Picture Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 1)

by Heron Carvic

  Superintendent Delphick, too, was pleased. He found Miss Seeton’s company refreshing and had managed to keep her away from the Press. Obviously there would be talk in her own village, but it didn’t seem likely that such talk would reach London.

  There was, indeed, talk in her own village. The superintendent was not to know that the talkers were rapidly splitting into two main parties: those who favoured Miss Seeton as the agent of a London dope ring come down to have it out—though what ‘it’ was, was so far unspecified—with Mrs. Venning: and those that looked upon her as a victim of the drug habit who, having failed in her battle for further supplies in London, had arrived to see the chief supplier, Sonia Venning, in person and insist upon her rights.

  Delphick had detailed a man to travel down on the same train as Miss Seeton and to keep a sharp outlook for any sign that she was being followed, so he felt that he had done all that was humanly possible to ensure that her address was not known to any interested party. He had reckoned without the vicar.

  For Arthur Treeves the inquest had been a humiliating revelation. He had come to stand by one of his parishioners in trouble who, probably through thoughtlessness or lack of experience, had got into bad company and might need a guiding hand, would need moral support, only to find that he was escorting the heroine of the hour. He felt deeply stressed at the thought of his previous unworthy misgivings and could not but feel that his sister was partly to blame for misleading him. Between embarrassment and humility he was quite unable to face the lunch that the superintendent had proposed; he needed time to sort out his thoughts and formulate a fitting apology to her for his baseless suspicions. Consequently, when the Press who had noticed him sitting with Miss Seeton in the court, being baulked of their quarry by the superintendent, had descended on him in a flock like pigeons on a crumb, he had been only too glad to seize on this opportunity for atonement and say how proud they were in Plummergen of Miss Seeton’s arrival in their midst; that her example was an inspiration to them all, shining even more brightly than that of her grandmother who had lived amongst them so long and whose cottage she now inhabited. Thereby at one stroke undoing all the superintendent’s planning of the last few days.

  They were nearing Brettenden before Arthur Treeves finally resolved his problem and had the exact formula of his apology worded in his mind. He cleared his throat.

  “I—er—h’rm,” said the vicar. Miss Seeton looked inquiry. “I—er—feel . . . that is to say I must own—or rather it is my duty to tell you that it’s all most unfortunate,” he explained.

  “Oh, I do so agree,” she replied, “most unfortunate, but I do feel myself to blame. I see now that if one interferes in people’s affairs, one must be prepared to take the consequences. It’s horrid of course but it’s over. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I’ve quite made up my mind. I simply shan’t read the newspapers for the next few days and then everyone will have forgotten about it and I shall be able to, too.”

  She found Nigel at the cottage when she got back. For a moment her heart sank. She was tired and would have liked to have been alone. But after her first qualms she found his gay take-over comforting. He had the kettle on the boil and refused to let her talk until he had taken her hat and coat, ensconced her in an armchair, made and brought in the tea which was laid ready in the sitting-room, poured it and seen her drink her first cup. He had even brought some plain chocolate biscuits, by chance a favourite of hers, as his own contribution. She leaned back in her chair and smiled at him: he was so very eager, but thoughtful, too. It wasn’t fair to keep him in suspense. She must collect her thoughts and try to remember everything Superintendent Delphick had said; even though, when you summed it up, it didn’t really amount to a great deal.

  Nigel forestalled her. “Hope you don’t mind me pinching tea off you two days running and making myself at home, but I thought you might be tired when you got back so I went down to see Martha and persuaded her to let me in and get things ready.”

  “I’m most grateful,” murmured Miss Seeton.

  He chortled. “You should be. Martha had made up her mind to be here herself when you got back, but she’s in one of her Grand Slams and the whole thing was so noisy I’m afraid I told her you were expecting me and got her to go away.”

  “Oh, dear.” She sighed. “What’s the matter with Martha? And what is a Grand Slam?”

