There was a general murmuring. The Oracle’s smile, as he surveyed the room, was one of triumph. “According to the latest evidence,” he announced, indicating Miss Seeton’s new sketch, “he didn’t. Because he had no need to—because to steal something means breaking and entering the property . . . which Raffles never did.” And, above the general murmur of growing astonishment, he concluded firmly: “Why go to all that effort, when—you live there already?”
He turned towards Lord Edgar, still sitting beneath the warning clasp of Faulkbourne’s hand. “The general appearance was of an outside robbery, but we’ll find proof enough, now that we know, that it wasn’t. Miss Seeton’s drawing shows the rope as a flimsy thing, incapable of bearing an adult on so dangerous a mission, so high above the ground. And for flimsy read transparent—except that we weren’t supposed to see through the trick, and without the help of Miss Seeton we might not have done . . . I’m sure that Raffles went through the motions, and left the right traces for any investigation which might follow—investigation which he did his best to thwart, one way or another.” He had not taken his eyes from Lord Edgar’s face; now he let his gaze drift upwards to observe the steward’s anguished expression. “One way or another,” said Delphick again, “it was some time before anyone knew about the loss, or should I say supposed loss, of the snuffboxes. Supposed loss,” he repeated, still staring at Faulkbourne as the steward’s hand clenched, white-knuckled, on Lord Edgar’s shoulder, and his pale lips parted in an attempt to utter—a further warning? A denial? Delphick did not give him the chance to speak.
“Why,” he demanded, “were you so keen for Miss Seeton, a far less official investigator than any police detective, to enquire into the disappearance of the snuffboxes?” And now it was Lord Edgar’s turn to react. Faulkbourne pushed down as the young man tried to rise from his seat, and Lord Edgar subsided, with a nervous cough. “Was it,” went on Delphick smoothly, “because an official investigation would have been rather more likely to act upon whatever was discovered—to act in what you, with your long loyalty to the Bremeridge family, feared would bring discredit on those you had served so faithfully and so well? Obeying orders to the best of your ability . . .”
“Mr. Delphick,” the steward managed to gasp, before once again his protests were lost beneath the chief superintendent’s persistence. The Oracle was speaking now in his most oracular tones, making the conclusions he had deduced from Miss Seeton’s drawings the very matter of truth.
“The missing snuffboxes,” announced Delphick with absolute firmness, “are . . . copies. Which was what you feared an official investigation would bring to light—whereas Miss Seeton, if she achieved the safe return of what you believed to be the stolen property, would be rather more willing to accept whatever version she was told . . .”
“Copies!” Lord Edgar Bremeridge cried, as Faulkbourne uttered a hollow groan and closed his eyes. “Copies—but surely—not you, Faulkbourne!” He twisted on his chair to gaze up at the steward’s pale face. “If this is true,” Lord Edgar rallied, and spoke with severity, “it will just about kill my father—my parents, when they come home—we all trusted you, Faulkbourne . . .”
“And rightly,” Delphick informed the young man, while to everyone’s surprise Faulkbourne, instead of seeming crushed by his lordship’s accusation, drew himself up proudly to his full height once more, his eyes sparking defiance. “A good and faithful servant,” quoted the chief superintendent, with every evidence of approval. “The duke trusted you to such an extent that he allowed you to organise the making of the copies, and the disposal of the originals, didn’t he? Apart from yourself and His Grace, nobody else was allowed to know in just how poor a financial position the Bremeridges are, were they?”
“His Grace, who did me the great honour to take me fully into his confidence, thought it best that the Family should remain free from worry for as long a time as possible,” said the steward, through pale lips. “Had he known, however . . .” And his eyes flickered down towards Lord Edgar, then away as soon as he realised his error. Delphick, however, had been waiting for such a revelation. At once, he pounced.
