For, having offered her hand to dozens of gentlemen in morning suits or military uniforms of every gaudy hue, acknowledged the curtsies of as many ladies, exchanged a few words with the ambassadors and high commissioners led forward by her equerries and had one really interesting conversation, with the little man who would probably end the season as champion jockey, Her Majesty had in fact decided to withdraw and put her feet up in her private apartments. Escorted now only by a single lady-in-waiting and one equerry in RAF uniform, she entered one of the reception rooms just in time to meet Miss Seeton and Sir Wormelow Tump coming in the other direction.
Sir Wormelow must have been taken aback, but his manner was as imperturbable as it was correct. He stepped elegantly to one side and bowed low, contriving at the same time to edge Miss Seeton out of the royal path. Bright pink, Miss Seeton dropped a curtsy. There was no time to think, so no time to make a mess of it. The result was that it was a corker of a curtsy, worthy of Dame Margot Fonteyn herself.
“Good afternoon, Sir Wormelow.” Was there the slightest hint of puzzlement in the level gaze directed first at the courtier and then at Miss Seeton?
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty. May I have the honor to present Miss Emily Seeton?”
“Miss Seeton. I hope you are enjoying yourself.”
Oh, dear! What was it Lady Colveden had told her to say? Of course. “Yes, ma’am. Delightful weather indeed,” Miss Seeton babbled, and the Queen inclined her head graciously before passing on.
Sir George had been slightly tetchy with her at first when Miss Seeton eventually found and joined the Colvedens again; but he had been happily reminiscing with another retired general over tea and she was soon forgiven for her lengthy disappearance. Lady Colveden saw nothing to forgive in the first place.
“The important thing is that you should have enjoyed yourself, my dear,” she said as they strolled out of the Palace grounds and made for the main gates opposite the Victoria memorial statue where their driver was to pick them up at four-forty precisely. “So I do hope you have.”
Miss Seeton was demure. “Oh, yes, very much.”
“Meet any interesting people? The Duke of Edinburgh stopped and spoke to George for a moment.”
Sir George preened. “Clear-sighted chap, the Duke. For a naval man. Talks more sense about what’s wrong with the country than all those fatheads in Parliament put together.”
“Oh, yes. A charming gentleman called Mr. Harlow pointed out a number of distinguished people to me, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the head of the BBC, for example. And offered to introduce me, but I explained that I shouldn’t dream of imposing myself on such grand people.”
“Well, who did you talk to, then, apart from this Harlow? We looked all over the place, couldn’t see hide nor hair of you.”
Miss Seeton took a deep breath. “Well, Sir George, for most of the time, to Sir Wormelow Tump.”
“Sir What? Sounds like a disease of turnips.”
“Don’t be rude, George.”
“Sir Wormelow Tump,” Miss Seeton continued equably, “is the custodian of the Royal Collection of Objets de Vertu.”
“Antiques, George,” Lady Colveden hastily interpreted to ward off another philistine display. “Well, trinkets and things, too.”
“Sir Wormelow is an expert on Lalique’s work, among many other things, and an old friend of Cedric Benbow. You’ll meet him yourselves tomorrow. Mr. Benbow has invited him to watch the last photography session at Rytham Hall.” She paused, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m particularly glad, because I inadvertently—”
“Invited him to the house? Has he, by Jove! Place is turning into a regular Waterloo Station. Well, Benbow’s a good enough egg, so any friend of his, I suppose. I say, he’ll get an even better show than he bargains for when we catch this blackmailing blighter red-handed, won’t he?”
“—and I shall be able to return it to him,” Miss Seeton concluded, simply to salve her own conscience, because neither of the Colvedens was paying attention.
“What on earth are you raving about, George? What blackmailing blighter?”
Sir George went bright red and clapped a hand over his mouth as he remembered that Sergeant Ranger had commanded everybody present in Miss Seeton’s kitchen not to breathe a word of the proceedings to anybody else. “Oh, nothing, dear. Nothing at all. Sort of a—well, a surprise party, what? Last day, and all that. Oh, good, there’s our car, look. Now he’s not supposed to stop here really, so we mustn’t hang about.”
