buckle-belted, hipster-jeaned male of strutting, sexual aspect, with a microphone close to his open mouth, and the flex snaked suggestively about one thigh, trailing off into an indeterminate distance where three vague figures played on drums and guitars. A fourth figure, unnaturally tall, was striding away from the group; proving, as Brinton peered in some amazement, to be on stilts.

  He grunted, and turned another page, and blinked. That same leather-clad young man, now crouched on a motorbike, was shown racing furiously against a second young man clearly pushing, of all things, a lawn mower—a young man who bore a distinct resemblance to Nigel Colveden . . .

  “That’s some imagination she’s got,” muttered Brinton.

  His words were the signal for everybody to start talking all at once, and for a while there was bedlam in the little sitting room. Then Mel, being closer than the rest, won.

  “It isn’t imagination—well, not all of it. Go on.” to Martha. “Tell him! And I bet whatever you like,” to Brinton, “it’s all tied up with your Blonde in the Bag . . .”

  chapter

  ~ 21 ~

  “IT’S—I THINK,” Martha amended, “it’s my cousin Beryl’s boy, Barry. I was telling Miss Emily, you see, how he’ll worry his mother to death, poor soul, with all his nonsense about wanting to be a pop singer instead of sticking to an honest job. Come down here every September for the hopping, the whole family—that’ll be where she got the stilts from, I suppose, me telling her how it was when I was a girl, and Beryl and Barry and the rest of it.”

  “Turning his back on his old career, obviously.” Mel’s decisive finger indicated the striding form, whose speed was suggested by a series of blurred hatchings. “He can’t wait to get away, can he?” She giggled. “Barry Bloomer and the Underclothes, or something—sorry, Martha,” as Mrs. Bloomer gave her an awful look. “Barry Bloomer and the Flowerbeds, or the Bordermen, then—”

  “He’s not a Bloomer, thank goodness, as Mr. Brinton knows full well.” Martha redirected her look, in modified form, to the superintendent. “His name’s Panfield, like his poor mum, and—”

  “Barry Panfield!” Brinton turned purple. “Are you trying to tell me this bloke’s the lad who had a go at young Foxon in the hop garden? The one we took in for questioning and he’s stayed dumb the whole time?”

  “Yes,” said Martha, unusually succinct, while Mel, who’d spotted the resemblance almost at once, smirked.

  Brinton stared: first at Martha, then again at Miss Seeton’s supposed likeness of his silent suspect. “Yes, I recognise him now—it was the hair and the get-up that fooled me. Odd. For all the daft capers he’s cutting, he doesn’t look like a bad lad . . .”

  “He’s not,” said Martha promptly. “Not bad, just worrisome, out half the night mixing with heaven-knows-who—” She remembered that Brinton was Superintendent Brinton, and shut up. Beryl’s anxieties about drugs were best kept quiet if Barry was to come out of this business safely.

  Mel, who had sufficient tact not to let Martha know she had been there when Barry was arrested, said: “Wouldn’t you think Miss S. is saying he didn’t do it, Mr. Brinton? Whatever,” belatedly, for Martha’s benefit, “you think it was. He may look like a crazy, mixed-up kid—but show me a pop singer who doesn’t. And if that’s the case, th
en he’s just a . . . a high-spirited type with big ideas—and there’s no law about having ambition, is there?”

  Brinton grunted. Mel continued, in her most coaxing voice: “And I don’t reckon, according to this, that Nigel Colveden’s guilty as charged, either—oh, yes,” as Brinton exclaimed, “the news is all over town this morning. Seems a couple of the Plummergen . . . ladies . . . happened to be right on the spot yesterday when one of your boys in blue carted poor Nigel off to the Ashford nick. Think you could keep a story like that from getting out—even,” pointedly, “if you didn’t leak it to the press yourself?”

  Brinton restrained himself with difficulty. “He hasn’t been arrested, Miss Forby. I hope you and your colleagues aren’t going to say otherwise, because the Colvedens have a lot of influence, you know. Slander’s a serious matter.”

  “And so’s libel, which is what publishing it in the press would be,” Mel informed him cheerfully. “Keep your hair on, Superintendent. People say a lot of rude things about Fleet Street, but we know how to use our discretion. Whatever you think Nigel’s done, it’s a mistake, pure and simple—even before I saw what Miss S. had drawn I’d have taken my oath on it—”

  “Three different people identified him!” cried Brinton, goaded into indiscretion and thoroughly bemused by it all. “What the hell d’you expect me to do except haul him in for questioning when every single witness said they’d seen him?”

  “An identity parade.” Mel’s brain was whirring. “Guess you grabbed him to make up the numbers, right?”

  Brinton nodded. Mel, recalling Barry Panfield’s appearance, nodded too. “Makes sense,” she murmured, while Martha cried that it certainly didn’t make sense to her, and never a wrong word would she hear of Nigel Colveden, that she’d watched grow from a baby and one of the nicest lads around, and she only wished there were more like him.

  “Like Barry?” Mel suddenly beamed. “You bet, Martha! See here, Mr. Brinton, it is all a mistake, as I said. And I can tell you how you came to make it, what’s more. I only wish,” she added, as Brinton exclaimed again, “I could tell you where Miss S. has gone, and who with . . .”