Emmy Putts, who had realised far too late that Queen Guinevere was not the female lead, was in an even deeper sulk than might have been expected because her dark and luxuriant wig was at this early stage thought unnecessary. In that case, she wanted to know, what were they doing with the long green cloak and the papier mâché head?
“Practice,” said Mr. Jessyp. “We must be sure the illusion will work as intended. The head has to be concealed until the proper moment, and then dropped exactly right in case it bounces.”
“Then oughtn’t they to be practising with the axe, too?” retorted Emmy.
Blacksmith Daniel was a man of great stature; Nigel Colveden, though tall and well-made, a rather less substantial Sir Gawain. It had been a challenge to design an axe that both could comfortably use: the balance best suited to the strength, shoulders, and reach of one did not suit the other so well. Martin C. Jessyp, pedagogue, had been studying log tables and Euclid, and experimenting with bits of twig on his kitchen scales. Nigel’s proposal that it was only cardboard, and if it didn’t work properly then having two different axes would, had not been well received. Mr. Jessyp prided himself on his ability to solve all problems, large and small; his dignity was affronted.
“Next time,” snapped Mr. Jessyp.
Miss Seeton tut-tutted to herself. It was unlike Mr. Jessyp to be so tetchy, though she could understand why he was. Teachers must cultivate patience, and the headmaster was an excellent teacher; but Emmy, not so many years ago one of his pupils, was in an irritable mood, and of course irritability could often be catching. Emmy had remembered to bring her new wig, and been told there was no need for it. Mr. Jessyp had forgotten the axe, and was naturally blaming himself.
“Perhaps they could use my umbrella, for the moment,” she offered. Mr. Jessyp winced, thanked her, and accepted the offer. Emmy tittered, tossed her head, and put on her wig. Mr. Jessyp, in clipped accents, announced that the rehearsal would begin.
At her fireside, where she sat now with a cup of tea and her sketchbook, Miss Seeton sighed. Things had begun so well. Even Emmy Putts had appeared to settle to the business of the evening. Admiral Leighton was in the wings as Prompt and Non-Principal Extra. The Christmas festivities began. Speeches of goodwill were delivered. Actors and audience shook their heads and groaned at the jokes inserted by Jack Crabbe into Mr. Jessyp’s more dignified script based on the mediaeval original. Rather like the axe, the balance wasn’t yet quite right, but of course it would be all right on the night. It always was.
Then the Green Knight, his high-collared cloak billowing about him to conceal the papier mâché head, had made his entrance, Miss Seeton’s umbrella over his shoulder in place of the missing axe. Dan Eggleden boldly greeted the court, announced that he came in peace to learn if the fame of Arthur’s Round Table was justified, issued his challenge, and then scorned the knights for their silent response. Where was their thirst for adventure? Where their sense of fair play? One blow of his axe—he swept the umbrella magnificently through the air—to be exchanged for another, in twelve months’ time—was it so much to ask? Had he heard wrong? Was there in fact nobody in the whole of Camelot with sufficient valour? Was the Round Table a lie?
King Arthur jumped to his feet to accept the challenge on behalf of his knights, but Sir Gawain raised his voice in protest that his uncle’s life should be thus put at risk. Let King Arthur’s nephew take his place!
And then ... Despite everything, Miss Seeton had to smile at the memory of how Daniel the Green, with another grand gesture, handed the umbrella axe to Sir Gawain and knelt to receive the blow. Which had been when the papier mâché head caught in the fabric folds of his cloak, slipped from its pocket, and rolled into view rather sooner than it should. There was laughter among the audience of waiting actors and backstage crew; a snigger from Emmy Putts. Mr. Jessyp frowned. Nigel and Dan automatically bent. By a hairsbreadth they missed cracking their skulls. Dan reversed the umbrella to hook back his head.
“We’d better try that again,” said Mr. Jessyp.
And again.
But it had not been third time lucky. The Green Knight’s head simply would not behave. “And ’twill be a sight more okkard to hook with the proper axe than it is with this ole brolly,” remarked Dan, nodding to the brolly’s owner before reminding Mr. Jessyp that when he was in full costume there would be the spikes of his golden spurs, and a branch of holly with prickles, to add to his difficulties. He could wear the cloak and run the risk, or his head could be hidden somewhere else. What did Mr. Jessyp think?
