Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6)

by Hampton Charles

  “Well, Mr. Ranger! A busy day indeed. Won’t you bring another chair and sit with me?”

  “Thanks all the same, but I must be off in a minute. I just came to give you a bit of good news.”

  “Oh, how nice. Have you and Anne decided on a date?”

  “No, not yet. To tell the truth, my mind’s been on other things today. I should have thought you’d had a good bit to occupy you, too.” He wagged a massive finger. “I’m ashamed of you, Miss Seeton. Appropriating an item of the Queen’s property.”

  “Oh, scarcely appropriate, surely. I came into possession of it entirely inadvertently. Sir Wormelow seemed to be in such a great hurry, and I couldn’t open the door again, you see. I was trying to catch him up and explain. Then it was too late, and I told myself that after all he had lent it to Douglas Greatorex, so it could hardly matter if I waited till today to return it. . . . Sir Wormelow was rather vexed for a time, I must admit, but having established that the object was undamaged—if indeed one can describe a human head subjected to such a process of preservation as being undamaged—where was I? Oh, yes. I am, I believe, forgiven.”

  “Yes, I should think you probably are. But what on earth possessed you to wrap it up and chuck it out of the window?”

  “Oh, dear, what must you think of me, Mr. Ranger! It was a dreadful thing to do, and so thoughtless on my part. It was while I was waiting to help poor Marigold when she came into the house, you see, and wrap up the jewels for her. While I was thinking about that, it struck me that I really should wrap the head, too, before giving it back to Sir Wormelow. He had explained, you see, how upset the inspector from the London County Council had been when she saw it on the nature table at the school, so I wished to avoid embarrassing him in the presence of others when I handed it to him.”

  “Very tactful of you, if I may say so.”

  “Well, I took it out of my bag and used some of the paper to protect it, intending to find a plastic bag to put it in, hardly elegant, I fear, but in the end Sir Wormelow seemed quite happy with the Sainsbury’s shopping bag Lady Colveden found for it, didn’t he? But then Marigold came in, so I had to put it down and hurry to help her, you see. How very effective her ensemble was, Mr. Ranger, even though the poor child was so confused by then. And . . . oh, dear, I really have no excuse, but I became a little confused, too, and the two packages did look so very similar—”

  “That you lobbed the wrong one out of the window!” Convulsed as he was with laughter, Ranger barely managed to get the words out, and Miss Seeton went quite pink with embarrassment.

  “Er, yes, that is precisely what happened, I’m afraid. I realized my mistake as the package left my hand, and could think of no alternative but to throw the proper one out after it. . . .”

  “You lost your head, in fact!” Ranger guffawed again, conscious of the quality of his own bon mot. “And you certainly made our villain lose his. Well done anyway, Miss Seeton. Everybody reckons you and that chap Szabo saved the day between you.”

  “King Edward the Seventh wanted to use it as a paperweight, you know. When he was Prince of Wales.”

  As so often happened, Ranger found himself floundering in Miss Seeton’s complex wake. What with the London County Council, nature tables, and now King Edward the Seventh, the shrunken head seemed to have a pretty checkered history, but it would be too much like hard work to sort it out, and hardly mattered really. He stretched and stifled a yawn. “Well, in that case I’m sure Sir Wormelow’s glad to have it back safe and sound. Quiet after all the fuss, isn’t it?”

  Miss Seeton nodded contentedly. “The Colvedens must be pleased to have the house to themselves again. Though it will take a day or two for poor Nigel to recover from his disappointment.”

  “Disappointment?”

  “Over Marigold. He was very brave at the time, though, and that’s a good omen, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not quite with you. He didn’t imagine she was going to stay here after Benbow had finished and his crew packed everything up to go, did he?”

  “Oh, no, I hardly think so, but I’m sure he had been counting on seeing her again. But then Mr. Manning arrived to drive Marigold back to London. She had already been delighted to see Miss Forby again—”

  “That reminds me, how did she find her way here?”

  “Oh, she was there when the man fell into the canal. In spite of everything I do regret that, even though I now realize the young mallard would probably not have interested him in any case. So of course she—Miss Forby, that is—decided to come here today.”

  Ranger closed his eyes, shook his head violently, and decided to stick to one thing at a time. “You were telling me about Nigel Colveden being disappointed.”

