“Oh, absolutely. Let’s stroll toward the marquee, shall we? Look, just over there, you see the man talking to the naval officer? That’s James Callaghan, the MP. He was in the navy himself during the war. And there’s the Archbishop of Canterbury having a word with the Director General of the BBC. Would you like me to introduce you?”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Harlow, I couldn’t possibly impose myself on such distinguished personages! I am a simple retired schoolteacher, a person of no consequence whatever. I should have no idea what to say to the Archbishop. In spite of his being in a sense a local resident. Canterbury is quite near to Plummergen, you see . . . but I was forgetting, the Archbishop doesn’t live there, of course, does he? No, no, it is more than enough—a great delight indeed—to be able to look forward to mentioning to the vicar and Miss Treeves that I found myself so close to His Grace.”
“Very well, then, but I must find you somebody you would enjoy talking to, Miss Seeton. Tell me, what did you teach before you retired?”
“It is of small importance, but as a matter of fact, I taught art.”
“Oh, you’re an artist! How fascinating! I’m pretty sure the president of the Royal Academy and Lady Casson are on the invitation list: I’ll keep an eye out for them—”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly! Besides, I fear you are in error in thinking me an artist. I realized at a very early stage that the most I could hope for would be to teach, to try to help young people to appreciate art . . . and to rejoice if I were to be privileged to help and encourage one or two real potential artists. And now, you have been more than kind, Mr. Harlow, but I have already trespassed on your goodwill for far too long. . . .”
“Well, if you’re quite sure, Miss Seeton. I expect you’re ready for a cup of tea anyway. It has been a pleasure to meet you, and I may well seek you out again a little later. . . . oh, look, I think they’re coming out!” There was a flurry on the terrace as the bandmaster brought a selection from Salad Days to an abrupt halt in mid-chorus. There followed some bellowing of orders which were incomprehensible to the great majority present; and then the strains of “God Save the Queen” drifted over the throng.
• • •
Ten minutes later Inspector Harlow stood beside the head of Special Branch, some twenty yards away from Miss Seeton. After the playing of the national anthem the members of the royal family had descended from the terrace to the great lawn, separated, and set off in different directions. Now each, attended by uniformed equerries, ladies-in-waiting, or both according to sex and status, was at the center of a fair-sized circle of people.
The Queen was completely invisible within her dense thicket. The Duke of Edinburgh’s head appeared intermittently above those of his admirers; while Princess Alexandra was also tall enough to be in view from time to time; her manner impeccably courteous, her expression conveying just a hint of private amusement.
Miss Seeton had attached herself to none of these entourages, but was standing just outside one of the marquees in which refreshments were being served, a cup of tea in one white-gloved hand and a serene look on her face.
Fenn was in a good humor. “Well, you got a make on her early enough, Harlow. What on earth were you doing, though? You looked for a moment as if you were about to expose yourself.”
“Quite the reverse, I assure you, sir. To tell the truth, the famous battling brolly very nearly ruined my social life. She got me with the ferrule, right in the—”
“Rather suspected something like that. Everything under control otherwise?”
“Yes, sir. At least it gave me an excuse for introducing myself and confirming I had the right person. Also got her to mention she used to teach art. Hardly a close professional connection with the subject, but it’ll have to do as a reason for me to introduce them. So as soon as I can find the subject, I’ll take him over to her.”
“No need to keep calling him ‘the subject,’ Harlow. Makes you sound like one of those sleazy inquiry agents who bang on the doors of hotel rooms by arrangement and then give evidence in divorce cases. Man’s name’s Tump, Wormelow Tump, and an extraordinarily silly name it is.”
“Yes, sir. He’s definitely here somewhere; I’ve checked. I just hope to goodness he’s not somewhere in the middle of that mob round HM.”
“Shouldn’t think so. Hardly HM’s cup of tea, I’d say. Got on famously with old Queen Mary until she died, though. She used to make Tump go trailing round antiques shops with her, I’m told. Wonder if it’s true she was inclined to forget to pay, accidentally on purpose? Anyway, what do you make of her? Miss Seeton, not Queen Mary.”
