Hands Up, Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 11)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Barking,” said Miss Seeton, pleased at recollecting the correct term for crying one’s wares. A nearby mother with three small children eyed her warily, then beckoned them all away from this madwoman who evidently supposed that pigeons made the same noise as dogs.

  Oblivious to stares, Miss Seeton broadcast pigeon food with a lavish hand, trying to coax the birds ever nearer to her neatly shod feet. The sun cast her shadow sharp against the great flagstones, and as the pigeons darted in and out of darkness, their feathers glistened, and were dulled, then glistened again. Bright black eyes blinked up at her, and beaks pecked busily as little clawed feet scuttered across the hard ground. The ground, Miss Seeton noticed, which was speckled with white . . .

  “Oh, dear.” Another white speckle had deposited itself with a splat rather close to Miss Seeton’s left foot. “How very, well, messy, although of course the birds could not be expected to understand—but there is no food left now,” she told them, emptying the paper bags briskly in front of her. She frowned up at the crowds of birds overhead, outlined against the summer-blue sky, and with a skilful eye estimated the distance to the safety of the National Gallery. She shook her head thoughtfully. Then she smiled.

  Oblivious once more to stares, Miss Seeton, her umbrella open above her cockscomb hat, trotted away from the pigeons across the broad flagged expanse of Trafalgar Square. There was no hint of a cloud in the sky. It was assumed by charitable persons that she was suffering from heatstroke and using the brolly as a parasol. The pigeons, realising they were beaten, turned their attentions elsewhere.

  After her intense exposure to artistic genius in the halls of the National Gallery, Miss Seeton grew conscious of a need for some fresh air. When she emerged through the main door to hover on the steps, she noticed that the sky wore a slightly hazy aspect, and the shadows cast by the sun were perhaps not quite as sharp as before. Her head felt very slightly woozy. Might it be that, despite Felton Butler’s forecast, there was thunder in the air?

  As an hour later she came out of the National Portrait Gallery and set off for Orange Street, she was sure of it. There were dark, grey, looming clouds in the sky, clouds which did not drift in a breeze but were whipped along by speedy winds. Anxious tourist faces frowned and gazed about them in search, Miss Seeton thought, of shops selling raincoats or (she nodded in approval) umbrellas. She gripped her own umbrella handle in a firm clasp, tucked her bag under her arm, and headed in the direction of the Haymarket.

  As she turned the corner out of Orange Street, the winds arrived at ground level. And with them came the rain, sharp spears of sudden wetness flung first from one direction, then the other. Miss Seeton struggled to put up her brolly, dropping her handbag and groping for it through the blinding lashes of the storm, feeling moisture soak straight through her outer garments in a most uncomfortable way. Her shoes splashed into the puddles which formed almost at once on the pavement. She dropped her handbag again as she continued to struggle with her umbrella and uttered a little cry of vexation which was snatched away by the wind and drowned in a tumult of raindrops.

  Her umbrella safely up, and her handbag retrieved for the second time, Miss Seeton found herself being forced in staggering steps by the wind along Haymarket, and paused on the corner of Panton Street to catch her breath before heading for the safety of Piccadilly Circus and the Underground. Gasping, she realised she must leave Burlington House for another day, and instead go straight to Harrods, by Tube. The station could only be a matter of yards away now . . .

  Then, without warning, the fickle wind came racing round the corner of the street, fast and strong and vicious. With a gusty roar it wrenched Miss Seeton’s umbrella completely inside-out, almost tearing it from her hands.

  She barely had time to bless her own foresight in always insisting upon a crook handle—so much easier to hold on to than a strap, or one of those knobs that dug so cruelly into the palms of one’s hands—before she was buffeted by the storm right across Panton Street. There came a rumble of thunder overhead: she had been too busy to notice the flash of lightning which must have preceded it.

  “Oh, dear,” gasped Miss Seeton, peering wistfully through the lashing rain in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. She could hardly, she knew, get much wetter, but it was so very unpleasant to have the breath driven from one’s body in such a very blusterous fashion, and there was her umbrella to set to rights, as well. She must take shelter until the storm had passed and she could gather her scattered wits.