  “So I was. Well, Mr. Manning arrived, and both he and Miss Forby are friends of Marigold, so it was a happy reunion for them all. Nigel was there, became very pale, and went away looking quite crushed. It was probably because Marigold and Mr. Manning greeted each other so very affectionately. Mr. Manning was very excited, and explained that he had an important new assignment for Marigold. Marigold and he suit each other admirably, in my opinion. And Miss Forby agrees, I believe.”

  “Who’s this Mr. Manning? What assignment?”

  “Mr. Manning, Mr. Harry Manning—how odd, I expect his Christian name is really Henry. I wonder if he could have been named after the cardinal?” Miss Seeton paused for a moment, shaking her head slightly. “On reflection, I doubt it. My impression is that if a Catholic at all, he may well have lapsed. . . . Anyway, he, too, is a photographer, like Cedric Benbow, but perhaps not quite so eminent. Mr. Manning ‘discovered,’ is that the word? Discovered Marigold. And now he is to be paid a great deal of money—and she, too, of course—to take Marigold’s photograph. For a calendar. Something to do with motor tires. Pirelli? But that is another cardinal, surely . . . poor Aubrey Beardsley, such a talent, and to die so young!”

  “She’s going to pose for a Pirelli calendar?”

  “I gather so, yes.”

  “Ah. I can see Nigel would have been upset to hear that.” Bob cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s her business. I’ve been talking to Mr. Delphick on the phone, Miss Seeton. He sends his congratulations and best wishes. And Mr. Brinton’s been on the line from Ashford.”

  Miss Seeton’s face fell. “I know he behaved very badly, but I can’t help feeling sorry for the bird-watcher in a way. The supposed bird-watcher, I mean. One against so many at the end.”

  “I shouldn’t spare too much sympathy for him if I were you. It turns out he’s a thoroughly bad lot, in spite of having had every advantage. You’ll be surprised to hear he’s a baronet, Sir Sebastian Prothero. And used to be a Guards officer until he was kicked out for behavior unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. Since then he’s lived by his wits, pretty successfully up till now. Plus burglary on the side.”

  “Oh, dear. What will happen to him?”

  “Not nearly as much as he deserves, in my opinion. Now that he knows Prothero used to be in the Guards, Sir George won’t hear of his being charged with assault with a deadly weapon. Says it’s the sort of thing any military man might do in the heat of the moment.”

  “Well, one would have to agree it’s the sort of thing Sir George himself might well do. And of course he didn’t actually steal the jewelry, did he? I mean, it never left the house.”

  “Oh, yes, he did, Miss Seeton. The law’s very clear on that point. It might only have been in his possession for a few minutes, but he stole that jewelry all right, and you recovered it. That’s why I’ve got good news for you. Mr. Brinton has already notified the insurers and Securicor, and says to tell you they’ll be getting in touch with you about your reward.”

  “Another whisky, Wonky?”

  “Why, thank you, George, I believe I will.” Sir George Colveden heaved himself to his feet and made for the sideboard, where he turned and beamed at his new friends. Jolly good chaps to have had rallying round in a sticky situation, and absolutely r
ight and proper that they should have got on to first-name terms right away after all they’d been through. Take old Cedric there, for one—he might be a fairy, but his heart was in the right place. No doubt about that, by Jove. If it came to that, might be wise not to turn one’s back on this chap Tump, either. Close friend of Cedric’s, after all. No doubt why they called him Wonky, but who cared? Thoroughly good egg, all the same, and Brinton had been delighted with his contribution. “Your glass looks healthy enough, Cedric, but what about you, Frank?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, George.”

  “Coming up, old boy.” It really was extraordinary. When you looked at him, you could believe he was a foreigner with an unpronounceable name, but when he cared to, he could sound as British as the flag! Versatile, too; feller could take anybody off. Except oneself, whatever Meg thought. She must have been wrong about that.

  “Everybody fixed up? Right. I say, Wonky, amazin’ how you knew exactly where the stuff the police found in Prothero’s car came from.”

  “Not really. I’d hardly be worth my job if I hadn’t been able to recognize those miniatures, and the ormolu clock, for that matter. This Prothero fellow has an eye for quality. Upset you, hasn’t it, George? Finding out he used to be a regular officer.”

