“First, however,” he decided, “I will mark on these drawings the various elements of the case, or rather cases, that no longer apply. Further study of what remains may just point us in the right direction towards finding the unfortunate Garth ...”
Miss Seeton answered the telephone in her usual manner, with a smile in her voice. “Plummergen 35. Oh. Good morning, Chief Superintendent.”
Delphick was sufficiently pleased with the news he had to impart that he did not at first notice the slight constraint once she had recognised her caller. “Miss Seeton, I am delighted to advise that there will soon be another cheque in the post, and I have been instructed to pass on sincere thanks for all your help from Chief Inspector Faggus in Glastonbury, and from Superintendent Snowe who heads the Yard’s drug investigations.”
Miss Seeton forgot, for a moment, her unease, and thanked him before venturing to ask if she might know why, for she could think of nothing in particular she had done ...
“Except a few sketches, remember.” Delphick chuckled. “As ever, Miss Seeton, you and your impressions were spot on. I regret to tell you that your bookshop acquaintance was indeed of the Lady Macbeth persuasion.” Miss Seeton was shocked. “Not herself a killer,” went on Delphick, “but certainly a manipulator of weaker-minded males. You said yourself that she had an excellent mind.” Miss Seeton had certainly suspected as much.
“She took a first at university, and could have stayed on for a doctorate, but she was impatient. Biological science doesn’t give quick results, so she opened the shop intending it as the foundation of her customer base, once she’d persuaded Simon Carfax, a college friend, to continue the drugs research she began after moving into her own premises and conducting some very private experiments. She had the idea that cannabis, which requires heat in order to flourish, might be crossed with willow, of which Somerset has an abundance. The resultant hybrid would have the best, as it were, of both species—a robust approach to the British climate plus the chemicals, including aspirin, that when combined would blow an addict’s mind.”
“A disgraceful waste of her education and qualifications,” said the retired teacher.
“And of his. But his character was by no means as strong as hers. She was also far brighter than he, with an excellent brain, particularly for business, and an ability to prioritise and to make quick decisions. Had Octavia Callender rather than her henchman been there when Hawley Bowyer turned up unexpectedly in the course of his Zodiac hunt, she would have found it easy to fob him off with a plausible story when he entered the laboratory to get away from the rain and consult his maps and notes.” Miss Seeton, recalling the dead man’s purchase of several books he had not wanted, was unable to disagree with this. “Carfax, however, panicked at the sight of an intruder, and accidentally killed the poor chap. Then in further panic he had to dispose of both the body and the experimental plants, for neither of which tasks he was adequately prepared.”
Miss Seeton supposed that very few people could adequately prepare themselves for such tasks, especially if they were inclined to panic under stress.
Another oracular chuckle. “You think a course of yoga might have made things easier for him? Fortunately he never undertook similar studies to your own, Miss Seeton. He was in yet another state of panic once he’d been spotted by Chief Inspector Faggus at the farm where, acting again on the orders of his lady-friend—she applied the moral force of blackmail over the murder—he was preparing to lace the sheep-dip with a dose of arsenic far greater than generally used.”
“Arsenic in sheep-dip?” Once more Miss Seeton was shocked. “Surely not!”
“Oh, it’s been banned now, but it was in general use for a couple of hundred years. Farmers up and down the country still have tins of the stuff in odd corners, I’m told.” Delphick coughed. “I find it quite as hard as anyone must, to suppose that a deadly poison would be left just lying about, but having telephoned Rytham Hall—the Colvedens are the only sheep farmers of my acquaintance—and spoken to Sir George, I must accept it. Had I asked Nigel,” he conceded, “my doubts might have continued, but Sir George was open about the fact that even he, as a magistrate, had been slower than intended in disposing of the tins, or rather drums, of banned sheep-dip. A matter of time, I understand, coupled with uncertainty as to how exactly to go about it.” Can’t pour the stuff down the drain, Sir George had said. Kill all the fish for miles. Can’t bury the drums—rust, sooner or later, and leakage. Wondered about leaving it to evaporate, but then what would happen to the powder?