  She glanced at the building against whose wall the wind had blown her, and which afforded her a very little shelter. Across the top of the door, in discreet lettering outlined in dull gold, were the words Van Meegeren Gallery. With a sigh of relief, Miss Seeton smiled. She would recover herself in congenial surroundings, after all. She shook rain from her umbrella as best she could, and in the doorway paused to wrestle with the spokes—how fortunate that the fabric was not torn—before, having turned the umbrella the right way round, she was able to furl it safely and hook it in its accustomed place over her arm.

  The Van Meegeren Gallery was a new discovery for Miss Seeton. She could not remember what had been on the site previously, and the whole ambience was so subdued that the place could indeed have been there for years without her noticing it. It was lucky, thought Miss Seeton, that in her hour of need—if this was not too dramatic a phrase for her little mishap—she had happened upon so congenial a refuge.

  And so amusing, too. Having accepted a catalogue from the aesthetic young man at the entrance, Miss Seeton moved from picture to picture, nodding to herself and from time to time frowning, as her progress along the carpeted floor was marked by large drips of water; from time to time smiling, as particular paintings caught her eye. The yellow stickers in the top left-hand corner of many seemed to make it all the more amusing, and by the time she had made her way right round the entire display, she was chuckling to herself and had entirely forgotten her dampness and discomfort. Indeed, so thick were the carpets in the Van Meegeren Gallery that her shoes no longer squelched as she made her way out, and the subtleness of the air-conditioning had dried her clothes without her noticing.

  “Sunshine!” exclaimed Miss Seeton with pleasure as she emerged from the heavy double doors of the gallery into the Haymarket once more. The wind had dropped, the clouds had disappeared, and little puffs of steam rose from the drying pavements in lazy greeting to the tourists, who were out in force again. Miss Seeton stood and admired the bustle of a summery London day, smiling with pleasure.

  “Oh, dear. Oh, no! How dreadful!” Her smile turned to a look of horror as she suddenly saw a man, a businessman, if his smart suit did not mislead, stagger amidst the bustle, almost as if someone had deliberately bumped into him. Miss Seeton caught her breath. Bumped into—or, or (she could barely bring herself to put the dreadful thought into words) stabbed? There was a sudden, horrifying red stain spreading across the man’s pinstripe back . . .

  And Miss Seeton, wildly waving her umbrella to clear a path before her, with an instinctive cry of warning rushed through the sight-seeing crowds to the rescue.

  chapter

  ~3~

  “EXCUSE ME—THAT poor man, I really must . . .” Miss Seeton, panting, pushed her way across the pavement to where the man with bloodstains down his back was talking with (she was thankful to see) another man, younger, who looked, to her relief, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Now she would not have to render first aid—her knowledge was so shaky, and limited to basic girlish requirements from school—by herself until the ambulance came. Had someone, she wondered as she reached the pair, summoned the ambulance? Probably not, as yet—everything had happened rather fast. Perhaps, as this other gentleman seemed so sure of himself, and appeared well able to take care of the poor man with the reddening jacket, dialling nine-nine-nine could be her own contribution to the emergency . . .

  “Oh, dear, are you all right?” Even as she spoke, she knew how flustered and foolish she
sounded: it didn’t need the surprised looks on the two male faces turned towards her to remind her that anyone with a massive bloodstain on his back could hardly be all right.

  “I mean,” she said, gripping her umbrella tightly with both hands, as if for moral support, “that is to say, should I call an ambulance?”

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” said the bloodstained man at once. “I’ve been trying to tell him”—with a jerk of his head towards the other man, who held him firmly by the arm—“there’s nothing wrong with me, but—”

  “But,” broke in the other man loudly, “you’ve been in the wars right enough, chum, believe me. This lady,” and he shot a far from friendly look at Miss Seeton, though he was careful not to let the first man see it, “she’ll tell you, if you ask her—a nasty accident you’ve had round the back, make no mistake. You slip your jacket off and take a look, then you’ll see why we were so worried about you.”

