“But, sir, if that is what happened, I don’t see why he couldn’t have fixed it up just as well from inside. I mean, Cutler’s got influence. He wouldn’t exactly’ve had to stand there on the spot supervising the blokes who did for poor old Artie, would he? If he told ’em by postcard or something to do him, they’d do him, no question.”
“When your Majesty,” muttered Delphick—prompted, despite the gravity of the circumstances, to quote—“says, ‘Let a thing be done,’ it’s as good as done—practically, it is done—because your Majesty’s word is law.” He coughed. “You’re right. Cutler has, as we know, a depressingly large number of loyal henchmen all too eager to oblige the boss—even more obliging now, so close to the date of his release.” Bob shunted his weight from one massive foot to the other; Delphick coughed again. “His official release, that is. Yet, had he fewer than half the number—and all of them unwilling—I would find it almost impossible to credit that he would become directly involved in Chishall’s demise. Face-to-face violence isn’t Cutler’s style.”
“One of the best informers in the business,” said Bob, one professional paying tribute to another, as he contemplated the sorry corpse of Artie Chishall. “Played both sides against the middle a little too often for comfort, but he came up with a lot of good stuff. Could be he got hold of something a sight too good for his health, sir—or perhaps he overdid the double-dealing. Whatever it was, when Cutler found out, he was so cheesed off about it he decided he had to get stuck in for a spot of ... of personal revenge.”
Delphick frowned. “Pour encourager les autres? There’s always that aspect, of course—and yet ... I won’t explode your theory out of hand, Bob, but I’m afraid I can’t put it at the top of the list, either. I repeat, such face-to-face violence is not Cutler’s style.”
“More Rickling’s, sir, I agree. Artie worked for both of the blighters—we know that, and you bet they did, too. Most likely for a whole lot more we don’t know about, as well. So, then, one or other of these characters will’ve used him for—what’s the word? Misinformation purposes. And once he’d told whoever-it-was whatever-it-was they wanted him to tell ’em, they ...”
“Disposed of him,” supplied Delphick as Bob came to a thoughtful pause. “Yes, that’s also a possibility—and a grim one, Sergeant Ranger. If only we could believe that this was a commonplace backstreet killing with robbery as the motive ... but the killer’s indifference to the acquisition of his victim’s money, wristwatch, and other valuables suggests otherwise.”
“He could’ve been interrupted,” suggested Bob without much conviction. The alley in which Chishall’s body lay was hardly a main thoroughfare. As a shortcut, even in such heavy rain as had earlier been falling, it was inhospitable, to say the least.
Delphick acknowledged with a nod his subordinate’s professional willingness to act as Devil’s Advocate, but did not rise to the challenge. He shook his head and sighed. “No ... I fear that we simply cannot afford to ignore the dangers Artie’s death appears to signal. He could be, at the top of his form, one of the best informers in the business—you said it yourself. Whatever the proposed crime in which you have postulated his involvement, it must be of considerable magnitude for the criminals to be ... unconcerned by this permanent loss of his services.
“Which means that our concern has to be to discover the crime before it occurs, and prevent it. As soon as we can.”
“If we can, sir,” said Bob; and Delphick nodded again.
“If we can,” he echoed. “If, indeed, we can ...”
“I thought, you see,” said Miss Seeton, “knowing how busy you so often are, that it might perhaps be a little inconvenient, when by coming in person to see how you were placed I could be quite sure that it would not interfere too much with your usual work to discuss it. The telephone, I mean. Dear Nigel volunteered—so very kind, as always—to bring it here, but as he had already carried it into the house for me—and though he is, of course, accustomed to such heavy work as lifting bales—I felt it would be far too great an imposition on my part to ask him to bring it even the short distance to your forge, Mr. Eggleden, when you are a recognised expert in these matters.”
Blinking against the heat from the blacksmith’s glowing fires, Miss Seeton shifted her umbrella from one arm to the other, and in so shifting contrived to turn herself towards the current of cooler air coming in through the large double doors. “And with the rain, for once, easing off,” she went on, quite failing, as she turned, to observe the farrier’s puzzled frown, “it would surely be an even greater imposition for me to expect a friend to take time from his work, when in your case, as a professional, you would of course be paid the going rate, whatever that might be. As indeed I am most happy to do.”
