by Heron Carvic
“Who you think you kidd’n, chick?” The accent was outer Odeon. “Heroines for gossakes, down here? You kidd’n?”
The voice of one he didn’t know. Nigel peered through his leafy screen. Yes, there were two he hadn’t seen before. What he’d told Miss Seeton had been quite right. Any of these seven youths could be mistaken for Lebel, judging from his picture in the papers, even at fairly close range.
“But it’s true, I tell you.” Angela’s voice, light and clear and feverish.
“No more’n six mile away,” one of the other girls chimed in. “C’mon.”
“A real live heroine—now I guess that’s the kinda broad I’d like t’see. What say we go call on her—look her up like?”
“That’s a spicy idea, I’ve wanted to meet her,” cried Angela above the squeals of delight from the other two girls.
Four of the boys swelled the chorus, but one held back. “Don’t be so daft. It’s late enough,” he pointed out, “she’ll be sleeping.”
“Well, for gossakes we c’n wake her up. She’s not deaf or sump’n?”
There were shouts of approval. “Yes, why not?” agreed Angela. “Let’s get going.”
“Tell you you’re daft,” the other boy countered. “Her place’s right on The Street. We’ll have the whole village out on us.”
This started an argument that the new-comer quelled. “I guess I’d still like to see where a slap-up heroine lives,” he persisted. “If they go t’bed so goddam early can’t we jest drive by? We c’n always dip our lights in salute or sump’n.”
“Come on then,” called Angela. “I’ll lead. We’ll go round the marsh and come up from the back. That’ll leave you heading your right way and you can carry on.” She ran for her car, jumped in and started the engine. The others bundled noisily into the remaining vehicles except for the new-comer who, accompanied by his silent companion, headed for a car parked near the entrance.
Nigel held his breath as Angela’s car shot out into the roadway swinging right with protesting tyres, followed by the two locals, the stranger’s car bringing up the rear. He scrambled from his hiding-place, made a quick survey—no one in sight—threw the cushions over the fence, vaulted it, scooped them up and ran for the M.G. Should he phone the police? Once that gang worked themselves up there was no knowing what they might do or where they’d stop. On the other hand they didn’t seem too bad tonight and the one he knew as Art had been putting a brake on the proceedings—at least he didn’t want the whole village roused. It should be all right, he decided, and, as they were going the long way round, if he got weaving he ought to be there nearly as soon as they. If everything was quiet he could carry on home without stopping. Yes. He’d risk it. He reached the car, flung the cushions in the back and leapt into the driving-seat.
Good gracious, what was that?
Miss Seeton, suddenly awake, found it difficult to orient herself. Of course. It was the hens. What a noise! Oh dear. Really. She got quickly out of bed, into her slippers, pulled her dressing-gown round her and hurried down the stairs. Without stopping to put on a light she instinctively snatched her umbrella from the drip-tray in the passage as she passed, unlocked the kitchen door and sped down the garden. No, really. It was too tiresome of them. Of course Nigel had warned her. Upsetting the hens like this. Well, she’d soon put a stop to it. Thank heavens, there was enough moonlight to see one’s way. Poor Stan; he’d be so cross.
The squawking from the hen-houses continued unabated. Miss Seeton arrived at the runs. She beat on the wire door with her umbrella.
“Stop that,” she called. “Stop that at once, do you hear me?”
“Sure, lady. I hear you.”
She gasped. A shadow moved forward, reached through the wire and unhooked the door. With the moon behind him Miss Seeton could see little but a dark shape muffled in a coat, a hat pulled low. But the moon shone on the barrel of the pistol he held.
“Now, just take it nice and easy, lady. Back to the house and no noise, see.”
“Don’t be so childish,” she snapped. “And put that toy away at once or I shall send for the police.” She brought her umbrella down smartly on his wrist.
There was a flash. A sharp blast. There was a howl of mingled rage and pain. The gun fell.
“Oh dear,” cried Miss Seeton in startled dismay. “I’m so sorry, I’d no idea . . . I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.” She was talking to the air. The figure, dancing in wild abandon on one foot while clutching the other, had hurled itself at the hen-house, heaved itself on to the roof and vanished over the wall.
