“Oh!” This final suggestion had jogged Foxon’s memory. “Oh ...” He became subdued as Brinton fastened him with a full-power glare. “Sir, I’m sorry. I think I might have got it a bit wrong. She mentioned you—and sketches—and of course I thought ... but then she fished out a Candells catalogue and was going on about—about barometers, and chairs, and a wooden box they sold last week. And—and I think—some sort of mistake—”
“Mistake?” Brinton slapped his hand so hard on the blotter that his forgotten mug of tea leaped up and almost tipped over with the force of its tidal wave. “You think? Like hell you do! It’s you that’s made the mistake, my lad. Candell auctions—wooden boxes—why, the blasted woman’s changed her mind about keeping the perishing thing, that’s all ...” And he delivered, in sulphurous tones, a far more detailed account of the previous week’s occurrence than his lacerated nerves, at the time, had allowed.
To this account Foxon gave his full and undivided attention. He listened gravely, saying nothing as Brinton wound up with a scathing condemnation of half-baked plainclothes fools who didn’t know their whatsit from their epithet; and only offered his apologia once the superintendent had come to a final, exasperated halt.
“Yes, sir, of course. And I’m sorry, I know I am. But—if you’ll pardon the liberty, sir—just supposing—you know what MissEss is like—the way she has these funny sort of ... connections with things even before she knows there’s anything to connect—and now this burglar, sir—not the Candell one,” he said hastily, “the one who broke into her cottage, I mean.” Foxon leaned forward and fixed his gaze on the empurpling visage of his superior. “Suppose they are the same person, after all? Suppose he was trying to find out who bought that box last week, and where they live—and he wants to get it back?”
Brinton opened his mouth, shut it, shrugged, then bowed his head in a gesture of defeat. His wife still brooding, Miss Seeton starting up again: no peace at home or abroad. How much more could a man be expected to take? He moaned softly. Foxon said nothing.
Brinton ground his teeth. He sighed.
He sat up and reached for the telephone. “Switchboard? Scotland Yard, quick as you can. Quicker, if possible.” He turned to his relieved subordinate and jerked his thumb at the desk on the other side of the room. “Hop along, laddie, and get listening on that extension. It was your blasted idea to bring the Oracle into this, so—Hello? That the Yard? Chief Superintendent Delphick, please.”
Foxon, hopping as his chief commanded, didn’t catch the Yard operator’s reply, but could guess its import from the expletive that broke from Brinton as the tinny voice in the telephone earpiece fell silent.
“Out? Where? No, never mind, if you can’t reach him anyway—and no, nobody else will do, unless it’s that tame giant of his—no, I thought not. Where Delphick goes, young Ranger’s never far behind. Damn. Well, can you ask him to ring Superintendent Brinton as soon as he gets in? B for burglar, r for ruffian, i for—for innocent—Brinton, yes. Ashford. He knows the number.”
He rang off and addressed Foxon with an air of resignation as that young man, frowning, dropped his receiver back on its cradle. “We’re on our own, then. For the time being ... but is Miss Seeton? If you’re right, then who’s there to stop chummie having another crack at the crib, occupant at home or not?”
“Potter said the Bloomers would keep an eye on her,” Foxon reminded him. “Not that they can stand guard day in and day out, even if Miss Seeton’d let them—which knowing her she wouldn’t, sir, would she? Wouldn’t want to keep ’em away from their normal routine. She never seems to think anyone’s got it in for her especially—and perhaps,” said Foxon, trying to convince himself, “they haven’t, after all. Houses are always being burgled, and Sweetbriars is a nice-looking place—anyone’d suppose someone with money lives there, someone with something worth pinching. Maybe it’s all been just a—a coincidence, sir ...”
He did not really believe this.
Neither did Superintendent Brinton.
It was not until late that night—it was almost the next morning—that Delphick and Bob, assisted by a team of well-built, hand-picked colleagues, made their latest delivery of underworld citizenry to the cells of Scotland Yard. Even as the last key turned in the last lock, the first solicitor arrived, arguing with passionate eloquence that his client—if none of the others—was innocent of all charges, and should therefore be allowed bail, at the least. Of course, it was his recommendation that these charges should be dismissed; the evidence on which the police had acted had been fabricated by his client’s—he coughed—business rivals, with intent to mislead: as it had. Witness the current—he coughed again—misunderstanding. Allow his client his liberty forthwith, and out of the goodness of his heart no counter-charge of False Imprisonment would be made ...