Mr. Jessyp sighed. “We’ll skip to after the beheading,” he said ...
Miss Seeton recalled the impertinence of Emmy Putts, who had giggled in a very silly way and asked how much blood there was likely to be, and how much of it would be real, what with using a proper axe like Mr. Eggleden said. Miss Seeton thought back to her teaching days, and the cheekiness of some children that was rather more than ordinary high spirits. These could be suppressed by making the child in question sit on its hands, or put them on top of its head, or over its mouth. Rather like the Three Wise Monkeys—monkeys were mischievous—children were sometimes little monkeys—Emmy Putts was old enough to know better than to laugh at Mr. Jessyp—Mr. Jessyp had struggled to keep his temper ...
Without realising she did so, Miss Seeton turned to a clean page and dashed off Emmy’s face in triplicate monkey posture. Emmy’s hands over her mouth; Emmy with a criss-cross of sticky tape over her mouth; Emmy with a massive bandage wrapped round and round to silence her.
Miss Seeton was shocked; dismayed. This was not the behaviour one should expect from a teacher, even in thought. Blushing, she tore off the sketch, crumpled it, and tossed it in the bin. She leafed hurriedly back through her notes, and began a painstaking design for the entrance hall that could with a few embellishments double, as Mr. Jessyp had asked, for the Green Chapel where Sir Gawain was destined to meet the Green Knight in a year and a day to receive the return blow of the axe.
Delphick was working his way, yet again, through the photocopies of Miss Seeton’s sketches when the telephone rang. Bob answered on his extension.
“Two birds with one stone!” cried the telephone. “Oracle, that MissEss of yours is a blooming marvel!” Bob had never known Superintendent Snowe so animated. “The drugs and the murder solved at the same time!”
It was hard to interrupt the babbling flow of congratulation, but when Snowe had to pause for breath Bob managed it. “I believe you want Chief Superintendent Delphick, sir, not me.” The Oracle glanced up. Bob indicated the other telephone and, as Miss Seeton was involved, stayed listening as Snowe began to congratulate himself, the chief superintendent, the Somerset police—I wanted to get in before Tom Faggus, but he won’t be far behind—and most of all Miss Seeton, all over again at far greater length.
“But what happened?” demanded Delphick, at last stemming the flow, pleased the two cases had been resolved but, as ever, more concerned with the kidnap of Christy Garth.
“Well, it’s a shame to steal Faggus’s thunder,” said Snowe, “but it’s my case too ...”
Chief Inspector Faggus had thought carefully over the suggestion from Scotland Yard. He talked the matter through with Sergeant Bloxham, inviting DC Hannaford to join the conference. “Associates,” he explained to the detective constable. “You were at school with her, I’m told. Kept in touch, have you?”
“Not my type, sir,” said Jem Hannaford quickly. “I like a quiet life.”
“Ah,” said Tom Faggus. “But some folk like to live dangerously. Any ideas?”
“There’s a lot I hear,” said Sergeant Bloxham, who prided himself on missing very little, “but it’s your generation, my son. She going out with anyone these days?”
Jem concentrated. Backalong there’d been rumours—Vince Weaver had dumped Octavia, or she’d dumped him, nobody really knew—she’d been in an odd mood for a bit, then they said she’d took up with ...
“Bloke called Simon,
sir.” He frowned. “College friend, they say. Dunno where he lives, or much about him, but he turned up here a while since. He’s around off and on, but seems the sort to keep himself to himself. One of the campervan types as don’t much come into town, at a guess. Except for shopping.”
“You’d recognise him? You know where he lives?”
“Yes, sir.” Jem smothered a grin. “No, sir.”
The chief inspector, to Jem’s relief, grinned back. “Three bags full. Yes, daft of me. Sorry. Well, we can’t hang around until he runs short of baked beans or joss sticks. Any other ideas?”
“Family, friends, acquaintances, casuals, random,” chanted Sergeant Bloxham. The priority list was generally applied to murderers and their victims, but it was as good a start as any. “She went visiting her uncle in hospital the other day. Not like our Tavy. That field of theirs hasn’t been sorted yet, and the two sides of the family ain’t really speaking.”
