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

by Hamilton Crane

  “Cat!” burst out Bob, then choked out a quick apology as Delphick’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, sir, but the thought suddenly struck me, when you said about Miss Seeton—cats eat birds, don’t they, sir? Even birds as big as pigeons? Potter’s young Amelia’s hoodlum of a Tibs has tackled larger birds than that—and didn’t Miss Seeton say something about Potter having a story of some bloke who went berserk with a shotgun and did for the neighbours’ moggy? I just wondered, sir . . .”

  “Potter would know where Mentley Collier lives, too.” An oracular gleam appeared in Delphick’s eye. “And he might just have noticed if anywhere around here there was a flight pattern of pigeons that was a bit unusual. Bob, maybe we’re building too much on this—”

  “No, we’re not, sir. Not if Miss Seeton’s involved, you know we’re not. It all ties in. She found that pigeon the night of the storm—and the following day friend Sacombe got his comeuppance, sir.” Bob ventured a chuckle. “Maybe the disappearance of the Standons really was a coincidence, sir, and MissEss has been trying to tell us where to look right from the start. That storm would have blown more than Miss Seeton’s bird off its course, so ten to one it was a junkie suffering from a missed fix, not a gangland takeover killing at all—it was certainly frenzied, judging by the photos. Any professional killer wouldn’t have been so, er, haphazard in his methods, sir. Don’t you think?”

  The Oracle thought. Bob waited. The silence lengthened . . . to be broken by the rumble of somebody’s insides.

  “What I think,” Delphick said, “is that we could do with a bite of breakfast before we hallucinate without the help of drugs. I can’t think clearly on an empty stomach—and I know I suggested all this, but I’d still like to ponder it a little while longer . . .”

  But Bob, who had every faith in Aunt Em, made a silent bet with himself that within the hour they’d be talking to PC Potter about pigeons, and cats, and Mentley Collier.

  The two policemen had not been gone from the hotel more than ten minutes when the telephone rang. Maureen was flicking a languid duster around Reception and eventually answered.

  “Hello, yes, this is the George and Dragon. Who’s that? Oh.” Maureen’s voice changed. “Miss Seeton. Yes, and good morning to you likewise, I’m sure.” She smothered a sniff and cocked her head for better concentration. “Mr. Delphick? Dunno. He was having breakfast, but . . . Well, I suppose I could go and see, if you want . . . You do want. All right.” She plonked the receiver down beside Doris’s iron spike, sniffed loudly, then dragged her weary bones the lengthy ten or twelve feet from Reception to the dining room door.

  Having leaned in exhaustion against the doorframe while her eyes slowly scanned the room—in which only Juliana and Dickie, who had just come down, were sitting—Maureen shook her head, uttered a prodigious sigh, and ambled back to the telephone.

  “He’s not there,” she informed Miss Seeton; listened for a while to the electrical chirrups coming down the line; and said, when they stopped, “Dunno. He’s probably gone up to clean his teeth or summat . . . Go and look for him? Well, I dunno. I’m not the sort of girl as goes knocking at men’s bedroom doors, Miss Seeton,” and her eyes drifted with dismay towards the flight of stairs leading to the guest rooms. “Oh, all right,” she said as the telephone chirruped some more. “Wait there—hey, no, hang about!” She was suddenly inspired. “If the car’s gone, then they must’ve gone with it, right? Can you see it from your window?” The effort of walking to the front door and opening it was evidently too much for Maureen at this early hour. “You can’t? Well, it must’ve gone then, and so’s Mr. Delphick. Sorry. ’Bye.”

  Across the road in Sweetbriars Miss Seeton listened for a few bewildered seconds to the dialling tone, then herself hung up. And stood for a long time, thinking . . .

  Mabel Potter told them that her husband had gone out earlier than usual that morning, making the most of the long summer days to patrol his beat twice daily, where possible. She believed they might catch up with him in the neighbourhood of Iverhurst—they knew where that was, didn’t they?