No sooner had this ingenious gentleman been sent, far from rejoicing, on his way than another appeared, gifted with similar powers of rhetoric. What remained of the night was long, hard, and extremely tiring.
It was almost at daybreak that Delphick, rubbing his eyes, looked with sudden dismay upon the drawn faces of his subordinates, and issued the stern instruction that everyone, without exception, should go home at once to bed.
“Without exception, Bob.” Even Sergeant Ranger’s mighty form seemed somehow diminished in the grey light of the winter morn as they all trooped outside for a welcome breath of air. “This includes you.”
“And you, sir.” Bob wouldn’t have spoken so freely if the others could hear him, but their yawns and stamping feet masked his courteous impudence. “We’ve done a good night’s work, sir—you most of all—but we’re none of us getting any younger. Rickling’s a—a devious blighter. You need to be on top form to deal with him ...”
He yawned again. Delphick managed a bleak smile. “Your fear that in my senile exhaustion I might not be equal to the challenge of Public Enemy Number Two and his advisors is—is misplaced, Sergeant Ranger ...” Yawns were infectious. “Or perhaps, in the current circumstances, not.”
“Perhaps not, sir.” Bob chuckled. “I’d say he’d see it as another challenge, to call him Number Two when he’s doing his damnedest to be Number One. And when you—we—finally catch up with Cutler ...”
“If we do.” Delphick frowned and quickly amended this remark. “When. Dammit, Bob, you’re right, I’m losing my mind. I’ve never yet given in to despondency, and I’ve no good cause to be starting now—blame lack of sleep, if you will. Off home with the lot of you,” he commanded, raising his voice so that all could hear. “I don’t want to hear the clatter of boots along the sacred corridors until the afternoon shift, and that’s an order. Thank you for your help—and goodbye.”
Whereupon, under Bob’s watchful eye, the Oracle waved less affluent colleagues towards tube and bus, led the main body of the company to the car park, and himself headed thankfully home.
Had he only gone back to his office before signing off, he would have discovered Brinton’s message: but he did not. And, in the flurry of changing shifts, and the excitement of the multiple arrests, the officer to whom the Ashford superintendent had entrusted that message found no chance to chase up its receipt, or lack of it. For the rest of the morning, and the early part of the afternoon, a scribbled sheet of paper in the middle of Delphick’s blotter must wait for the Oracle’s return ...
But it had been a long, hard, tiring night. As Bob had pointed out, nobody was getting any younger. Police detectives need their sleep as well as anyone else, if they wish to function at maximum efficiency ...
Miss Seeton didn’t exactly feel that she was functioning at maximum efficiency, but was delighted at just how far from the minimum she felt herself to be. It must, she decided as she completed her final pose of her morning routine, be due to her yoga. Seven years of dedicated practice must surely count for something; the book had promised mental and—she hesitated—spiritual refreshment as well as physical relief from stiffness: she knew she had achieved the l
atter—her knees, in particular—and she supposed that, over the seven years, she had probably acquired something of the former, as well. Normally, a sound sleeper, she had stayed up far later than usual, poring over her various library books and puzzling over the Latin dictionary. In the end she had gone to bed, and had woken once or twice (which she seldom did) from dreaming, a state she almost never experienced, though she understood that one dreamed every time one slept, and only recalled such dreams when the sleep was troubled.
Not (she told herself as she prepared breakfast) that she was in the least troubled by recent events. Martha and Stan’s fears that the prowler—or prankster, which seemed far more probable—would return were (she felt) needless, though it was kind of them—such dear friends—to be so concerned on her behalf. Stan had insisted on her leaving all her downstairs lights on during the night; with some difficulty she had refused his generous offer to sleep on the sitting room sofa with a mattock by his side; and she had discouraged him (she supposed: unknown to Miss Seeton, this discouragement had been in vain) from patrolling up and down her section of The Street throughout the hours of darkness. When one considered that it had obviously been a mistake—the man, after all, had taken nothing—and when there were far more pleasant matters to think about ...
