Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3)

by Heron Carvic

  “Who’s he?”

  Miss Seeton looked. “I don’t think it’s anybody. At least not intentionally. It’s just—a face.”

  “And her?” Delphick prodded the turban.

  She was apologetic. “That, I’m afraid, is some relation of Sir George’s. The hat—so unsuitable—stuck in my mind. But that’s what I mean,” she explained. “It’s all mixed up. Neither she, nor that pretty girl, nor the lecturer were there. Everyone wore masks. They were all at that one Mr. Brinton sent me to. The other one, I mean.”

  Delphick gave credit to Miss Seeton for sincerity, but not for accuracy. It wouldn’t stand up in court, but from his experience of her and the way she worked he’d be prepared to take it as read that all four of them had attended the Black Mass last night. Hilary Evelyn was already under observation. The Colvedens’ Aunt Bray, he knew, had moved to a hotel in Rye. He wondered briefly whether Sir George suspected her shenanigans. Probably not. A person’s nearest—if not in this case dearest—were usually the last to guess. But from what he’d heard of her she sounded just the type to mix a little witchcraft with her Nuscience. People with barren lives—like your hardheaded businessman, always the conman’s easiest sell. And the girl—a Mrs. Paynel with an address in London, he had learned from his telephone inquiries—might well repay investigation. He’d get the Yard to check and delve into her background.

  The waltz from The Merry Widow lilted from the radio. Merilee Paynel laughed in excitement.

  “An omen. They’re playing my tune.”

  She took three steps, spun once, whirled twice, her ball dress floating in soft glimmer, and sank to the floor at Nigel’s feet. He placed the cloak that he held ready about her shoulders. She came erect in one swift movement, swept to the floor, turned, dropped a full curtsy to Sir George and Lady Colveden, rose with a radiant smile, was gone. Nigel grinned at his parents, saluted them and followed her.

  Miss Seeton watched entranced. Her fingers itched to set it down: the grace; the glamor and the gaiety; the swirl of rhythm; the freedom and the color. When she got home she’d try, must really try, to capture that most difficult thing, a vivid mood of movement.

  Sir George cleared his throat. “Lovely gel.”

  “Yes …” Lady Colveden sounded doubtful. “But she’s a little old for Nigel and we don’t know anything about her. And why come to stay in a small place like this? Paynel …” Her eyes widened in question. “Wasn’t there a Paynel who drove racing cars? I seem to remember a few years ago something about an accident and he was killed. It was in the papers.”

  “Not our business. Bit of experience won’t hurt Nigel. Boy’s growing up.”

  “He’s only nineteen and—” Lady Colveden shrugged it off. “Come along,” she told Miss Seeton. “Dinner’s all ready. We’ve only got to dish up.”

  The Colvedens, who felt that such diversions as hunt balls were best left to the young in wind, had insisted upon Miss Seeton dining with them as a gesture to the village.

  The village was a little overfull of gesture. They gesticulated at each other in heated argument over Miss Seeton’s latest escapade. Stan Bloomer and Mr. Welsted came to blows. The awe which the exorcism service had inspired, when all had seen—or had they seen?—a host of nightmare demons in full flight before the representatives of rectitude and virtue, had been forgotten in the excitement of gaping at a quite unquestioned Miss Seeton disguised as a gargoyle. She’d polished off two chaps and tried to fly out through t’ tower top on ’er brolly. That weren’t right—only one bloke dead; t’ other were on his pins again. No thanks to ’er. The trouble for her advocates was to explain how she had reached the top. If they accepted the remains of the broken ladder as evidence that she had climbed, then they were left with a picture of a crouching Miss Seeton, umbrella at the ready, poking the two men off it one by one. Those who maintained that she had tried to escape by flight and then got stuck in the opening found confirmation in the fact that she had admitted it. Said she were stuck, didn’ she? All’d ’eard ’er, didn’ they? And it’d took the Brettenden fire brigade’s longest ladder and Wully Boorman, who’d t’ best ’ead for heights, t’ oick ’er down. The attack upon Miss Wicks showed Miss Seeton in an even more sinister light. Mrs. Blaine retold the too horrifying story of how, by the mere stretching of an arm through a window, she had knocked poor Eric senseless. Now it was all too clear. She had spells which lingered in her cottage to waylay anyone foolhardy enough to venture there. This theory had gained support from the curious circumstance that on the morning after delivering it the Nuts had quit. They had canceled their milk, announcing that they would be away some weeks. No one knew where they had gone and, since they were keeping their destination secret, it was obvious that they had fled in fear of Miss Seeton’s wrath to come.