“You suspected Lord Edgar of being Raffles,” he said, no hint of doubt in his voice. Everyone in the little room was holding their breath—everyone except Lord Edgar, who wore a bemused expression as he looked in turn from his father’s trusted steward to the chief superintendent, and back again. “As, of course,” concluded Delphick, “he is”; and, while the others waited for Eddie to deny the accusation, Faulkbourne put his other hand on the young man’s shoulder, and gently shook him before he had time to say a word.
“His lordship,” the steward informed the accuser of his young charge in tones that barely trembled, “is not prepared to say anything at all until he has consulted”—his voice broke momentarily, but he cleared his throat and continued—“the family solicitor . . .”
Anne and Miss Seeton had completed their packing, and sat now with Bob and Delphick in a secluded corner of the Belton Arms coffee lounge, enjoying a light meal together before heading homeward in their separate vehicles. Anne was to drive her own little car, taking Miss Seeton (despite the latter’s protests that she had no wish to be any bother and could easily catch a train) back to Plummergen before returning to Bromley; Bob, still on duty, would whisk Delphick down the motorway straight to Scotland Yard for the writing up of yet another official report.
A report which all four of them were in the process of pondering as they finished their snack.
“All for the love of a lady,” murmured Delphick, having first looked over his shoulder in case Beverley, the unwitting instigator of Lord Edgar’s downfall, should be within earshot. It seemed unlikely, since the hotel proprietor had advised his guests of her absence (caused by the proverbial, and providential, sick headache) before their feet had barely crossed his threshold; still, nobody reaches the rank of chief superintendent without learning that it is always better to make more than doubly sure. The only living creature in sight, however, was Orlando, curled once more on his favourite chair, his paws over his ears.
“No woman’s worth losing your freedom for,” said Bob, “let alone your reputation. Catch me turning crook!”
Anne, fond wife of his bosom, sighed gustily and tried to look disillusioned, but with little success. Her dainty form simply could not suggest the harpy-like greed and seductive skills of the absent Beverley: she was, after all, a trained nurse, not an adventuress. She smiled across at Miss Seeton.
“Now you know why your pictures seemed so sinister, Aunt Em. She pulled the wool over everyone else’s eyes pretty well, though I admit there were times when I wondered . . .”
“Hindsight,” scoffed Bob, as Miss Seeton shook her head.
“He reminded me so much of dear Nigel,” she said. “Such an eye for an attractive girl, although perhaps rather more makeup, especially nail varnish, than I would think any of the Colvedens would approve. But he is, of course, a great deal steadier in character, is he not? Farming makes so many physical demands—and the discipline, as well. One cannot be too self-indulgent in such a career, if one wishes to be as successful as he is sure to be—Nigel, I mean. Than Lord Edgar. Steadier. And for all his invitations to address him by the diminutive, somehow I never felt . . .”
“He was trying too hard to be friendly,” supplied Delphick, as she hesitated. She nodded, and sighed.
“So much charm, yet so superficial, I fear. Not likely to be a reliable character in later life unless he becomes rather more, well, thoughtful . . .”
“There’ll be plenty of time for thought in prison,” Delphick pointed out. “With the advantages that young man had, he ought to have known better. Birth, background, breeding, education—I always said Raffles was a crook with class. And when the privileged classes go to the bad, they do it so much more thoroughly than the rest of us. Cocking a snook at authority—pulling the wool over the eyes of the plebs—among whom we must number ourselves, Bob. The thic
k-headed, flat-footed bobbies who only exist to have their helmets pinched on Boat Race Night, and who are unable to pronounce the aristocratic surnames correctly when they come to read out their statements in court . . . But his arrogant young lordship was wrong about us—and especially wrong about you, Miss Seeton. He didn’t realise you were a force, if I may say so, to be reckoned with. He tried to be too clever. It is fortunate that he wasn’t as clever as he supposed . . .”