  “Haven’t you met her in one of her Slams?” She shook her head. “Good Lord, you haven’t lived. ‘If people tittle-tattle about people, what people need’—that would be the people of the first part,” he explained—“‘and what people are likely to get is a piece of somebody’s mind.’ The somebody of the third part being Martha, of course. All to the accompaniment of a lot of slamming doors, pans, brushes, anything to hand. If only she’d go and slam the people she’s got it in for instead of everything within hearing, it would be a lot quieter and much less wearing. It might even do some good.”

  She laughed. “It’s silly of me, but I hadn’t realised you knew Martha so well.”

  “Oh, help, yes. Martha’s been doing for us at The Hall for years. I’ve known her since I was knee-high to nothing.”

  “What is it that’s so upset Martha?”

  “Gossip,” said Nigel darkly, and then looked sheepish. “About you, I’m afraid. Based on some splendid misreading of the newspapers. I know,” he hurried on, seeing her expression, “don’t let it get you down, it’ll blow over. Meanwhile the village gossips are having themselves a fancy-dress ball and, as far as I can make out from Martha, have linked you with Mrs. Venning in sundry dark deeds in the woodshed.”

  “But I haven’t even met Mrs. Venning,” she insisted.

  “Trifles like that don’t make any difference. At a guess,” he continued, “that would be the Nuts—Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine to you. They’re the parish substitute for a Hollywood scandal sheet. There’s nothing unpleasant they can’t brew up at the Nut House—and throw in a few adders’ tongues for good measure. They must have ‘just happened to notice’ the pot of jam here that afternoon when they left their own tiny token, and ‘just happened to peek’ at the message with it. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t ‘just happen to taste’ the jam as well.”

  Miss Seeton sat forward, put down her cup and pushed the tea-trolley to one side. “Well, it can’t be helped. What you want to hear is what the superintendent said.”

  Nigel grinned. “Yes, I do a bit,” he admitted, “but I was trying not to rush you.”

  They discussed exhaustively all that Miss Seeton had said to Superintendent Delphick, all that he had said to her and all the possible meanings, double-meanings, and innuendos that could have lain behind or between everything that either of them had said. Something had been done: a move made; a little nebulous, perhaps, but at least something, and Nigel felt cheered. He pushed the trolley through to the kitchen, his offer to help wash up was firmly refused, so he took himself off, assuring her that if his mother’s M.G. sports was available, he would continue his watch on the club in the hopes of being able to gather more information.

  After clearing up, Miss Seeton decided that she would have a light supper and go to bed early because she was tired. But first she must do her routine. She repaired to her bedroom. She put a folded travelling-rug in a corner against the wall, removed her shoes and her dress, got out her book and sat down. Opening the volume of Yoga and Younger Every Day she was faced with a photograph of a gentleman doing a solo imitation of the statue of the Trojan priest, Laocöon, and his children fighting with the serpents. “The Star Posture—advanced Yoga.” A little too advanced perhaps. In any case, even if she could ever achieve it, she saw no advantage in being able to put one leg behind the back of her head, with the foot on the opposite shoulder. Such a strain. She turned the pages back. Ah yes, here she was—“The Headstand”. “Put a clock in a place where you can see it. Close your eyes and breathe slowly.” Really, what were they thinking of? What place did they imagine you
could see a clock when you were upside-down with your eyes closed. Miss Seeton set her egg-timer to ring in three minutes. She knelt down, clasped her hands, placed her head against them on the floor, arched her body, walked her feet forward, then launched herself at the wall.

  Superintendent Delphick pushed the overflowing out-tray to one side and regarded the empty in-tray with satisfaction. There was a knock on the door. In answer to “Yes”, a constable entered carrying a batch of papers, he dumped these in the in-tray, collected those in the out-tray, saluted and left the office. Heroically Delphick refrained from comment.

  “Bob.”

  Sergeant Ranger put down the file he was studying. “Sir?”

