by Heron Carvic
“I’m sure she’ll be glad of your company, sir. Between you and me, the London chaps, the Yard in fact, has instructed me to keep an eye on her.” The pride of direct contact with the head of all headquarters shone in every button.
“Have they?” His unhappiest surmises appeared established facts. He shook his head gloomily. “Have they indeed.” The vicar walked home deep in thought.
“Miss Seeton?”
Nigel, having failed to get any response to his knock, came round the side of the cottage and into the main garden. Like so many of the afternoon’s callers, he could have left his parents’ offering with a note, but he had his own reasons for wanting to see Miss Seeton personally and his mother’s commission had given him the excuse he needed. At first he had thought the garden to be empty and that both Miss Seeton and his luck were out, but noticing a movement behind the shrubs which backed the herbaceous border at the end of the lawn and screened the hen-houses and vegetable garden from view, he crossed the grass to investigate. He found that it was Miss Seeton’s hat and not the wing of a bird as he had at first thought.
“My name’s Colveden,” he continued as she turned to face him. “I hope you don’t mind me butting in. There was no answer at the door, so I wandered round the side and saw you were down here. You know my father, I believe.”
“Yes, indeed, I met Sir George twice, I think. How do you do, Mr. Colveden.”
“Nigel. Actually I’m my mother’s stand-in at the moment. She would have floated in herself, to see you touch down, but she was committed this afternoon and as father’s up to his pillow in rabbits there’s only me, I’m afraid—with a dozen eggs.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Colveden, it’s very kind and please thank Lady Colveden most sincerely, but I can’t accept any more, it’s so embarrassing and especially eggs, you see,” she indicated the hen-house, “we lay our own.”
For one split but glorious second Nigel was vouchsafed a vision: Miss Seeton, in that hat, enthroned on an outsized nesting-box, led her hens in a count-down—three . . . two . . . one . . . The vision faded. Nigel guffawed. “Sorry,” he gulped, “a passing thought. But, apropos the hens, that wall at the back of the hen-house should be at least three feet higher, you know.”
Miss Seeton studied it. Now one came to examine it, that back wall was quite a bit lower than the side wall down the lane. Of course, with that tree in the corner, one didn’t really notice it at first; in fact she doubted if she ever would have noticed it if it hadn’t been pointed out. It was only just higher than the roofs of the hen-houses themselves and not as high as those wire cages in front of them. She looked back at the house: ah yes, that would be the reason; so as not to break the view sloping down to the trees bordering the canal and over the fields beyond. Then, surely, it was better left as it was. Why make it higher? “Why?” she asked.
Nigel laughed. “Some of the local talent hop over egghunting. Crazes up the hens; you’d think it was foxes at least and makes Stan Bloomer madder than a hornet.”
“Oh, I see. That’s why Martha keeps the second key to that side door and insists we keep it locked.”
“I say . . .” He stopped. It was ridiculous. She was so completely different from anything he’d expected. From what he’d read in the papers he’d imagined . . . now he came to think of it he didn’t really know what he had imagined. Probably some rather overbearing, militant female; positive, an organiser, a boss-type, in fact. Certainly nothing like this little old innocent. And he’d been so sure somehow. The Miss Seeton of his imagination had looked like a possible answer to his problem at last. But this Miss Seeton wouldn’t even understand the problem or, if she did, would be likely to have a fit. To his embarrassment he realised she was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. He was pained and surprised, while still trying to think of some social pleasantry to cover the awkward pause, when he heard his own voice asking, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“I shouldn’t think so, Mr. Colveden.”
“These detectives—you know, the Yard men you met in London . . .”
“I beg your pardon?” She was startled.
“Well——” Nigel was a little jolted. “Well, I mean, you did, didn’t you?”
She gazed at him in astonishment. “But I don’t see . . . how could you possibly know about that?”
“Everybody knows about it, it’s in all the papers.” The penny dropped. “Good Lord, didn’t you know?”