  Unexplained absenteeism was also disturbing the police. Upon request the Sussex force had sent a man to Mrs. Trenthorne’s hotel at Rye to keep an eye on her, only to find that she had paid her bill and left but had not left a forwarding address. Others, both in Sussex and in Kent, had informed their various police stations that their houses would be empty during their absence for the next few weeks, but none had given their holiday address. The majority had said that they were traveling. When this information percolated, Delphick asked for an additional check to be made. It was then discovered that a number of houses, chiefly in Kent, were closed and their owners absent; again with no explanation. There was nothing to prevent people from taking holidays; nothing to say that they could not take them all at once; but remembering what he had heard from Scotland, where further inquiries had produced no further intelligence, and in view of what Sir George had told him of Aunt Bray’s slip about a secret place, the superintendent was concerned. The search for Miss Seeton’s tunnel had proved a failure. The coast was known to be honeycombed with them but few had been traced. They had scoured the seashore for the opening she had described but could not find it. She had led them to the spot where she averred that she had fallen, but either her geography was at fault or else the site had been skillfully repaired and camouflaged. Although it seemed improbably far away, they had even searched the church and tested all the flooring, but with no result. If the Nuscientists had a secret place in the neighborhood, the secret was well kept.

  After dinner Sir George determined upon walking Miss Seeton home. He noted with amusement but without comment that she had a new umbrella. It was a stout affair, nylon-covered, with a strong steel shaft. It had been delivered at Sweetbriars with a letter of apology from Chief Inspector Brinton for the fiasco at the church. Would she, the chief inspector had asked, use the enclosed as a working model, to be replaced as necessary? Meanwhile he had sent the remains of her silk one with the gold handle, found in the belfry—which Delphick had given her on a previous occasion—to be repaired and it would be returned to her when ready. But he would like to suggest that in future she use it only on such comparatively safe occasions as afternoon tea with friends. Privately the chief inspector considered that such things as safe occasions and Miss Seeton didn’t jibe and that in her case afternoon tea at the vicarage was as likely to turn to mayhem as any other venture in which she might indulge. There was also a rider which had surprised Miss Seeton. Though, naturally, one must not take advantage. Would she, Brinton had insisted, indent for hats destroyed in the course of duty; also for clothes, to be cleaned or replaced as needed. Probably, she decided, just Mr. Brinton’s rather tart sense of fun.

  Sir George bade Miss Seeton good night and waited for a moment after she had closed her door. Hadn’t heard a lock or bolt. Still—couldn’t interfere: never give orders in another command’s barracks. He looked down the Street. Seemed quiet enough. Should be all right, he supposed. He turned to go home. Lovely gel, Mrs. Paynel. Bit old for Nigel though; Meg was right. Still—shouldn’t interfere: never drill the men off parade. He walked slowly back to Rytham Hall. Could be all right, he supposed.

  chapter

  ~14~

&
nbsp; At home Miss Seeton hurried to her desk, took pencils, brushes, watercolors, and settled down to ensnare the effervescence that was Mrs. Paynel: the sweep of line; swift movement; the exhilaration of a smile; the sparkle of a mood. She worked with enthusiasm, at speed and carefree, and knew the jubilation of the artist when intent and execution flow in unison.