  “Get me Ashford on the line, will you? A personal call to Chief Inspector Brinton. If he’s not in, scrub it.”

  He glanced quickly through the new lot of papers, decided there was nothing that couldn’t wait, took a notebook from the drawer of his desk and began to write. After a few moments the sergeant interrupted him.

  “Chief Inspector Brinton on the line, sir.”

  Delphick picked up his receiver. “Chris . . . Yes, too long, that’s your fault. Either things are too quiet your end or you’re too efficient. . . . Don’t say you’ve grown modest since I last saw you. . . . Tell me, Chris, strictly between ourselves, have you any gen on The Singing Swan down your way? . . . Come, come, you forget, my spies are everywhere. . . .” For some time the superintendent listened in silence, taking occasional notes. “I see,” he said at last, “interesting. But you’ve no idea where the leak was—supposing there was one? . . . No, no, not yet, but I have a feeling it may. Anyway, if it does, I’ll let you know, and thanks a lot . . . See you.” He hung up and looked across at the sergeant. “Bob, you don’t by any chance know anybody living at Brettenden, I suppose—or even better, at Les Marys?”

  “I’ve never heard of either of ’em, sir.”

  “Pity. A spot of leave, to visit friends or an ageing relative would have done you good. But I’ve an idea that gap in your geographical knowledge may be filled shortly.”

  “Where are they, sir?”

  “In Kent, Bob, in Kent. The one adjoins the other and both are near to Plummergen.”

  “Plummergen? But that’s where Miss Seeton . . . Don’t tell me she’s biffed anybody else, sir.”

  “Don’t be common, Bob. The Miss Seetons of this world don’t biff people; they indicate displeasure with the ferrule of an umbrella.” He paused and added thoughtfully: “But when they lie, that interests me.”

  “I can imagine Miss Seeton doing almost anything, sir, but not lying.”

  “You’re quite right, it would be against her principles. Prevaricate is the proper word. We lunched together after the inquest and she told me a lot of flapdoodle, serious, but flapdoodle all the same, about a club called The Singing Swan near Brettenden. She knows nothing about it—only what she’s been told. But for some reason she’s not telling me all she’s been told. But the reason why she was told—and then told me—and the reason why she’s not telling me all she was told, are what interests me if you follow me.”

  “No, sir.”

  “She’s covering up for someone who’s covering up for someone. And that, in case you didn’t know it, is intelligent deduction.”

  Bob Ranger considered The Oracle and Miss Seeton having lunch together. His imagination boggled. If The Oracle was going to get matey with Miss Seeton he wondered if he himself should apply for a transfer.

  “You look worried, Bob,” his superior commented.

  “Well, sir, you can be bad enough on your own—you say things. But she not only says ’em, she does ’em.”

  “You sorrow me, Bob. You should cultivate Miss Seeton.”

  “God forbid, sir.”

  “I mean it. It’s another gap in your education. Until you can learn to understand her, you’ll get nowhere as a detective. She’s everybody’s conscience, Bob—the universal maiden aunt, cousin or sister. Humanity’s backbone. Throughout history she’s gone to the stake for you again and again; not with any sense of heroism, but as a matter of principle and because it would never occur to her to do anything else. She scrubs for you, sews for you, cooks for you, nurses you and is your unfailing support in times of trouble.”

  The sergeant pictured himself supported by Miss Seeton in times of trouble: a transfer wasn’t enough—emigration—Canada, perhaps. The Mounties. After all they always got their man. It said nothing about women.

  Delphick threw down his pen and sat back. “The whole dam’ case is so nebulous. I know those two girls’ killings are connected—same method; both prostitutes, both drug addicts, both pushers. We’ve Lebel pinned for the second, if only we could find him, but nothing to connect him or Prévost with the first girl. What’s the good of feelings if you can’t find sufficient evidence to support them. Just have to wait for the next move,” he finished in exasperation.

  A telephone rang.

  “Chief Superintendent Gosslin, sir.”

