It was clear from Brinton’s expression that he didn’t. Miss Seeton tried again. “Most of them, that is, though the Letter Patent is from the fourteenth century.” She began warming to her theme. “Edward the Second, on parchment, and beautifully written. But everything else—the marriage certificate, the diary and personal correspondence, the theatre handbills and engravings—they’re stippled, you know, and in quite remarkable condition, in the cir—”
She broke off, blushing. Her artist’s enthusiasm had got in the way of accuracy. “The robes were a complete set, if that is the correct term. The Colvedens, I expect, would know. They also are in surprisingly good condition, if a little faded, after so long. Like the cap of—of maintenance, with the coronet. For—for a duke. The Duke of Estover. Or,” she continued as accuracy yet again overcame her, “the Duchess.”
Brinton looked at Foxon. Foxon shrugged. Did Brimmers think he spent his spare time reading the society pages? If he did, he was wrong.
“Duke of Estover? There’s no such person, dear,” said Martha Bloomer very gently. The two policemen jumped: she hadn’t spoken—for Martha, this was rare—for so long that they had almost forgotten she was there. “It’s the shock, I dare say,” she said aside, as Miss Seeton looked as startled by this interruption as the two detectives. “I know you’ve your job to do, but couldn’t you ask the rest another day? Give the poor soul time to finish her tea in peace, for a start—dukes, indeed!”
“Indeed yes, Martha.” Miss Seeton’s correction was not only courteous, but slightly guilty in tone. Martha, so dear a friend of such long standing, might justifiably feel hurt that the first exciting revelations (if true) of the old wooden chest had been shared with others (some, virtual strangers) before her cold-riddled self. But there had been—Miss Seeton sighed—that selfish wish to play one’s part as a—as an historical sleuth. The challenge, the mystery of the search ... “The romance,” murmured Miss Seeton, and sighed again.
Brinton, Foxon, and Martha Bloomer exchanged speaking glances. The shock must really have upset Miss Seeton if she was suddenly confessing to a fondness for hearts- and-flowers fiction. As far as any of them knew—and Martha, domestic paragon, must know better than the others—she read little but biographies, history, and nature books: birds, and gardening—wildflowers, too—and, since the admiral had presented her with a pot of his famous honey, bees and other insects. Mrs. Bloomer’s reading taste, apart from her cooking and sewing journals, ran more to magazines and papers of the lighter kind, with gossip columns and society photographs. “There isn’t no Duke of Estover, Miss Emily, dear,” she said as gently as before ...
And her next glance in Brinton’s direction carried a clear warning about pushing people further than he ought.
chapter
~ 23 ~
MARTHA MIGHT HAVE known Miss Seeton longer: Brinton wasn’t so sure she knew her better. In some ways, at least. “Er—what makes you so sure there is, Miss Seeton?” he enquired. “These ... documents you found?”
“Dr. Braxted seems to think so.” Miss Seeton ventured a peep at Martha, then recalled that she was supposed to be making an official statement. Accuracy. “Both of them.”
Damn. Maybe she did: Martha, that was. Know the old girl better. One minute she says the box is full of papers, the next, just two: and that shifty look of hers—no, not shifty, just sort of lopsided, somehow. She’d gone over the edge at last.
In which case they weren’t going to get much out of her until, as Martha had said, she’d had a decent rest. They’d be busy across at the cottage for a few hours yet, so ...
“D’you think you could put Miss Seeton up in your spare room? You’ll sleep sounder,” he explained as Miss Seeton began to protest that she had no wish to cause anyone any inconvenience, “if you haven’t got bluebottles in boots buzzing about downstairs all night keeping you awake. We should be done by tomorrow, I hope. Until then ...”
“Course I can,” said Martha as Miss Seeton attempted another protest, then remembered that the police, quite rightly, would expect her to do as she was told, and fell silent. “I’d have asked her myself, if you hadn’t first. Me and Stan wouldn’t want to think of you alone over there anyway, dear, so let’s have no argument. You’ll be swamped in one of my nighties, of course, but Mr. Brinton won’t mind if I slip across to fetch a few things, will you?”
“My toothbrush,” said Miss Seeton faintly, as Brinton ran a quick mental check. “My slippers—dressing gown ...”