There was a thud, a yelp, a curse. There were stumbling footsteps, running footsteps. Windows thrown up, doors thrown open. The hens redoubled their efforts in the face of competition.
People calling: “What is it?” “Murder.” “Shots.” A man’s voice: “Quick, for gossakes, quick.” Two loud reports, yells of pain. Doors slamming, engine revving. And trumpet-tongued above the tumult, Sir George’s triumphant bellow:
“Got him, by God—a barrel a buttock.”
Two speeding cars, one close behind the other, headlights at full coming round the second curve of the S-bend ahead. This would be the Brettenden contingent, Nigel decided. That was a relief. Nothing could have happened. To have got this far in the time meant that the cars hadn’t even stopped. Angie must have turned off already down the lane to The Meadows and the other car would be on its way back to wherever it had come from.
He slowed down and took a powerful torch and dark glasses from the dashboard. He had been prepared for their ditching game for some time, but this was likely to be his first chance to test his counter-measures. As the cars came into the straight he put on the glasses and dipped his lights. They didn’t. He smiled: so they were going to try their usual trick. He’d seen them at it often enough, but he’d generally been behind them.
The leading car, headlights blinding, drove straight at him. At the last moment when he knew they’d veer, Nigel eased his off-wheels from the narrow road on to the grass verge, flipped up his headlights and shone his torch full on his opponent’s windscreen. There was a yell of dismay and curses, followed by the heartening sound of tearing branches and rending metal. One in the ditch and one to play.
Nigel, his lights and torch still on, drove straight by the second car which had slowed to give its mate room to manœuvre, resisted the temptation to take a swipe at the head sticking out of the driver’s window and screeching abuse, flung his glasses and torch on the seat beside him, switched off his lights and drove for the bend, thanking the moon above for light enough to steer his course.
Once round the first curve he flicked his lights on again and exulted. Hoist with their own petard. For once some devils had been given a slice of their due. They’d no chance to read his number-plate nor was there room to turn and follow. In any event they’d be too busy getting their fellow-travellers out of the ditch.
A few moments later he drove happily into Plummergen. All quiet at Miss Seeton’s; no lights—good. He was turning right at the end of The Street into Marsh Road, heading for home when the hen-house war broke out behind him. He slammed on his brakes, reversed into a gateway and raced back.
Windows were lighting in many houses. He cut his engine in front of Miss Seeton’s and leapt out. What a racket! The hens—of course, it must be down there. He ran forward. As he reached it, the entrance to the lane beside Miss Seeton’s flooded with light. A car rocketed out and down The Street. The stranger’s car. He rushed back to his own, jumped in, slewed the M.G. round to follow, jammed on his brakes again to avoid by inches the stocky figure of his father as Sir George ran from the lane, double-barrelled shotgun at the ready. Nigel threw open the passenger door, catching a glimpse of the vicar cantering out into the road, arms and nightshirt flapping, a ghost from the graveyard, shouting: “Stop, thieves, stop!”
Sir George stepped into the car without breaking stride and slammed the door. Nigel raced through his gear changes. Light poured fro
m open doorways, torches flashed, people in strange array ran out, ran back, waved hands, waved pokers, brooms and sticks, all shouted and the mechanised cavalry swept into action as the M.G. roared down the centre of The Street in pursuit of its quarry, with Sir George, gun still at the ready above the windscreen, standing braced for battle.
chapter
~5~
THE MEN AT RYTHAM HALL slept late the next morning.
“Anybody up yet?”
“Up, but not down, m’lady.”
“Boiled eggs,” said Lady Colveden.
She closed the front door. Thank heavens, it was one of Martha’s days; someone to help with the lunch. She took her shopping through to the kitchen and began to lay a tray. Ten past ten. One egg and two pieces of toast each; that was quite enough as late as this. She heard the hoover start. Right, if Martha was doing the dining-room, they could have it in the morning-room. For the hundredth time she wished they could eat in the kitchen, but with all the plumbing arranged under the only window it wasn’t feasible. To alter it apparently meant a major operation.