Meg Colveden had listened to far too many of her husband’s incompetent attempts at dissimulation to be taken in for a moment, but she merely smiled and allowed herself to be bustled into the back of the car with Miss Seeton, Sir George democratically taking the seat beside the driver and giving him unnecessary directions to Westminster Bridge and thence to the Old Kent Road.
“Well, you must have enjoyed talking to Cedric Benbow’s friend,” she said when they were all settled and the car had turned into Birdcage Walk. “I hope you at least saw the royals as well, though.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Miss Seeton said serenely. “And I am so very grateful for your advice. We bumped into Her Majesty inside the Palace, you see, and Sir Wormelow presented me to her. I should have been at a loss for words if you had not told me beforehand what to say.”
chapter
~15~
MEL FORBY was beginning to think she had entered the wrong profession. She should perhaps have become what her extensive reading of hard-boiled mysteries had taught her to call a gumshoe. Her expression of sisterly solidarity with the receptionist had proved to be an excellent investment. Not only had it put her on the trail of Sebastian Prothero in the first place, but it had made it simplicity itself to have another seemingly casual session of girl talk with her about the handsome “gossip writer” after tea, when she was about to go off duty for the day.
Mel could not have had a more observant and informative, if unwitting, accomplice. She now knew that Prothero had gone out at lunchtime and returned a couple of hours later carrying a large bag blazoned with the name of Canterbury’s most exclusive menswear shop, which suggested he had decided only on the spur of the moment to stay at the White Swan and had needed to supplement the contents of his overnight bag. She was also in possession of the much more important and distinctly disturbing information that he had consulted the receptionist about the times of buses to and from Brettenden and connections to Plummergen that evening. What’s more, he’d seemed to be comparatively unfazed when told there was only one service to Brettenden, at seven P.M., and one back to Canterbury, leaving Brettenden at ten-thirty; but if he wanted to go on from there to Plummergen, it’d have to be by taxi. Unless he felt like walking about five miles each way.
Now, why should a man who had arrived at the hotel in his own car want to go to Plummergen by bus? Why should a titled front man at a glamorous nightclub want to go to Plummergen at all? Mel’s telephone conversations with colleagues and other contacts in London had confirmed her suspicion that Prothero had a somewhat murky past and that he was currently rumored to do well out of various rich women. But was he simply a high-class gigolo, or did he perhaps go in for blackmailing his lady friends? In any case, who on earth could be of interest to him in Plummergen? Benbow and his entourage at Rytham Hall? The setting for the Mode fashion photography project was supposed to be a secret, but a man like Prothero wouldn’t have the slightest difficulty in finding it out.
Whatever it might be, he was up to something fishy, that was for sure. And Mel the gumshoe planned to find out what it was. It would be simple enough to see if he went to the terminal and boarded the seven o’clock bus to Brettenden. If he did, she’d follow him in her own car. Keep him under observation the whole time. Come up with the goods on him. Whether or not Mel the private eye decided to turn over her findings to Amelita Forby the Daily Negative’s ace reporter would depend on what they were.
As the bus neared Brettenden, Prother
o finally made up his mind to get a taxi driver to take him to Plummergen, but to walk back after the job was done. Risky, perhaps, but a round-trip of ten miles on foot was too much to contemplate, and in any case there would barely be time for it. He had to be on the ten-thirty bus back to Canterbury and well out of the way before any hue and cry might be raised. Going into Plummergen, he could easily enough kid the taxi driver into thinking he was one of Benbow’s team, especially if he asked to be dropped near the George and Dragon, where most of them were staying. On the other hand anybody leaving the village that evening by taxi would be remembered when the fuzz started asking questions.
