Miss Seeton Flies High (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 23)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Lover-ly weather for ducks,” carolled Miss Seeton as she trotted blithely up the gentle hill, ignoring the smiles of passers-by. “Lover-ly weather for ducks!”

  Others out and about that day found the weather less pleasing. A thick-set man in late middle age was trudging across green, waterlogged ground miles from, but within sight of, Glastonbury Tor. On his aching back the bulky rucksack was stained dark where it had leaked. His tweed cap was sodden; his trousers clung wetly to his legs and were splashed with mud to his knees. The maps and notebooks he had intended to consult were useless in such conditions. He could rely only upon his pocket compass, and his memory.

  Hawley Bowyer’s landlady had urged him to wait for tomorrow’s promised improvement in the weather before making this expedition, but Mr. Bowyer’s trust in the official forecast was no greater than his belief in the landscape Zodiac. He liked to check his facts and make up his own mind. He judged it would be even wetter next day, and the ground thus even more difficult underfoot. His legs were still weary from that climb to the Tor summit. Keep moving, circulate the blood, and the ache would all the sooner be gone. Stagnate indoors, and the middle-aged body would become cramped, stiff, and unable to explore.

  Yet just at present he might have welcomed a brief spell indoors. Shelter would mean he could consult his map and refresh his memory from his notes. For some time he hadn’t been as sure of where he was as he ought to be. Horizon-stretching pastures, wide straight ditches, and hedges interspersed with gates and willow trees were very difficult to distinguish from any other pastures, ditches, hedges. Ah. Hawley brightened. Beyond the next hedge, in the near distance he could just make out through the sight-blurring monsoon a cluster of low, tumbled walls and sagging ridge-tiles. Farm buildings, abandoned by a farmer who had fallen on hard times. No, not entirely abandoned, he realised as he drew closer. One tiled roof had been patched with so many sheets of corrugated iron that it was more galvanised grey now than ruddy tile. Good. He slipped the compass into his pocket and trod on across the fields, his rucksack bumping with every labouring step.

  He reached the door, and opened it. He stepped inside. He stopped. “Oh ...”

  Hawley Bowyer was entirely unprepared for what happened next.

  A tall, rangy, fair young man with a wispy beard, a braided headband holding back shining hair that brushed slim shoulders, was reporting in person to his Scotland Yard superior.

  “It does all seem to fit the usual pattern, sir. A short-term let while they make the connections and set up the network, selling the stuff nice and cheap at first to hook local mugs so deep in debt they’ll have to become the next generation of dealers or risk something nasty happening to them. They’ve not yet moved on to Stage Two, when the deepest-hooked locals get their homes taken over a few weeks at a time so the distribution centre never stays anywhere long enough to be traced.”

  Superintendent Snowe looked glum. “They’ll move now, and fast. They’ll be out of there even shorter term, which will surprise the letting agents—though not so much as spotting you on the prowl must have surprised the druggies. Careless, Brumby. I told you not to take any chances.”

  “Yes, sir, and I’m sorry to have blown my cover, but I was surprised too. You said to keep an eye open for familiar faces, and I thought I’d spotted one of our friends from the Smoke going into the place and was hoping to make sure when he came back, but I didn’t expect Miss Seeton to come popping out of the house next door the way she did, and—”

  “What?” cried Superintendent Snowe. “Who did you say?”

  “Miss Seeton, sir.” Dick Brumby was puzzled. “The Oracle’s—I mean Chief Superintendent Delphick’s—MissEss. A grand undercover agent, looking like everyone’s favourite auntie the way she does. The Battling Brolly, sir,” he persisted. “That’s how I spotted her, because that time she came up to the Yard I only saw her down a corridor, not face to face. But it was a bright sunny day—lots of nice deep shadows for me to hide in—and she was carrying an umbrella, so of course it caught my attention when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I was so startled, I let out a yelp. That’s how they saw me from the house, I’m sure. Well, I’d have liked to be told she’d be on the case with me, but I’m not so conceited I can’t take a little help when it’s offered—not that the Brolly offered, not even to let me know she’d seen me. She’s really good, sir. So, knowing she had things under control, I legged it in the opposite direction so as not to interfere, and before I’d gone a hundred yards a couple of bods were on my trail.” He spread his hands in apologetic resignation. “There seemed no point in hanging around to get thumped, or worse, once they’d seen me, so I kept going until I found a convenient shop, ducked in with my ID and asked them to phone for a taxi.”