Harlow shrugged. “Apart from being a menace with that umbrella, rather an old sweetie, I thought. Mild, inoffensive, Daily Telegraph-reading, patriotic . . . look at the way she’s drinking all this in, sir. Biggest day in her life, I should think.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She’s not attempting to get near any of the royals. She’s just watching the other people watching them. And we’re watching her watching them watching them. And I personally wouldn’t even attempt to guess what’s going through her mind. Oh, I nearly forgot to mention the most important thing you need to know: She’s recently met Wormelow Tump.”
“Ah. That is useful to know.”
“Only casually, I understand, at some sort of private view. But it does mean they’re not complete strangers to each other. Look, isn’t that Tump over there, stuffing cucumber sandwiches and talking to that limp-looking fellow with the droopy mustache?”
Harlow peered in the direction indicated. “Where? Oh, yes, now I see him. That’s him, sir.”
“Who’s the chap he’s with?”
“Not sure, sir, but I have a vague idea he has something to do with one of the museums or big art galleries.”
“All to the good if he has. Well, take the good lady over to them, Inspector, keep the conversation going as long as you decently can, and remember, I want as near to a verbatim account as you can manage.”
At teatime Mel Forby was still puzzled, but not so much as she had been before lunch. Then, while passing through the lobby of the White Swan with the intention of going out for a walk, she had seen a well-dressed, good-looking man arrive and been near enough to the desk to observe him charming the receptionist. Having a vague idea she’d seen him before somewhere, she approached the desk herself and began to leaf through the brochures on display. When the newly arrived guest had disappeared up the splendid staircase, key and overnight bag in hand, she caught the receptionist’s eye and the two women exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
“Dishy,” Mel said to her.
“He certainly is. I bet you don’t know who he is, though. He’s a famous gossip columnist.” The young woman sighed. “Must know any amount of really glamorous women.”
After hearing the name of the paper and being told the name the man had written in the register, Mel had made a few more casual remarks and then gone out for her walk. She needed to think, for she knew the columnist in question personally, and he certainly wasn’t the man who had walked in the door of the hotel. That man was an impostor.
Now, three or four hours and a few telephone calls later, she knew for sure where she had seen him before. At the Club Mondial. She also knew who he was, and quite a lot about him. What she was still trying to work out was why he should be staying at the White Swan in Canterbury under an assumed name.
Mel finished her piece of cake and sipped some tea. It was an intriguing little mystery, and one worth looking into. There might well be a story in it for her. Meantime, mustn’t forget that Miss Seeton was at Buckingham Palace, enjoying a taste of high life. Wonder how she’s getting on among all the nobs?
chapter
~14~
“I’M AFRAID I’ve lost her, sir. Well, not exactly, She’s inside the Palace somewhere, with Wormelow Tump. But I couldn’t follow without alerting him.”
“Doesn’t matter in the least. In fact, I’m very pleased to hear it. I realize you’ve been le
ft very much in the dark over what all this is about, Inspector, but take my word for it, you’ve done a good job. You were told to engineer a meeting between Miss Seeton and Wormelow Tump: you did so.”
“But you wanted an account of their conversation.”
“Well, yes, I know I did say that, but that was when I was taking it for granted they’d just chat for a minute or two and then go their separate ways. What did they talk about while you were with them?”
Inspector Harlow put his empty teacup and saucer down on a convenient table, delicately licked a spot of cream from one finger, and then turned to his superior with a sigh. “With the best will in the world, sir, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly do it verbatim. Miss Seeton has the weirdest conversational style I’ve ever come across. It’s not so much that she’s woolly-minded, just that she chases every random idea that floats into her head and then keeps going back and correcting herself. A psychologist taking her through a word association test would be in seventh heaven.”
“I take your point. I’ve heard her in action myself. Just give me the gist.”
“Right, sir. I should explain first that when I introduced myself to Miss Seeton, I spun her a yarn about being in the press and PR office here, and I’m sure she swallowed it whole. I didn’t quite know the best line to take with Tump, though. I know him by sight well enough, of course; seen him around from time to time but never spoken to him.”
“I know. That’s why I picked you for this job.”