“Certainly not. No, I . . . oh dear, how dreadful—the newspapers.” For the first time she saw last night’s events objectively in relation to herself. “How vulgar. Then that’s why, this morning . . . how stupid of me not to realise. I never thought”—her repugnance grew—“those photographers, too—how very shocking.” For her the worst had happened. “It’s so vulgar,” she repeated helplessly.
“I say, I’m awfully sorry to’ve upset you. I’d no idea you didn’t realise . . .”
“It’s all right, Mr. Colveden. It’s my own stupidity, I’m afraid. You see I’m not used to that sort of thing. It never occurred to me . . . oh dear.”
Nigel almost laughed. It was incredible. She hadn’t even realised her own predicament. And he’d been thinking of asking her help in his. But there was a chance he might be able to achieve his object without involving her at all. “They’ll be coming down here to see you?” he asked casually. “The detectives, I mean.”
“Good gracious, no. Why on earth should they?”
“No, of course not. I’d just imagined there’d be interviews, statements and all that sort of thing. But naturally you’d have done all that already. Silly of me.”
He tossed the subject lightly away. It landed on Miss Seeton’s ear with the sad thud of despair. She studied his profile. “What’s the matter, Mr. Colveden? And why did you wish to meet these detectives?”
“I?” said Nigel innocently. “Oh, no reason. I was vaguely interested, that’s all. I don’t particularly want to meet them.”
She continued to watch him. “No, naturally not.”
That did it. The same words—the same tone of voice. He was back in the headmistress’s study at his kindergarten accused of catapulting ink pellets round the classroom. His denials had been met by her slightly bored “No, naturally not”. The contemptuous indifference of the adult agreeing with a tiresome child. Now, as then, he promptly blurted out the truth.
“I’m in a mess,” he stated. “Or rather I’m not, but a friend of mine is. Or soon will be. And I’m a bit boxed in down here, there’s no one I can ask advice from, no one I can even discuss it with.”
“But surely, Sir George . . .”
“Lord no, my father’s the last person, as you’ll see in a minute.”
Miss Seeton collected herself and made for the cottage. “Have you had tea, Mr. Colveden?”
“Tea?” Nigel stood bewildered, then loped after her. “Tea? No, why?”
“Because,” she said practically, “I haven’t and I don’t know about you, but I could do with it. We can go and make tea, then we can take it outside and sit in the sun and you can tell me anything you want to in comfort.”
She entered the kitchen, and switched on the kettle which, after its recent and abortive boiling, began encouraging noises almost at once. “I’m afraid, from what you say, I can’t imagine I shall be of any use.” She selected the larger of the two gift cakes and began to unwrap it. “I don’t think I know anything about messes, as you call them, or what to do when you’re in them.” She put the cake on a plate, added it to the tea-tray and surveyed the result: bread and butter, biscuits, jam, sandwiches, small cakes, large cake—that should be ample. Martha’s idea of tea for one was her idea of supper for two. But the young needed a lot of food. “It does help sometimes to talk over one’s troubles. It’s saying them aloud that helps, I think. And sometimes they shrink. But then, of course, sometimes they don’t,” she added with honesty. “As for anything to do with the police,” she continued, “I’d b
e no use at all. I’ve never had anything to do with them.” Looking up she saw Nigel’s left eyebrow rise as he hovered in the doorway; she turned slightly pink and laughed. “Well, hardly ever.” The kettle was boiling, she picked up the teapot. “You take those folding chairs and table out while I make the tea.”
Sitting in the sun, with the food spread before him and told to help himself, Nigel found he was hungry. Miss Seeton put down her cup and refilled it.
“Now, Mr. Colveden . . .”
“Nigel, please.”
“Very well, Nigel, what is this trouble or mess and why can’t you discuss it with your father or anyone you know?”
“I suppose,” he answered slowly, “—I suppose it’s just because I do know them. The whole thing’s so local—that’s the trouble. Father would be the ideal person to talk to, of course, but I can’t as things stand because he’s a J.P. and I’d be putting him in an impossible position later as a magistrate if I told him all I know now. I mean, if I do manage to keep this friend of mine out of it when it busts wide open, as it’s bound to, father can’t very well sit in judgement on a case knowing that someone else should have been involved and that I’m covering up for them.”