They both looked a bit sheepish, she decided, as they finished their eggs and toast—like schoolboys caught out in a peccadillo. So they should, from the stories going round the village—and the state of her M.G. Beyond the over-casual good mornings, followed by eye-avoidance, nothing so far had been said. She handed them tea.
“Did you have a good night?” she asked brightly.
Sir George spluttered. Nigel choked. Both hurriedly put down their cups. They looked at each other, then at her. Sir George gave a strangled hiccup, Nigel whooped and they collapsed in helpless merriment.
It was most unfair. For a few seconds, Lady Colveden managed to maintain her air of innocent inquiry, but an irrepressible giggle tricked her and she joined the happy throng. There was a knock and Martha put her head round the door.
“The police’ve come for you,” she announced.
That finished them. Superintendent Delphick entering followed by his sergeant had a fleeting impression that they should have been carrying pails of fish to throw to the sea-lions.
Order partially restored, introductions made, Martha Bloomer dispatched for coffee and biscuits and the detectives seated, apologies were offered.
“No, please,” disclaimed Delphick, “the police so seldom get an uproarious reception; it’s a refreshing change. It was primarily Miss Seeton we came to see,” he added.
“Wrong house,” croaked Sir George.
“No,” murmured his wife weakly, “right house, wrong time. She’ll be back for lunch.” She collected herself. “Please, Superintendent, you must forgive us. I know it’s very serious, but I think we’re all a little overwrought this morning. My husband and son have only just come down to breakfast so we’ve had no chance yet to catch up on each other’s activities. I’ve heard various versions of theirs in the village—all colourful and dramatic and all, I’m sure, inaccurate—but they don’t even know that Miss Seeton came back here for the rest of the night.”
“You fetched her, m’dear?”
“Yes, George, in that monstrous estate wagon of yours, as my own car was out on another mission at the time.”
“I’m sorry about the M.G., Mother, I’m afraid we . . .”
“It’s all right,” she assured her son with a smile. “I quite understand. At least . . .” the edge of her smile was a little keener, “I’m sure I shall—some time. I went into Crabbe’s garage this morning, when I saw the car wasn’t back, to ask if they knew anything about it. They’d found it outside when they opened up, with your note under the wiper, and got busy on it straight away. They’d already beaten the dents out of the wing, mended the lights and were putting the bumper back on. Crabbe told me there’s nothing serious and he hopes to bring it back before lunch.”
“Yes,” commented Delphick, “we heard something of that particular episode from the Ashford police. I’ll go into that later if I may. The only firm fact I’ve gathered so far is that there was a disturbance last night and as this disturbance would appear to have centred round Miss Seeton”—Bob Ranger let out an audible sigh—“we were called in since there was the obvious possibility that there might be a connection with the case in which she is already involved as a witness. The Ashford police told us that it was very late when they brought Sir George and Mr. Colveden back here, so we didn’t like to bother you too early. We called at Miss Seeton’s but she was out, so we had a look round her place to get the lie of the land. Then we were informed by a Miss Treeves—that would be the vicar’s sister, I take it—that Miss Seeton was staying here. Miss Treeves, an eye-witness I understand, very kindly gave us her account of last night’s affair. And the vicar, another eyewitness, very kindly gave us his. Several people came forward, all eye-witnesses, and they very kindly gave us theirs. The accounts differ: ranging from the stealing of eggs, through Miss Seeton threatening to shoot up the village, to a full-scale invasion by troops. So we came here, I’m afraid a little earlier than we intended, to try and get some facts to fit these fancies. If you’ll bear with me, we would be very grateful for a full statement from each of you in turn which should put us in the picture. I think it would probably be simplest, if that’s all right with you, Lady Colveden, if we heard your side of it first as you seem to have been more on the fringe of the affair.”
Fringe? That irked her. “Well, I didn’t really do anything, Superintendent,” she replied airily. “I just went over there and disarmed her and brought her home with me.”