He sighed. Trained killer he might be, but he had never during his army career been required actually to perform in that capacity, and he wasn’t relishing the business ahead. Nevertheless, master criminals couldn’t afford to be squeamish, and really, looking at it one way, he’d almost be doing the old girl a favor. Some of those cases she’d been mixed up in had involved very nasty types indeed, sadistic thugs who wouldn’t hesitate to rough her up really badly given half the chance once they got out of jail and who were in the meantime very likely dreaming up some peculiarly horrible ways of getting their revenge. If she had to be killed, better by far that it should be quickly, cleanly, and virtually painlessly, by an expert. It wasn’t that he had the slightest intention of actually hurting her, after all.
Mel pulled up well short of the bus station in Brettenden and watched her man get off, look around the almost deserted street, and then go into a public telephone box and make a call. After emerging, he stood outside the phone box waiting. Impatiently, judging by the frequency with which he looked at his watch, until a few minutes later a taxi appeared and drew up beside him. It was not yet eight in the evening, and dusk was still an hour or so away, so she had no need to follow so closely as to arouse suspicion. Besides, she remembered the way to and the layout of Plummergen pretty well and wasn’t very likely to lose her quarry. The old road by the canal was the shortest route and therefore presumably the one the taxi driver would take. Well done, Forby, she thought to herself as the taxi pulled away and made a U-turn. Guessed right. Waiting until the taxi had disappeared round a bend in the road, she performed the same manoeuvre in her own car almost as neatly as the taxi, and set out to follow.
Miss Seeton wasn’t familiar with the expression “needing to wind down,” but if she had been, that is how she would have described her mood after expressing her heartfelt thanks once more to the Colvedens when the hired car stopped outside the gate of Sweetbriars, and then waved them on their own way home.
What a day it had been! Well, ever since last night, really. One scarcely had time to assimilate any of it. Nigel arriving with that poor child in such distress: how fortunate that she had just bought a fresh tin of cocoa only last week—it wasn’t a beverage one normally wanted in summer. And then the excitement of last night, the conference in her kitchen at breakfast time, the interesting conversation with the bird-watching gentleman who was so cultivated and polite but did seem to be troubled in his mind about something, the visit to the hairdresser—a rare indulgence in itself—and of course the unforgettable experiences at the Palace!
After changing into something old and comfortable and putting away what Lady Colveden had amusingly referred to as the “glad rags,” Miss Seeton pottered about the cottage restlessly, wondering what to do with herself, her consciousness seething with impressions and remembered images. A little yoga practice might help to calm her down, but something more energetic seemed to be called for. A good brisk walk; that would be the thing. Yes. It wasn’t even quite eight yet, it was a lovely golden evening, and she had been cooped up in the car far too long. Not, of course, that one was anything but deeply grateful to have been transported in such luxury, but that dreadful rush-hour traffic! How awful for the poor people who had to negotiate it every weekday evening!
Miss Seeton closed her front door behind her, stepped out into the lane, and set off along the canal road, so excited still that from time to time she executed a few little hops and skips.
Coming from the opposite direction in his taxi, Prothero saw her from a considerable distance, did a double take, and thought very fast. This was a pure gift from the gods. They hadn’t passed a single car during the journey. His victim was offering herself up like a lamb to the slaughter in an unfrequented minor road: it was a unique opportunity. A sum of money well in excess of the fare previously agreed very quickly persuaded the driver that yes, it would be pleasant to walk the last bit on such a nice evening. By the time the taxi had disappeared on the way back to Brettenden (after a three-point turn in the narrow lane, where a five-pointer might have been better for the paintwork) and Prothero was walking toward her, Miss Seeton was still a hundred yards or so away.
“We meet yet again!” he called out in a manner intended to be genial, though an unaccountable shortness of breath made it hard to carry it off stylishly.
“Indeed we do! Good evening. I trust you have had an enjoyable day’s bird-watching?”
Before Prothero could reply, Miss Seeton glanced to her left, placed a finger over lips curved in a happy smile as if enjoining silence, and then made for the canal bank, beckoning him to follow her. He shrugged, but one place was as good as another, so he followed, flexing his fingers in preparation behind the retreating little back. Come to think of it, the canal could be best of all. Weigh the body down somehow afterward, tip her in, and they might never find her.