  “Must admit it has rather, yes. Guards, what’s more. Damn poor show. Had that look about him, as Frank noticed before he did his parade ground act. The training tells, you know. Stayed with him; sound of a regimental sergeant-major’s voice froze him in his tracks. Don’t mind admitting it did the same to me, if it comes to that. Anybody who’s ever been in the army’d react that way. What do the head-shrinkers call it? Conditioned reflex? Anyway, I s’pose he’ll have to go to prison. . . . Pity it’d be against the rules for me to be on the bench when he comes up . . . but I might have a word with my fellow JPs. Suggest they needn’t hammer him all that hard.”

  “Don’t get sentimental, George. Chap’s a cad and a crook, even if he is a baronet.” Sir Wormelow’s tone was slightly rueful, that of a mere knight talking to one hereditary baronet about another.

  “Oh, absolutely, but you’ve got to admit he has a touch of style about him. Hang it all; they’d never have commissioned him into the Guards to start with if he hadn’t. I was thinking after they let him out, I might try and fix him up with the sort of job that would suit his talents. The secretary of my golf club’s due to retire in a year or so . . .”

  chapter

  ~19~

  “WELL, THERE you are, Roland,” Sir Hubert Everleigh said. “Hardly the sort of evidence you could put on a file, and still a bit ambiguous. Assuming you trust Miss Seeton’s instinctive judgment.”

  “Having watched her in action at Buckingham Palace last week, I most certainly do.” Deputy Assistant Commissioner Fenn glanced again at the muddle of sheets of cartridge paper strewn about the large table at which he was sitting with the Assistant Commissioner and Chief Superintendent Delphick. “Sorry we had to keep you in the dark till now, Delphick.”

  “So am I, but mainly because I would have enjoyed seeing her do her stuff there as well,” Delphick said. “According to Sergeant Ranger, she must have had that confounded head in her bag when she was presented to the Queen. Mind you, I wish even more that I could have been at Rytham Hall last Thursday. It must have been a remarkable fracas.”

  Sir Hubert nodded. “What did happen, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure we shall ever know exactly, sir. The best brief account may well be Amelita Forby’s exclusive in the Daily Negative. I’ve spoken at length on the phone to Chief Inspector Brinton of the Kent Constabulary and of course quizzed my chap Ranger. They’re both perfectly forthcoming about the general pattern of events, and their accounts tally, as one would expect. On the other hand I get the impression neither of them is particularly anxious for the full details of his own participation in the action to be put on record. In view of Miss Seeton’s involvement, it’s perhaps hardly surprising if things didn’t go altogether according to plan. It’s not clear to me, for example, how it was that having set up a perfect ambush, Ranger and three, maybe four other men didn’t manage to nab this fellow Prothero outside the house. Or, for that matter, how George Colveden came to be waving a loaded shotgun about inside.”

  “Still, they got him in the end, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, thanks largely it seems to this extraordinary Hungarian and Miss Seeton.”

  “Hungarian? What Hungarian?” Fenn leaned forward, his Special Branch antennae aquiver. “What was he doing outside the permitted radius?”

  Delphick looked at him blankly for a moment, until the penny dropped and he chuckled. “Oh, he’s not a diplomat, sir. In fact he isn’t technically a Hungarian either, been naturalized British under the name of Frank Taylor for donkey’s years. Original name Ferencz Szabo, which he now uses again for professional purposes. Runs a gallery in Bond Street. Cedric Benbow had invited him down to Rytham Hall along with Wormelow Tump.”

  “Friend of Tump’s, is he?”

  “Now, now, Roland, don’t get overexcited,” Sir Hubert put in. “I can see the way your mind’s working, but just because the chap was born in Hungary, it doesn’t make him a spy.”

  “Not a friend so far as I know,” Delphick continued. “No more than a professional acquaintance. According to Brinton, they just happened to meet on the train and shared a taxi from Brettenden to Rytham Hall. They might well become friends, I suppose. Apparently Sir George enjoyed his adventure so much he’s decided to establish a sort of old comrades dining club consisting of himself, Cedric Benbow—who’d been staying at the Hall and become something of a crony of his, this chap Taylor or Szabo, and Wormelow Tump. Taylor emerged as the hero of the hour, by guessing Prothero was a former military man and shouting some sort of parade ground order at him. Confused him, and gained valuable time. This greatly impressed Sir George, who reckons Taylor might well have saved his life.”

