Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14)

by Hamilton Crane

  “That was before I realised she’d not only been hanging round the pavilion and alerting suspicion to what was going on inside, but had been riding on the bus, as well—and was therefore likely to be . . . shall we say, on her usual form?”

  “Oh, do let’s.” Brinton rolled his eyes again, sighing heavily. “After dropping a hundred-ton crane smack on top of a coiners’ lair, and causing gridlock in the city for an encore, why not another little traffic jam right outside her front door, just to round it all off nicely? Usual form, indeed!” He caught Delphick’s expression, clutched at his hair, and groaned. “No, you’re right, and I’m being unfair—she’s done it again, hasn’t she? Gift-wrapped the whole bunch for us, even if it was in sheet metal instead of fancy paper. That lot out there being carted off to hospital’s the crowd we’ve been chasing these past few weeks, no question.” Then he sat up. “Or maybe not—because I know MissEss as well as you do, Oracle. Why’s she still Drawing if the case is closed? What’s she know that we don’t? Or”—a look of alarm darkened his eyes—“is she already planning her next little adventure, and giving us advance warning? I think I’ll just go quietly barmy now, and save her the bother. There’s a limit to what anyone can be expected to put up with.” He shuddered. “I bet they’re all a bunch of nervous wrecks like me, back at the Yard.”

  “Inspector Borden of Fraud and his colleagues have every reason to be grateful to Miss Seeton,” said Delphick, raising his voice as his quicker ears caught the opening of a door and the approaching patter of female feet down the passage. “As, indeed, have we.” And the feet stopped outside the kitchen.

  Delphick called: “Come on in, Miss Seeton, tea’s almost ready. And while we’re drinking it, you shall show us your picture—or pictures, if you’ve drawn more than one. That is, if you’d be so kind,” he added, as Miss Seeton came shyly through the half-open door and hovered, her hands no longer dancing, beside the refrigerator. “I can tell,” Delphick said, “that you’ve finished, haven’t you?”

  She nodded, looking unhappy; but, since such was her habitual look when being coaxed or coerced into parting with any of the instinctive drawings for which Scotland Yard so prized her services, Delphick paid no attention. He set pot and crockery on the tray and made as if to pick it up.

  “Shall I carry this through for you, Miss Seeton? Or—might there be a chance of some of Mrs. Bloomer’s fruitcake? We didn’t have such a splendid tea as the players, you know. Sandwiches are no substitute for Martha’s cooking, though I won’t ask for gingerbread. I’m sure Bob will be along as soon as he can to see you, and you’ll want to save it for him. But if we have all the . . . business sorted out before he arrives, why, so much the better, wouldn’t you say?”

  Miss Seeton, who had looked by turns relieved, anxious, apologetic, amused, pleased, and relieved again as Delphick spoke, now explained that she could, she feared, only offer biscuits, as dear Martha had been so busy, these last few days, baking for the team teas, that she’d had only enough time to make a small fruitcake, of which the last slice, she regretted, had been eaten that morning, with her coffee. But they were, she added, with a glance at Brinton’s bulk, chocolate; and, she thought, nourishing as well as delicious. If they didn’t mind too much, that was to say.

  Delphick took three seconds to work out what she was saying, nodded back, smiled, and said that chocolate biscuits—which he knew to be one of her favourite sorts—would suit admirably. And, in all the bustle of hunting out the tin, and the plates, and rearranging the tray, Miss Seeton lost her look of guilty discomfort over what she had just sketched, so that the chief superintendent had high hopes of learning something to his forensic advantage before very much longer: although, after Brinton’s remarks, he couldn’t help wondering exactly what this might be.

  Brinton, deciding that his self-diagnosis of a nervous breakdown abrogated him from further responsibility, followed Delphick and Miss Seeton as they made for the sitting room. The superintendent reasoned to himself that Potter, Foxon, and Bob Ranger were fully capable of dealing with the ambulance, and the tow truck, and the burglars—if that’s what they were, and knowing Miss Seeton you couldn’t really doubt it. At a guess, she’d disturbed a splinter group of the main gang helping itself to the players’ belongings as their colleagues turned over the Plummergen houses, empty while the inhabitants were up at the cricket ground, watching the match . . .