When they reached the edge Miss Seeton turned to him and smiled again. “Mallard!” she said. “Somewhere very near here. A family of the sweetest little creatures. I’ve seen them several times. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the sight.” She leaned forward and peered first to the left then to the right as Prothero positioned himself behind her and raised his hands. It was unfortunate that some residual scruple made him close his eyes at the crucial moment, when she raised her own right hand to point, crying “There! Over there, do you see them?” Prothero lunged forward; her arm caught his; he lost his balance and toppled forward into the dank waters below.
“What did you do that for, Miss Seeton?” Mel inquired, having seen the Brettenden taxi returning minus Prothero and stepped on the gas to catch up with him. She had arrived in time to see two figures approaching the canal, but not the details of the action. Now, however, she could see Prothero floundering in the water, with Miss Seeton gazing at him in consternation but seeming to take the sudden apparition of Mel Forby entirely for granted.
“The poor man! We must help him out at once, Miss, er, that is, Mel. He’ll catch his death of cold.”
“Don’t think he wants us to, somehow. Look, he’s making for the other bank.” Mel had seen the look of mingled hatred and despair Prothero had directed at Miss Seeton, and practically been able to hear him make up his mind to vamoose when she herself had appeared.
Miss Seeton cupped her hands and hallooed genteelly to the sodden Prothero as he dragged himself out of the water on the far side of the canal. “I am so sorry!” she called. “Do please come to the cottage for a cup of cocoa while we try to find you some dry clothes!”
“You know,” Mel said as the object of her concern stumbled away in the general direction of Brettenden, “I don’t think he trusts you.”
chapter
~16~
FERENCZ SZABO left his small but delightful flat just off Wigmore Street at about eight-thirty and hailed a taxi. It was the height of the rush hour, but even so he arrived at Charing Cross Station well before nine, in time to drop in at a florist nearby and choose the perfect rosebud for his buttonhole. It was of a delicate shade of peach, which almost exactly matched that of his silk shirt and was in perfect harmony with the milky coffee of his necktie.
Ferencz seldom ventured into the country: when he did leave London, it was usually to go to Heathrow Airport to catch a plane to Italy, France, Austria, or Germany. Country-style tweeds did not feature in his wardrobe, not only for this reason
but also because he had long ago ceased to wish to look British as the former Frank Taylor had, aiming instead at a tastefully Continental effect.
That day he was particularly well pleased with his ensemble. He had bought the lightweight mohair suit in Milan. To describe it as pale brown in color was to insult the artist who had dyed the material, but Ferencz thought of it as pale brown, and it was his suit, after all. His shoes had been handmade in Florence, and he looked down at them admiringly as he sauntered along the platform where the mainline train to Dover via Ashford was waiting.
Thus Ferencz Szabo failed to notice Sir Wormelow Tump, who had set out a few minutes later than he. One of the many desirable perquisites attached to his position was the use of the grace-and-favor apartment in St. James’s Palace, which he had mentioned to Miss Seeton, and even at a leisurely pace it had taken him no more than ten minutes to stroll along Pall Mall to Trafalgar Square and the station.
Being a son of the upper classes, Tump seldom thought about clothes but was guided by instinct and social conditioning. Ordinarily it would have been out of the question for him to appear in Pall Mall or indeed anywhere in London in anything other than one of his far from new but well-preserved Savile Row suits or, as the occasion demanded, in morning or evening dress.
The fact that he was bound for Rytham Hall had, however, led him that morning quite without conscious thought to put on a Viyella shirt, a woolen tie, and an ancient suit of heather-mixture tweed, the sleeves reinforced with leather at the wrists. The suit had once belonged to his father, but Tump did not remember this. The points of the soft collar of his shirt curled upward, the tie was clumsily knotted, and one of his socks was inside out. In short, Sir Wormelow looked every inch the elderly English toff kitted out appropriately for a day in the country.
Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6) Page 13