  Miss Seeton gazed entranced at the picture she had painted. For once, just this once, she had achieved her aim. Merilee Paynel skimmed across the paper, arms outflung, and laughing, in a swirl of chiffon: almost it was possible to visualize her next action as she dipped in curtsy. The picture roused old ambition from long sleep. Could it be, Miss Seeton wondered, that one was at last improving; that one might, perhaps, however humbly, judge oneself to be a true artist? But no. Surely it seemed so very unlikely. At one’s age. She studied the painting again, trying impartially to assess its merits. And slowly rapture died. Before her eyes the colors faded, changed; free-running lines stiffened and movement stilled as another, a different picture, was superimposed. The red-gold hair and the likeness of feature remained; but laughter was gone. The eyes downcast, the figure dressed in blue with a turquoise cloak was seated, the arms hung limp, the hands, upturned and empty, rested on the knees: the image of another mood; of sadness and of suffering; a portrait of despair. This was ridiculous. Some trick of the eyes from strain. A sharp reproof for being too self-satisfied. She glanced down. The seated figure mocked her. Miss Seeton got up and moved away. She would not look at it again until she could judge it properly; until this unhappy vision from a tired imagination had disappeared. She went to the kitchen and filled the kettle preparatory to making that solace for all English ills, a cup of tea.

  Disappointment awaited Nigel at the hunt ball. The evening had started well. Merilee had been enchanting with his parents, gay on the drive, vivacious at the dance. He had experienced to the full that satisfaction for the male, to be the envy of his set. Every man he knew demanded an introduction; but except in the Paul Jones he had remained her only partner.

  During supper at a table for six, Nigel had diverted the company with a description of the exorcism. Flushed with success, he had not noticed that Merilee’s response was lukewarm. She had fallen silent, her smile automatic. He capped his story with a witty description of the assault upon Miss Wicks, which gained an uproarious reception. Except from Mrs. Paynel.

  For Merilee it was as if a kaleidoscope had turned in her mind. In a flash all the garish, jagged shapes that formed her present mode of life clicked to a pattern; an unattractive illustration; a yardstick by which to measure her descent. Thought carried her back four years—or was it forty?—remembering … Remembering happiness. Two years married and in love: in love with life; in love with a new life stirring. Remembering … To kill all three in an instant between a patch of oil on a roadbend and—She’d never known what the car had hit. With the pride of sharing Peter’s life, and through that pride to end his life. The racing trophy that he had won at Brand’s Hatch that afternoon carefully stowed behind; he must relax; she would drive them home; prove that she could take the strain for him when needed. To sit by life and laughter; a brief moment of wrestling fear; to sit by death, with laughter gone; laughter that had ended on a gasp as she had lost control; a last gasp; the first gasp of death. Four years. And still she could not, still would not accept. Would it have been easier if people had blamed her? Given her something to fight instead of leaving her to blame herself, to fight herself, alone. Sympathy from the coroner, kindness from Peter’s parents. They were to have called the child after Peter’s father; Roberta had it been a girl. Understanding everywhere. Except within herself. And so she had set out to escape herself; to escape from all of them; arguing that since her spirit was dead it could not call in question the actions of her body. She slept around.

  Meeting Duke casually at a party, she had become as casually his mistress. He had found her useful; a good saleswoman for the witchcraft cult, though on the obverse side, of Nuscience, she had stalled. She would attend an occasional meeting but she would not join them and she and N. shared a mutual antipathy. Now, she sat at supper with five happy extroverts, Nigel’s story compelled her to face herself. It was she who had told Duke of Miss Seeton’s drawing of the church. It was she who must carry the responsibility for this attack upon an old woman. She had reasoned that her actions were her own, affecting no one. Now suddenly their effect upon others was brought home. Merilee Paynel was being forced to think. Where was she headed? What doing? Nigel, his family, this Miss Wicks, Miss Seeton, the village as a whole: unthinking, innocent people doing no harm. And she, not innocent, doing harm unthinking. Much to which she had shut her eyes was now in squalid view. She was aware that Duke used blackmail, knew that in more than one case it had led to suicide, but had shrugged away the knowledge as no concern of hers. Also there had been accidents. Now, in clearer vision, had they been accidents, or the removal of inconveniences that might prove dangerous? That Duke and N. were ruthless in the pursuit of money she was mindful. Had she sensed, but blinked, the possibility of murder? One thing of which she was certain: she must go back to the village before it was too late. Back? She reflected bitterly. Wasn’t time always that much later than you knew? Could one go back? Ever?