The forensic crowd should know by now whether chummie—either of them—had gone on the prowl upstairs. “Should be all right,” he said at last. “Foxon will have to escort you there and back,” he told Martha, “but don’t worry, Miss Seeton, he’ll keep his back turned in the bedroom like a proper little gent.”
Miss Seeton smiled, though with an effort, and her eyes could not meet his. They fell instead to her hands, clasped on her lap. Brinton’s gaze followed hers. Her fingers were white: white with the effort of keeping still? The superintendent stiffened.
“Toothbrush, slippers, dressing gown—and sketchbook,” he said slowly; and saw Miss Seeton’s clasped hands give a convulsive jerk. “Yes. Now, the way I see it, Chief Superintendent Delphick’s going to want to know what’s been happening to his favourite art consultant, Miss Seeton—but the Oracle’s a busy man. Can’t always get down here as often as he’d like, so what I’d like is to let him take a look at this famous wooden box of yours. If Martha brings your gear—pencils and so on—can you have something ready by the morning?”
“I will certainly do my best,” said Miss Seeton, and her hands unclasped, to stretch and writhe as if trying to fix an invisible seal to that promise. Brinton nodded, satisfied in more ways than one.
Martha jumped to her feet, eager to speed these visitors on their way.
“Stan’s in the kitchen, dear. While I’m out, will you slip along and tell him to put the kettle on? You’ll be wanting a hot water bottle. And something hot inside of you, tea isn’t enough even with biscuits—not that you had any—and you’ll share it with us,” she said as Miss Seeton tried to say she wasn’t hungry. “Seeing as we never finished ours, what with one thing and another, and reheating never tastes the same—which reminds me, Mr. Brinton, if we’ve time, I’ll get the torch to light us over. We might spot Stan’s knife and fork he dropped on the way. Rings on Miss Seeton’s hall table’s something I’m sorry for but can always be polished out, only once you’ve lost part of a set you can never make it up again, can you?”
“Oh, Martha, I am so very—”
“Never you mind my nonsense, dear.” Martha was quick to break into what had obviously been intended as an apology. “It’s not your fault, and you aren’t to go thinking for one minute it is. It’s that burglar’s to blame, blessed cheek, come back a second time to help himself and bringing half Brettenden with him. Once Stan and I’ve got you settled, I’m going to have a good long talk to the superintendent, and he’ll sort everything out. Won’t you, Mr. Brinton?”
“I’ll do my best.” He could hardly say less: he wished he could say more. Maybe, tomorrow, he’d be able to.
Martha, the torch, and the detective escort set off for Sweetbriars. They left Miss Seeton to oversee the boiling of the Bloomer kettle while she pondered her latest challenge, that of sketching the Estover chest from memory, for Brinton was unhappy about allowing her home again until all traces of recent events should be removed.
He was made unhappier still when Foxon, having watched Martha hurry homewards with Miss Seeton’s gear, decided to share his own misgivings.
“Sir—about this murder. I’ve been thinking.”
Brinton grunted. Foxon took this as an invitation to continue. “Well, sir, she’s—she was, I mean, smallish and—and faded, sort of middle-aged to look at, especially in a hurry, I imagine. Spinstery,” said Foxon as the superintendent suppressed a groan. “Of course, we don’t know yet whether the two of them came here together, or not—but suppose they di
dn’t. Suppose he didn’t bring her, but got here after, and broke in the same way he did yesterday, when Martha scared him off—and he finds this spinstery type in what he’s got to know is a spinster’s cottage, sir ...”
“You needn’t say any more,” said Brinton, suppressing a shudder. “That blasted auction—this blasted box!” He ran a pensive finger over the carved surface and sneezed as it came away dusted with white powder. “Never mind scorch marks on the mahogany and half a canteen of her second-best cutlery littered up and down the road—Martha Bloomer’s going to have a fit when she sees this lot.”
“Martha’s got brains enough to know about fingerprints.” Foxon produced a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out. “Here, sir. It’s a spare,” he added as Brinton’s ruddy face expressed surprise.
