He turned to Brinton. “Chris, what, if anything, do you know about this mystery man in Sonia Venning’s old house?”
“Only what Potter’s told me, which is almost nothing. He—they—whoever this woman with him is—moved in a few weeks back, and nobody’s seen her since. Which of course has led people to speculate that he’s done the poor soul in, even though he’s been buying enough food for two all the time—they think it’s a cover-up.”
“I know what they’re like,” Delphick said. Bob snorted. Brinton rolled his eyes.
“So do I, so when Potter told me what they were saying I said he’d better go and make sure the wretched female still walked the earth. Potter’s a good man. Said he’d already been to The Meadows and had a chat with her—very gracious, he said she was, as far as he could understand her, but she had a foreign accent—and he didn’t mean Scottish or Somerset, he meant foreign as in different continent, probably.”
“Potter’s a good man, certainly, but not what you’d call cosmopolitan. Mel Forby has spoken to the male half of the mystery, and she’s of the opinion he’s too stage Russian for belief. He walks two Borzois, of all dogs—otherwise known as Russian wolfhounds—up and down The Street every day—Boris and Sasha, apparently. We spotted them tied up outside the village hall while he was inside looking at the exhibition. And did Potter tell you that the man claims to be called Alexander? I’m inclined to agree with Mel. What business have a pair of Russians in Plummergen, of all the unlikely places? I think we should take a closer look at them, Chris. Yes, Sergeant Ranger?” For Bob had stirred once more.
“Well, sir, I was wondering—if this woman’s never seen about the place—and The Meadows has that enormous wall and those huge gates—suppose she was being kept inside for her own good? She might be a lunatic, sir, or perhaps not quite as bad as that, but odd, anyway—and this Alexander chap’s doing his best to keep an eye on her, only sometimes she gets out and, well, sets fire to things, or whatever form of oddness she’s being restrained for. Sir,” concluded Bob in an embarrassed way.
Delphick nodded thoughtfully. “A possibility, of course—but would a pyromaniac also indulge in petty theft, such as the infamous garden gnome—how I wish we’d had the chance to see it—and the wrought-iron flower baskets? It’s my understanding that deviants don’t usually manifest more than one type of aberration at a time.”
“If the gossips are right, sir—and I suppose they must be sometimes, according to the laws of probability—then it was the Murreystone lot who took the gnome and all the other bits and pieces. Sir George’s Watchmen hope to nobble them one night soon on another raid, even if they don’t catch the fire-raiser.” Bob looked knowing. “From what I’ve heard of Murreystone, nothing would surprise me, sir.”
Delphick grinned. “I bow to your superior local knowledge, Sergeant Ranger. Chris, would you agree?”
Brinton grunted. “So long as nobody gets in a punch-up, good luck to ’em. What’s a few garden gnomes compared to a firebug and two murders?”
“One of which,” Delphick pointed out, “you seem to be on the way to solving, with Jacob Chickney’s assistance—not forgetting that of Miss Seeton. Suppose we leave you now to pursue your chosen lines of enquiry while we return to Plummergen and investigate the Russian aspect of our affairs? No doubt they will maintain their impersonation, if impersonation it is, by offering us tea from a samovar, or vodka in glasses we will be told to hurl over our shoulders, and the atmosphere behind the high wall will be one of permanent gloom whether or not the mystery woman is”—he nodded with a smile towards Bob—“a lunatic. Everything I’ve ever read of Russian novels warns me what to expect.”
“Sooner you than me,” Brinton told him. “Even if that means I end up coping with Jacob Chickney. Make sure you’re not slipped a Mickey Finn or whatever the Russian equivalent might be. The Russians managed to invent booze that didn’t taste of anything, so I wouldn’t put it past them to have come up with a poison nobody notices until it’s too late.”
Delphick shook his head. “There’s no need to worry,” he said. “Disposing of one body would be difficult enough, as Miss Hawke’s attackers found out. But with two—especially when one would be the size and weight of Sergeant Ranger here—I feel that even the most desperate criminal must refrain from murder.”