Miss Seeton agreed that she, too, would be puzzled if asked to dispose of quantities of arsenic; and farmers, of course, were always busy.
“A fact Octavia Callender used to her advantage. She visited her uncle in hospital after his accident—it was a genuine accident, but it gave her the idea—and told him he should be taking things a little easier, at his age. This, naturally, infuriated him as she intended, and he told her if she came near him again he’d chuck her in the dip along with the sheep when, as he later explained to me, if she had said nothing at all he would have asked his son to take over this year while he recuperated. I believe,” he added, “she originally thought of sabotaging the tractor, but the sheep-dip was worth trying first—less effort, and less noisy, to unscrew a lid and pour in a liquid, as opposed to clattering with spanners and so forth, running the risk of being heard.”
A gentlewoman is not inquisitive. Delphick knew Miss Seeton well. “As to why Octavia wanted her uncle dead,” he began; and told her of the family’s long-running feud, the current squabble over the field, and the approaching change in the law. Guy Callender’s younger half-brother and his heirs might well (Guy’s children feared) decide out of cussedness to run their sheep permanently on the field that could otherwise have been used to build a new factory ...
“It is to be regretted when families quarrel,” observed Miss Seeton, whose closest relative had for many years been her mother’s cousin Flora. She herself was content in her solitude, for it was not loneliness: she had friends, she had a home, she had a place in the world. But when one thought of the Colvedens, so happy together; of Martha with her brood of cockney siblings, cousins, nephews and nieces who had taken Martha’s Stan to their warm hearts ... “Such a waste,” mourned Miss Seeton.
“Let us hope the shock of all this will bring the Callenders to their senses, although as to the resolution of the field problem I confess myself at a loss. There was talk of arbitration and the National Farmers’ Union, I believe.”
“One can but hope,” agreed Miss Seeton. “The loss of good farming land, of course, is likewise to be regretted.”
“Nigel Colveden wouldn’t approve, certainly. And wasn’t it Nigel’s stories about sheep that prompted some of the drawings that helped to solve the case?”
“Nigel? Oh. Those foolish pictures.” The note of constraint was back. This time, Delphick heard it. In other circumstances he might have taken it for her habitual modesty about the worth of her “little scribbles” as she sometimes called them, but now he could tell there was something more than a flock of dancing sheep, or a gumbooted bishop with a bottle of Worcester sauce and a halo of sevens round his head, to embarrass her.
“Miss Seeton, what have you thrown away today?”
A little gasp. “Why, nothing, Chief Superintendent.”
Miss Seeton’s scrupulous honesty was almost a byword. “And yesterday?”
A little pause.
“Miss Seeton, please.”
“A foolish scribble, nothing more, after last night’s rehearsal when Emmy Putts was so snappish about her wig and began teasing Mr. Jessyp. Emmy is not a child, and ought to know better, but Mr. Jessyp ignored her and in the end all was well, apart from the head.”
“You drew the head of Emmy Putts wearing a wig?”
“It was really Daniel Eggleden’s head, but ...” A further pause. “The Three Wise Monkeys,” said Miss Seeton at last. “Only instead of the three different poses
it was her mouth, each time. Her hands—a criss-cross of sticking plaster—and bandages right round her head, although not to cover her eyes or her nose,” she finished hastily.
“She was really a touch impertinent,” she added, as Delphick said nothing. He was turning the photocopies to and fro, and thinking.
“It was Daniel Eggleden’s head,” she repeated. “He did his very best, and tried three times, which is, I suppose, why I saw Emmy three times, too ...”
“Miss Seeton, would you please retrieve your sketch from the bin and put it in the post? If I’m right, we may have to alter that cheque before we send it. And—thank you.”
He cradled the receiver and turned to Bob. “The atlas, Sergeant Ranger. The Hereford and Worcester area, in the largest scale that fits them on one page.”