Dan, scratching his head, opened his mouth to speak, but lost his chance as Miss Seeton smiled up at him, and nodded. “I do appreciate, of course, that until you have seen it you are unlikely to know just how long it will take, but, if you would not think it impertinent of me to enquire in advance, I should be most interested to know what you normally charge for jobs of this nature. Or is that”—her eyes twinkled as she saw his blank expression—“a trade secret? With each one being different, that is, so that different rates must apply, and until you’ve seen it you won’t know which.” She nodded, more to herself than to the smith, who continued to stare at her in bewilderment. “Yes ... On reflection it was perhaps a little foolish of me to have asked before you had seen it. I beg your pardon.”
She shifted the umbrella again, so that she looked out of the forge down The Street towards her own dear cottage, and the sitting-room windows behind which waited such an intriguing challenge for the blacksmith’s skill. “While I should not wish, Mr. Eggleden, to take you away from anything urgent, I fear I must confess to”—Miss Seeton blushed—“a slight—though I believe you will agree not altogether unnatural—impatience—that is”—blushing still more—“curiosity, I think, might be a more apposite term—and, though I do not seek to excuse myself, I am, you know, not the only one. The Colvedens, of course, are also interested in the outcome—and in view of their kindness I should prefer, if at all possible, not to leave it too long—although whenever you feel able to come, I will be delighted to see you. It is always such a pleasure to watch an expert at work,” said Miss Seeton with a final nod and an admiring smile.
The smile of Dan Eggleden was more mystified than admiring. He scratched his head again, cleared his throat, and, as it seemed that Miss Seeton had fallen silent, prepared to address himself to her problem—whatever she thought it was. For his part, he had absolutely no idea: but village etiquette demanded that neighbours should do their utmost to help solve the problems of others less fortunate, in anticipation of any future spins of fortune’s fickle wheel.
“It’s not that I ain’t willing to oblige, Miss Seeton,” he began slowly. “For if what you mean by expert’s that I’ll set my hand to many a task others’d refuse as soon as look at, why, that’s true. Iffen you was to have your garden barrer a new wheel made, or a brazier for Stan’s bonfire, I’d tackle them and welcome the challenge. Not,” he said hastily, “as wheelbarrers and braziers’d present much of a difficulty, in any case, to a man of my calling with an honest pride in the name of smith. But telephones, now, they’re another matter entirely.”
Miss Seeton blinked. Dan, warming to his theme, ignored her faint cry of alarm. “Telephones,” he went on, “I’d be fearful even of touching, with all them wires and electricals. And if young Nigel couldn’t fix it for you, with him understanding the working of most things under a bonnet near as well as Cousin Crabbe at the garage, I have to say I’ve my doubts why you’re so sure I could do it—yet allus willing to oblige, like I said, though you’d have to take the risk I’d mebbe do worse damage nor’s already occurred. Such as,” he reminded her, “you’ve not yet told me, so I’m no true judge. Though I do wonder that if it’s too heavy to be fetched,” he continued, as in her turn Miss Seeton stare
d, “then it’s a type of phone I’ve never seen. You’re really best, if you ask me, to find one trained properly to the job. And don’t the Post Office people cut up rough if folk not qualified in such matters takes their telephones to bits? If you was to get into trouble, say, for having asked me ...” He was too much of a gentleman even to hint at the trouble which might be wished upon Dan Eggleden, should he interfere with their delicate communications equipment, by the GPO.
Miss Seeton’s second cry of alarm was rather less faint than her first. Dan, who had in any case come to a tactful pause, regarded her with a courteous interest, which quickened to smiling relief as the realisation was brought home to him that he had—as better men than he had done on more than one occasion—mistaken Miss Seeton’s meaning. As she stumbled to the end of her apologetic explanation, his smile broadened to a grin.
“Open an old box? Glad to do it, Miss Seeton. But you don’t need to fret over fetching it here, I’ll be along to your place just so soon as I can safely leave the fire. And my guess is I’ll be able to carry what’s wanted, and do the job on the spot.” His eye fell upon the stout canvas bag hanging from its hook on the wall, and on the long bench of assorted tools that rested underneath. “Say in half an hour or so? Then with luck I’ll be able to sort things out well before dinner time ...”