A remark which managed to make even Brinton smile.
chapter
~23~
DELPHICK CHUCKLED QUIETLY to himself for much of the journey, but as the car passed the Gibbet Oak and came into the approach to Plummergen he said, in a thoughtful voice, that it might, on reflection, be better to be safe rather than sorry. “Mr. Brinton knows where we’re going, but he’s fifteen miles away in Ashford. Perhaps we’d do as well to let P. C. Potter in on our plans—just in case.”
“The dogs seemed harmless enough, from what we could see of them, sir. And I would have thought”—Bob sounded hurt—“that you and I should be more than a match for a woman and a middle-aged man.”
“I, Sergeant, am a middle-aged man.” Delphick frowned. “Nevertheless, I would hope to acquit myself well in any fisticuffs which might become necessary—not that I expect them to—and it’s always possible that Mr. Alexander feels the same way.” He glanced sideways at Bob, who regarded him quizzically. “Nor, Sergeant Ranger, am I scared of those dogs, despite your baser suspicions.”
“Sir, I never dreamed of—”
“It is simply,” Delphick told him firmly, “that, since we’re now on Potter’s patch, he could feel somewhat peeved if we didn’t keep him posted as to what we were doing and where we were doing it. Drive on down until you reach the police house, and we’ll have a quick word with him.”
Bob drove past his father-in-law’s nursing home and the narrow lane opposite, at the end of which The Meadows stood behind its high brick wall. Plummergen’s police house was situated on a gentle curve on the right-hand side of The Street, facing south, just after a row of council houses: an excellent vantage point for most of the comings and goings of the village. But P. C. Potter, so Mabel Potter informed her husband’s colleagues, was not at home, even though his car was parked outside.
“He’s slipped along to the hall for a quick peek at the pictures—not that there’s anything we’d be allowed to do to this place, seeing as it’s official property, but we’re interested to see what Miss Seeton’s done, of course, and all the photos Sir George took, too. Besides, he says if that lot from Murreystone come snooping, he can chivvy them away, and he wants to keep an eye on the parking, what with trippers passing through and seeing those notices with All Welcome and thinking they fancy a look round. Block The Street something dreadful, they can, for all it’s so wide.”
Bob glanced over his shoulder at the unmarked car in which he and Delphick had driven from London. Mabel gave a mischievous giggle.
“Best not to leave that where Potter’ll find it, or like as not he’ll hand out a ticket, knowing it’s not local from the number. But the hall’s quite close—well, you being married to Anne Knight, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Sergeant? So why not pull your car into our yard and walk down there—shouldn’t take two minutes. And then . . .” Mabel Potter was as shrewd as her husband and guessed that the Scotland Yarders had an ulterior motive in visiting Plummergen’s police house. “You’ll enjoy looking at Miss Seeton’s pictures, won’t you?”
Mabel had been right: the walk took no more than the two minutes she had promised. “Handy for keeping an eye on any trouble brewing at the local hop,” Delphick said, remembering how the Ashford Choppers had run amok so many years ago, and the monumental punch-up that filled The Street and, as a direct result, Dr. Knight’s nursing home. His own part in the proceedings had been a metal wrench, applied by the enemy to his temple, and a nasty gash which had left a faint scar. He touched it now as they reached the hall, and hoped that history was not going to repeat itself.
P. C. Potter was giving directions to a group of people who had stoppe
d off en route to Ellen Terry’s house, and wanted to make sure they were not lost. Potter reassured them and waved them on their way to a further dose of culture. As he spotted his London colleagues approaching, his face widened into a welcoming smile.
“Thought we’d be seeing you here before too long, sir. Hello, Bob. Business, this visit, is it? Miss Seeton’s in there now, if you want to catch her. Pleased with the turnout, she must be—day trippers we’ve had, strangers all, dropping in on account of the notices and thinking it to be a proper exhibition. One even wanted to buy her picture of the George and Dragon, so they tell me.”