  Supper over, Merilee pleaded a headache, and asked to leave. Nigel was distressed by the change in her; she looked drawn and pale. Chastened, and feeling that in some way he was to blame, he cut short her apologies and drove her back to the George and Dragon, where she made amends. Kissing him good night, she clung to him, assured him that a night’s rest was all she needed and agreed to lunch with him next day. She remained on the sidewalk to wave as, happy once again, he swung the car around and headed for his home.

  There was a knock upon the door. Really. How very strange. Surely it was rather late for anyone to call. Miss Seeton hesitated, then, balancing the tea tray on the edge of the small table in the passage, she reached forward and lifted the latch. Good gracious. How extremely odd. Mrs. Paynel. Miss Seeton stared in disbelief. Just when one had been … But no. She wasn’t even going to think of that painting again till after she had had a cup of tea. When she came to look at it again she would find, she was quite sure, that it was at least what she had drawn, though almost certainly not, one was afraid, as good as one had hoped, and not what she hadn’t. Drawn, that was.

  Finally: “May I come in?” requested Merilee.

  Miss Seeton, fearing that she was, perhaps, failing in the ebullience expected of a hostess, stepped back embarrassed. The china clinked as the tray tilted. Merilee took it from her. “Of course,” apologized Miss Seeton. “Please do. I’m so sorry. If you’ll just put it down there”—she gestured toward the sitting room—“I’ll fetch another cup.” She turned and hurried to the kitchen.

  When Miss Seeton came back with the extra cup and plate of cake and biscuits, Merilee Paynel had thrown her cloak over a chair and was seated by the fire, staring, withdrawn. Miss Seeton put on another log, sat down and drew the table toward her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologized again. “I should have asked: I’m afraid it’s China and will you have it weak or strong? Sugar? Milk?” The girl came out of her abstraction. Tea was poured; the plate was offered and refused.

  “Don’t,” said Mrs. Paynel abruptly, “ever open your door at night unless you know who’s there.”

  Miss Seeton was surprised. So unusual for the young to offer one advice. Naturally one knew it was well meant. And, doubtless, a very sensible precaution in London, or wherever Mrs. Paynel came from. But evidently she had no idea of village life, where people mostly retired early. And certainly never called upon one late. Unless, of course, the circumstances were unusual. Or it was an emergency. In which case, of course, it would be very wrong not to. After all, Mrs. Paynel herself had called late and she wouldn’t have got in if she hadn’t. If she hadn’t opened the door, that was to say. It struck her how very changed Mrs. Paynel was from the laughing girl w
ho had set out for the dance. Almost a different woman.

  This different woman began to speak urgently, blaming herself and trying to persuade her hostess of the danger in which she stood. She made little headway. Told that the attack upon Miss Wicks must have been made by one of the Nuscientist bully boys waiting in the cottage for a chance to murder the owner on her return, Miss Seeton was moved from incredulity to indignation. No one, she pointed out, would have waited for her in the cottage, since she wasn’t there. And as for murder: she found the suggestion as melodramatic and distasteful as it was ridiculous. When applied to herself.

  “For a detective”—Merilee’s comment was dry—“you’re remarkably innocent or else you’re brilliant.”

  Miss Seeton was shocked. She, at once, made it quite, quite clear that she was in no way connected with, or not in that way, but only, as it were, attached to—and, even that, in a different way entirely from the way which Mrs. Paynel was suggesting—the police. For the drawing of Identi-Kits, she added to clear any possible obscurity. Asked if she had been drawing Identi-Kits at the church the night before, Miss Seeton was at first confused; then disturbed when her visitor frankly admitted to being there.

  Merilee leaned forward and put her barely tasted cup upon the table. “Can one go back?” she asked. “If you’ve been all kinds of a fool can you go back?”

  Miss Seeton considered. Such a difficult question. And not one, one feared, that one had ever thought about. On the whole, she finally decided, one could not. Or, alternatively, if one could, there would, surely, be little advantage since one would only find oneself back at the beginning and ready to make the same mistakes again. Sensing Miss Seeton’s dilemma, Merilee got up and moved to sit on the arm of her chair. She smiled down at her.