“Except Val and Jan,” put in DC Hannaford, “having the wool in common, like.”
“Has anyone heard of Valentine Callender visiting her uncle in hospital?” Nobody had. “Or her brothers?” added the chief inspector. Further shakes of the head. “Just Octavia, then. And out of character, seemingly. So, maybe they had some urgent business that couldn’t wait until he was safely home again?”
“He’s home now, I heard,” put in Sergeant Bloxham. “But if their urgent business was dodgy—well, I’d say that’s out of character for Janner.”
“It could’ve bin a nasty accident,” said Faggus slowly. “Do no harm to check up on him, now he’s home. To make sure he’s got everything he needs, we could say, with that Susan being soft in the head and Jan so busy on the farm.”
“Pretty thin,” said Bloxham.
“You got anything better? Right, then. And you come too, young Jem.”
DC Hannaford was gratified, but puzzled. “We might need a decoy,” explained the chief inspector. “We’ll try to talk to Janner on his own, but if it chances the Lady of the Lake’s in the house with him rather than wandering about Pomparles Bridge, or if Jan should come in from the fields for a cup of tea, it’ll be your job to catch ’em and stop ’em if the sergeant and I’ve not finished our chat.”
The car bumped its way up the rutted drive to the farmhouse. In the near distance the three policemen could see a busy figure working from a pick-up truck and trailer. It must be Jan Callender, supervised by an older man leaning heavily on a stick and, with rather more energy, by a black and white collie that trotted between the two men and from time to time, bored with waiting, jumped up and snapped at the air. Jan’s father had evidently set his son to checking the sheep-run fences to see which rails and hurdles must be replaced: Janner’s spell in hospital would have interrupted the farming timetable, and the Callenders hadn’t finished dipping all their sheep. Or perhaps hadn’t even started yet.
At the approach of the police car both Callenders stopped what they were doing, waved a quick greeting, and settled back to work. The collie uttered one quick bark, but as neither master spoke, ignored the newcomers to resume his or her supervisory trot-and-snap.
A distant movement among the farm buildings caught Hannaford’s eye as he turned the car towards the house. The others noticed it, too.
“Is that Susan, Brenda, whatever she calls herself?”
“If it is, she’s not wearing that long white nightie. Almost looks like she’s hiding.”
“They got any casuals working here? The sort as might not welcome a visit from us.”
“Shouldn’t think so, knowing Janner.” Sergeant Bloxham considered. “Jan, now, he’s a bit more on the hasty side. I suppose he might chance it—but then his dad’d be sure to find out, and there’d be trouble right enough. Keeps a close rein, does Janner.”
“Trespasser?” Chief Inspector Faggus climbed out of the car. “Not come back in sight, anyhow, whoever he is. Wonder if they know?”
“Wonder if they even know he’s here,” added Sergeant Bloxham as all three scanned the buildings for another glance of the unknown, and saw nothing.
“Eyes peeled,” said Chief Inspector Faggus, making a megaphone from his hands.
His bellowed “Oy!” startled both the Callenders. The dog’s head went up, but only the chief inspector noticed. Eyes peeled as instructed, the other two policemen watched the farm buildings. A swift flurry of ... something in retreat; then again, nothing.
“Oy yourself!” roared back Jan Callender, as his father waved his stick and made it plain he wasn’t hurrying anywhere at anyone’s beck and call.
“Keep watching,” said Faggus. Through the megaphone he bellowed once more. “Just the two of you here today?”
“You got eyes in your head,” yelled Jan, though after a quick word with Janner he was moving down towards the visitors, the collie in close attendance. “Can’t ’ee count, then? And can’t ’ee tell we’re busy?”
“I saw something, sir!”
Sergeant Bloxham’s fist smacked Hannaford’s rising arm. “Don’t point, my son. No sense letting him know he’s spotted. But he’s right, sir. Definitely not Susan. Youngish bloke, longish hair, beard, pale face.”
“Indoors type, then,” said the chief inspector, as Jan came closer.
“So what’s all this?” he demanded. “If it’s t’other night’s dustup between me and Bill Callender you’re way out of line unless that cousin of mine’s sworn a complaint against me, and if he has you can tell him I’ll punch even harder next time.”