“Thought it didn’t match.” Brinton accepted the plain white square with a nod of acknowledgement for his subordinate’s always sprightly, sometimes startling sense of fashion. “So your theory,” he said as he rubbed his hands, “is that chummie somehow missed out at the auction and decided he’d better pop along to rectify matters once he’d got the name and address from the Candell files?”
“Yes, sir. Subject to modification, of course—and if I’m right,” he said nobly, “then I must’ve been wrong before. He probably isn’t one of the sale-room people after all.”
“How d’you reckon that?”
Foxon took a deep breath. “Well, sir, we don’t know yet what Myra was doing here, but she was doing it in working hours. Either she helped herself to time off—phoned in sick, said she’d got the plumbers or something—or she was given it. If she was given it, if it was official, then she either meant to fudge what she’d been supposed to do—which in a place the size of Brettenden would be too easy to check afterwards—or ...”
“Or,” supplied Brinton, “she did it. Yes, I’m with you so far. Did it, with their blessing, and got murdered for her pains. But ...”
“But, sir, if they’d known enough to send her—if it was important enough to kill for—why send her? Sanctity of human life and all that, but she was only a clerk. You’d think it’d be one of the high-ups they’d send to explain to MissEss they’d made this horrendous mistake with selling the box, and asking for it back. They wouldn’t know she’s the sort to let it go without a fuss once she’d realised she’d no real right to it. They’d bring out the big guns, to make it sound more impressive. To make sure.”
“To make sure they got it back,” muttered Brinton. “And you’re saying they didn’t, so they can’t have known she was coming? It’s a theory. But suppose she simply took a day’s holiday and didn’t bother saying why?”
Foxon’s face fell.
“And suppose,” continued Brinton, gleefully usurping his subordinate’s customary role of Devil’s Advocate, “they did know she was coming? Suppose they were willing to let her try getting the box back from Miss Seeton with a touch of woman-to-woman sympathy? It’d explain how she got here when the buses aren’t running. They’ll have dropped her off with her instructions; arranged to pick her up again, with the box, once she’d let them know she’d got it. In this place, strangers tend to stick out like a whole casualty ward of sore thumbs. And strange cars—Foxon, stop smirking.”
“Sorry, sir. But—not outside pubs, they don’t. Stick out, I mean. Has anyone checked over the road at the George yet? Or she could have come by taxi—or hitched a lift—”
“Or come on a bicycle,” agreed Brinton glumly. “More legwork—but we can’t do everything at once, dammit, not with the manpower we’ve got. Not even in a case of murder—though I think,” he added, “we’ll chance a spot of doubling up from the Mimms enquiry.”
“And if they did mean to collect her and the box later, sir—why didn’t they?”
The superintendent brightened. “Maybe they did, saw what had happened, and got the hell out of here before anyone saw them.” Then he gloomed once more. “Endless possibilities, Foxon, that’s what we’ve got. Questions to ask, statements to take, statements to check and check again ... and about all we know is that it’s something to do with this box. Probably.”
“I’ll bet Miss Seeton’s wishing she’d never gone to that auction, sir.”
Brinton sighed. “I wish I hadn’t. I wouldn’t feel so bad about not having sorted out the whole damfool mistake as soon as she made it, instead of letting her talk me into thinking everything was fine and sending her off on her merry way into the usual chaos—oh, I wish the Oracle was here! How he does it, I don’t know, but he can cope with her, and I just can’t. Why did the chummies in Town have to try a takeover bid now, of all times?”
“You’ve asked her to Draw, sir. You might get something from that.”
“Pigs might fly. I won’t. She’s Delphick’s pigeon, laddie, and no point in trying to beat him at his own game. If I hadn’t done an Oracle and given her that blasted brolly for Christmas, none of this would have happened—but it has.” He gave the treasure chest an ill-tempered thump with his fist. “It has, and we’re stuck with it, whatever it is—and according to Miss Seeton, we need a historian to tell us. Documents! Dukes! Dr. Braxted!” He paused. He frowned. “Hmm. Foxon, perhaps we should be talking to the fair Euphemia.”
“Tomorrow might be better, sir. By the time we’ve finished here, not to mention all the checking on the Candells crowd ...”