Miss Seeton nodded. “I see. This friend of yours has done something actually against the law?”
“And how,” Nigel agreed. He took up the cake knife and toyed with it, brooding on the result of his one attempt to lecture Sonia Venning on the duties of motherhood and the upbringing of daughters. Talk about a packet of deep-frozen raspberries. “To mind his own business”—nicely chilled; “Since when did he presume——”—served on ice; “Did he really imagine”—in fact frost on everything. Miss Seeton, wise in her experience with children, said nothing further. She waited. Nigel, in face of her cool gaze—no judgement there, merely detached sympathy and interest—fell. “It’s a girl I know,” he stated abruptly. “She’s very young, only seventeen and irresponsible.” He grinned at her, stuck the knife into the cake and cut it. “All right, I know; so I’m only a year older, but I’m not irresponsible. I’ve known her for years; she was only six when she and her mother came here to live, so we’ve sort of grown up together and I can’t let her go on as she is without doing something about it. Anyway, it’s all her mother’s fault. Mrs. Venning . . .”
“Venning?” Miss Seeton sat up. “Wait, I’m almost sure—yes, a Mrs. and Miss Venning left a pot of jam this afternoon.”
“You mean——” Nigel put down his cake and gazed at her. “You mean you know them then?”
“No, indeed,” she disclaimed, “but several people left things and I’m afraid I missed them because I was asleep. But there were messages and one of them was from a Mrs. and Miss Venning.”
“From Mrs. Venning?” He frowned. “That’s strange, she never goes out these days, never sees people, or anything, if she can help it. That’s the whole cause of the trouble; that’s why Angie’s gone wild. To sort of compensate, I suppose.”
“But, surely, Nigel, there can’t be many opportunities for wildness in a small village.”
“Little you know.” He laughed shortly. “Well, you wouldn’t know about our local troubles, but there’s been a lot of vandalism lately round the Brettenden district. And it’s getting serious. There’ve been two robberies I know of and in the second, last week, a man and his wife were badly beaten up.”
“But this is quite, quite dreadful.” She was scandalised; and in the country too—it made it even worse. “But surely if you say you know—I mean the police . . .”
“I know, all right, but I doubt I could prove it. And even if I could, I’m hamstrung. You see Angie was with them in the car both times.”
“But you must go to the police,” she insisted, “surely you see that. I mean it’s quite dreadful, robbery and violence. You say this man and his wife were hurt. You can’t leave it like that. Even without proof you must tell them what you know. Quite apart from the danger to other people, it makes you partly responsible for anything else that may happen.”
He stared down towards the canal, unseeing. “Think I don’t know that? But would you go to the police if your sister was involved—that’s pretty well what Angie is to me—without making one final effort to get her out of it before the balloon goes up?”
“A final effort?” She seized on this. “You’ve done something already? You’ve tried speaking to her, reasoning with her?”
He smiled ruefully. “Yes, I’ve tried both those. I’ve also tried shouting and yelling at her. I think I’ve tried everything but a whip where Angie is concerned. We quarrel every time we meet and now she avoids me like the plague. A few months ago the police raided The Singing Swan—that’s the club where they all meet: hot music and supposedly soft drinks—the other side of Brettenden, beyond Les Marys, but they got nowhere, the police I mean. They raided again last week—the night before the robbery with the beating up, a night when Angie wasn’t there—because they’d had an anonymous tip-off. But no dice—everything as innocent as all pie.” He shrugged. “Maybe the club got an anonymous tip-off too; I wouldn’t know.”
“But how did you find out about the information the police had, did one of them tell you? I would have imagined they would have kept very quiet about that sort of thing.”
“I would have hoped so, too.” There was a wry twist to his mouth. “I found out about it quite easily by phoning the tip myself, did a break-and-enter at the Vennings’ garage, put the car out of action and then managed to hijack Angie by offering her a lift to The Singing Swan and driving flat out for Brighton.” He gave a reminiscent chuckle. “We had an unholy row.” He stood up, restless, stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to pace. “I’d known there was something on for that night from a slip she’d tried to cover up and from the way she was behaving, all glitter-eyed and galvanised.”