  “We do,” Delphick assured her as Bob smothered a grin. It could hardly be considered Miss Seeton’s fault that Iverhurst church had burned to the ground some years before, but it had certainly been one of her more spectacular cases. “Thanks, Mrs. Potter. If we should miss him, could you ask him to check with Ashford for messages, please? Come on, Sergeant Ranger.” And they hurried back to the car.

  Bob, on in-law visits with Anne, had explored the area around Plummergen in some depth and knew most of the back roads by now. He worked out which route Potter was likely to take, then drove carefully along it in the opposite direction. His gamble paid off. Within twenty minutes they spotted Potter’s car bowling towards them, and hailed it.

  “Cat? Oh, yes,” said PC Potter, once his colleagues had explained what they wanted to know. “Funny thing, that was, this chap going berserk, but his neighbours said as he was a moody sort of bloke, though if they’d known he had a shotgun to hand they might not’ve been so quick to exchange words. Of course, living in the middle of nowhere like he does, you might think he’d want to stay on good terms with the few as lives nearby, but not him. Mother Bozen’s pride and joy, that cat were, though there’s many as say good riddance, it being as evil-tempered a beast as Tibs—almost,” he added, mindful of his official duty to speak the truth at all times.

  Delphick and Bob had exchanged significant glances when Potter mentioned the marksman as living in the middle of nowhere: suddenly, the chief superintendent’s theory began to look promising again. “This cat killer’s name, please, Potter,” said Delphick. “And where exactly does he live?”

  “Barkway, Owen Barkway—lives out the other side of Murreystone,” came the prompt reply.

  It was almost too good to be true. “Talking of Murreystone,” said Delphick, “we understand there’s an artist who lives there—a bit of a recluse, but we’d like to pay him a visit, nevertheless. Do you know him?”

  A silly question to ask of a beat bobby with Potter’s experience. “You mean Mentley Collier—daft beggar, hiding away all the time like he does—mind you, if I’d gone and made a spectacle of myself with hair as long as his, I’d not be keen for decent folk to see me till I’d got myself tidied up a bit. Whether or no his pictures are any good, I’d not care to venture an opinion, me not being what you might call artis—” He broke off. “Oh. Oh, ah.” He eyed the Scotland Yarders knowingly. “At it again, is she, sir?” And he winked at Bob with the eye Delphick could not see.

  Delphick knew Potter could be trusted. “She may be—we aren’t really sure at this stage. Once we’ve spoken to Barkway and Collier, we may know a little more.”

  “As for speaking to,” Potter said, “Collier’s place, which is to say Filkins Farm, they lost the telephone when the farmhouse burned down, being overhead cables, and empty for months before he moved in, so they’d no reason to fix it and him as poor’s a church mouse, or so he says. Barkway, now, he’s got a phone, but whether he’ll be in a mood to answer it’s another matter.”

  “And he has a shotgun,” said Delphick. “Not altogether a comfortable character to visit, I fear, but talk to him we must. He sounds more—interesting—with every word you say. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant Ranger?”

  Bob nodded. Potter looked gratified. “I’ll show you to whichever you’re wanting to visit first, sir, knowing the byways as I do—and should you want someone to stand guard on the back doors, I’m your man. Seems ages since we had a bit of excitement around here.” He seemed not to count the recent intervillage punch-up in the middle of Plummergen over which he, Sir George, and Delphick himself might have been said to preside. “Which of ’em do you want, sir? Collier’s place is nearer.”

  “Then to Filkins Farm we shall go,” decided Delphick at once. “Lead on, Potter, but no siren, please. I’d like to catch Mr. Collier unawares . . .”

  Potter proudly led the way, and Bob followed
him at a reasonable distance, musing aloud on the convolutions of the Kent roads and hoping Potter would stay around long enough to help them find their way back to civilisation. Delphick passed various comments concerning his sergeant’s adopted local status and spoke of maps, and bumps of location.

  As it was, even Potter almost missed the entrance to Filkins Farm. He pulled up just beyond the three-barred gate and indicated the drive. “D’you want to go in front now, sir, or shall I carry on?”

  “We’ll go first,” said Delphick, “and you can follow us, and keep watch in case he makes a run for it. Carry on, Sergeant. Drive with care.”