Happily buttering her breakfast toast, sipping her tea, Miss Seeton thought about them. Her mental checklist, first compiled with the enthusiastic help of Lady Colveden, had been much revised since, and now looked, she thought, rather promising. One could not, of course, telephone quite so soon: museums, she supposed, were like offices and banks, which generally opened at nine, or half past. Which would give her time to read once or twice more through her notes, and to make certain that her attempted translation of the carving round the inside of the lid was indeed—she’d taken the greatest possible care, but with foreign languages (especially when they were dead—and when one’s linguistic ability was limited to begin with) one could never be too careful ... that the translation was as accurate as she could, in the circumstances—she’d had to guess at the missing letters, and she wasn’t sure all her guesses were correct—as accurate as she could make it.
Miss Seeton checked the number three times in the directory before she would allow herself to dial. She glanced at the clock: twenty-eight minutes to ten. That extra half-hour had been a most valuable lesson in self-control: one had no wish to overstate one’s case. With a deliberately understated gesture, she dialled.
“Brettenden Museum,” announced the receiver.
“Good morning.” Miss Seeton cleared her throat. “Could I—that is, would it be convenient for me to speak to Dr. Braxted, please?”
“Putting you through.” A click, a rattle, and a rhythmic hum, the ringing tone of an unanswered extension.
“Good morning,” carolled the well-remembered voice. “Euphemia Braxted here!”
Miss Seeton had to smile. “Understated” was hardly the word for Brettenden’s noted archaeological expert. Miss Seeton had a sudden vision of Euphemia’s introductory declaration being accompanied, as were so many of her remarks, by that characteristic, expansive, outward flinging of her arms which so often resulted in those nearest her having to leap out of the way. With a smile for her folly, Miss Seeton nevertheless found herself holding the telephone two or three inches from her ear as she replied.
“Dr. Braxted, good morning. My name is Seeton—I don’t know whether you remember me, but—”
“Seeton?” A blink of uncertainty, if that. “Plummergen—the. Roman temple! Am I right?”
Miss Seeton, blushing, confirmed that she was.
“Siberius Gelidus Brumalix.” The sheer relish of each syllable was indescribable. “What a man—what a memorial. The Temple of Glacia—the marvellous mosaic! Those wonderful pieces of silver plate! Best find we’ve had in years, and all thanks to you, Miss Seeton. Don’t say,” she exclaimed with a surge of still greater enthusiasm, “you’ve gone and blown up another oak and found some more remains. That would be simply too good to be true. Er—have you?”
She sounded so hopeful that Miss Seeton made haste to dispel any notion that she might have duplicated her recent unwitting disturbance of a World War Two hand grenade, in so doing causing the destruction of a centuries-old tree and revealing, beneath its roots, Romano-British artefacts of the very highest quality. “It is, however, a—a coincidence,” she went on, “that you should mention oak, because ...”
Miss Seeton launched into her tale. Euphemia Braxted, Doctor of Philosophy, listened quite as hard as any medical doctor, making the right sounds of encouragement when it seemed her patient might be flagging, taking notes of the more salient points as they arose.
“A Latin inscription?” This cry far out-decibelled the good doctor’s earlier delight on hearing of the papers and parchment, the coronet, and the robes with their ermine trim. Artefacts, Euphemia had then reminded Miss Seeton, could always be faked: and—as she’d already pointed out—the Georgian era was more than a millennium after her time, historically speaking. If Miss Seeton wanted an expert—
Miss Seeton agreed that her accidental purchase and its assorted contents could certainly be fakes. She herself had no way of telling. The library books, undoubtedly interesting, had provided no reliable evidence in either direction. It had seemed advisable that, before she set out on a hunt for acknowledged heraldry and genealogical and documentary experts—most probably to be found in London, which would mean a journey she was not, in such unpleasant weather, especially keen to take unless it should really prove worth everyone’s while. She was reluctant to disturb too many distinguished scholars—begging Dr. Braxted’s pardon, of course, since she hoped she did not imply that Dr. Braxted was ... was undistinguished: she remembered how cleverly she had translated the inscription around the edge of the silver salver; she had been foolish to imagine that with the help of a dictionary she, too, could translate accurately from Latin into English, and should have realised sooner—
“A Latin inscription? On your blessed box?”