These words must have been audible to the shadowed skulker among the farm buildings. Faggus nodded. “We’ll catch him off guard yet,” he said. “Eyes peeled, remember.” He raised his voice. “You going to plead guilty, then?”
Jan’s face turned red, and not just from the burst of speed he now put on. “There ain’t one of them Callenders—” he began, in a tone that had the collie’s ears flattening; but he was now within speaking distance and Faggus was able to tell him, without raising his voice, to be quiet.
“Shut you up, Jan, we’re setting a trap and doing you a favour. Unless you got lodgers you’ve a prowler about the place—don’t look! But he heard us coming and did his best to hide, so we’re trying to smoke him out and find why he’s got a guilty conscience. Anything stolen recently? Damage to outbuildings, animals harmed, general mischief?”
“No more’n usual,” said Jan, with a shrug. “Kids, at a guess.”
“This one’s older. Druggie of some sort, perhaps, looking for what he can pinch to sell.”
“From a sheep farm?” Jan Callender was scornful. “Only stuff here worth pinching’d need wheels to carry it away, and apart from you lot we’ve heard no other vehicle today. And Ben’s not raised the alarm.” He pulled on the collie’s ears. “Course, we’ve bin some way from the house, but ... You sure you ain’t imagining things?”
“No,” said Bloxham, whose gaze had not for an instant left the outbuildings. “Long hair, beard, pale face.”
“Tried to hide when he saw us coming,” said Faggus, “and hasn’t made a dash for it, so he’s still around. Mind if we go and find him?”
“We’ll come with ’ee,” said Jan. “Ben’s as good as any police dog, unless it’s a bloodhound, but if ’ee dunno who it is you’ve no scent to give a bloodhound, have ’ee?”
“Four men and a dog between ’em did ought to find anyone where he ain’t meant to be,” said Faggus as the five set off towards the farm buildings. “Get a bit closer and we’ll spread out. Jan, you and Ben work to the left—Jem, circle to the right—the sergeant and I’ll take the two middle routes on account of being not so nimble these days.”
In the end, to his surprise, the chief inspector himself found the intruder, who had in his haste left clear tracks on the rungs of a ladder leading up to an unused loft space where old sacks and rusty containers had for years been stored just in case they ever came in useful.
There was one small metal drum container in the general clutte
r that was neither rusty, nor coated with dust ...
“Something the long-hair brought with him,” Delphick deduced at the end of the recital. “What was in it?”
“You’ll never guess,” gloated Superintendent Snowe, making the most of it. You didn’t often catch the Oracle at a loss. “Go on—best of three.”
Delphick looked the photocopies of Miss Seeton’s sketches, recalling the originals. “If it was an aerosol can,” he began, “gas of some sort.” A hot air balloon uses gas.
“Not an aerosol, more a jerry-can. Try again.”
“Paint.”
“Why would he want to hide a can of paint? Last go.”
His idle stab at “paint” as the answer to a game Delphick, humouring Snowe, had never expected to win set up a train of oracular thought that rushed now to a wild, yet plausible, solution. Miss Seeton was involved with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Could that be the reason for the rich greens she had lavished on her study of Glastonbury Tor—the green robe in which she had depicted Octavia Callender?
Or ... “Arsenic?”
There was a stunned silence on the line. Bob, his jaw dropping, gazed in wonder at his superior. Delphick forced himself to say nothing for a moment, though his lips twitched.
“How the hell did you know?” demanded Superintendent Snowe at last.
“But you told me so yourself. ‘That MissEss of yours,’ you said, ‘is a blooming marvel’. I certainly would not dream of contradicting you.”
When Superintendent Snowe found his voice he was forcefully vocal, and the ears of his audience rang with expostulation and incredulity. Once he had grown more coherent, and Delphick had explained about Napoleon’s poisonous wallpaper, famously green from its arsenic dye, he delivered the rest of the tale, to the pleasure of both Delphick and of Bob, on behalf of his adopted aunt. The conversation ended with Delphick’s promise to pass on to Miss Seeton the compliments and gratitude of Chief Inspector Faggus as well as those of Superintendent Snowe.
Miss Seeton Flies High (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 23) Page 21
