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

by Hamilton Crane

  After making his request of the Glastonbury police, and apologising for his unwitting intrusion into a murder investigation, Delphick’s professional conscience had troubled him. Glastonbury had said that they were busy and implied that they were baffled: they did not tell him outright that they needed help, but help might, he suspected, be welcome. Particularly if it came in a semi-official capacity rather than the official Calling In The Yard so wounding to local pride. Miss Seeton, surely, could wound nobody’s pride ...

  Miss Seeton considered. The chief inspector wanted her impressions of a man she had met just once—no, twice, on the same day. She thought him excitable, she said: a little brisk in his manner; impatient with folly. Would she call him argumentative? A little strong, perhaps, but she supposed she would. Did she have any idea of the sort of thing that encouraged him to argue—to annoy people?

  “The Glastonbury Zodiac,” said Miss Seeton, “and people who believe in it. He says—said—it isn’t logical. Which,” she added as she took her sketching block from her handbag, “may be so. Or not, of course, depending on one’s viewpoint. But a most intriguing concept—and some very interesting books.”

  “Bedivere Books,” said Faggus. Miss Seeton, twiddling a pencil between her fingers as she contemplated the photograph on the notice board, nodded. “Yes,” murmured the chief inspector, watching her without seeming to, “we know he bought a lot of books there ...”

  Wait for her to stop paying attention to her surroundings, Delphick had advised. She wouldn’t like to think of herself as going into a trance, but that’s how it will seem to you, once she focuses all her attention on that blank sheet of paper. And when she’s done scribbling, get it away from her before she tears it up, because that’s how it takes her—she never can believe it’s what you wanted, and thinks it all a waste of time and effort. Ashamed isn’t too strong a word, sometimes, for the way she feels about her work—but it’s what we pay her for. Remind her of that if she fidgets too much. And if you can make no sense of what she’s drawn—one, you’re by no means unique, and two, send it down the wire to me and I’ll think about it on your behalf.

  Now Chief Inspector Faggus wondered how soon he could speak to the chief superintendent. It would take about ten minutes for the finished sketch to dot-and-dash its way down the telephone wires from the scanning machine in Glastonbury to its fellow in New Scotland Yard. Another ten to reach Delphick’s desk; perhaps a further ten for thinking? If he himself had an hour—a day—a month—for thinking, it wouldn’t be enough. Delphick had suggested that Miss Seeton, once retrieved by his Somerset colleagues, should be asked to study a photo of the murdered man and then sketch her impression of him. She might come up with something that would offer the police a different perspective; send the investigation in a direction they might not otherwise have considered.

  Her perspective was different, all right. He’d never seen anything like it. High in the air, above a waving ground-cover of tall plants with sharp, spiky leaves, Hawley Bowyer’s face wore a lively frown, and there was a spark of irritation in his eyes. His ... face. No body, no limbs, not even the man’s neck. Just his face, floating in the air against a background of maps and open books, their pages flapping as if in a strong wind, criss-crossed by a jumble of parallel rules, several pencils, and with a compass rose ... upside down—back to front—off balance, anyway. It almost made him wish Delphick hadn’t said he could ask for her help in the first place.

  The artist herself had already left in an unmarked police car, accompanied by her luggage and a cheerful PC Birch, for Castle Cary railway station and the next train but one after her original choice. Mr. Delphick and the Scotland Yard computer, the chief inspector had told her as he said goodbye, would deal with the financial side of the sketch she had drawn; he understood that this was the normal procedure, and he thanked her very much.

  And mopped a bewildered brow once she was safely on her way.

  “How much did you tell her about the case?” The Scotland Yard man could guess at his Somerset colleague’s bafflement.

  “Didn’t tell her anything beyond the fact he was dead,” replied Faggus. “And she said she was sorry, and that she’d met him. And then she settled down with his photo and her sketchbook, and started scribbling.”

  “Hmm. You told me that the body had been moved. Are you sure you said nothing of this to Miss Seeton?”