  Fenn was still suspicious. “And why, pray, should Colveden wish to include Wormelow Tump in this elite company?”

  “Oh, that’s easy enough to explain, sir. After Prothero had been arrested and Brinton had taken him off to Ashford, Ranger was left in charge and he told me what happened. Benbow went back to work in the garden. It was their last day and he had to get a few more photographs in the bag before shutting up shop. That left Sir George twiddling his thumbs rather after all the excitement, and when he found out that Ranger was going to have a look at Prothero’s car, he persuaded his new friend Taylor and Wormelow Tump to potter over there with him in the hope of a bit more fun. And there Tump, too, impressed the general.”

  “How?” Sir Hubert was enjoying Delphick’s narrative, and like all good listeners, knew when to encourage a storyteller and how to keep him going.

  “Ranger had thought to relieve Prothero of his car keys at the time of his arrest. Just as well, because the lock on the trunk was a very expensive ultra-secure type and they might easily have had a bit of trouble getting past it. Well, in the trunk Ranger and the local constable found a kit of tools obviously intended for breaking and entry work, plus rubber gloves, change of clothes, et cetera. Enough to spell bad news for Prothero, but even more crucially, they also found a couple of miniature paintings, a valuable diamond bracelet, and a clock. Ormolu.”

  “I’ve never been quite sure what ormolu is,” the assistant commissioner once more obligingly chipped in to give Delphick time to take a breath and reorganize his thoughts.

  “I had to look it up myself, sir. It’s a kind of decoration that used to be applied to clocks and ornaments. An alloy that looks like gold but isn’t. Anyway, although Ranger had tried to persuade Sir George and the other two to keep their distance, there wasn’t much hope of succeeding. Wormelow Tump took one look at the clock and another at the miniatures and said at once that they’d come from a house called Melbury Manor, property of old Carfax. You know, the property developer and self-styled connoisseur with the string of ex-wives. It took a day o
r two to track down Carfax and get confirmation, but thanks to Tump’s expertise, Brinton was able to make an open-and-shut case against Prothero for that job, too.”

  Everleigh grinned wickedly at Fenn. “Right, well, there you are. The police—the proper police, be it noted, Mr. Fenn—have good reason to be grateful to Wormelow Tump. And we are now informed that General Colveden thinks a lot of him. So, it seems, does Miss Seeton. With some reservations. Her rather charming sketch of him makes that clear. She did these later that same day, am I right, Delphick?”

  “So Ranger told me, sir.”

  The assistant commissioner shuffled through the sheets of paper. “I specially like the one of the girl. She looks a lot more cheerful than before. Naked and unashamed, you might say.” Miss Seeton had again depicted Marigold Naseby undraped, and adorned this time only with a wondrously fashioned neckpiece and a number of rings and bracelets. She was looking directly out of the picture with a trusting smile, and there were no voyeurs: just a brilliant impression of Nigel Colveden disappearing into the distance in his MG, equipped with exaggeratedly large tires.

  Another sheet was covered with images of Sir Sebastian Prothero, invariably in the guise of a bird, but now pathetic, broken-winged and bedraggled. “This is Taylor or Szabo, sir,” Delphick said, indicating a third sheet that showed a little man in army uniform, a drill sergeant’s pace stick tucked under one arm, eyes popping, his face suffused with blood and his mouth open wide. “You can almost hear him yelling, can’t you?”

  “We shall want it back, mind you, but this is the one you can show your spooky friends if you like, Roland.” The AC indicated yet another sheet, bearing a single cartoon. It showed Sir Wormelow Tump in chain mail, mounted on a white horse. In one gauntleted hand—two fingers of which were crossed—he held a lance from the tip of which fluttered a pennant bearing the royal arms; in the other a shrunken head. “If Miss Seeton sees him as the Queen’s champion that’s good enough for me, and it jolly well ought to be good enough for MI5. Even if those crossed fingers mean he has got a guilty secret of some kind. Did you notice the face she gave the head? Looks for all the world like Mr. Gladstone, don’t you think?”