“His poor parents,” said Miss Seeton, shaking her head in slow motion. “What a sad shock this will be for them on their return from South America.” And, for just one moment, she looked almost guilty at what she had helped to achieve. She rallied quickly, however, knowing that in her own quiet way she had once again served the cause of justice—or so dear Mr. Delphick had been kind enough to say, though one was doing no more than one’s duty, of course . . .
Bob said, “Clever, the way he made the point he didn’t much like the adventurous life.” He grinned at Anne. “No more mountain climbing for him once he was old enough to say no, and so on—but it was only last year he stopped, and he’s a fit sort of bloke. Still easy as pie for him to shin down ropes and crawl through sewers—he’d had enough practice with his parents since he was a kid, hadn’t he?”
“He protested too much,” Delphick said, and Anne nodded vehemently. “I did wonder,” she murmured again, as Delphick continued, above Bob’s disbelieving snort:
“His parents, prompted either by their own instincts or by a few heavy hints from their younger son, left him alone at the Abbey while they went adventuring on this particular occasion—alone, and ostensibly in charge. But the attractions of Beverley were altogether too much for him—he came to need more money than his personal allowance for wining and dining her, and whatever else is done during the courtships of today’s blue-blooded youth. He turned to the Raffling, and very profitably, for a while. As several police forces will testify,” he added, with a wry smile.
“But then he grew greedy, and lazy, as successful crooks often do—only look at the Croesus Gang—and came up with a less energetic method of making money: steal his father’s prized collection of snuffboxes, then pay out the ransom to himself, the one who’d been left in full financial charge of the family estate . . . or so he thought. It would have been an awkward moment for him when Faulkbourne looked like putting a discreet spanner in the works . . .”
“He is bound to feel the shame most acutely, poor man,” lamented Miss Seeton, feeling guilty again. “How he must dread having to give Their Graces the news of their son’s arrest, when they finally come home.”
“Like a storm waiting to break,” Delphick agreed, thinking of her sketches, and their hint that Belton Abbey was to undergo the indignity of inundation: not only overwhelmed by disgrace, but by the media as well. He made a mental note that he should inform Mel Forby and Thrudd Banner of this surprise outcome to their involvement in the Croesus and Raffles cases; and hoped for Faulkbourne’s sake—it would be the steward who must bear the initial brunt of the onslaught—that the reporting hordes would be sympathetic in their questions. He knew he could trust Thrudd and Mel, of course, but some of their colleagues . . .
In his turn, Delphick sighed, shook his head, and then glanced round at his companions. He pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet. “Time to be on our way,” he said.
Closely pursued by Miss Nuttel, Mrs. Blaine burst into Plummergen’s post office and prepared to make her announcement before Eric could beat her to it. She paused just inside the threshold, blocking Miss Nuttel’s path, and took a deep breath as she surveyed the animated little crowd clustered near the revolving book stand.
But the irruption of The Nuts into their midst did not intrigue Mr. Stillman’s customers as much as usual: indeed, they hardly seemed to notice the new arrivals at all. They were too busy listening to the lamentations of Emmy Putts as she heard the grim tidings her mother had brought from Brettenden.
“Taken by totters, that’s what it was,” repeated Emmy’s mother, as if she could still barely believe it even after the third or fourth telling. “Thought it was scrap metal put out for collection, so they did, and only just in time to stop it being melted down . . .”
“Poor Mr. Marsh,” moaned Emmy, while everyone commiserated with her at the same time as seeing the funny side of it. There could be no doubt of the topic under discussion. Mrs. Blaine, her blackcurrant eyes a-gleam, all thoughts of Miss Seeton’s return to the village driven from her mind by this new sensation, threw one triumphant look in the direction of Miss Nuttel before enquiring:
“Surely you can’t be saying that the so-called sculpture from outside the biscuit factory has been found—in a junkyard! Too humiliating for that man Marsh, if it’s true!”