And Miss Seeton, smiling and nodding her thanks, hurried home to possess her soul in patience until the mighty tread of the blacksmith should be heard on her front path, and his hand should smite the knocker on her door.
chapter
~ 11 ~
NIGEL COLVEDEN, DESPITE every encouragement from onlookers with a decided enthusiasm for experiencing, in both book and film form, the myriad convolutions of mystery and crime—but who lacked (as did Nigel) the expertise necessary for successful passage through the convolutions of real-life crime—had failed in his attempts to pick the convolutions of the lock of Miss Seeton’s iron-bound box.
Dan Eggleden, expert in metalwork if not in criminality, didn’t make even one attempt to pick it.
“Loosen ’em?” He shook his head as he contemplated the massive screws, still glistening with the haloes of last night’s oil, which affixed the heavy fastening-plate of the lock to the oaken body of the box. “Take years to loosen, they would, so rusted in as they are. And that padlock—well.” He chuckled, though not unkindly, and shook his head again. “Well, as a burglar I reckon he makes a good farmer, does young Nigel.”
Blushing, Miss Seeton discreetly removed from sight the collection of bent knitting needles which, now that she came to think of it, she really should have known dear Mr. Eggleden would not need. As to what he would need, she couldn’t begin to guess ...
“A pity,” opined the blacksmith, “to go cutting through the hasp, when for all the rust it’s a fine piece of work, that padlock. I’m not saying as I couldn’t mend it after, mind you, but it’d show, no matter how careful I might be—and you’d know ’twas modern work, what’s more. Something so old as this, you want to see it aright whenever you look at it, now don’t you?”
Art teacher Miss Seeton thoroughly approved this sentiment. The importance, as she so frequently tried to impress upon her pupils, of seeing things properly should not, could not, be ignored. She herself always tried her best to see, to notice, to observe ...
And it was with considerable surprise that she now observed Daniel Eggleden remove from his canvas bag of tools a large, sharp-toothed hacksaw.
At her muffled exclamation, Dan grinned. “Don’t do as I do, do as I say—that what you’re thinking, Miss Seeton?” He paused in his approach to the wooden box, and chuckled as she blushed and murmured that she was sure he knew what he was doing, and that it was hardly her place to question the actions of an expert.
“Except,” she added, recovering herself as her interest was quickened, “that I should, indeed, rather like to pose a question or two—if you would not regard such questions as an impertinence, that is. But only,” she hastened to assure him, “in a—a spirit of enquiry, you understand. I have never seen anyone breaking into anything before, apart from films, of course, and then it is usually safes, or strong-boxes. Gelignite,” she enlarged. “Petermen, I believe they are called, and most expert many of them appear to be, which as they are following the—the script, of course, is really no more than one would expect.
“Like detective stories,” continued Miss Seeton, “which are frequently most informative, when the author writes with any degree of expertise on what can be a wide variety of subjects. When one reads, for example, that the missing ...” After the briefest of pauses, her own expertise supplied the example ... “The missing work of art is ...” Here deference to the metalworking expertise of her guest supplied the courteous conclusion ... “A signed Degas bronze, then when the detective explains why this must be a forgery, one believes him. Except,” she added honestly, “that in this particular instance one would have known in any case, because he cast none during his lifetime apart from the little dancer, I believe. But as a general rule, one may say that it is possible to learn a great many most interesting facts from detective stories—as, indeed, one can from other books as well, of course, but it was one of the Lord Peter Wimsey books that reminded me that one can learn, as it were, how to pick a lock. Except, of course, that he couldn’t. Nigel, I mean, not Lord Peter, although it was in fact Miss Murchison who ...”
Blushing with the sudden recollection that by her chatter she was distracting a busy man from his business, Miss Seeton smiled apologetically, and fell silent.
Dan Eggleden, as he listened with half-attentive ears to his hostess, had focused most of his attention on her mysterious box—and not on the front of that box, but on the back. He seemed pleased with what he saw, nodding to himself, and tapping the hacksaw gently on the palm of his huge hand; as Miss Seeton, pink-cheeked, ceased speaking, he nodded once more, and cleared his throat.