  “I feel perfectly well, thank you. There is no need for you to start stripping me naked”—he scowled and tried to pull his arm from the other man’s grasp—“in the middle of the street, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Delayed shock,” the young man explained, ostensibly to Miss Seeton but with a wary eye on the first man’s reaction to this idea. “Often gets people like that—ask any copper and they’ll say the same—folks come shooting through the windscreen with their faces all over blood, but just you try telling ’em they’ve forgot to wear their seat belts!”

  “I haven’t,” snapped the first man, “been in a car crash—I’m not foolhardy enough to drive in London.”

  “Lost his memory,” said the young man to Miss Seeton. “Come on, chum, let’s take a look.” He began to drag at the lapel and sleeve of the arm he was still holding.

  “Kindly stop that at once!” The first man tried to shake him off. “I insist that you leave me alone!”

  “Oh, but really,” broke in Miss Seeton, “there is such a very great deal of”—she gulped—“blood down the back of your jacket—I’m sure this kind gentleman is trying to do his best for you—and let me help you, too.” She tucked her umbrella under her arm so that with both hands she could support the bloodstained man, who by now was struggling with the other man most energetically. The frenzy, thought Miss Seeton, of incipient delirium, and she seized the man even more firmly. “Do take care!” she cried to the young man, as with a strong pull he managed to slip the first man’s jacket down over one shoulder. “Please—you’ll hurt him—”

  “Ugh!” The end of Miss Seeton’s umbrella caught the first man in the midriff. At once all the fight went out of him as he sagged, winded, to the ground. There came a sound of tearing as the other man failed to release his grip on the jacket.

  “Oof!” The handle of Miss Seeton’s umbrella caught the young man in a delicate place as she bent with anxious haste to assist the writhing figure of the first man, who groaned and gasped on the pavement. He could not, in all honesty, now deny that there was something wrong with him: his eyes bulged, his mouth gaped, and his face was turning purple.

  “You poor man, let me—oh dear, do try to keep still, you will hurt yourself even more badly . . .” Miss Seeton had no thought now in her head beyond the man, plum-faced and breathless, on the pavement. He, in his misery, had no thought of anything except the pain in his diaphragm as he struggled for air while, at the same time, fighting off the well-meaning ministrations of Miss Seeton.

  Neither of them noticed the departure, slightly hobbling but speedy, of the young man. The interested little crowd of spectators which had gathered to watch the excitement let him pass without hindrance. One or two wags made such comments as, “Nearly scuppered your chances, didn’t she?” or, “What price the bachelor life now, mate!” as the man, hands clasped protectively above his groin, with tears of pain in his eyes, disappeared in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. He shook off all offers of help, looking embarrassed at what had happened; and was soon forgotten.

  The little tableau was almost at an end. As the man on the pavement regained his breath and his powers of speech, he began clambering to his feet. Miss Seeton tried to help him but was curtly brushed aside. “Anybody,” snarled the man, still gasping, “but you!”

  But now that no one seemed to be dead, or dying, and the excitement was over, there was nobody left to help him up except Miss Seeton, who alone of all the earlier crowd about him remained at hand. “Are you quite sure?” she said as he made a second attempt to rise, ignoring the umbrella which she held out to him for support, begging him to make use of it as a walking stick. Miss Seeton decided that her hearing—which was, she had previously thought, in rather good condition for her age—must be fading at last. Surely this gentleman, so smartly dressed, could never really have said what she thought she heard him say as he pushed her umbrella aside? Unless it was, of course . . .

  “Delayed shock,” she decided, nodding to herself. There was an expression of baffled fury on the man’s face.

  “I am not in shock. I have not been in an accident. Your good intentions are not appreciated one iota, my good woman. Let me assure you that I am perfectly capable . . .”

  He had, as he spoke, been trying to tidy his appearance, straightening his tie and his jacket. But his voice trailed off into silence as he heard the ominous sounds of parting threads. He glared at Miss Seeton, still hovering anxiously close by, and with great care slipped off his jacket to examine the collar and back.

  Miss Seeton, on seeing again that spreading red stain which had so horrified her, closed her eyes with a shudder. The man let out a cry of dismay—and then Miss Seeton could have sworn she heard him sniff. Warily she opened her eyes and risked a peep.