“Yes, I realize that, sir. But he comes here at least once a week, sometimes more often, so I can’t of course be sure he hasn’t noticed me, and conceivably put two and two together. When I took Miss Seeton over to him—the other chap had peeled off by then—he looked at me in a quizzical sort of way, but it could easily just have been that he had a notion he’d seen me before and was wondering where. So I decided to play safe and tell him more or less the same thing I’d told her, in case she referred to it. I’ll go and have a word with the press secretary soon and square it with him.”
“Yes, yes, we pay you to use your head. Get on with it.”
“Sorry, sir. Well, Tump remembered meeting Miss Seeton at the gallery in Bond Street all right, and they started gassing away like old friends. She thanked him for helping somebody called Miss Lazenby, I think it was—”
“Naseby, actually. Go on.”
“Ah. Anyway, this Miss Naseby seems to have had some trouble involving her uncle and the local vicar. Miss Seeton went on about it at some length, but I couldn’t really grasp what it was all about, except that she’s fine now. Miss Naseby, that is.” Harlow paused in some confusion, and apologized. “Sorry, sir. Her way of talking seems to be infectious. After finally finishing with Miss Naseby they got on to the subject of Cedric Benbow. You know, sir, the upmarket fashion photographer.”
“I know. He’s currently in Kent, taking pictures for Mode magazine at a country house near Miss Seeton’s village.”
“Ah. Rytham Hall would that be?”
Fenn nodded, and Harlow looked pleased.
“Well, that clears a bit of the fog in my mind at least. It seems this chap Benbow is a personal friend of both Tump and Miss Seeton. She was at art school with him, apparently. Don’t know where Tump met him, but Benbow’s invited him to go down to this Rytham Hall place tomorrow to watch him at work. Miss Seeton was saying she’d look forward to seeing him again there. By this time the pair of them were more or less ignoring me, which was fine. Then there was some conventional chat of the do-you-come-here-often? kind, and Tump swanked a bit about having an apartment and a proper office in St. James’s Palace up the road, and what he called a cubbyhole here near the vaults where some of the stuff is kept. Gifts from overseas bigwigs that have to be fetched out when the relevant ambassador or whatever comes to lunch, I suppose.”
“Have you ever seen it, Harlow? This cubbyhole of his?”
“’Fraid not, sir. I’ve been assigned here for nearly a year, but I doubt if I’ve been in a quarter of the rooms in this rabbit warren of a place as yet. Well, as you might imagine, when he offered to show it to her, Miss Seeton was all agog, and Tump towed her away toward the terrace, rather obviously excluding me from the invitation. My guess is that Miss Seeton is being shown some of the more interesting bits and pieces in Tump’s glory hole at this very moment.”
“I must say, Miss Seeton, I have very seldom enjoyed showing a visitor round this room as much as I have today, and oh, good heavens, I’d quite forgotten about that!” The austere, loftily poised Sir Wormelow Tump had in the space of half an hour turned into a gangling, overgrown schoolboy uttering badly suppressed whoops of glee, chortling, and pulling silly faces as he produced one grotesque trophy after another for Miss Seeton’s inspection. She, needless to say, was too much of a lady to say anything impolite, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that a few of those who knew her best would have recognized as betraying the fact that she was having a wonderful time.
Miss Seeton gazed around her delightedly. What fun it was all turning out to be! Quite apart from being brought into the actual building itself past several footmen, one of whom had clearly been on the very point of objecting to her presence until Sir Wormelow spoke to him rather severely and showed him a plastic-covered card of some kind he took from an inside pocket.
Naturally one would have rather liked to linger for a few moments in the lofty, richly furnished ground-floor rooms, but it would have been most impolite to have hinted as much. Besides, many distinguished visitors were no doubt admitted to those areas during the course of an average year; but how many of them were beckoned through a green baize door and guided through service corridors and down uncarpeted stairs into a basement labyrinth? Past mysterious locked doors behind which one could so easily imagine Aladdin’s caves filled with rare treasures of gold, silver, lacquer, ebony, ivory, amber, cloisonné, inlays of rare woods, exquisitely worked jewelry and oh, the list was probably endless, and all entrusted to Sir Wormelow’s expert care!