  “Admiral Leighton,” muttered Brinton. It still seemed incredible. Potter, who’d mentioned the village’s newest inhabitant in his weekly report, evidently approved of the bloke. So did the Colvedens, and Mr. Jessyp—you didn’t invite people into your cricket team if you thought they were wrong’uns, did you? Still, Brinton was the first to admit you could never really go by appearances. Take Miss Seeton, now. Your typical English spinster schoolmarm, tweeds and lace handkerchiefs and hatpins, and that umbrella . . .

  “Bosh!” The ejaculation set the teapot wobbling in his hostess’s pouring hand. “Oh, sorry, Miss Seeton.” Brinton cleared his throat. “A sneeze—going down backwards, you might say.”

  Miss Seeton nodded sympathetically. “Dear me, yes, your hay fever, Superintendent. Such a pity, and so inconvenient when visiting the countryside, is it not?” And he breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she didn’t seem to recognise the excuse as one he’d used on previous occasions.

  He might have expected Delphick—who knew his friend no more suffered from hay fever than he did—to say something, but the chief superintendent appeared to have missed the little exchange. He accepted his cup from Miss Seeton with a murmur of thanks, then returned to studying the sketchbook he had picked up almost as soon as he’d set the tray on the sitting-room table. It wasn’t, Brinton observed, the small, almost jotting-sized book Miss Seeton had been using at the cricket match—the one, he realised, she must have left behind when she started all the recent kerfuffle by slipping off to the pavilion . . .

  He couldn’t bear it: he had to know. And, as Delphick was apparently too busy to ask, then, dammit, Chris Brinton would ask, instead. He cleared his throat again.

  “Miss Seeton, I just wondered—why did you leave your chair and go over to the pavilion without telling one of us first? I mean, if you’d spotted the thieves inside—and there we all were right next to you, as fine a bunch of coppers as anyone could want . . .”

  Delphick’s head went up as he tuned in to his friend’s question. He, too, would like to know her reason: and well done, Chris, for asking. He’d been so interested in these sketches he hadn’t got round to thinking of it yet.

  Miss Seeton turned pink. “Oh, dear—one feels so badly about distracting the batsman’s eye—the importance of seeing properly, which of course, as an artist . . . and particularly when dear Mr. Delphick had already . . .” Her eyes fell, and her hands danced another of their unhappy little dances. She gulped. “When . . . when everyone was calling and waving, I thought—so very friendly—I had, I fear, forgotten about crossing the sight-screen, and I felt so . . . and, naturally, one could hardly return to the chair without disturbing them again. And it was so very hot, which is why . . . and when I saw Crabbe’s coach, and dear Jack’s father resting on the step, I thought perhaps . . . He was so kind, and allowed me to take a seat on the bus while . . . and then . . .”

  “Yes, yes, we know all that.” Brinton met Delphick’s I-told-you-so look with a nod and a rueful grin. “But why did you, er, want to cross the sight-screen to begin with?”

  “It was so very hot,” she said again. “So bright on the paper—the sunlight, you know. And dear Anne had taken it when he ran across the pitch—not that one grudged it for a moment, of course. Nudity,” said Miss Seeton, oblivious to the embarrassment of explanation in the matter-of-fact tones of an art teacher, “is all very well, in its place. Which is not in the middle of a cricket match.” Even now, there was the hint of a twinkle in her eye. “Such foolish behaviour—but so very clever of dear Anne, though the glare, of course, made it difficu
lt afterwards to see the paper in any great comfort. I thought she might have forgotten, and that I could save her the trouble of bringing it back by fetching it myself . . .”

  Brinton found that he was holding his breath. Delphick stared at his friend in some alarm. The superintendent was turning redder by the minute, though references to blood pressure would probably do more harm than good. The Oracle turned to Miss Seeton with one of his kindest and most understanding smiles and said gently:

  “Your umbrella, of course. Yes, Miss Seeton, I believe that explains almost everything . . .”

  Almost, but not quite. As Brinton let out his pent-up breath with a gasp and quenched his boiling blood in a long, welcome gulp of tea, Delphick turned back to the sketches over which he’d been poring. Miss Seeton regarded him with some anxiety. Had one been too, well, ridiculous—or impertinent? Certainly unwelcoming, in one instance . . .

