“Oh, God. Let me guess: she was running a brothel in the back room, doing fancy things with four-poster beds and antique rolling pins, and MissEss upset her—no?” as Delphick, looking shocked, shook his head. “Go on, then. Tell me the worst.” And the superintendent drew himself to his full height, breathed deeply, and gripped the edge of his desk in a frenzied grasp.
It seemed doubtful he could take much more. “Embezzlement,” said Delphick simply. “There hasn’t been time yet to check every detail, but Myra Stanebury had almost total control over the firm’s books and files. It seems she persuaded one or two of the firm’s partners—I’m almost sure they’re innocent of anything except undue trust—to sign cheques out to legitimate clients, whereupon she altered the names of the payees to her own—she’d doctored the ink to make it easy to erase—and deposited the money in a bank account she kept secret even from her—ahem—rather forceful mother. When Miss Seeton started asking questions, she reacted as we’ve seen—and in due course suffered the same fate she had planned for someone else.”
“Oh,” said Brinton after a pause. “Is that all?”
“Near enough. It was Radwinter, of course, who at the instigation of Cutler broke into Brettenden Museum. He was after Quendon’s notes, which were in the same lot as the Van der Graaf generator bought by the curator for educational display purposes: electrical currents and so forth. I’m told one stands on an isolation block with a hand on the globe, and when the circuit is complete, your hair stands on end as it discharges heaven knows how many volts from the mains. Very popular with children, they tell me, though not being a family man, I can’t—ah, yes.” Delphick eyed his friend thoughtfully.
He decided to take the chance. “Family. Yes. Wimbish, a gentleman with whom we in London have been long acquainted, is Peace Radwinter’s cousin, Chris.”
Brinton groaned. “I might have known! That blasted basement computer of yours’ll have the whole damned family listed to the fifteenth generation, twice removed. Where’s the old-fashioned coppering in just asking a machine?”
“Using its brains more profitably with the time saved from routine,” returned Delphick, who had some sympathy with his hard-pressed colleague’s complaint. “Which, indeed, we did, as soon as Miss Seeton had given us the vital clue. It was Peace Radwinter, the local, who first heard rumours of Quendon’s work and passed them on to his big-shot cousin Wimbish as someone who would know how to make best use of the information; which was another reason for Radwinter’s being the logical choice of refuge while Wimbish waged all-out war in London on Cutler’s behalf. Both men were doubtless promised great things, once Rickling’s bid for power had been suppressed—a business rival,” he quickly translated as Brinton quivered, and from the china mug of pencils near his blotter came a rattle of skeleton bones.
“Rickling, however, is my affair, not yours,” Delphick continued smoothly. “You may rest easy on your laurels, Superintendent Brinton ...” Then, as his friend seemed to relax and opened the top drawer of his desk, he decided to take a further chance. “Yours—and Miss Seeton’s ...”
Something in the way Foxon leaped sideways on his chair warned Delphick to duck—just in time—out of the flight-path of an infuriated high-velocity peppermint.
Bob Ranger wasn’t so lucky.
chapter
~ 28 ~
HE HAD FAR better luck later. During the earlier telephone interrogation of Miss Seeton, Delphick had given due warning that a personal encounter—once the official business of the day had been completed—was probable; and Miss Seeton, in happy anticipation of a visit from her adopted nephew Bob Ranger and his kindly superior, had headed at once for the bakery on the opposite corner of The Street. From Mrs. Wyght she bought, among other delicacies, a thick slab of Bob’s favourite gingerbread: it was sheer good manners now that compelled him to force down his third generous slice, with the pleasing prospect of others yet to come.
“And will you, Mr. Delphick, have another biscuit? Or a piece of Battenburg? A scone, perhaps? Or”—she twinkled at him across the table—“some of Martha’s delicious fruit-cake?” Miss Seeton, always hospitable, that afternoon was even more so. She was in excellent spirits. A great weight had been lifted from her mind by the arrival of Chief Superintendent Delphick, and by his assurance that there was no need for her to feel in any way to blame for the unfortunate events of the past few days. The news that the prankster who had twice broken into her cottage was in hospital had, of course, come as something of a shock—but to know that her foolish pride in the romance of the Estover story had been completely innocent ...
“A lemon-curd tart,” she insisted, handing him the plate with a beaming smile. “Martha has been making up for lost time, you know, since recovering from her cold. And poor Mr. Treeves, according to his sister, is considerably improved, which is splendid news.” The beam widened. “In fact, today has been a day for nothing but good news, hasn’t it?”
Delphick mentally reviewed Buckland’s concussion, Brinton’s shock, the Intensive Care status of Cutler and his henchman, and the likely response of the insurance companies to the considerable damage done to the windows and roofs of the various properties either side of that demolished in the explosion—not to mention constabulary reactions at being one car short, and the likely views of Brettenden Town Council over its loss of the corresponding lamppost.
Then he saw Miss Seeton’s smile ... and substituted for his first list a second: an escaped prisoner found, a triple killer caught, a fraudster unmasked—too late, admittedly, for the law, but (according to the Candell accountant) just in time for the stolen funds to be recovered, for the tottering company to be placed once more on a sound financial footing.