  Snowe permitted himself a wry grin. “From what you tell me about Glastonbury they’d have taken it in their stride with no ID and you asking for a helicopter,” he said. “Or a witch’s broom with a tank full of magic.”

  Dick grinned back, relieved that the rollocking—understandable, but a tad unfair—was past the worst. “I thought I’d seen it all here in Town, sir, but now I just don’t know. There’s some strange people in those parts—not to mention the wide open spaces and the sheep and the cows and the birds. If I want a wildlife fix, I’ll take our home-grown maniacs over life with the country bumpkins any day.”

  But Superintendent Snowe was no longer listening, his fingers busy with the dial of the telephone on his desk. “Ranger? Snowe, Narcotics. The Oracle there? I’d like a word ... See here, Oracle, why didn’t you warn me you meant to go poaching on my preserves? You could’ve let me know. One of my men’s just had a narrow escape from being done over by a pair of drugged-up thugs down in Somerset, all because he tripped over your Battling Brolly going solo, and was so surprised he blew his cover ...”

  The chief superintendent was as surprised as Dick Brumby had been. “Miss Seeton’s there on holiday, Nick, not working for me or, as far as I know, for anyone else.”

  “Holiday? Right next door to a drugs den?”

  “Holiday,” insisted Delphick. “People do take them, from time to time. Not work. For some reason the professionally perplexed would rather approach her through me, or my sergeant, than make any direct official request. I’m sure I would have heard about it, had anything changed.” He cleared his throat, and frowned at Bob Ranger, who in his corner was turning pink about the ears.

  “Moreover,” Delphick went on, “I am confident that the Yard’s efficient grapevine must have informed me had Miss Seeton’s professional services been requested by any, shall we say, outside authority. As for the inside variety, Superintendent Kebby has asked if I will visit Miss Seeton for further consultation the moment her short holiday is over and she is back at home—but that’s as far as it goes.”

  Superintendent Snowe counted silently to ten. “My lad got out by the skin of his teeth, but from what I hear that woman of yours is a born survivor. So if—when—she makes it safely home, you might just ask her if while she was down in the west she happened to spot anything that could have to do with drugs. Or even those dancing sheep of hers. As you’ll be seeing her anyway. Once she’s back,” he ended bitterly, “from her holiday.”

  Chapter Nine

  Miss Seeton poured the first round of tea and topped up the pot as she pressed sponge cake upon a thoughtful Delphick, gingerbread upon an eager Bob. The Oracle, ill at ease over the course he had been asked to pursue, had arranged an early start from London. Over the stressful motorway miles, and along the wandering roads of Kent, the memory of breakfast soon faded; even so, he had less appetite than usual.

  “We have time for just one slice,” he warned, “before we settle to our professional consultation, Miss Seeton.” A consultation he was reluctant to begin; he forced a smile. “With your permission we’ll send Bob out to the kitchen to make a fresh pot while I ...” Miss Seeton regarded him with curiosity. Such uncertainty was unlike dear Mr. Delphick.

&nb
sp; “While I discuss the kidnap with you,” he finished. “I regret to say that matters seem to have taken a turn for the worse.” Miss Seeton was shocked. “But I regret also that on this occasion, there is more. While the kidnapping has to be our main concern my colleague, Superintendent Snowe, would very much like your opinion of another case.”

  He had protested; Snowe had insisted. That woman with her dancing sheep knew all about the drugs before we had any idea. Why should it confuse her to ask if she knows any more? You afraid it will tangle her vibrations? At least give it a whirl. It’s an offbeat case, and your MissEss with her psychic scribbles is as offbeat as they come ...

  Unable to refuse a colleague’s plea for help, Delphick finally agreed. Miss Seeton might, for all he knew, be capable of sketching the solutions to a dozen cases at once without tangling her vibrations. On the other hand, she might not. There was only one way to find out. He must ask her, and hope that disentangling the various solutions would not prove impossible when the time came.