Disappointing as it was, of course one had quite understood that it was out of the question to go into any of those vaults, whose doors resembled those of huge safes and which could not, Sir Wormelow had explained, be opened save by two responsible officials together. But how exciting anyway to see the custodian’s own “cubbyhole”: in fact, a small but delightful study crammed with things one would have thought of as treasures in their own right. And now the most diverting treat of all, the so-called “Chamber of Horrors”—how very droll of His Royal Highness to have thought of such an apt name for this huge room lined with shelves crammed with the most extraordinary objects and constructions!
“What do you make of this, then?” Tump inquired, descending from his small stepladder, an object resembling a small coconut in his hand. “Now, that alleged abominable snowman’s head one of the sherpas in Nepal gave them—the one I showed you earlier—was completely bogus, of course, but this is the real thing. Genuine shrunken human head. Edward the Seventh seems to have acquired it some time around around 1890, while he was Prince of Wales. He had it mounted as a paperweight, but it seems Queen Victoria was not amused, so it was shunted down here. My predecessor kept it on the desk. He thought himself something of a wag—paralyzing old bore, actually—and used to like to say ‘I have a very hard head, you know; it’s on my desk.’ Frankly I thought that was rather too much, so I put it in here. I did lend it out once a few years ago, as a matter of fact. To a boy called Greatorex, lad who lived in the Mews; father a chauffeur I fancy. Douglas Greatorex, that was his name.”
Miss Seeton took the grisly thing into her hands without a qualm and studied it with interest. “Good gracious,” she said in an absentminded sort of way, for something about the censorious expression on the leathery little face put her in mind of Mr. Gladstone in the famous photograph. By Julia somebody. “Whatever did he want it for?”
“To take to school. Not far from here, St. Peter’s Primary in Lower Belgrave Street. A lot of the
youngsters who live in the Royal Mews go there. He put it on the nature table, I believe. His teacher had been getting bored with catkins and pussy willows, and starfish from Southend, and appealed to the children to show a bit of imagination. Everyone thought it a jolly good wheeze, Douglas told me, and he was the toast of the school for a few days, but then a visiting lady inspector from the education office saw it and got frightfully ratty for some reason. Upshot was that the teacher was on the carpet for corruption of youth—”
“Just like Socrates,” Miss Seeton murmured, nodding gently.
“Who? Oh, Socrates. Yes, very similar situation when you think about it, except that I gather this chap was let off. Headmaster thought a lot of him and never could stand that particular inspector anyway. All the same, young Greatorex was told he’d better return it whence it came.”
Wonky Tump looked at his wristwatch, his happy little smile faded, and the senior establishment figure who was Sir Wormelow returned to claim his place. “Time flies, I’m afraid, Miss Seeton, duty calls, and all that sort of thing. I’d love to show you the stuffed unicorn some old fraud gave to Queen Victoria and one or two other things, but we really ought to be. . . . I’ll lead the way, shall I?” He made at once for the open door and had disappeared through it before Miss Seeton quite realized what was happening. The sound of his voice floated back into the room. “Just pull the door to behind you; it’ll lock itself. All that ghastly rubbish hardly rates top security treatment.” She hastened to follow, and the moment after she had closed the door as instructed, realized she was still holding the shrunken head. Appalled, she set off in pursuit of Sir Wormelow, who was still forging ahead down the corridor with his back to her, and still talking. “Now, since you’ve come all this way, if HM hasn’t gone in yet, I really ought to present you . . .”
“No, no, Sir Wormelow, you have already been much too kind, and in any case I simply couldn’t, and oh, dear, I don’t quite know how to explain this, but . . .” Miss Seeton’s feeble protests echoed behind the custodian of the Royal Collection of Objets de Vertu as she trailed behind him; but he paid no attention to her and pressed on. Distractedly, Miss Seeton did her best to keep up with him, pausing only long enough to pop the head into her fortunately capacious handbag. It was as well she did so before Sir Wormelow led the way back through the green baize door and, confused and out of breath, Miss Seeton found herself once more passing through the splendid staterooms.
Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6) Page 12