“Oh dear,” she watched him, helpless, “I don’t know what to say. You seem to have done everything possible and more. I don’t see what else you can do—on your own, that is.”
“Nor do I. It’s no good trying to do anything more locally, as they appear to get wind of it somehow. And I guess my next move’s likely to end in me being beaten up by Angie’s little playmates. I thought,” he turned to her, “if it was possible to interest Scotland Yard in any way and set up something from a distance, it might work. But if there’s no chance of their coming down here,” he sat down, leaning forward, eager, “I suppose you couldn’t have a word with the fellow in charge of your case, could you?—say you’d seen someone like this Lebel type round the S.S.”
“Oh no,” she exclaimed in dismay, “I couldn’t possibly do that, it wouldn’t be true.”
“It could be,” he argued, “or near enough. From the description I read this morning he sounds very much in their line at the S.S. I borrow Mother’s car and hang around there quite a lot, trying to keep an eye on things. You could come with me one night and from a distance you could mistake any of the boys for this Lebel.”
Miss Seeton shook her head and got up. “No, Nigel, I’m sorry, I’m afraid it’s impossible. It would be untrue and misleading the police. I think it would be very wrong. Also I don’t know about these things, but can Scotland Yard interfere without being asked to?” She saw his defeated expression. It seemed such a shame, so unfair that he should get involved in something like this. She did wish Sir George . . . But no. She agreed with Nigel, that was quite impossible. As a magistrate he could never countenance any suppression of charges against Miss Venning if, as Nigel seemed to fear, such charges could legally be made. But to appeal to her, of all people . . . What could she do? She hated the idea of being so useless. It was ridiculous, of course, but she felt as if she’d betrayed a trust. “The only thing I can think of,” she began tentatively, “and what I will do if you like—if you think it might help at all—is to tell Superintendent Delphick what you’ve told me without, of course, mentioning your name or Miss Venning in any way, and explain the difficulties as far as I can
and ask his advice. He told me he would be at the inquest so I shall see him then. He’s such a nice man, so understanding, that I’m sure if he can make a suggestion, or if there is any way in which he can help, I’m quite certain that he will.”
chapter
~4~
THERE WAS LITTLE CONVERSATION on the return journey after the inquest. The morning event, though short as Superintendent Delphick had foreseen and the verdict of murder against César Lebel a foregone conclusion, had given both Miss Seeton and the vicar food for thought.
Miss Seeton had been grateful to Nigel Colveden for making clear to her the notoriety she had brought upon herself. She had wisely decided to endure what she could not avoid and to ignore it so far as possible. She had resolved to be careful and to do nothing which could give rise to further comment, happily unaware that her own nature was bound to betray her. Little as she realised it, Miss Seeton was situation-prone. She was conventional to the core, but natural and logical behaviour in unconventional situations can appear the height of eccentricity to onlookers.
When the coroner had praised her bravery and gallantry, she had winced at the mention of her name in public but otherwise had shut her ears to what he said. After the verdict the superintendent had asked her to lunch. Finding her accompanied by the vicar, he had included him in the invitation. The vicar, however, excused himself, saying that he would meet her at the station in time for the train.
It had been a delightful lunch with a charming companion who, with a mixture of tact and frankness, had largely succeeded in reconciling her to the part she had played. He did make her see that publicity is a penalty you sometimes have to pay for doing what you believe to be right, but he failed to make her realise that she herself might still be in danger and that, in spite of the coroner’s verdict, the case against Lebel was liable to collapse if she was no longer available as a witness. The vicar’s absence had made it easy for her to broach the subject of The Singing Swan. The superintendent had surprised her by his interest. Instead of polite and rather offhand attention which was what she had expected, he had cross-questioned her closely, embarrassingly closely, and she had been hard put to it to give the facts as Nigel had told them, without mentioning names, or Angela Venning’s connection with the club. However, she felt she had accomplished this and had been much gratified by his promise that he would quietly look into the matter and see that something was done.