  “Superintendent Snowe?” Miss Seeton looked doubtful.

  Was she worried about her ability to deal with two cases at the same time? Had his anxieties been justified? Then the more obvious answer came to him. “The powers that be haven’t demoted me,” he reassured her, “or told me to take early retirement.” He sensed, rather than saw, her relief. He smiled. “We aren’t all as lucky as you, inheriting a cottage in the country and having Premium Bond wins.”

  She smiled back. “A modest win, but after so many years with nothing, most gratifying. It was a pleasure to visit another delightful part of the country even if, it now appears, most of my little artistic efforts were in vain.”

  Both men were detectives. “You mean the Padders aren’t doing King Arthur after all?” burst from Bob, while Delphick echoed the question.

  Miss Seeton hesitated. “Not exactly. Mr. Jessyp tells me the new story is part of the Arthurian canon and takes place at Christmas, and is therefore perhaps more suitable than Malory for turning into a pantomime. The first scene of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is set in the great hall of Camelot, at the height of the twelve days of festivities. The Green Knight enters and challenges someone to behead him with his own axe, which Mr. Jessyp insists must be of cardboard, though Mr. Eggleden has offered to make a blunt one. A blacksmith is naturally able to wield a metal implement with great skill, and indeed he is to play the Knight, a man of gigantic stature, if he can only be persuaded to allow himself to be painted green. Cardboard is far safer. People when acting do sometimes tend to become carried away by the part.”

  “It may be as well they decided against Malory,” said Delphick. “Eggleden might have forged Excalibur for Arthur to pull out of the stone, and even a blunt metal sword can do a lot of damage.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Delphick, but I think you mean Caliburn.” Miss Seeton spoke with a hint of deferential amusement. “In Glastonbury I bought a most interesting little publication about swords, and it seems that King Arthur had three. Excalibur is merely the later, more poetical name for one of these”

  Bob wasn’t bothered about the number or names of the swords. It was the green paint. As a child he had seen “The Wizard of Oz” and been scared by the witch; as an adult he had read of how the first Tin Man was poisoned, though not fatally, by his aluminium makeup. He could understand the blacksmith’s reluctance. “Just the few bits that show, I hope,” he muttered, his imagination boggling. Had he known his Longfellow he would have agreed that a mighty man described Dan Eggleden perfectly and that iron bands was an understatement when applied to the strength of his muscles. But painted bright green—Christmas or no Christmas, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  Miss Seeton, deep in explanation, had missed her adopted nephew’s muffled hope as she ended with the news that Jack Crabbe, famed in Plummergen for the witty and cryptic crosswords he composed, was to supply some of the jokes while Mr. Jessyp wrote the main script. Delphick, his doubts receding, laughed.

  “And splendidly terrible jokes they will be, as I recall from a previous production. Are you able to share any of them, to forewarn us?”

  Miss Seeton hesitated. “What is the centre of gravity?” she said at last. “The question is asked when the Green Knight’s head falls to the ground—to give him time to pick it up, as it will be of papier mâché and might bounce, or roll too far.”

  “I’ll buy it,” said Delphick. “Nothing too scientific, I trust.”

  “The letter V,” came the answer.

  Bob, who had surfaced from his green paint nightmare, joined his superior in groaning. Miss Seeton was encouraged by her success. “Which two letters of the alphabet indicate the most pleasant people in the world? The riddle is asked in the scene when the Green Knight’s wife has to flirt with Sir Gawain, while her husband is out hunting—and,” a slight twinkle, “could be likewise applied to your visit here.”

  There were no takers. “U and I,” she announced, to further appreciative groans. “And what,” she concluded with a definite twinkle, “have X, Y and D in common?”

  Silence. Shaken heads. “It is when Sir Gawain is riding west the following Christmas,” prompted Miss Seeton. Further silence.

  “They are all rivers! The Exe, down in Devon; the Wye in Herefordshire; and the Dee in Scotland, which of course is to the north, but they are all rivers. He might well have crossed the Wye through a ford, or on a bridge, when heading for his encounter with the Green Knight at the mysterious chapel in the Wirral.”