Brinton tore at his hair. “Checking! Oh, I know you’re right, laddie. It’s routine that solves cases, ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Flashes of inspiration come in handy when you get them—but they’re the hundredth. And when you do get them, it takes an Oracle to translate them.” He fastened Foxon with a penetrating gaze. “Once I’ve got my hands on whatever sketch Miss Seeton comes up with tomorrow, you’ll be on the first train to London. I wish I could spare a fast car, but ...”
“Manpower,” said Foxon. “And money.” He’d heard the superintendent hold forth on these topics more than once in the past. “The first train, sir—so long as he knows I’m coming. He’s never answered your original SOS, has he?”
“That,” said Brinton, “was no SOS, laddie, that was just a—a hint. This,” he said, striding out to the telephone in the hall, “is an SOS.” And, with Foxon hovering at his elbow, he picked up the receiver and began to dial.
The greater part of Brinton’s team had already returned to the Ashford station, where, for the second time within a week, the forensic department was subjected to even more overtime. Brinton, Foxon, and a small but dedicated crew remained in Plummergen, Brinton and his ebullient junior to investigate Miss Seeton’s house while the rest, armed with powerful torches, checked her gardens (front and back) and the immediate area up and down the unlighted Street.
The absence of street lamps was less of a hindrance to this checking than might have been expected. Before the police had prowled more than a few yards beyond the Sweetbriars boundaries, curtains were a-twitch in every window that overlooked that part of the village’s only road, as well as in those of optimists farther to the north who had been alerted by telephone that Summat Was Up. Oblongs of spilled electric light gave the smooth asphalt a curiously striped appearance: black, brilliant, black, brilliant, black. Only in that stretch where The Street narrowed to cross the bridge, a lane running between cottage fences on one side and Miss Seeton’s high brick wall on the other, was the search performed by official torchlight alone. Martha Bloomer’s tongue could not only wag, but it could also—as her neighbours well knew—excoriate, in a good cause. And what better cause could there be for the Bloomers than the welfare of Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton?
Despite the relative darkness at the southern end of The Street, the search was methodical, though slow. It was little more than half an hour after it had begun that the cry went up from PC Potter, down by the concrete pillbox beside the canal. A favourite place for courting couples and the occasional shelter-seeking tramp, this symbol of England’s most desperate hour still stood, squ
at and square and grey, within daylight view of the canal bridge, the top of the church tower—and the bottom of Miss Seeton’s back garden.
“A bicycle, sir,” said PC Potter, breathing hard from the exertion of his sprint up the gentle slope of the lane. “Dark green, I think, and a ladies’—and it’s not local, or I’d know it, even in the dark. There’d be no mistaking that great wicker basket on the front, or the splash-guard at the back all over flowers, sir. Horrible pink it looks to me, though we can’t be sure till day, of course.”
“Well done, Potter.” Brinton, at the telephone, was already dialling. “I’ll have ’em ask the Brettenden beat bloke whether Miss Stanebury rode a bike, and get a full description—but I’ve a feeling it won’t be necess—That you, Mutford?” he said as there came a click on the other end of the line, and the lugubrious tones of the desk sergeant identified Ashford Police Station. “Brinton here.”
He issued his instructions, stressing—as he suppressed a yawn—that they should be carried out promptly, but not instantly. First thing in the morning, he said, would do. Yes, he was quite sure he didn’t need to know any sooner than that. It was late; he doubted he’d be able to make too much sense of the information even if they rang back within minutes, most of all because he wasn’t going to be here then, with luck. He was going to be on his way home for a few hours’ much-needed kip: and he’d see Mutford tomorrow—or rather (with another yawn) later today.
The disapproval of Desk Sergeant Mutford radiated at him down the wire. Mutford was one of the staunchest members of the Holdfast Brethren, a sect celebrated for holding fast to the letter of the strictest law, whether temporal or spiritual, and for obeying any (legitimate) order far above and beyond the call of ordinary duty. It was a police officer’s duty to solve crime: any slowness in such solving was, to the mind of the Holdfast Brethren, an offence against duty, and not to be encouraged. If the superintendent (volunteered the self-appointed saviour of Brinton’s soul) liked, Sergeant Mutford would obtain a camp bed for his office—
Sold to Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 19) Page 21