Sergeant Ranger was startled into speech. “Disarmed her? You mean you took her umbrella away?”
“Certainly not,” Lady Colveden answered; “she had that in her other hand. I took her pistol away.”
“Good God!” said Sir George.
Having made her point, Lady Colveden gave them a straightforward account of the little she knew at first hand of the night’s events.
Rytham Hall, up a winding drive off Marsh Road, was about five hundred yards from Miss Seeton’s cottage. Lady Colveden had been reading in bed. Soon after midnight she remembered being vaguely conscious of fowls making a noises somewhere and then a crack that might have been a shot. She had gone to the window and leaned out. She had heard distant cries and then two more reports, followed by screams and somebody shouting. It had sounded, but she couldn’t be sure, like her husband’s voice. She had dressed quickly and, seeing that her own car was not yet back, had taken Sir George’s. Arriving at The Street, she had found several people converging on Miss Seeton’s cottage, some with torches although there was enough moonlight to see by. The vicar had rushed up, trying to persuade her to give him a lift in pursuit of the thieves who had driven off only a few moments before. She had seen no point in careening round the countryside with the Reverend Arthur in his nightshirt and no slippers—she did hope Molly Treeves had made him take a hot bath when he got back—after an unknown car travelling in an equally unknown direction.
Miss Seeton’s hens were still vociferously indicating the centre of the disturbance so she had gone round the cottage and down the garden to find Mr. and Mrs. Bloomer, Martha armed with a broom and Stan with a bill-hook in one hand and a torch in the other, standing as bodyguards to Miss Seeton who, in her dressing-gown and leaning on her umbrella, was holding a pistol aimed at a cluster of bewildered villagers gathered by the side door in the wall, with the beam of Stan’s torch illuminating them as if for target practice. She had broken up this tableau, told everybody to go home, taken Miss Seeton’s pistol away from her and persuaded her to return to the cottage, pack a few things for the night and come back with her to the Hall. She had made up the spare bed and put in two hot-waterbottles, Miss Seeton and she both had veganin and hot milk and both had gone to bed and to sleep.
“Not, I’m afraid,” Lady Colveden concluded with a look at her husband and her son, “in the tradition of high heroism and romantic endeavour, but I like to think it was practical.”
“Practical and very wise
,” agreed Delphick. Lady Colveden glowed. So much for that ‘fringe’. “There is just one point which is not quite clear,” he continued. “What did you do with the pistol?”
“The pistol?” She was disconcerted. “I—er . . . George,” she rounded on her husband, “if you laugh I swear I’ll leave you. And Nigel, if you snigger, I’ll make you pay for the M.G.’s repairs.” She gazed back at the superintendent, wide-eyed. “How awful. I’m not quite sure,” she confessed.
“Well, don’t worry about it,” Delphick reassured her. “There was no reason for it to seem important to you—at the time. But I think we ought to find it. It can’t be far away. Let’s see. You didn’t put it down to help Miss Seeton pack?”
Lady Colveden reflected. “No, I don’t think so. At least I don’t remember doing so.”
“No? Then you certainly wouldn’t want it when you were driving. You might have put it in the back of the car.”
“Superintendent, you’re brilliant,” she exclaimed. “I remember now: that’s exactly what I did do. I put Miss Seeton’s case in the back and threw the pistol in after it.”
Sir George went hot; Nigel cold. Delphick gave an inward shudder. It had, presumably, been fired. Therefore on the same presumption the safety-catch was off. What with Miss Seeton waving it at the villagers and Lady Colveden tossing it lightly among the luggage, it was a miracle that no one had been killed.
“Is the garage locked?” he asked. She shook her head. “Sergeant.” Bob Ranger left the room.
“Well, if no one wants me any more I’ll go and help Martha prepare lunch,” suggested Lady Colveden.
“No, nothing further at the moment, Lady Colveden, except to thank you for a very clear statement and also to thank you for your prompt action in removing Miss Seeton from the danger zone last night. I’d be grateful if you’d tell her that we’ll call and see her after lunch, if we may.”
