by Heron Carvic
“Whatever you may suspect these people of doing, from the little you’ve told me so far you appear to have no grounds for these suspicions.”
“No grounds?” he exclaimed. “Well, if you don’t want to believe anything else, what about last night?”
“Last night, you yourself, Mr. Colveden, helped to give them an unshakeable alibi. Both cars were a mile away on the Brettenden Road, one of them in a ditch. The occupants of those cars were making statements to a police constable at the time when the shooting took place. They could not possibly be concerned. It sounds to me far more likely that you’re trying to get your own back on these youngsters for some imagined slight or injury; including, unless I’m mistaken, trying to involve the police in your private vendetta by anonymous telephone warnings of events that never took place.”
“Never took place?” Nigel’s fury was beginning to loosen his tongue. “What about that poor wretched man and his wife who were robbed and beaten up the next night. I suppose that was fancy too.”
“A specific accusation.” Delphick returned to his chair, sat down, stretched his legs out and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “At last. Now, perhaps, we shall get somewhere. How do you know these same people were involved? Were you there?”
“No, I wasn’t.” He was sullen. “Didn’t even know what had happened till next day.”
Delphick frowned. “I saw the file on that case this morning. No mention of your evidence. If you knew so much, why didn’t you go openly to the police?”
“A fat lot of good that would have done.”
“Yes, it would. The only reasonable conclusion, if you’re not involved yourself, is that you’re trying to protect someone who is.”
“I . . .”
“Don’t bother to protest. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to play ring-around-Rosie with you. If I’m right you won’t admit it and in any case I shall very soon find out. One thing I wish to make quite clear: I do not like,” deliberately he spaced out the four words: “vicious, shallow little hooligans who endanger other people’s lives and property simply for their own entertainment. They mostly take drugs to foster their excitement and become as filthy in their persons as they are in their habits. I know it’s correct these days to look upon them as sick and in need of help and treatment, but if you’d seen as much of them as I have and of the effects of their mischief, you’d realise that with the number of worthwhile people in the world, it’s a waste of time and money to try and save the scum. Better and simpler to flush it down the drain where it belongs.”
Nigel sprang up stammering with rage. “How d-dare you speak like that. You kn-know nothing about it. Just b-because you’re older you think you can s-solve all the world’s problems, know the answer to everybody’s t-troubles. What about the p-parents? Have a look at them for a change. You—you couldn’t even imagine what it’s like to be young, with no brother or father or sister, with nobody except a mother who writes stupid books all day long and never goes out—or allows anyone in either—you’d damned soon try to find friends of your own age to go about with, t-try to find some amusement and you’d end by getting mixed up with the wrong sort and into a mess just like Angie has.”
chapter
~6~
“THERE. That’s the last signature. The last. I think we may say that concludes everything. Yes, that finishes it. For the moment at all events.” Hubert Trefold Morton, solicitor, alderman and Mayor-expectant of Brettenden, sat back and beamed. “Probate shouldn’t be long delayed. Not long. A perfectly straightforward estate. No bequests, other than the small one to Mr. and Mrs. Bloomer. Shall we say three months at the most. Your cousin was a wonderful woman. Wonderful. She did me the honour to leave her affairs entirely in my hands and I flatter myself I didn’t do too badly by her. Not too badly at all. Of course, placed as I am with my knowledge of local affairs, I have my finger on the pulse so to speak and when there’s just that extra little bit of capital lying around, I’m in a position to know when is a mortgage not a mortgage, as one might say.” He laughed lustily. “Property. That’s the thing. When you own land you own it, I maintain. And while we’re on the subject of property, Sweetbriars itself is a very nice little place. Very nice indeed. I don’t know whether you intend to live there, or are considering selling.”
“I’ve not made up my mind,” murmured Miss Seeton.
“No, no, quite. Early days yet. Early days. If you should consider it, remember we could probably do a very satisfactory deal there. Very satisfactory in fact.” He beamed again. “Now, is there anything you wanted to know? Any little point on which I can be of assistance?”