Together the two pored over the area in question. “She as good as told us when we went to see her,” said Delphick. “That rivers riddle—Exe, Wye, Dee. Hereford stands on the Wye. She drew a Hereford bull. And a lion—two lions, in fact—Leo-minster, even if that’s not how it’s pronounced. All those sevens in the bishop’s halo—Worcester stands on the River Severn, and the bottle of sauce should have told us far sooner. Let us attempt a little triangulation, Bob.”
“Never heard of the place.” Superintendent Kebby, summoned urgently to the Oracle’s office, scowled at the open atlas. “Munderfield Bishop? Talk about in the sticks. That’s wild country, all right.”
“Exactly. Remember what Sherlock Holmes said about the greater possibilities for evil-doing in the country, Jasper. In and around Munderfield Bishop there will be a considerable number of isolated houses and farms ideal for holding a kidnap victim prisoner.”
“You said it yourself, Oracle—a considerable number. How the blazes would we know where to start looking? Even if she’s right. Or you are, about what she means.”
“She was right about the cannabis and the Glastonbury murder, or, if you prefer, I was right in my interpretation of her sketches. Miss Seeton has been unwontedly confused, as have I, by being asked to think about three cases at the same time; but, to quote Holmes again, when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Delphick brandished the photocopies. “I have eliminated from these drawings as many indications as possible towards drugs and murder, and believe I have been left with enough probable pointers to this small village, Munderfield Bishop, to suggest that closer investigation would be worthwhile.”
Kebby stared at the seven-haloed bishop with his bottle of sauce, and shook his head. “Last time we asked out-of-town cops for a house-by-house search they ended up with an abandoned cannabis factory, a flock of psychotic sheep, and a murder. If I’m expected to make a fool of myself asking anybody anything that risks stirring things up like that, I need more to go on than the name of some village in the middle of nowhere.”
“In the middle of a triangle formed by Hereford, Worcester, and Leominster. Moreover, Miss Seeton has developed an interest in bandages, Superintendent Kebby. The amputated finger was neatly removed, I understand; the bandaging, to judge by the photograph, is of professional standard. The indication is that someone with medical knowledge but of shaky reputation should be looked for.”
“Hmph.” Kebby scowled again at the atlas, then leafed once more through the sketches. Then he gave a resigned nod. “I’ll phone the police in Worcester and ask ’em if they can suggest anyone. Unless you’d care to talk to ’em? After all, you’re the one who started this.”
“You started this, Superintendent. You asked me to ask Miss Seeton for her help.”
Kebby grunted again. “All right, all right—but I’m still not convinced. I certainly won’t risk telling ’em where the idea comes from, and make a blasted fool of myself when you turn out to be wrong.”
“I may indeed be wrong, but I suspect Miss Seeton is not. Come now, Jasper. There’s no need to say more than ‘acting on information received’. You don’t have to go into details. Begin with the caveat that it’s a very long shot, but should the target be successfully hit there will be feathers in caps all round. My sergeant and I will, on our arrival in Worcester, add our own encouragement if required.”
Bob blinked; Kebby stared.
Delphick nodded. “By the time you have talked them into consulting every local bobby for the relevant information, and that information has been obtained, we can be there to urge them on to the interviewing of likely prospects. Sergeant Ranger, you have fifteen minutes to telephone your wife, tidy your desk, and indent for a car.”
Chapter Fourteen
Many city dwellers underestimate the worth of local knowledge. Delphick did not. He was confident that in three or four hours’ time, depending on the traffic between Scotland Yard and Worcester, he and Bob would be presented with a comprehensive list of medical, and possibly including veterinary, practitioners of dubious repute, or upon whom some form of outside pressure could be imposed by persons of sufficient ruthlessness.
It spoke volumes for the west-of-England character that the list was so short.
“Only two?”