All Miss Seeton’s painstaking parentheses collapsed at this point. She hadn’t expected Euphemia to say anything just yet, with her elaborate explanation still unfinished: she was so startled that the only reply she could frame comprised the three simple words: “Inside the lid.”
“Inside the lid, eh?” The rustle of windmilling arms echoed down the line. “Inside the lid. Round the edge, or across the middle?”
“Round the edge—right round it. And—and not proper words, I think, from the dictionary.” Miss Seeton decided this didn’t sound quite right. “I mean, not real words—full words. Not all of them, that is—except the names. Which are, of course. Proper. Abbreviated, I mean. Many of the others—indeed, most.”
“Aha!” Euphemia Braxted could construe not only Latin, but also Ancient Greek, Abyssinian, and Egyptian Hieroglyphics. Miss Seeton’s conversation, on the whole, didn’t present her with any great difficulty. “Now this begins to sound more hopeful—oops!” There came a clatter down the line, as if in her mounting excitement she had dropped the receiver. Politely Miss Seeton waited for the genteel cursing to subside and the conversation to resume.
“Yes, well—sorry about that.” Euphemia’s words were half gasp, half giggle. It was clear that her emotions had been deeply stirred. “An inscription round the inside? Now, isn’t that splendid!” She didn’t ask: she stated, obviously expecting Miss Seeton to share her appreciation of this splendour. When, from the silence, it became apparent that Miss Seeton’s understanding was limited, she relented.
“As I said, you’ll remember, it’s not that hard to fudge a set of likely-looking papers, if you know what you’re doing—and fudge ’em well enough to fool most people, including me.” She chuckled. “Wouldn’t fool my sister, mind you. Eugenia’s one of the queen bees up in the BM’s Muniments Registry. My twin,” she added, as Miss Seeton was suitably impressed at this convenient connection to the renowned expertise of the British Museum
. “Lord only knows, though, what our parents were thinking of. A double helping of Miss E. Braxted, and all our private correspondence in a muddle—but there you are, nothing to be done about it.” She chuckled. “Saved a fortune with Cash’s, of course.”
When Euphemia had finished enjoying the joke she had doubtless made before, Miss Seeton communicated her own discreet amusement for the ingenuity of the elder Braxteds in halving expenditure on machine-stitched name-tapes, as supplied by the celebrated school outfitters. But amusement was quickly muted, at either end of the line: there were more important matters to discuss.
“Besides, it was less of a problem,” Euphemia continued, “when we grew up, because we went into different fields—Genie’s not as keen on the mud-and-muscle side of history as I am, Miss Seeton. But when it comes to fake documents, believe me, she’s your man. We could do a good deal worse than consult her ...”
It was evident that Dr. Braxted had already embraced Miss Seeton’s cause—the cause of the Estover dukedom—as her own. “... but not just yet. I’d like to have a proper look at the evidence before I send you off on what might be a wild goose chase, although I agree with you that to take so much trouble on the inside ... Hang on a tick while I turn to a fresh page ... Right. There are at least three different styles of pronunciation. Chances are yours and mine won’t be the same—so give it to me letter by letter, and I’ll see what I can do. Fire away, Miss Seeton!”
chapter
~ 21 ~
THE COUNTY BUS ran only one day a week, Crabbe’s supplementary service on two. This was none of them. Miss Seeton hesitated to ask for the lift she knew Lady Colveden would willingly offer, whether it was convenient or not: there was always so much to do, on a farm ...
Miss Seeton chided herself silently as she dialled the number of Crabbe’s Garage. Wasn’t honesty the best policy? Very well, then. Lady Colveden—and Nigel—had been kind; more than kind. But ... but it had been—and she blushed—her discovery, in the beginning, not theirs. Her mistake: just as it was her responsibility, now, to see that whatever Dr. Braxted had found out should be imparted at the earliest possible moment to the appropriate authorities ... whoever they might be. The Colvedens, as members of the aristocracy—Sir George, in particular, as a Justice of the Peace—might well know—and would be consulted, of course, for the benefit of their advice; but ... but perhaps, for a little while, she might have the—she blushed again—the romance, and the fun, of the Estover Secret as all her own—
Sold to Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 19) Page 18