“Nothing but good news,” he agreed, helping himself (the gaiety of his hostess was infectious) to not one, but two of the dainty pastry rounds with their sharp, sweet, smoothly toothsome yellow filling, rich in stickiness and calories. “And nearly all,” he added truthfully, “thanks to you and your sketches, Miss Seeton.”
Miss Seeton blushed and murmured that she feared the chief superintendent was being too complimentary about her poor attempts at supplying him with that likeness of the box for which he, or rather Superintendent Brinton, had asked her. She had naturally done her best, but ...
“But nothing, Miss Seeton. It was all there, after the very slightest mental adjustment had been made to what you had apparently drawn.” Delphick picked up the sketchbook from its place at his side. “We will, of course, give you the usual receipt for this: Chris Brinton was adamant about that. I can’t promise when your cheque will arrive, given the erratic behaviour of our basement computer, but rest assured that it will be a substantial one. We are more than grateful to you, you know.”
Miss Seeton’s modest denial of this knowledge was waved away by a third lemon tart as Delphick prepared to explain.
“It seemed, at first sight, that all you had done was draw the items you had seen at the auction: which, in a way, you had. But you drew only a selection. It was curious (and instructive) to note which of those selected you felt worthy of still more detailed observation—of emphasis, as it were. The golf clubs and the, ah, cutlery almost speak for themselves.” He smiled. “But there was something of a puzzle in the violin, and the papers ... and the man in the chain of office who Foxon was convinced must be the Lord High Executioner.”
“Oh, no,” protested Miss Seeton faintly.
“No,” agreed Delphick. “The Lord Chancellor, perhaps?”
“Dr. Braxted,” began Miss Seeton, “did say that—”
She broke off as she saw the Oracle shaking his head. Politely she waited for him to continue.
“A mediaeval costume, with associations of royalty and official responsibility: the Lord Chamberlain, I think, Miss Seeton. The repeated attention drawn to sheets of paper, that final sketch of the pipe of peace—ah, yes,” he said as Miss Seeton uttered a little gasp of realisation.
Delphick smiled, rather sadl
y, as he nodded. “You and I, Miss Seeton, remember the Munich Crisis, and how Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain returned from Berlin waving his written promise from Hitler that there would be peace in our time.” Miss Seeton shook her head—not in denial of his words, but in sorrow for the breaking of that paper promise, and for all the horror that followed. “I doubt, however,” Delphick hurried on, “if you have even heard of one Charles Frederick Peace, and certainly I don’t suggest that you remember him! He was a celebrated burglar of the Victorian era, as noted for his performance on the violin as he was for his steeplejack skills. Yes,” he reiterated as Miss Seeton blinked. “He carried his housebreaking tools in an old instrument case, was as agile as a cat, and so elastic in the facial muscles that he was a master of disguise. Charlie Peace was a thorn in the flesh of the Peelers for more than twenty years before he was caught and executed for killing two people.”
Miss Seeton sighed and shook her head again. Delphick said, “Once the Cutler connection with what had been going on seemed likely, we fed his name, and those of his known associates, into the computer. Wimbish was already under some suspicion as Cutler’s second-in-command: we fed in his name, asked for associates, and up came Neville Chamberlain Radwinter, alias—inevitably—Peace, resident of Brettenden. From that point,” concluded the Oracle, a trifle smugly, “it really wasn’t difficult at all.”
Bob reached for another piece of gingerbread. “So what happens next, Aunt Em? About the dukedom, I mean, not the rest. Is there some sort of—of blue blood authenticating service you could ask?”
“The Royal College of Heralds,” supplied Delphick as Miss Seeton’s burgeoning smile wavered and the old guilty expression crept back into her eyes. “They’d be the ones, I fancy, and I’ve no doubt they could—if asked—draw up a family tree for the likely claimants ... but it would take time, Bob. And money.” He knew that Miss Seeton, innately honest, would never, in the cause of justice, grudge the cost; but he suspected strongly that she would regret losing the romance. For his part, he could see no good reason why she need suffer such a loss; and he set about calming her uneasy conscience with as much eloquence as he could muster.
“It’s hardly a question of anyone’s being in any particular hurry to claim the title, remember. I doubt if whoever it is has any idea at all that he or she might be the heir; almost probably it wasn’t whoever put the box in the auction in the first place, since Miss Seeton has already explained that Candells have at last been able to supply her with the name, and she doesn’t recognise it.”
“Not yet,” ventured Miss Seeton, casting a wistful eye in the direction of another heap of library books.
“Not yet,” agreed Delphick. “But think how much more fun for ... for everyone it would be, if Miss Seeton and the Braxteds and the Colvedens discovered the truth with no, as it were, official assistance. Think how they’ll enjoy making a glorious present of their findings to—to whomever,” he concluded. “I’m sure I would in their position.”
He was much gratified to see the smile return, at full strength, to Miss Seeton’s expressive countenance. “If,” he added, “you were half the detective we believed you to be, Sergeant Ranger, you would have observed the large pile of theatrical biographies in library bindings beside Miss Seeton’s chair; and you would have deduced that she is already well on her way to tracing the pedigree of the Pottipole family from the date of Benedicta’s marriage.”