Superintendent Smith nodded. “Within the specified area, yes—and one of them’s doubtful, depending on your exact time-frame. Kebby said the last fortnight, but this one—” he pointed with a bony finger—“was away for the first week. Spending her ill-gotten gains, at a guess.” He sniffed as Delphick looked a question. “We’ve never been able to prove it, but for a general practitioner she seems to have more than the average number of weaklings on her books. Dodgy sick-notes at the drop of a hat, and my word they make a wonderful alibi when the chummies want to be off doing something they know we wouldn’t like. You can’t argue with a bad back or a sore throat. Not easy to disprove, for the likes of us, and it’s never more than a few days—just long enough to rob the bank or hold up the jeweller’s or steal the classy car and have it resprayed and sold on.”
“And Dr. Muxworthy?”
Smith noticeably brightened. “His daughter. Seems she could be the pressure point. Betty, she was when they first arrived in the village, but she pined for the bright lights the way so many of ’em do, and off she went to London and called herself Bettina.”
Delphick thought of Susan-now-Brenda Callender, and remarked that there was no law against changing one’s name unless for some illegal purpose.
“Prostitution’s not illegal,” agreed Superintendent Smith. “But what it can lead to can be something else altogether. She started in a very small way, but like her dad she’s good at her job and was, you might say, promoted. Nightclub hostessing, drink, drugs—the people she now hangs out with have some very unpleasant habits, and do their best to encourage others to share ’em.”
Delphick stiffened at the mention of nightclubs and drugs. “An easy way to approach a playboy and set him up for kidnap.”
Smith nodded again. “Bettina was spotted in the village a week or so back, trying not to be spotted, in a swanky car driven by a big bloke who tried even harder. All our local lad could see was dark glasses, which is why he paid attention because it was raining. Only, when the car parked at Dr. Muxworthy’s and the pair of ’em went inside, he took it Betty was taking her boyfriend to ask her dad’s consent, or something such.”
“She might have been. Even these days it’s not unknown.”
“Maybe.” Smith understood that it was Delphick’s job to play Devil’s Advocate, but he had hopes of his argument and pressed on. “Our lad saw all three of ’em drive away a bit later. Thought no more about it until we started asking. Then he remembered he’d not seen Betty or her boyfriend since that day, and the doc’s been a bit quiet, which our lad put down to him not caring too much for the boyfriend, and blaming himself for the way his girl’d gone off the rails after her mother died and he couldn’t face staying in Evesham and found himself a nice, quiet practice in the country.”
Again Delphick had stiffened. Evesham. The Traffic Jam. Local knowledge—the girl could have
recommended the ransom pick-up point ... “Perhaps we might talk to the father.”
“Our lad told us the surgery hours. You could go along now, with no fear of being interrupted unless it’s an emergency. You on?”
“We’re on,” said Delphick.
Our Lad, on discreet watch, shook with amusement at sight of the enormous Sergeant Ranger emerging from the unmarked car he’d been warned to expect. “Pity you weren’t here a week or so back,” he told Bob. “I thought young Betty’s chap was a fair size, but you’d’ve scared him off without even trying, if he’d turned nasty—not that I really thought at the time there was anything wrong.”
“And now you do?” Delphick hoped that hindsight wasn’t reading too much into what might still have been a chance encounter.
“Wouldn’t care to say one way or t’other, sir. Best thing’d be to ask the doc, I reckon.”
“A good man,” observed the chief superintendent as, directions obtained, they drove to the doctor’s house. “Prepared to admit he might be wrong.”
“Not many do,” agreed his sergeant.
“Over-confident certainty,” proclaimed the Oracle, “too often breeds confusion.”
Bob, at the wheel, had time to spare for neither philosophy nor a neatly-turned phrase. “Yes, sir,” was all he said, as he found the right house and pulled on to the empty drive.
Delphick glanced around. “Garage open, car inside—he’s ready to rush off to an emergency, but currently taking the time to relax. Let us interrupt him.”
Dr. Muxworthy’s door was opened by a small woman with a head of dainty white curls, and quick dark eyes that looked from one man to the other, evidently trying to assess which was in search of medical attention as both appeared to be in such excellent health.
Miss Seeton Flies High (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 23) Page 22