Miss Seeton pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “No, nothing that I can think of, thank you.” Really, this Mr. Morton, so overpowering, though she was sure he meant to be very helpful and kind, did boom at one so. She didn’t know how cousin Flora . . . But then, of course, and certainly latterly, most business would have been transacted by correspondence and at least letters didn’t make a noise. She sighed and stood up.
Mr. Trefold Morton came ponderously to his feet and leaned on the desk. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Seeton, and with no wish to be ungallant, you seem a little tired. Not quite the thing, you know. Not the thing at all. Of course it’s not to be wondered at, from what one reads in the papers you’ve been having a most distressing time. Very distressing. And there’s a rumour—only just a rumour, but you know how these things get about in small communities and, after all, Plummergen’s not so far away, not far—there was another distressing incident last night. Of course I don’t believe half I hear. Very little of what I hear, in fact. But they say there were shots . . .” He paused expectantly.
Miss Seeton collected her things. She couldn’t—no, she really couldn’t—go into all that.
Mr. Trefold Morton passed off his disappointment. “All wildly exaggerated, I’ve no doubt. No doubt at all. But none the less tiring. You must take more care of yourself. After a certain age we all have to take that little extra care. Would you like me to call the garage and order a car to take you home?”
“No, please. It’s quite unnecessary.” Miss Seeton was firm. The thought of having to wait for a car while this Mr. Morton continued to boom at her was unendurable. Also he seemed to say most things at least twice, as if one was slow of understanding. But then he was on the council and she believed he did quite a lot of public speaking; that probably accounted for it. “I’m perfectly all right,” she assured him, “it’s only that I have a rather bad headache. But I’m sure that a little fresh air will soon put it right.”
“A headache?” Mr. Trefold Morton looked at her sharply. “Come, we can’t have that. Oh, no. We certainly can’t have that.” He picked up a pen and began jotting down some figures on a pad. He did some quick calculations and, apparently satisfied with the result, crumpled up the sheet and threw it in the wastepaper-basket. “Wait here a moment. I think I have just the thing for you. Unless I gave them away, that is. But I don’t think—no, I’m sure I didn’t. They’d be just the very thing.” He opened a door behind him and hurried out.
The office contracted into a grateful silence; the furniture shrank to normal proportions; the air and Miss Seeton’s head ceased to vibrate. Not for long. Ebullience returned with Mr. Trefold Morton holding up in triumph a small phial of pills.
“Eureka, dear lady, here we are. When you get home, lie down and take one of these. Miraculous you’ll find them. Miraculous.”
“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Morton . . .”
He winced. “Trefold Morton. We use the full name.”
“. . . Mr. Trefold Morton, but I seldom take drugs.”
“Drugs?” He swelled. “Good heavens, no. Nothing of the kind I assure you. Homoeopathic, I believe. They were given me by a friend. A dear friend. Some time ago. When things were—er—a little difficult. They did wonders for me. Wonders. Now, not another word.” He pressed the phial into her hand. “Don’t forget. Take one as
soon as you get home. And take one again whenever you find the strain too much, with this trying time you’re having. Tremendously relaxing you’ll find them. Tremendously.”
Disgraceful. Truly scandalous—those two women in front. And at the top of their voices, too. Should she interfere, wondered Miss Seeton? Tell them there wasn’t a word of truth in what they were saying. But it would be so embarrassing to make a scene. And in a bus, too. Somehow that made it worse. Anywhere else you could say what you thought and walk away. But you couldn’t walk away in a bus, at least not far. Unless you stopped it and got off. Then, of course, you would have to walk—rather too far. Or wait two hours for the next one. Oh dear, she wished she had agreed to Mr. Trefold Morton’s suggestion of a car to take her home. Miss Seeton sat and seethed. The woman on the other side from them had called the fat one Mrs. Blaine. So the thin one must be Miss Nuttel. Nigel had been quite right about them. Dreadful women. To dare to say that Miss Venning had attacked her last night. And that she, of all people, had tried to shoot the girl. How on earth did they dream up such fantastic ideas? Just because some silly boy tried to steal some eggs. To drag Miss Venning’s name into it was monstrous.