“An old newspaper’s what’s wanted now, if you’ve any to spare you don’t need for laying the fire. Or an old sheet, mebbe, or a tablecloth—a blanket, a rug—summat to catch the filings when I start to cut. This here’s too hard a job for pliers, as I suspected all along it’d be.”
Miss Seeton at once produced the papers used by Nigel the previous night, and with surprised admiration watched Dan lift the box from the carpet in an effortless, one-handed movement. She slid the protective pages underneath at the smith’s instruction, then moved out of range, though not out of view, as he addressed both himself and the saw to their task.
“These hinges, now,” he said, tapping at the elaborate metalwork with the hacksaw handle, “they’re much the sort of design you’d expect. They pivot open on these here pins, or spindles—see?”
Dutifully peering, Miss Seeton saw.
Dan nodded. “When they open in the normal way, that is. But with the locks holding it shut at the front, they’re not about to open in the normal way, believe you me. We’re not beat, though, not by a long chalk, we ain’t. What do you do if the electric fails?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Light the house with candles, that’s what you do. There’s allus another way of solving a problem, if you’ve your wits about you—and more than one, if you’ve sufficient ingenuity.”
“Indeed there is,” said Miss Seeton fervently. Like every female of her generation, she had vivid memories of ingenuity’s wartime apotheosis in the matter of Make Do And Mend.
“The man who built this box,” Dan continued, “you’d call him an ingenious bloke, I don’t doubt, and so would he have done. It’s a grand piece of work he’s made, and a pity to damage it more than needful—still, like I said before, once I’ve finished the job you’ll hardly know it’s done. What one man can invent, never mind how ingenious, there’s another man can beat—and that man’s myself, Miss Seeton, concerning this box of yours. Not to boast, but if it ain’t open before dinnertime, I’ll—I’ll eat my apron, darned if I won’t!”
This was indeed a boast. Daniel Egglede
n’s apron was of the design traditional for a working smith, being of thick, heavy leather with a wide fringe at the bottom for the safer sweeping of red-hot metal particles from the surface of the anvil to the floor. Even had the apron been sliced, minced, marinated in herbs, and casseroled in an exceedingly slow oven, the dish thus created would have required jaws—and a digestion—of top quality steel to consume, and the stomach of a dozen Gargantuas combined.
“My goodness,” breathed Miss Seeton. A sudden vision of a tormented blacksmith desperately downing pint after pint of effervescent liver salts flashed across her inward eye. “Oh, dear, I do hope it won’t come to that ...”
Dan never heard her. He was leaning over the box, the saw in his hand, pondering the best place for his first stroke. “The lock,” he said, “you could call the electric, Miss Seeton. And these here hinges we’ll say are the candles—the other way of doing it. Once get them open, and you’ll open the box from the back every bit as well as you’d normally open it from the front, see? But they’re fixed to the wood with screws quite as powerful as the lock. You’ll shift them no more easily—so what you do is shift the spindles instead. Then top and bottom halves’ll come apart as if they was two locks instead of two hinges. And the lock turning into a hinge, o’ course, at the same time.”
He made it sound so easy; so obvious: which was the mark of the true expert. Miss Seeton, hanging on Dan Eggleden’s every word, nodded without speaking as she waited with growing excitement for the first scrape of the hacksaw against the ornate knobbed end of the spindle, wondering whether the noise would be as unpleasant as, one had to say, the working of metal—even when heard from outside, when peeping inside to watch Mr. Eggleden at work—so often proved to be.
As it proved now. Even more unpleasant, perhaps, in so confined a space as the little sitting room: but Miss Seeton didn’t grudge the smith a single screech as the saw worked its way back and forth across the spindle in a steady, rasping rhythm. Fine powder began falling to the newspaper beneath, darkening the printed page from distant, muzzy grey to sombre, spreading black. Headlines were slowly smothered by a blanket of funereal hue; assorted worthies, photographed smiling, disappeared in gloom despite their smiles. Miss Seeton put her fingers in her ears, and watched, and waited.
Sold to Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 19) Page 9
