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

by Hamilton Crane

  Nobody grudged Miss Seeton, sketching saviour of the situation, her place in the front passenger seat as they drove back to Glastonbury. Besides, she was the only one of them who did not already know the legends with which Vincent now regaled her. He told of how, on Midsummer Eve and at Christmas, King Arthur and his knights leave the hollow hill of Camelot through a massive iron gate, riding out on horses shod with silver. Listening ears will hear the hoof-beats but, look hard as any listener might, nothing can ever be seen.

  “We know the hill must be hollow,” he explained, “because if you blow a golden trumpet down Queen Anne’s Well on one side, the sound echoes back up through King Arthur’s Well on the other.”

  Miss Seeton was duly impressed. “And have you ever tried?” she enquired, with just the hint of a twinkle. “Your bugle would surely be ideal for the purpose.”

  “Nay, it must be a trumpet made of gold. My bugle’s nowt but brass, from when me Dad changed the main factory to a silver band and replaced all the instruments. Some were too worn out to be worth passing on, and when all I needed was to attract attention, he said it would serve well enough. We don’t go splashing our money about, up north.”

  Miss Seeton privately reflected that Mr. Weaver, on his father’s behalf, had offered to purchase an entire field merely to keep one farmer happy. Evidently the very, very rich and successful had very, very different ideas of economy from her own.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed, as they passed a signpost. “Catsgore. What an un—unusual name.” She had almost said unpleasant, but perhaps she had misread it.

  “Same as Kensington Gore,” said Vincent. “A gore’s nobbut a triangular piece of land. Over Bristol way there’s the Gordano—” he pronounced it Gor-day-no—“Valley: same word again. As for the Cat, well, nobody knows if it’s someone’s name, or commemorating where the wildcats used to roam in savage packs, terrorising the countryside, killing the cattle and sheep, carrying off small children ...”

  Miss Seeton, deliciously shuddering, felt that Vincent Weaver, like his former girlfriend Octavia Callender, had rather more about him than he chose to let anyone know.

  Chapter Eleven

  Milicent Hattersley was busy in the police house kitchen, making six times the usual amount of her celebrated Black Treacle Bread for the Women’s Institute Tea. Mrs. Hattersley’s bread—thickly sliced, lavishly buttered—always went down well, even unto third and fourth helpings. There had never been a Tea when she wasn’t asked for the recipe.

  Milicent heard the roar of an approaching motorbike, a screech of brakes, a scurry of feet and a loud ring at the front door, accompanied by a quick tattoo on the knocker. Before she could dust her hands clean to greet this impatient visitor, the feet scurried away and the motorbike roared again, speeding from the house and faster still out of the village.

  PC Ralph Hattersley clumped indoors from the garden, where he had been tending his vegetable patch. Harvest Festival was this weekend, and his prize marrow had been chosen for display beside the pulpit. The motorbike’s roar had disturbed his peaceful pleasure in his work, but official work must come first.

  “Mischief,” he told his wife, who for once did not scold him for tracking mud into the house. “Not kids larking, from the sound of it. You stay by the phone, Millie, while I check outside. If there’s any hint of trouble you call HQ at once, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Ralph.” Millie turned a little pale but said no more, watching her husband as he went cautiously to the door and opened it, standing well back.

  Nothing happened.

  PC Hattersley peered round the door. He saw something on the step. “A shoebox,” he called down the hall to Millie, alert beside the telephone. “They’ve took off the lid and the top’s all shiny—clear plastic, it looks like ... Oh.”

  He had peered a little closer. He retreated now to the umbrella stand and removed a stout walking stick. He reversed it, reached out, and hooked the box towards him. Now he could not only see what was inside on a nest of cotton wool—he could read the message that came with it.

  “Tell Scotland Yard,” quoted Chief Inspector Kebby. “The blighters have guessed the family would be asking for our help by now. And reference C.G. just in case we’re too thick to get the point.”

  Delphick took the photocopied note Kebby thrust across his desk. “The point being that Christy Garth has suffered a genuine physical attack, no matter what our earlier reservations may have been. I take it there’s no doubt the severed finger is his?”