  Delphick reached for the telephone. “Delphick here, sir. . . . The evening papers? No, not yet, sir. . . .” He listened with a gathering frown as the instrument quacked. Finally: “No, nothing. Just one of those things. . . . Thanks a lot, sir.” He put the receiver back. “Blast!”

  “What’s happened, sir?”

  “Nothing yet,” Delphick said savagely. “But all my puerile precautions to keep Miss Seeton’s whereabouts under wraps have been blown sky high by that doddering half-wit, the vicar of Plummergen. He came up with Miss Seeton as escort, refused to join us afterwards and then, it appears, improved his shining lunch-hour by giving an interview to the Press. I gather he gave her family’s life history, her address and what time she would be at home to visiting assassins—in fact everything except details of the parking facilities. The Chief’s just seen the late editions and it’s all in the reports on the inquest. So the next move may come any time. In Kent, I guess.”

  Nigel lurked. He was chilly and uncomfortable and he felt like a badly cast minor conspirator in an indifferent melodrama, but he continued to lurk, grateful that he had had the forethought to bring a couple of garden cushions. For such information as he could gather he had been wont to rely on occasional visits to the club, the overhearing of unconsidered scraps of conversation and above all on his translation of Angela Venning’s moods and ill-considered chatter. Now he was aware that his appearance at the club was viewed with suspicion by those few whom he, in turn, suspected; a suspicion which might turn ugly at any time. Since the Brighton episode Angela had avoided him. Lurking was the only solution.

  There were five boys and two girls whom he had pinpointed as the main trouble-makers. Two of the boys owned or had the use of cars. During the last week he had contented himself with parking some way off and then followed at a distance one of these or Angela’s, whichever seemed the most promising. He had decided that if another break-in was tried, either he would light up the scene with his own headlights in the hope of frightening them off, attempt to join in himself or go for the police, according to what seemed best at the time. What he would do if Angela was again directly involved he had never quite faced. This watching and waiting had produced nothing except the conviction that the monotonous and tiring role of a private investigator was not for him. Individuals had been dropped at their homes, good nights screamed and the cars parked for the night. The group appeared to be resting on its laurels.

  That drugs in some sort were in question he knew; but whether it was merely a matter of pep pills or whether it embraced anything more serious he had been unable to discover. In particular how far this had been carried in Angela’s case was his chief worry. Some months before, she had persuaded him to try a couple of what she called her boosters. He had taken the pills and had awaited the effect with interest, thinking the experience might make him understand her better and so be more effective in dealing with her. It had not helped. Either the dose was too strong or he was allergic. He had just be
gun to feel slightly dizzy and relaxed, when he realised that the relaxation was of a different order and he was sick.

  The car park to the club was fenced by wooden palings. Behind the fence Nigel squatted under close-growing shrubs. The leaves were damp with dew; the ground likewise; he had the definite impression that creatures from above, spiders, earwigs and their ilk, were on their way down via his collar, while creepers from below, ants, centipedes and their kind, were on their way up by way of his trouser legs, for a social convention around his midriff. He was, as stated, chilly; he was also wet and he tickled.

  Disappointed, after Miss Seeton’s report, that armies of policemen were not already on the march, a little reflection had shown him that the fact that the Yard had questioned her closely and had assured her that something would be done, was a big step forward. This encouragement had determined him to keep vigil as long as he could, or as long as his mother’s complacency about lending him her M.G. lasted. Her only comment that afternoon had been that with a husband who slept by day and shot rabbits by night and a son who fly-by-nighted in her car, she was not only grass-widow and grass-mother but was left stranded on the grass as well.

  Over the fence Angela’s car was parked next to one of the suspect’s with the other not far away, so he felt he was in a good position to hear anything of interest. The club was emptying, it was getting late. The door was thrown open and in the shaft of light a shrill group of youngsters clattered down the steps. The door closed and the dark figures, growing clearer as moonlight took over from electricity, headed volubly towards Nigel’s hiding-place.