  “With potholes like these, you bet I will,” muttered Bob as he changed down to the lowest gear, brooding about his suspension.

  But all their caution was in vain. Though Potter stood guard over possible escape, and Bob’s eyes never lost their vigilance, there came no answer to Delphick’s official knock at the barn door; and when—checking that Mentley Collier hadn’t met with some accident which rendered him unable to move—they opened the doors, and looked inside every building in the farmyard, they found nobody at home.

  chapter

  ~24~

  “HE’LL HAVE POPPED down to the shops,” Potter suggested. “Nobody’ll deliver to the farm, on account of their springs. The milkman says his bottles make a right racket in the crates, not to mention shattering with stones thrown up. Or he could be gone to post a letter . . .”

  Delphick glanced at his watch. “Since we’d also like a few words with Owen Barkway, we could save time by leaving Collier for the return journey. At this stage I’m still not sure we need to start hunting for the man, although don’t we have to go through Murreystone for Barkway’s place? Would you recognise Collier’s car if you saw it?”

  “Doesn’t have a car,” Potter said knowledgeably. “Which is why he shops local instead of at the supermarket over in Brettenden—Murreystone folk don’t go to Plummergen shops, ’specially after the Best Kept Village Competition.” Potter so far forgot himself as to tap the side of his nose and wink at the chief superintendent.

  Who (to Sergeant Ranger’s surprise) winked gravely back before saying, “Then we certainly shan’t bother looking for Mentley Collier, unless we happen to pass him en route—we shall make straight for Owen Barkway, Potter, with the same arrangements as before.”

  Once more they set off, Potter’s car showing Scotland Yard the way; and once more they arrived at the home of someone who clearly did not relish the thought of company. It was another old house at the end of a drive, though in far better shape than Filkins Farm; but the massive gate was firmly closed, with barbed wire strung across its top and coiled around thinner parts of the hedge.

  Delphick looked at the farmhouse roof, visible over the tops of screening trees. “No doubt the attic makes a splendid machine-gun post for Mr. Barkway—his neighbours may have been luckier than they realised.” He indicated the two or three far smaller dwellings visible in the near distance. “I wonder how much they miss of what goes on here? And as we’re talking of missing things, Potter, I doubt if you’ll be able to lurk round the back of this house unnoticed. I suggest you drive up behind us and prepare to pursue any fleeing suspects if and when I give the word. You, too, Sergeant Ranger. Shall we go, gentlemen?”

  Potter having unchained the gate, Bob drove through first, waiting on the other side to return the compliment. He led the way up the drive, and slowed the car to a halt on a gravelled area which was as good, remarked Delphick, as a burglar alarm.

  “A nervous man, Owen Barkway, it seems. Shall I proceed to make him more nervous still? Bob, you stay outside with Potter, just in case. If Barkway should unleash his small arms, or you feel for any reason that I’m under threat, you are to use your initiative.”

  “Hadn’t I better come in with you, sir? If you think he may turn nasty—”

  “I neither think nor know. I hope that, after the unfortunate affair of the ginger cat, he may be rather more inclined to make some show of welcoming visitors, even if he would still much prefer to do without them. But cats, as we know, eat bats—and pigeons . . .”

  Delphick’s eyes flickered towards an airborne flurry of wings rising from the back of the house. “If Miss Seeton suspects it may be worth investigating,” he remarked, “maybe we would be unwise to doubt her—so listen hard for sounds of gunfire, Sergeant Ranger. And both of you stay alert.”

  He opened the car door and climbed out, his feet falling with heavy crunches on the gravel. He signalled to Potter as Bob opened his own door, ready for action.

  Before Delphick’s hand reached the knocker, he spotted the twitch of a curtain and a startled eye. He knocked and waited. Nobody answered. He kept watching the curtain and knocked again. Still no reply. He called to Potter and Bob: “Better see about checking the back of the house,” then motioned them quickly to ignore his words, knowing that the sound of the gravel would mask any sounds from within.

  He knocked for a third time, impatiently. There came a clattering from inside, and at last the door creaked its slow, suspicious way open far enough to allow the head of a man to manifest itself through the opening. His eyes glared from the gloom at the tall, greying figure in tweeds, then moved beyond him to the two cars parked on the gravel, their vigilant drivers beside them.