  “They’d packed it in ice, and so did Hattersley when he found it. It’s a bit the worse for wear and it’s lucky the weather wasn’t too hot—but of course his prints are on file, so unless he had an unknown identical twin drugging, causing affrays at nightclubs, drink-driving and being arrested in his place—yes, it’s Garth’s finger.”

  Delphick frowned. “His hand was bandaged in the photograph, which would appear to suggest that he lost the finger several days ago.” His frown deepened. “The amputation could at that time have been faked, just as Miss Seeton hinted.” Kebby stirred, but said nothing. The Oracle pondered.

  “If,” he said at last, “such is the case, I wonder what can have pushed them now to so drastic a measure? Did they simply tire of waiting, and hope by this action to apply further pressure? Or ...”

  Kebby continued to fidget as Delphick continued to ponder. The Chief Inspector looked in the direction of Sergeant Ranger, who had not hitherto spoken or been approached. Bob, naturally curious but tactfully quiet, shook his head in response to Kebby’s look.

  “How long,” said the Oracle, “will a severed finger ... as it were, survive?”

  “I’ve checked with the medics,” said Kebby, “and it’s as you’d expect from any experts. They can’t, or won’t, give a straight answer.”

  “It all depends?” Delphick smiled, thinly, as Kebby nodded. “But it is entirely credible?”

  “Oh, yes.” Kebby sighed. “You know, for the first time in all this I’m starting to feel sorry for the chap, no matter what kind of life he’s led and the amount of trouble he’s caused.”

  “The loss of a thumb,” said Delphick, “would have been far worse than that of a little finger. At least they spared him that.”

  “So far,” groaned Kebby. “Heaven knows what they’ll try next. This is getting urgent, Oracle—and the only lead we have is that the parcel was delivered to a bobby in a village near Leominster. They’ve got it in the fridge at Worcester now.”

  “Westward ho,” murmured Delphick, even at so tense a moment amused that the city man knew enough of the wild open spaces to pronounce “Lemster” correctly.

  Kebby nodded. “It does seem to bear out what his family told us of his original plans, as confirmed by your lady-friend with the sketchpad—but she didn’t warn us it was going to turn nasty. Could even turn to murder if we can’t get it sorted soon.”

  “We must hope that it does not, but I fear you may be right. Criminals who resort to kidnapping are not noted for patience or moderation. We should perhaps have guessed that when the Traffic Jam interfered with the ransom pick-up, they might well tighten the screw.”“And we haven’t got even half a clue, beyond the West Country connection. There’s a hell of a lot of the west, Oracle. I’d like you to talk to Miss Seeton again. You said we should have guessed. Well, inspired guesswork is her speciality. Is the old girl likely to boggle at the sight of Exhibit B? Tastefully photographed, of course.”

  Reaching for the telephone, Delphick paused to smile. “While at art college, Miss Seeton studied the human body in detail by frequent attendance at hospital dissection classes. She also survived the Blitz. A severed finger, even if delivered to her with garnish on a plate, is unlikely to bother her. A photograph, still less.”

  He heard the telephone ring in distant Plummergen, but from Sweetbriars there came no answer. “Martha’s not there and MissEss is probably shopping,” he decided. The police house was his next attempt.

  A sma
ll, squeaky voice coughed as it tried to identify itself. “Wait,” said Delphick, and identified himself before asking, “Amelia, is that you?”

  Little Miss Potter wheezed that it was, off school with a cold. No, her father wasn’t there. Nor her mother, out shopping for lemons and crystallised ginger to make a special drink. Could Amelia take a message? Delphick, rapidly reviewing possibilities, said he would try not to bother her again, and rang off.

  It was third time lucky when he tried Rytham Hall. Martha Bloomer was working there that day, and explained that Miss Emily was down in Somerset again because her ticket had won first prize and she’d been flying somewhere in a balloon.

  Delphick asked the Yard’s switchboard to put him through to the Glastonbury police.