Miss Seeton was nodding, seemingly much impressed by this display of Delphick’s own deductive powers. “You would also,” he went on, “have deduced that in London the good Dr. Braxted is working through the BM’s—ahem—baronial archive in search of further clues, and that she’ll be making regular reports of her progress as Miss Seeton, in turn, reports to her. Am I right, Miss Seeton?”
Miss Seeton’s delighted blush confirmed the brilliance and accuracy of this chain of logic. Bob sat with the slice of gingerbread uneaten in his hand, muttering to himself for having missed the clue of the thespian tomes.
Miss Seeton smiled, rather ruefully, at her enormous young friend. “You aren’t alone, I fear, in having to reproach yourself for a—a sad lack of observation. If I had only thought to examine these books before fetching them home, my first choice would have been those with the most comprehensive index—indeed, with any index at all. As it is, however ...” She sighed. “Interesting though the subject matter might be in a general sense, it would have made it much easier to trace who is, or rather was, who. So many people in the theatre seem to marry others in the same profession, though they don’t always change their names when they do. They can without, as well. Sometimes more than once. Bob Hope, of course, isn’t so much a stage actor as a film star, but he was christened Leslie—and there’s the chorus girl who called herself Dawn O’Day when her real name was Paris—which I would have thought charming in itself—and when she played Anne of Green Gables, she became Anne Shirley. I’m sure they must have done the same sort of thing in earlier times,” said Miss Seeton, “which makes it all very confusing.”
“But fun,” said Delphick, “if I’m not mistaken. Yes?”
“Well ... yes. Perhaps it is a little selfish—but, as you say, I’m not exactly ... keeping it all to myself. Dear Nigel and his mother, and Dr. Braxted—and Dr. Braxted, too.” She twinkled again. “Everyone agrees it’s bound to be a slow and—and painstaking process, but if we could just find a suitable barometer, I would say that everything was really going very well indeed.”
Bob choked on a mouthful of gingerbread; Delphick froze with his teacup halfway to his lips. Miss Seeton noticed nothing as she took a biscuit from the plate. “I had never been to an auction before, you know. I found it most enjoyable: and so very interesting—if a little sad, when one appreciates that many of the items for sale are the property of someone who has died. Were, that is, and all too often without family or friends. But the album, for instance, is a pleasant little keepsake. It reminds me of my schooldays, though Mrs. Benn’s girls, being modern, had no time for such frivolities. And not too expensive,” she added happily. “In Hampstead. I had considered, before the superintendent arrived, visiting the milliner as well, to find something to match: it is such an attractive shade of blue, and does deserve, I think, the extravagance of a new hat. Especially if”—the twinkle in her eyes was as bright as ever they had seen it—“I might one day have to pay a call on a duke. Or a duchess. And if her ladyship hasn’t found one yet, I do hope she wouldn’t feel it an imposition if I asked her to take me again ...
“Do you think she would, Chief Superintendent?”
Note from the Publisher
While he was alive, series creator Heron Carvic had tremendous fun imagining Emily Seeton and the supporting cast of characters.
In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her head ...”
You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr
Preview
COMING SOON
Sweet Miss Seeton ...
Miss Seeton, poised to pour boiling water from the kettle to the pot, stayed her hand as the doorbell rang. A visitor: perhaps more than one: perhaps the telephone engineer. She would leave making tea until she knew how strong it needed to be. Her preference for weak (one spoon for each person and none for the pot) was shared, she knew, by few. One could always water strong tea to an acceptable weakness, but it wasn’t easy to strengthen, as it were, what others might call weak tea to make its taste acceptable to a true-blue English palate.
As she set down the kettle and prepared to welcome her guest, personal or professional, the doorbell rang again, impatiently. Not, then, a visitor with whom she was well acquainted. The teleph
one man, then, eager to finish work for the day. Miss Seeton, with a faint sigh, walked—briskly, as a hospitable concession to impatience—down the hall. Unless, of course, it was some kind of emergency, which she hadn’t thought being without a working telephone for twenty-four hours had been, when one could always go to Mr. Stillman at the other end of The Street, where the phones were still working. But an emergency ...
Miss Seeton walked a little faster and opened the door with something approaching a jerk.
She stared in surprise at the figure drooping before her with a sketchbook in its hand.
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The squawking from the hen-houses continued unabated. Miss Seeton arrived at the runs. She beat the wire door with her umbrella.
“Stop that,” she called. “Stop that at once, do you hear me?”
“Sure, lady. I hear you.”
She gasped. A shadow moved forward, reached through the wire and unhooked the door. With the moon behind him Miss Seeton could see little but a dark shape muffled in a coat, a hat pulled low. But the moon shone on the barrel of the pistol he held.
“Now, just take it nice and easy, lady. Back to the house and no noise, see.”
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About the Miss Seeton series
Retired art teacher Miss Seeton steps in where Scotland Yard stumbles. Armed with only her sketch pad and umbrella, she is every inch an eccentric English spinster and at every turn the most lovable and unlikely master of detection.
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