  “So he might,” agreed Delphick. “After which, with your permission, Miss Seeton, I feel a second pot of tea is in order. To the kitchen, Sergeant Ranger!”

  While crockery clattered and water splashed, Delphick grew serious. So too did his hostess. He took the familiar stiff brown envelope from his pocket, and she sighed.

  “During my little holiday, Chief Superintendent, while I did not entirely forget him I fear that the young man who was kidnapped did slip to the back of my mind. I must regret that my sketch was of less help than you had hoped. You said there was further news ...”

  “There is. Another message, visual and potent.” He laid before her the photograph of Christy with the newspaper.

  Miss Seeton caught her breath. “His bandaged hand and bruised face would appear to suggest some degree of violence, would they not? Poor young man, although it seems from the newspaper he holds that he was alive and well on that particular date, which must be some encouragement to his family.” Delphick noted her use of the conditional. Even now she seemed to have doubts as to the genuineness of Christy Garth’s abduction.

  “Further encouragement might be given by another of your sketches,” he suggested gently. “Your holiday will have refreshed your imagination. Perhaps you could study this new picture in company with these others you saw before.” He shook out the contents of the envelope. “I’ll go and make sure Bob isn’t putting salt in the sugar bowl or miscounting the number of spoons for the pot—or dropping the tea caddy on the floor.”

  When the two policemen returned, Bob carrying the tray, Miss Seeton was putting the final touches to her drawing. She heard the steady footsteps, angled the point of her pencil for a last swirl of movement, and then sat back, shaking her head.

  “Tea,” said Delphick, “and sympathy, Miss Seeton. I can tell you’re dissatisfied with your efforts and I do understand, but, I assure you on behalf of my colleague, we are unlikely to share your dissatisfaction. May I see?”

  The picture she had just completed showed a small and lively flock of sheep dancing in a meadow dotted not with flowers, but with letters of the alphabet. “I am so sorry to have allowed the pantomime jokes to distract me.” The artist’s cheeks were pink. Delphick said nothing. The sketch resembled her earlier effort, but ... “I fear that I misled you, when the matter is so important.” She was determined to explain, even if she could not justify, such misleading. “Jack Crabbe will indeed supply most of the jokes, but those foolish riddles are—are mine, or
rather my Cousin Flora’s. That is, they originally belonged to her mother, who left her the riddle book I later inherited. In Victorian times it was common for young ladies to assemble them. She stitched and bound it herself, pasting in cartoons from Punch and similar journals. I chanced upon it while helping Martha the other day, and when I opened it at random the first riddle I saw concerned an umbrella, which naturally caught my attention. When Mr. Jessyp said that Jack was compiling jokes for King Arthur I wondered if there might be anything he could use, and lent it to him—to Jack, I mean—the book, not my umbrella—and there was. And he said he would.”

  Delphick looked up from the dancing sheep. He had realised the great difference between this and the previous sketch: they were no longer wearing strait jackets, or those manic, toothy grins. Perhaps a false kidnap had after all become real; but the riddle-letters puzzled him. “What particular joke originally caught your attention?” he enquired.

  Miss Seeton again turned pink. “At which season of the year is one most likely to lose an umbrella?”

  “Winter,” said Bob, “because of carrying it in the snow and leaving it on the bus.”

  “Summer,” said Delphick, “because it’s a trick question, There’s nothing to say it cannot be used as a sunshade before you leave it on the bus.”

  They both looked at their hostess. “When it is Lent,” she said.

  “Polonius,” said Delphick at last. “A warning to us all.” Bob stared. Delphick took pity on him. “A prosy old gentleman in Hamlet, full of good advice but more than tedious in its delivery. He considered it unwise either to borrow ... or to lend.”

  He and Miss Seeton waited for light to dawn. It did. Bob forced a chuckle. The other two exchanged smiles. Bob drank tea; Delphick leafed backwards through the sketchbook, curious as to what aspects of her Somerset holiday had made the greatest impression on Miss Seeton.