The bus slowed and stopped to pick up a plump, freshfaced little woman, standing at the side of the road at an opening where a lane wandered quietly between hedgerows. The white painted sign pointing down the lane was lettered in black The Meadows.
Miss Seeton rose and hurried down the aisle. She’d remembered: this must be where the Vennings lived. They weren’t far from Plummergen now, only about a mile. She could perfectly well walk back from here. How very fortunate that she’d noticed. She’d go at once and explain. Apologise. She’d scotch this mischievous rumour before it had time to do any damage. She swept past Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine without a glance and the plump little woman stepped aside to make room as she descended.
Mrs. Fratters looked back in surprise as she climbed aboard the bus. Someone calling on Madam. That wouldn’t go down well. But it couldn’t be helped. She hadn’t time now to go trapesing after her to find out what she wanted. She’d never get back in time for lunch with the Kenya Continental. And if Madam had to go without her coffee, that wouldn’t go down well either. They’d had quite enough to-dos for one morning with Miss Angie in the state she was in.
The Nuts watched Miss Seeton’s hurrying figure and exchanged pregnant glances. The bus started; drew away. Through the open window floated a bright titter and the words: “What did I tell you? If ever proof was needed . . .”
Miss Seeton’s wave of indignation carried her crest-high until she was half-way down the lane, then treacherously receded, leaving her to flounder in cross-currents of doubt.
She’d had no idea that Mrs. Venning lived so far out. So—so isolated. It was quite possible, in fact now she thought of it, even probable, that Mrs. Venning might not have heard of this dreadful rumour. Or at all events not yet. It was one thing to deplore malicious scandal and reassure an innocent victim, but it was quite another thing if the victim didn’t know she was a victim—or in this case should it be, perhaps, they were victims—and one had to explain what it was one was deploring before one could deplore it. To reassure someone who didn’t know that they needed reassurance would mean that one would have to make it clear oneself what the reason for reassurance was and why the need to . . . oh, dear, how complicated. And, of course, embarrassing. On the other hand, if Mrs. Venning and her daughter knew nothing as yet of what was being said, surely it would be better—kinder, for they were bound to learn of it in time—to forewarn them. To, so to speak, remove the poison from the sting before it stung. In which case it was one’s clear duty. But then again, bearers of bad tidings. There were too many ways of looking at it.
Looking at it from every conceivable angle, Miss Seeton went forward on doubtful feet. Facing her was a high brick wall, partially covered with evergreen honeysuckle and variegated ivies. The lane turned sharp right; running alongside the wall and ending at large wooden gates, with a small door to one side. Miss Seeton approached the door.
It was all rather intimidating. One half expected a sentry on guard. There was no bell, no knocker, no letter-box even. Just a plain wooden door with a ring-handled latch. She opened the door and went through. The effect was strange. She hadn’t realised there was quite a wind today, until it was cut off as she closed the door behind her. Such peace. No, peace wasn’t the right word. Stillness. If one were fanciful one might almost say a brooding stillness.
On her right was a courtyard and a garage. On her left, an attractively blended shrub border. In front of her a concrete path ran to the back of a small out-house of some kind. To its right, a glasshouse; to its left the path curved out of sight behind a high clipped hedge.
No one about. No sound. Rounding the curve she was faced with—yes, it must be—the back of the house. The steep tiled roof sloped down to a low oak door. A miniature ship’s bell hung near the door which, like the windows on either side, was closed. But a latch window farther on was ajar; the nearest to a sign of life she’d seen. Did one ring the bell? Should one go round to the front? It was so difficult to know what was right. Many people in these old houses used the back door all the time. Perhaps it would be more correct to go round.
The front door was of plain oak with a heavy wooden drawlatch. No bell. No knocker. No letter-box. What did the postman do, she wondered? She tapped on the door with the handle of her umbrella. There was a period of silence, broken abruptly by the rattle of the bolts being drawn. The latch lifted and the door swung outward, forcing Miss Seeton to step back. A tall woman with a handsome haunted face looked at her in silent inquiry. Unnerved, Miss Seeton flustered.