  Chief Inspector Faggus and his small team were deeply involved with the murder of Hawley Bowyer. Torry Salt’s van, a promising lead, had yielded no clues. The police were back almost where they had started, and as murder, in Glastonbury, was rare, their concentration was entirely directed upon the current investigation. That a Scotland Yard detective, no matter how high his rank or polite his request, wished him to find an unknown spinster visitor to the town as soon as possible did not register as perhaps it should have done. Sergeant Bloxham and Constable Hannaford could not be spared: the station sergeant was instructed to send a less vital officer to visit the Farside Hotel and if necessary to comb the streets and shops for Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton.

  Young Constable Birch, the newest recruit, was keen. The desk sergeant issued quick instructions and sent him off on his quest with buttons shining and boots burnished, the badge on his proud helmet glittering in the autumn sun. Not five minutes on the job, and he was working with Scotland Yard!

  At the Farside Hotel he learned that Miss Seeton was out shopping. Miss McConchie wasn’t sure where, but she would back in time for a light lunch and the taxi she’d booked to catch the train.

  The suspect was skipping town! “I’ll wait,” announced PC Birch.

  “You’re welcome,” said Lyn McConchie. “How about a cup of tea while you’re waiting?”

  PC Birch hesitated.

  “Would you prefer coffee? Herbal tea? Hot chocolate?”

  Would he be caught at a disadvantage when Miss Seeton came back? Or would the sight of him with a drink and perhaps a biscuit or two lull her into thinking his visit was just for a casual chat? He might catch her off guard and trick a confession out of her. The sergeant had thought it must be on account of the murder he was being sent after her ...

  When Miss Seeton trotted in with a wicker shopping basket for Martha over one arm, in which two packets of artist’s charcoal and a model hot air balloon (to hang above Gideon Ranger’s cot) were neatly packed, Police Constable Birch blinked. She looked like somebody’s favourite aunt, not a suspect connected, however remotely, with a case of murder. And when he thought the matter over, how come they’d been able to work it all out in London before the folk down here, where the murder had been committed? There was obviously more to this little lady than he’d thought, being known to the Yard like that. Well, didn’t they say appearances could be deceptive? And didn’t this one just prove it!

  He spoke in his best official tones. “I’d like you to come along of me, miss,” he said after the preliminary courtesies had been observed. “To the station, toot sweet.”

  Miss Seeton glanced at the kitchen clock. “But my train doesn’t—the taxi isn’t—I still have my packing to finish,” she protested, displaying her recent purchases to explain what, she feared, might have been misunderstood by this thoughtful young man as a rather abrupt dismissal of his kindly offer to assist her.

  “The police station,” said Constable Birch sternly. Trying to bluff it out, was she? “You can leave your luggage for the moment. We’ll send someone to pick it up later.” She might well be about to leave town as she’d planned, but perhaps not quite the way she’d planned—or where she’d planned to go.

  Miss Seeton still seemed puzzled. She looked from her basket to Miss McConchie, and then at PC Birch. “I fear I don’t quite understand,” she began.

  “I can put your last few bits away for you,” offered the landlady. “You run along and see what they want. Probably,” she added, as her guest remained confused, “they’ll be asking about that balloon of Vince Weaver’s. We always said the licensing people would catch up with him in the end.”

  Miss Seeton smiled. “Then it shouldn’t take long, for I can assure them—” She recalled that she was sworn to secrecy about the balloonist’s having obtained the necessary paperwork. “At least,” she added, “I trust that I will be able to do so.”

  “It’s Scotland Yard you’ll have to satisfy,” PC Birch warned, forgetting discretion.

  Miss Seeton, to his surprise and the astonishment of Miss McConchie, smiled again, nodded, and set down Martha’s basket on the kitchen table without a qualm. “No doubt,” she said as she prepared to accompany PC Birch, “another IdentiKit picture is required. I do hope there will be time to catch my train, but of course it is my duty and perhaps, Miss McConchie, you would be kind enough to explain to the taxi driver, should I be delayed?”