  She opened her eyes wide. The man, his head bent close to the grey-and-scarlet jacket in his hands, was sniffing at the scarlet patches and beginning to swear. “Tomato ketchup—tomato bloody ketchup!” He raised his head and stared at Miss Seeton, who blinked at him, bemused. He thrust the jacket under her startled nose. “Go on, see for yourself! Tomato ketchup, and why anyone should play such a—”

  He broke off once more, snatched back the jacket, and in one frantic movement thrust his hand into the inner pocket. “Gone!” He felt again, then checked the outside pockets and returned to the inner pocket for a third time. “Stolen—my wallet—falling for a trick like that—and you,” he cried, rounding on Miss Seeton, “were helping him, weren’t you!”

  “Indeed I was not,” began Miss Seeton, hurt that her attempts to play the Good Samaritan had been misunderstood, but realising that shock made people have strange fancies. “I was only trying to—”

  “I know perfectly well what you were trying to do,” said the man, taking two purposeful steps towards her. “And with me being a regular mug, and the pair of you having your act worked out nicely, you almost got away with it—but you didn’t quite make it, did you?” He shot out a hand and took Miss Seeton by the arm. He shook her briskly. Her squeak of protest was drowned out by his next words.

  “You thought you’d put one over on me, didn’t you? Well, maybe you did, but that was the last time! I’m going to make sure you never have the chance to work your damned double act on any other unsuspecting beggar like me. I’m making,” he said in a very firm voice, “a citizen’s arrest. You just come along with me to the nearest police station—and don’t you dare try to say one word, or I’ll wrap your blasted brolly round your neck!”

  He continued to grip Miss Seeton by the arm as he strode off up the Haymarket, and she was so startled by this turn of events, so breathless at trying to keep up with his fast, angry steps, that she could say nothing in her defence. She pattered along, panting, slightly in front of him, feeling him push her every time her feet faltered. Not one person in all the milling crowds seemed to notice what was happening: there were too many people for that. Miss Seeton felt very upset. She had meant so well—that man, the young man with the tomato ketchup, had quite confused her with the way he acted his part—no wonder
this poor man (she winced as she stumbled, and his grasp tightened in case she tried to make a break for it) was angry and felt she was somehow to blame—which she supposed, when one thought about it calmly and sensibly (only she felt far from calm and sensible now), she was. She would have apologised again and tried to explain, but she was so out of breath . . .

  The man forced her towards Jermyn Street, and she gave a little nervous squeak as the lights changed when they were barely halfway across the Haymarket; she subsided at once as the man growled something—surely she was mistaken in what she heard?—deep in his throat. In silence they crossed Regent Street and turned back up into Piccadilly. The man kept scanning the passing faces, looking for a policeman’s helmet to come bobbing above the heads of the crowd, but he saw nothing. He kept on walking, forcing Miss Seeton ahead of him, and they came, at last, to Bottle Street.

  Bottle Street, a cul-de-sac, showed a blue lamp halfway down, over an official-looking doorway. Miss Seeton gulped at the sight and blinked twice in case her eyes had been playing her false. But they had not.

  “Police,” said the man, in case she had not clearly read the letters on the dark blue glass. He shook her once more, then pushed her up the steps and through the doorway. “Now we’ll see what you’ve got to say for yourself!”

  But Miss Seeton, to her dismay, found that the events of the morning had rendered her speechless. She could only try shaking her head, which made no sense at all without words, and words were what she was unable to produce. The man, his grip on her relaxing only slightly, marched her across to the desk and cleared his throat.

  The sergeant looked up from the neat copperplate he was inscribing in a leather-bound ledger and nodded. “Yes, sir—and madam,” with a smile to Miss Seeton, who could only stare at him. “What can I do for you?” He blotted what he had been writing, screwed the cap back on his fountain pen, and came over to the counter. He eyed his visitors with an expert air. Somebody’s auntie, up for the day and lost her purse, and not liking to bother anyone about it really, and nephew being a bit cross with the poor old duck for causing a fuss, but trying to overcome his embarrassment by just asking whether the police might be able to help, because he pays his taxes with the best of ’em . . .