“Oh dear. Have I come to the wrong door?”
“Yes.”
Miss Seeton fled. The bolts clanged back into their sockets. Mrs. Venning walked through the house, Miss Seeton hurried round it, to arrive breathless at the back door as it opened and she faced the same situation, the same woman, the same look, the same silence.
It was ridiculous to let oneself be agitated by a little thing like going to the wrong door. After all, it was a very natural mistake and obviously Mrs. Venning thought so too, or she wouldn’t have come straight to this one and opened it ready, as she had. But, somehow, it did make it even more difficult to explain why she’d called. How to put it? Really, the best thing would be to state the facts quite simply. Let them speak for themselves.
“I really came to apologise,” she began. “Well, not to apologise exactly—at least not in that sense—for, of course, it was nothing that I’d done, myself. Only I was so very, very shocked to hear it. And, as I of all people knew there wasn’t a word of truth in it and as I happened to be passing by your lane, I thought it only right to make that quite clear straight away.”
Sonia Venning regarded her visitor. Finally: “I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about.”
Miss Seeton looked worried. “You are Mrs. Venning?”
“I am.”
Miss Seeton smiled with relief. “That’s all right, then. It was foolish of me, I should have asked that in the first place. I quite understand your not understanding what I’m talking about. I did realise that was very possible, but on thinking it over I felt it was essential that you should be put in possession of the facts, so that you could ignore it or refute it when you did hear, as you’d be bound to eventually.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Eggs,” Miss Seeton told her earnestly. “They said that your daughter had stolen my eggs. It’s outrageous.”
Mrs. Venning was calm, her voice acid. “Who said this?”
“A Mrs. Blaine, I think their names are, and a Miss Nuttel.”
“Then I don’t think we need let it disturb either of us. They’d say anything.”
“But it was on a bus, in public.”
“Angela is supposed to have stolen your eggs on a bus? It’s too puerile to bother with.”
&nbs
p; “No. You don’t understand. It was said on a bus. Everybody could hear. I thought of protesting, but I’m afraid I couldn’t bring myself to make a public scene. And then I saw your signboard, so I got off and came straight here. What actually happened last night was just childish and silly. But with the shooting, and then the police becoming involved, the whole thing could easily become a scandal. And to bring your daughter’s name into it, wantonly like that, is unforgivable.”
Mrs. Venning’s face was an expressionless mask. She moved aside. “I think you’d better come in and clarify this absurdity.”
Sonia Venning considered her visitor; considered her story. Certainly it wasn’t true. What was less certain was how much truth the story contained. No village boy would have gone searching for eggs after midnight. Conceivable, but unlikely, that he might have been after the birds themselves. Inconceivable that he should have been armed. The various members of the Colveden family appeared so promptly in their cues, that one was tempted to suspect that the cues were pre-arranged. All this must be connected with the police action last night of which she’d heard from Mrs. Fratters who, in turn, had got her information from the milkman. Not just the local bobby at that, but mobile police in cars. More than one car. Was there a trap here? Or was this woman telling the truth so far as she knew it? Angela had arrived home soon after midnight. And alone. But it was easy to see how the village would link her with the affair. And, in point of fact, they were probably right. The essence being, how far was Angela involved this time? And could it be proved? On the whole, she decided, Miss Seeton was genuine, with this story of some pot of jam that they were supposed to have left on her. Well, maybe Angela had. This female was presumably giving the facts as she knew them and activated solely by a desire to help. She rose.
“You’ve been more than kind in coming here and I’m extremely grateful. I know how inaccurate and malicious village gossip can be. Or any gossip, for that matter. But it’s always better to be forewarned. I’m sorry if I seemed a little abrupt when you first arrived, but my housekeeper is out shopping and I was working”—she gestured towards the typewriter and the litter of papers on the desk—“and one gets immersed. It’s so difficult to switch one’s concentration. Particularly,” she smiled apologetically, and put her hand to her head, “when one has an extremely bad headache.”