  “You haven’t dated these,” Delphick said, “but I believe I can guess which are the drawings you’ve made since your return from Scotland. This, I take it, is the first.” And he held up the page covered in wounded birds. “Cranes,” he said, with a smile.

  Miss Seeton blinked. “Do you think so, Chief Superintendent? I wasn’t sure, myself, whether they were cranes or herons, but if you believe them to be cranes . . .”

  “I most certainly do.” Delphick showed the sketch, with another smile, to Brinton. “What do you think, Chris? Not a doubt of it—injured cranes. Some, quite badly injured—so that they’ve . . . collapsed . . .”

  “Oh,” said Miss Seeton, faintly.

  “Well, I’ll be . . . blowed,” amended Brinton rapidly, remembering where he was. “These aren’t rocks, they’re the rubble from when the coiners’ house fell in, of course—and these’ll be the fifty-pence pieces the blighters were forging!” He stabbed with a startled finger at the irregular—the seven-sided—circles Miss Seeton had taken for hailstones, and favoured his hostess with a wondering look. “Miss Seeton, you’re a ruddy marvel, if you don’t mind me saying so. Who’d have thought it? Cranes. Well, well.”

  Delphick hid another smile as Miss Seeton, blushing, was heard to murmur that she really hadn’t meant . . .

  He took swift pity on her. “The Chinamen, of course, we understand at once, in view of the performance put on by the admiral earlier this afternoon.” He turned to the next page after briefly showing Brinton Miss Seeton’s first attempt at a cricket match, and the oriental influence to which she had, unknowing, succumbed. He hesitated, looked from the drawing to Miss Seeton with a frown, then passed without comment to the next page.

  “The pink elephants and the carthorse we know about, if even half of what Anne and the others told us is true. But the chap in the leather apron interests me. Would you call it a good likeness of—what’s his name? Eggleden? Plummergen’s blacksmith, anyway.”

  “Daniel Eggleden, yes.” Miss Seeton beamed. “A skilled and knowledgeable craftsman, Mr. Delphick, and such a pleasure to watch at his work. It is a great pity that his arm was broken—he made my fence, you know, as well as the balustrade for Miss Wicks—her cottage, I mean.”

  Delphick nodded, turning to the next page. “This, as I recall, is Miss Wicks. Flooded out of house and home, and currently staying with the Knights. But that’s not their place behind her in your drawing, is it? It’s her cottage, balustrade and all. Who are those people visible through the windows?”

  “I’ve really no idea,” said Miss Seeton, reaching for the sketchbook. “She lives, as I expect you know, entirely alone—oh. Well, of course—the fire brigade, I suppose. Because of playing their hoses. After the horse, and the fire, and the flood . . .”

  “Yes, we heard about that.” But Delphick didn’t look convinced that her interpretation was the right one. “‘You’d recognise the firemen, would you? It is, after all, a local service. Take a good look, now.”

  And the frown with which Miss Seeton had to confess her ignorance of any of the people she’d drawn was enough for the Oracle. “Then these must be the burglars,” he deduced. “Without a doubt.” And Brinton’s expression was one of awe.

  “Oh,” said Miss Seeton again. “Oh, dear . . .”

  “Two more,” said Delphick kindly, “and then we’re done. The last first, I think—the one you’ve just finished. You said that your other drawing is a good likeness of the village blacksmith—of Daniel Eggleden.” Miss Seeton regarded him warily, but nodded. “Then, who is this?”

  And he showed her a sketch of one who could be nothing but another blacksmith. He wore a leather apron and had broad shoulders and mighty forearms, ending in huge hands. One hand held a hammer, the other a long piece of paper, with what looked like rows of figures on it. To one side of the leather-aproned man stood an anvil, behind the whole scene a fire burned, and on the walls of the vaguely limned room were horseshoes, as well as a shelf of large and heavy spring-bound volumes.

  “Ledgers,” said Delphick softly, watching Miss Seeton’s face. “The St. Leger, as we all know, is a horse race—but I don’t believe that’s what you were referring to. This man isn’t called Leger, or Saint, or Derby—not even Grand, or National.” with a chuckle. “Is he, Miss Seeton?”

  Puzzled, she shook her head, peering at the sketch and frowning again, ignoring his little joke. “I don’t think so,” she said. “That is—well, he might be, I suppose, as one could hardly be expected to know his name, although I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of—ever met . . . that is, I’m sure this is just a—an imaginary man. To make up for poor Dan Eggleden’s inability to work for so long . . .”