Delphick explained that they had already called upon Miss Seeton and would not trouble her now. Their interest was in the new inhabitants of The Meadows. What did Potter know of them? Were they likely to be there now? If the man was not, would the reclusive lady let them in? Potter told them that he thought now would be a good time to catch them, since Mr. Alexander walked the dogs only twice daily and did the shopping after lunch while the lady (so Potter believed) took an afternoon nap.
“Delicate, he says she is. Troubled with her nerves, poor creature, needs peace and quiet and plenty of rest.” Potter shrugged. “Hard to tell if it’s working, seeing as how she was hid behind a veil when I spoke to her.”
Bob shot a speaking look at Delphick, who nodded. “They sound an unusual pair,” he said. “But then, Plummergen does seem to thrive on the unusual.”
Potter muttered something about the Murreystone lot being a sight more unusual, if the truth be told, than any amount of Plummergen folk, and certainly not to be trusted an inch. There’d already been at least one of them sneaking in to look at the pictures, and what with the gnome being nicked, and Mrs. Henderson’s flower baskets, and other matters of that nature, he’d a regular job of it to keep proper watch on the devils, begging Delphick’s pardon for his language, and he was downright glad of Sir George’s help, though it seemed a strange thing for a policeman to admit.
“But that’s at night,” he concluded, trying to look on the bright side. “It’s quiet enough by day, thank goodness. And light enough for me to take a good look at their faces when they come marching in here, bold as brass—and if I’d only known them notices’d give a welcome to all, I’d have spoken a few words about that in good time. But it’s too late for such conversion now, so all I can do is the best I can,” and P. C. Potter sighed, shaking his head. So engrossed had he become in his lamentation that he had forgotten the august rank of the person to whom he addressed his plaint. Delphick smothered a grin and made sympathetic noises. Bob Ranger folded his arms and frowned at a large blue car that drew up outside the hall, disgorging yet more people anxious to learn Plummergen’s intentions for the Best Kept Village Competition. Not one face was known to him. He suddenly felt very sorry for P. C. Potter.
Inside the hall Miss Seeton was paying close attention to the various comments of friends and acquaintances moving from one picture to another. Those who had made suggestions were delighted when these had been acted upon, depicted in her drawings and sketches. Those whose ideas had not found favour with the Committee were, one hardly liked to use the word, but sulking would be what one would say if a child in one’s class behaved in such a fashion. So fortunate that in Plummergen the dinner break lasted a full hour. There would be time for her to listen to almost everyone who chose to pass comment on her work, and dear Sir George’s photographs, of course. If Cedric Benbow were to appear, it would not be all that great a surprise, for he had shown such interest in the whole project, according to Sir George, and his comments and opinions would indeed be worth having.
But there were opinions enough, and to spare, floating about the hall. Mrs. Stillman had taken time to pop along from the post office and buttonholed Miss Seeton with an eager air.
“You’ve made our place look real smart between the pair of you, you and Sir George. Just wait till I let Stillman know about this—he’ll be on the phone to the post office people as soon’s you can say awning, and no wonder. You’re wasted teaching the kiddies, that’s what I say, Miss Seeton. You ought to be selling your clever pictures in some place in London.”
As the unknown man standing near them heard Mrs. Stillman’s words, and looked across in admiration of her artistic skills, Miss Seeton blushed with mingled gratification and embarrassment, murmuring a modest reference to her very ordinary achievement, really, although of course one had done one’s best, and it had been a pleasure to work for the good of the village that had welcomed her so kindly. It was the very least she could have done . . .
“Why, how strange.” Miss Seeton had been drifting about the hall as she intercepted the various remarks everyone was passing. This was the first time she had paid any close attention to the post office picture. “How strange—surely I did not—the proportions, that is. Most unusual.” She turned to Mrs. Stillman. “Leonardo da Vinci discovered it, you know, and many great artists used it—Michelangelo’s The Last Supper is a splendid example. The divine proportion, they call it, or the golden mean—nobody knows why this should be the most pleasing, aesthetically, but so it seems it is. Nor does it matter which way up it is, either.”