  Constable Birch kept a watchful eye on his captive as they made their way to the police station, but she showed no sign of making a break for freedom. From what this seeming innocent was telling him of how she’d climbed the Tor on a previous visit, she’d be fast enough on her feet if she wanted; he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to stop her. Unless it was all a clever double-bluff, and she wanted him to think that, just to catch him off his guard, in the same way she’d given the impression that Scotland Yard didn’t worry her at all. She’d murmured something he couldn’t quite catch but that sounded a bit like “beatnik”—a bit out of date, but probably, in her terms, best suited to most of the long-haired people she would have seen wandering about the town with their bells and beads and flared trousers.

  Entering the station, he nodded proudly to the desk sergeant and escorted Miss Seeton straight down the corridor to the Murder Incident Room. She’d talked of pictures—well, he’d show her some, and then she’d be the one to be caught off guard!

  For once, the room was empty. PC Birch wandered casually across to the notice board with its maps, lists, and photographs. Politely, Miss Seeton wandered beside him.

  “Oh, dear.” She recognised the blank, soulless gaze of a dead face. “The poor man. How very sad. I take it he has met with an accident? I met him on the occasion of my previous visit.” PC Birch stiffened. This was more like it! “A somewhat excitable temperament, I fear,” she continued. “One can readily imagine how he might become distracted when traversing some of the steep hills in these parts, and tumble down. There has been so much rain of late that the grass can be most treacherous underfoot.” She gave the staring countenance of Hawley Bowyer a second, sorrowful glance. “Is it a likeness of this poor man that the chief superintendent wishes me to draw?”

  Chief superintendent? Who did she think was she kidding, trying to confuse him like this? “Chief inspector, miss. Mr. Faggus.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Seeton, instinctively closing the handbag she’d automatically opened. She pondered. “But I suppose, if Mr. Delphick has made the arrangements ...”

  They stared at each other, both equally perplexed. Behind them, the door opened.

  “Ah, Birch, you found her. Good.” Chief Inspector Faggus bustled into the room and held out his hand. “Miss Seeton? How d’you do, and it’s good to meet you. The Oracle’s told me all about you—put me in the picture, as you might say.”

  As he chuckled over his little joke Miss Seeton, shaking hands, blushed and murmured that dear Mr. Delphick was always so kind.

  PC Birch stared as the chief inspector continued to put the suspect—no, a suspect she clearly wasn’t—at her ease. What was that she must’ve said? Not beatnik, but Delphick—and from the way she and the old man were chatting together, she was either a friend or even a colleague of th
is man at the Yard, who wanted to talk to her about something important. And he’d gone and taken her for a wrong ’un!

  As Faggus led the honoured guest to telephone from the privacy of his office, Police Constable Birch scratched his head, shook his head, and finally hung his head in bewildered shame. He’d got it all about as wrong as it could have been. He’d obviously misunderstood the original message—he wouldn’t dream of blaming the sergeant—and badly misjudged Miss Seeton. He’d never make a copper. He wondered about resigning right now, before she had time to complain to old Faggus about how she’d been treated ...

  As Birch trudged sadly towards it, the chief inspector opened his office door to usher Miss Seeton out. “Ah, Birch.” As Miss Seeton smiled in renewed greeting, so his superior officer grinned. “Good man. Now, I don’t know how long it will take, but when Miss Seeton’s finished her business here she’d like to be driven across to catch the train, seeing as she’s cancelled her taxi and she knows you.” Again Miss Seeton smiled. “Nip along to her hotel for her luggage and then just hang around nearby until she gives the word, right?”

  Birch blinked. “Er—right, sir. Miss Seeton. Is ... is everything okay?”

  “Soon will be.” Faggus winked at Miss Seeton as he escorted her back to the Incident Room. “Poaching on the Yard’s preserves, I know, but it was Mr. Delphick’s suggestion. He thinks a lot of you, Miss Seeton.” Miss Seeton turned pink with pleasure. “And you can hurry up, my son!”

  Smiling back at Miss Seeton, Birch hurried.