  But Delphick, in turn, was shaking his head. “I think not, Miss Seeton. He’s not an imaginary man, and I believe I can put a name to him, though I do, I admit, have the advantage of you, in that the Yard has its rogues’ gallery of portraits, and the good old regulars don’t like to try new tricks. Because if this picture shows who I believe it does—I know him, Miss Seeton. And, thanks to you, I know that he’s the mastermind behind the burglaries you’ve been having around here . . .”

  And Miss Seeton said faintly, “Good gracious.”

  chapter

  ∼ 26 ∼

  DELPHICK HELD THE sketchbook out to Brinton. “I don’t know whether you’ve heard of him, but hazard a guess, based on a little prompting from myself as you look at this. A chap in a leather apron, knee-deep in horseshoes and hammers and all the appurtenances of the forge—but cluttered up with what we might loosely call the work of an accounts department: in ledgers and . . . bills . . .”

  “Bill Smith!” cried Brinton, after fifteen thoughtful seconds. “Burglar Bill, as I live and breathe—good grief, I though he’d been put away years ago!”

  “Put away, and subsequently released, I fear, on several occasions. Proclaiming loudly, the last time, that he’d be going straight from now on—to the disbelief of all concerned, though proving it, of course, was another matter. But now . . .” And Delphick looked with some pride towards Miss Seeton, whose expression was still one of bewilderment.

  “Congratulations, Miss Seeton. He may be too canny now to do the dirty work himself, but Bill Smith’s one of Scotland Yard’s oldest friends. One might almost say he’s one of the dearest, too, for as burglars go, he’s a decent chap. He abhors violence, and refuses even the risk of any rough stuff—he’s loyal to fences, and always sells the proceeds of his exploits through regular contacts—he never robs the same house twice, and never makes a mess. Indeed, he takes pride in leaving the place as tidy as he found it . . .”

  There came a muffled snort from Brinton, and Delphick’s voice quavered as he, too, remembered the mess left in The Street by Burglar Bill’s less efficient junior colleagues. “Ahem! Yes, well, Bill Smith will very likely be himself, ah, tidied away before much longer, once he’s received a visitation from the force and answered a few questions. He’s honest enough, for a burglar. He’ll find it hard to deny, I fancy—particularly as we seem to have most of his team already in custody.�
� He looked again at Miss Seeton, then turned back the pages of her sketchbook.

  “Most, but not all, I think,” he said quietly.

  Miss Seeton’s quick eye recognized the drawing at which he was looking, and she blushed. Her hands began to dance their unhappy little dance once more, and she lowered her gaze.

  “I might,” said Delphick, “have expected a picture of the admiral among your sketches, Miss Seeton. But you don’t seem to have drawn him at all, until this afternoon.”

  “Admiral Leighton?” She brightened perceptibly at this apparent change of subject. “Well, of course, one gathered that he was the star of the match—all the cheers, and the comments during tea—but I made so many sketches, in order to have a good selection for the final painting, once I have decided how it will be. In my haste to retrieve it, I must have left it on my chair—my umbrella, that is to say. And my smaller sketchbook. If you wish to see those drawings, I feel sure it will be safe until my return—and I will certainly do my best to include . . .”

  Delphick was shaking his head, and she fell silent. “It isn’t those sketches I’m interested in, Miss Seeton. I was, if you’ll excuse my saying so, watching you while you drew them. I was particularly struck by your picture of Admiral Leighton with the pavilion behind him. My first thought, when the burglars were spotted inside, was that there was some connection between the admiral and the pavilion—but then I remembered that you showed a flag flying. The, er, gin pennant, perhaps? I understand that Sir George thinks very highly of Rear Admiral Leighton.”

  He cocked a quizzical eyebrow at Brinton, who grinned, and nodded. Miss Seeton smiled politely, looking puzzled. Were they not, after all, both senior officers, with distinguished war service? The admiral, and Sir George, that was to say, not Mr. Brinton and Mr. Delphick—who also were, of course, senior officers, and distinguished—but of a very different sort. “Although both fighting,” she murmured, “if one might be excused so picturesque a turn of phrase, the forces of . . . of evil.” And she sighed and shook her head.