  “Told her as little as possible. That’s the way you said to play it, so I did. All she said was, she’d run across the man last time she was here. A bit of a scrapper—verbal, at least, didn’t know about physical—and I asked could she give me any idea of the sort of thing that might get him into an argument. She said, he didn’t think much of the Glastonbury Zodiac because it was illogical.”

  “So illogical as to cause an argument? A somewhat comprehensive argument, it would seem from this picture—no arms, no legs, no body. I should say she feels that the corpse didn’t really belong, as it were, where it was found—that he was killed elsewhere, as you already suspected. Do you have any thoughts as to why he was moved?”

  “Best guess is he saw something he shouldn’t when he arrived where he didn’t mean to be, and they clobbered him to keep him quiet.”

  Delphick pounced. “Where he didn’t mean to be? He was lost, then. Yes? Would I be correct in assuming that for some reason he had no map or guidebook to consult, and there was nothing but a faulty compass on which to rely?”

  “Well ... yes,” returned the chief inspector. “Yes!” He stared at the sketch, shaking his head. “How d’you make that out? His landlady told us he had plenty of maps, but that day it was pouring with rain. They’d have been unreadable pulp within minutes, if he’d tried to use them—and his haversack wasn’t there when we found him. No thermos, no sandwiches—no maps—and no notes. Always took reams of notes, she said. And yes, his compass was dodgy. We found it in his pocket, buried in a mess of soggy paper tissues. Whoever took away his maps and notes missed the compass—in too much of a hurry, at a guess.”

  “A reasonable guess that would suggest some degree of panic on the part of ... not necessarily the killer, but certainly the person who moved the body and, we must assume, also removed the other items. You’ve instituted a search, of course.”

  “Nothing found nearby, and no idea where else to look. That’s why I had hopes of your Miss Seeton when you told me about her, right on my doorstep as she was—and when it turned out she’d even met the man, well ...”

  “These plants she’s drawn,” Delphick ventured, “might possibly be a variety of hemp?”

  “Ah,” said Chief Inspector Faggus.

  “News of your psychotic sheep has travelled as far as Scotland Yard,” Delphick told him, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I would suggest that your investigation is in fact proceeding along the right lines. Find the spot where Bowyer was killed and you’ll find the motive—which, again at a venture, I suggest may be not unconnected with the growing of illicit drugs. And,” he warmed to his subject, “I offer a further suggestion that the place you seek will not be too far from where you found him.”

  “How d’you reckon that?”

  “Everything is in focus, yet gives an impression of speed. When she blurs—draws out of focus—it makes you take a step back for a different perspective. This face—I take it the resemblance is accurate? Very well—this face, and the background of maps and books, might be said to represent what we can call the truth of the matter. The speed would be her idea of the panic reaction to the crime, at a guess.”

  “A lot of guesses,” muttered the chief inspector.

  “Interpretations, rather. With Miss Seeton, that’s what we have to do. And you say she spoke of the man’s interest in the Zodiac? There are no stars or constellations or mythical figures in this drawing. Had the Zodiac any bearing on your case, I believe she would have shown at least part of it.”

  “But the Zodiac was the only lead we had!” protested Tom Faggus. After the dis
appointment of the clueless search of Torry Salt’s van, the chief inspector had directed his team to interview as many Zodiac believers as could be found, asking to see driving licences (if any) and vehicles (if appropriate); asking also for their movements and alibis at what the medical report gave as the likely time of death. “But if you think she thinks it’s nothing to do with the Zodiac—well, I’d better take a closer look at your interpretations.”

  “Perhaps you had,” Delphick said. “Consider the case from a different perspective.”

  “Just like Miss Seeton did,” said Chief Inspector Faggus. A chuckle rumbled along the wires. “I’ll bet she had some cock-eyed fun in that hot air balloon, too!”

  Delphick was suddenly thoughtful as he ended the conversation.

  Delphick was greeted by Miss Seeton with a smile, which he returned, complimenting her on how well she looked and how clearly her recent adventure had agreed with her.