Mrs. Stillman blinked at the tip of Miss Seeton’s umbrella as it moved around the edge of the painting, pointer-fashion. Miss Seeton was so engrossed in her little lecture that she had quite forgotten she was no longer in school. “Five by three,” she said earnestly. “That’s what it should be—only this isn’t, and I find it very strange . . .”
“You mean,” Mrs. Stillman decided after a few moments of careful thought, “that it’s a funny shape?”
“It’s the wrong shape,” said Miss Seeton, unconsciously echoing another seeker after truth. “Someone has taken off one side of the painting, and it looks most odd. I wish I could remember what was there before.”
Mrs. Stillman shook her head. The post office was, after all, the only thing in the picture of interest to her. “You probably just filled it in rough-like, and the Committee saw no need for it, with all the other places having pictures of their own, and not needing another. Dan Eggleden’s ever so pleased with that anvil you’ve painted in over the doors of the forge. He says he’s going to make one with the very same curly bracket, and all thanks to you.”
“Yes, of course, that was it.” Miss Seeton had been too struck by sudden memory to point out that she had only been working to the suggestions of the Committee, who were therefore the ones Dan should thank. Her normal modesty was forgotten in her pleasure at solving the puzzle. “Dan’s forge, you see—so very interesting, and the sparks so very dramatic, although somewhat uncomfortable,” and she glanced at the umbrella now back in its accustomed place over her arm. “Rather unnerving, indeed, with the smoke and flames as well. Especially with the shocking affair of the fire-raising in this area, not to mention the dry weather.” She sighed, and frowned. “I remember painting the southern end of The Street engulfed in flames—or, rather, I remember that I did paint it like that, not the reason why I did so, although no doubt I was influenced by the proximity of Mr. Eggleden’s smithy. And the smoke drawings in class, as well. Most distressing. No doubt Lady Colveden thought it wiser, in the circumstances, not to encourage anyone’s thoughts to turn to fire. In such warm weather people may do unfortunate things.” She turned away from the picture and almost bumped into the stranger who had been smiling at her earlier, showing natural curiosity about the artist who had brought beautified Plummergen so skilfully to life.
But he was not smiling now.
He was staring after her as she moved away, still frowning a little as she worried about whether it had been wise, in the circumstances, to teach the children how to draw the Accidental Smoke pictures they’d had such fun with. She did not notice the man, apart from murmuring a polite apology to him when her umbrella, swinging as she turned, caught him on the shin with a light blow.
But it did not appear to be this genteel assault on his person that made him regard Miss Seeton
so intently.
In Ashford, Superintendent Brinton was on the telephone to Central Records.
“You’ll be snowed under,” he was told. “Millions of ugly mugs, we’ve got. Any one of them might fancy a spot of nastiness one night.”
“Not as nasty as this. It’s your really hard-nosed chummie who’ll get involved in badger-baiting. Most of our villains think twice about bashing a copper over the head, let alone an elderly woman. They’d just tie her up to keep her quiet, and skedaddle back to the Smoke so’s once she got free she couldn’t find ’em to identify them. But this lot”—and he invested the words with so much loathing that Sleaze Arbuthnott, working at a desk in the corner of the room, saw the superintendent’s face turn purple—“they’re the bottom of the heap, make no mistake. If you’ve got those pictures of yours graded one to ten, these’d be the elevens.”
Records promised to do whatever was possible as soon as possible and rang off. Brinton drew breath, but before he could speak the telephone rang back.
“Forgotten to pull the switchboard plug,” he muttered as he picked up the receiver. “What? Who? Oh, Borden, hello. Anything to report?”
Inspector Borden of Fraud seldom allowed his voice to become animated, no matter how startling the news he had to impart. He had found, over the years, that relentless exposure to the baser side of human nature—mostly greed—had rendered him almost impervious to surprise, or to any other emotion. Even now there was hardly a quiver as he said, “We’ve completed nearly all the checks, and most of your candidates seem to be clean. Glad of the money when the insurance pays out, no doubt, but then anyone would be, wouldn’t they? However, there is one rather interesting snippet we’ve dug out. Your man Thaxted. He isn’t.”
Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10) Page 18