“Oh, it’s true, right enough,” came a chorus of affirmation, at the centre of which Mrs. Putts might be observed, brooding. She felt somehow cheated. When she’d gone to the trouble of having her photo took—and then it hadn’t been no more Croesus stealing it than he’d pinched that garden gnome the Murreystone crowd took from The Nuts. Which had been at least deliberate, thought Mrs. Putts, aggrieved; not just a daft mistake . . . But she’d managed to be first with the news of what had really happened to Food Chain, bumping into that young copper Foxon in his fancy clothes laughing his head off with some of his mates, and one of ’em being a bit sweet on Emmy’s cousin Kimberley and easy enough to pump—not that it was set to be any great secret, so far’s Mrs. Putts could see . . .
“So much for Marsh, then,” gloated Mrs. Blaine, as Miss Nuttel thought furiously at her side, a frown on her forehead. Not Art, after all. Not worth stealing. Not worth quarreling with Bunny about! Better apologise . . .
But not here. Abruptly, with a toss of her head, Erica Nuttel turned on her heel and strode from the post office. Mrs. Blaine, after one startled squeak, went panting after her. “Eric! Do wait, Eric—where are you going? What’s the matter? We haven’t done the shopping yet!”
Miss Nuttel paused. She waited for Mrs. Blaine to catch up with her. She took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she said, at long last. “Very sorry, Bunny.” Bunny’s eyes widened in surprise. “About Humphrey Marsh,” Miss Nuttel enlarged, and Bunny’s eyes narrowed into anguished slits.
“Please, Eric,” she begged, “don’t keep saying that name—too upsetting for me, you know it is.”
“Know?” Erica Nuttel blinked. “No. I don’t. Why?”
“Oh, Eric!” Mrs. Blaine allowed vexation to flare in her little black eyes. “You, of all people—after such a long time, I would have expected you to understand . . .”
Without apparently knowing she did so, Mrs. Blaine raised one plump hand—her left—and brushed away imaginary tears from her eyes. Miss Nuttel’s own eyes, puzzled, widened in their turn as revelation suddenly dawned. For, on the third finger of that plump left hand—a finger itself so plump that no amount of soaping would free it—was the gold wedding ring which had, so many years ago, been placed there by Norah Blaine’s husband . . .
“Humphrey,” breathed Miss Nuttel, in horrified accents. A shudder shook her bony frame as she closed her eyes, and Mrs. Blaine uttered a groan of anguished reminiscence. She permitted herself a bleated “Yes” of acknowledgement, and for some moments the air was frantic with silent communion.
“Sorry, old girl,” said Miss Nuttel at long last. “For everything,” she added, expansively. “Over and done with now, though. Best forget about it.” And her eyes met those of Mrs. Blaine, which brightened with relief.
And with the realisation that there still remained their own little titbit to impart to Plummergen: that Miss Seeton, accompanied by Anne Ranger-who-had-been-Knight, was again in residence at Sweetbriars.
For, taking all things into account, it was as well to be beforehand with the news. Because nobody ever knew just what Miss Seeton was likely to get up to next . . .
Note from the Publisher
While he was alive, series creator Heron Ca
rvic had tremendous fun imagining Emily Seeton and the supporting cast of characters.
In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her lead . . .”
You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr
Preview
COMING SOON
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle . . .
It hadn't been, Miss Seeton reflected, one of the, well, cleanest experiences of her life. She breathed a silent word of thanks to the long-handled dish mop, with which she had warily polished the baby—a girl, she’d soon discovered—in the washing-up bowl in the kitchen sink. (What Martha would say when she found out, Miss Seeton dared not think. And as for what she would say when she looked in the kitchen waste bin . . . ) Nor had it been one of the driest. She’d never realised how much energy even a small baby possessed, or how little water it took to make a great deal of damp. Once the excitement was all over, she felt very weary.
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The Fox Among the Chickens . . .
The squawking from the hen-houses continued unabated. Miss Seeton arrived at the runs. She beat the wire door with her umbrella.
“Stop that,” she called. “Stop that at once, do you hear me?”
Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12) Page 21