  “I envy you,” he told his hostess as she busied herself with the tea things. “To have flown in a hot air balloon! I once rode in a police helicopter, but all I remember is the noise, and the distinct impression that my teeth must soon be shaken from my head. I certainly had neither the time nor the inclination to admire the view, and no particular reason to wish to repeat the experience beyond the call of duty which, I’m glad to say, has since that day remained silent.”

  “There is always the call of a brass bugle.” Miss Seeton explained Vincent Weaver’s preparations for aeronautical emergency, and spoke of the golden trumpet at Cadbury Castle, and the balloon flight in general. “Afterwards I had to purchase another sketchpad, for there were so very many new and remarkable impressions that I could not hope to capture them all at once.”

  Delphick nodded. “I’d be interested to see them,” he said truthfully. He had given much thought to that throwaway remark made by the chief inspector. “But, before we settle to the purpose of today’s visit, I mustn’t forget to tell you that the Yard’s computer has approved the drawing you did for Chief Inspector Faggus, and in due course the usual cheque will follow. He asks me to thank you again for your assistance—as he also thanked me.” Miss Seeton looked surprised. “He sent me a copy,” explained the Oracle, “and we discussed it together over the telephone. There were one or two hints I could offer, but the inspiration, shall we say, was entirely yours, and he was most grateful. It reassured him to know that in your opinion he had approached his murder investigation in more or less the right way all along, and apart from one false lead he could safely continue to do so.”

  “The poor man was lost in the wind and rain,” she said. “That was all. Not Mr. Faggus, but the man who dropped his books when I bumped into him in the High Street, with my umbrella. As I thought I had explained when he first asked me for my impressions—Mr. Faggus, I mean, though it seems my explanation must have been somewhat confused over missing my train, except that thanks to kind Mr. Birch I caught it in the end. But he had no maps with him, you see, and his compass must have been damaged when he dropped it with the books.” She blushed. “I did offer to buy some sticky tape, but he said there was no need because at the time it was not raining, and his hotel was close enough to carry them. He had climbed the Tor the previous afternoon, he said, and his muscles still ached and he had no particular wish to go up and down any more hills at present, or rather down and then back up, which it would have been to the stationer’s.”

  After missing only a couple of beats, Delphick smiled. “That would have been on the occasion of your first visit to Somerset.” Miss Seeton nodded. “May I see how the West Country appeared to you on your second visit? So short a time after your first there will have been few, if any, changes, but I am curious to know what you made of the same views when seen from the balloon. The different perspective, for instance.”

  “The views are indeed very different.” Miss Seeton leafed through a selected sketchbook. “The Tor, for instance, from one angle on the ground stands out far more noticeably in the landscape than it does from the air, although so early in the morning the shadows are far more dramatic. Miss McConchie had to call me at half past four,” she added. Delphick was duly impressed. “To be there in good time for the ascent,” she told him, “because as the sun rises even a gentle warmth may cause turbulence, depending on how high one intends to fly, and in which direction.”

  Her original sketch of the Tor, embellished on her return to Plummergen, was no more than a picture postcard or a tourist photograph might show—a steep green hill shadowed round with earthworks, dotted with sheep, one side a shallower slope that was still steeper than many people would wish to climb, and with the ruined tower of St Michael pointing like a giant finger up into a cloudless sky.

  Her second sketch, based (she explained) on what she had seen from the balloon, had early-morning shadows far blacker, sharper, longer than before. St Michael’s tower pointed, not into a cloudless sky, but at a huge swirling mass of cloud, or possibly dark smoke, that dominated the heavens in the form of an enormous question mark.

  “And what prompted this evident doubt?” enquired Delphick, pointing. “I am reminded of Kipling’s six honest serving men.”

  “Ah, yes. Their names,” Miss Seeton quoted happily, “are What and Why and When, and How and Where and Who. Except that I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. Why, that is. Flying past, as it were, the withy beds we talked of the various uses to which willow can be put. I had no idea there were so many, but Mrs. Midney was most knowledgeable about eel traps, and sweet peas in the garden—as was Mr. Weaver, who makes his own baskets. Charcoal, too, for barbecues, and also, of course, for drawing. I bought some myself, though as yet I have not used it.”