  “Mr. Barkway? I’m Chief Superintendent—”

  “It is the fuzz!” Owen Barkway (if it was he) yelled this warning towards the back of the house, then slammed the door in Delphick’s face. The yell and the slam alerted Bob and Potter before Delphick had time to speak. Without more than a quick look at each other the two policemen thundered across the gravel and around the house, Bob going clockwise, Potter running to meet him.

  In fact, what he met first was the struggling form of a woman in a purple dress—no, a long-haired man, the backside was a completely different shape—attempting to disentangle itself from the trellis of climbing roses round the window through which (so Potter assumed) the man had just jumped. He seemed to be having so much difficulty in extricating himself that Potter ignored him and hurried on towards the sounds of combat which had arisen in those regions where he might expect Sergeant Ranger to be found . . .

  And where, indeed, he was. But someone else had found him first: someone with eyes that were no longer slow and suspicious, but glittering and wild, set in a face belonging to a head belonging to a body with furious fists and flailing legs. “I’m coming, Sarge!” cried Potter; but Bob, six foot seven and seventeen stone, waved him away with one hand even as he shook his assailant by the collar with the other, though Barkway fought like two normal-size men.

  “I can manage,” called Bob. “You get his pal before he clears off to the—oof!” But Potter could see that, even with a desperate knee in his midriff, Bob Ranger needed no help. He left Delphick’s gigantic sidekick to suppress Owen Barkway’s futile attempts at nobbling and turned back to the trellis.

  Where he discovered Delphick, standing just out of range and staring upwards. “He seems to have pulled it loose,” remarked the chief superintendent as Potter joined him. “He couldn’t get out by climbing forwards, so he must have decided to climb up instead. Logical, I suppose, but . . .”

  “Ah,” said Potter, “that’s why he’s swaying to and fro like that, is it? I was wondering.” He coughed. “Reckon he’ll fall, sir?”

  “Help!” came a gasping cry from above their heads; a cry to which the delights of speculation rendered the speculators deaf.

  “Gravity being what it is,” mused Delphick, “I expect he will, Potter. Of course, if the trellis had been fastened more firmly to begin with, he might have managed it . . .”

  “A chancy business, sir, playing hide-and-seek among a load of roses, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Some people enjoy taking chances, Potter.” Delphick took no notice of the ominous creaking sounds coming from above as the arc of the trellis swayed wider and wider. “It is not unlike”—in a more carrying tone�
�“those who take, or who deal in, drugs—chancy. Quite apart from the risks to someone’s health, the risk of arrest must be—”

  “Help!” came the cry again, but a shriek this time, not a gasp; and the creaks evolved suddenly into a splintering, rending, catastrophic crash as the trellis yielded to the superiority of Newtonian forces and collapsed. The long-haired figure on the topmost bars screeched once—clawed vainly at the brickwork as it passed by—caught its feet somehow in the ruin, and tipped backwards—and finally fell headfirst into the riot of briars below.

  And there was silence.

  A breathless but cheerful voice broke it. “Here’s one of them, sir,” announced Sergeant Ranger, appearing with the dishevelled form of Owen Barkway held firmly by the arm. He blinked on beholding the devastation and enquired:

  “A spot of pruning, sir? Rather drastic, if you don’t mind my saying so. I doubt if you’ll be offered the job on a permanent basis.”

  “I doubt it, too,” replied his superior, “although it is hardly my place to say, with Mr. Barkway among us. What have you got to say, Mr. Barkway? Assuming, of course, that you are indeed the owner of this establishment.”

  “That’s him, all right,” confirmed PC Potter as Barkway merely glowered. “Not a week since I was talking to him on this very spot, sir, matter of civil proceedings likely to arise from wilful damage to valuable property, to wit, one ginger tom, sir.”

  “Good,” replied Delphick as he headed for the wreck of the trellis. “So, now that the introductions are complete—a hand here, Potter, if you please—I repeat my question, Mr. Barkway. What have you to say for yourself?”