  “Perhaps you might try it now.” Delphick reached gently for the sketchbook. “As I said when we spoke yesterday, the kidnapping case has taken a rather more sinister turn.” Miss Seeton sighed. Delphick, leafing through her sketches, smiled.

  “At least we had no need to disturb your balloon flight. I’m relieved to see you were able to enjoy the experience before we needed to ask your advice again ... Do tell me—why the sword?” He had paused at a drawing of a long-robed woman, out of focus, brandishing an enormous blade that in contrast was as sharply defined as any sunrise shadow.

  “The Three Swords of Arthur.” Miss Seeton explained about Susan, “or Brenda, as she wishes to be called now.”

  “Good gracious. Why?”

  Miss Seeton explained further. “I see,” was all Delphick said.

  “The young can be so very enthusiastic, Chief Superintendent, can they not? She is writing a book about it, her cousin told me when I visited her bookshop, as she herself told me—Brenda, that is—which is why she asked if Mr. Weaver might fly us over the landscape sword so that she could show me.” She shook her head. “I fear that to me it was no more apparent than the Zodiac temple, and I looked for that as well, because I said I would.”

  Delphick hid a smile. “And here is your bookshop acquaintance again?” The new sketch showed Octavia Callender quite as long of robe and masked of face as before, but with a difference. Rather than the cat Graymalkin, she was accompanied by ... “A Dalmatian dog, surely,” said Delphick. “So you see her now more as Cruella de Vil than Lady Macbeth—but why? Was she with you in the balloon? What did she do to upset you?”

  “But there would hardly be room.” She puzzled, then turned pink. “Oh. One could not help overhearing ... Her cousin and Mr. Weaver spoke of her, you see. I believe that at one time she and Mr. Weaver were close acquaintances, but he is a young man who enjoys the freedom of a quiet life. I suspect her personality may have been somewhat too forceful for him. And then he drove our little party back past a sign for a place called Catsgore.”

  She seemed to feel this was sufficient explanation, and Delphick, after a pause, realised that it was. “Rather than trying to wash her hands, she’s saying '‘Out, damned spot’? Miss Seeton, you have been dipping again into your ancestral riddle-book.”

  Mi
ss Seeton assured him that Jack Crabbe, busy with the script for Sir Gawain, still had the borrowed riddle-book in his possession, and had told her as much only yesterday, when driving her home from the station.

  “Good,” said Delphick. “You were kind enough to spare us the worst, but it clearly contains some terrible jokes.” Something flickered across his subconscious, but proved elusive. “Now, I fear, we must turn to matters more serious than Victorian riddles. I have two new photos to show you: the least unpleasant first.”

  Christy Garth held the newspaper in his bandaged hand, and Miss Seeton sighed, saying that he had never been very far from her thoughts. Even while she was enjoying the freedom of the skies he, poor young man, enjoyed no freedom at all. Delphick said quickly that it seemed she had been right to confirm the family’s West Country supposition as a working hypothesis.

  “The poor young man,” she said again. “The young—so energetic, so full of life—but to be held captive ...”

  “We have narrowed down the area where he’s being held, but it is still a large one. Any suggestions you might make, having so recently visited one part of the west of England, could be invaluable in further narrowing.”

  Miss Seeton noted the strained expression on Christy’s face, the sunken eyes, the grim set of his jaw. “One assumes he has been fighting—the bandage, the bruises ... Is there any significance in the date of the newspaper? Or of the headline? I seem to recall a film in which it was possible to narrow down the area of search by the time of the particular edition with, I believe, a message scribbled on it, left in a car. Or it may have been a train.”

  Delphick nodded. “One of the lesser headlines was indeed altered, which is another reason for our belief that the west is correct. As for the date, I’m not sure any of us gave the matter much thought. We assumed it was merely intended as proof that he was alive on the day.” But now she’d put the idea in his head he began to wonder if they might have missed a trick. He’d have a word with Jasper Kebby, once he was back at the Yard.