by Heron Carvic
Dr. Knight hurried into the room. One glance and he forced the distraught mother to a chair, stood across it, caught her arm and imprisoned it against his side.
“She drugged by accident,” the frantic voice babbled on, “that accident was mine, my fault, the fault was mine. She died by accident. Who’s accident was that? Not mine. Oh God, not mine.”
“In my bag, on top, the hypodermic in a tin box, cotton swabs and the bottle of spirit next to it, quickly, please.” The doctor’s calm voice was a moment of sanity. Lady Colveden fumbled, found them, held them ready. The doctor peeled back the sleeve, swabbed, filled the cylinder, inserted the needle and pushed the plunger home.
“Tell me,” the voice was screaming, “tell me, go on, tell me, murderer, whose accident was that?” The raving faded to a murmur and stopped.
Except for Mrs. Fratters’s helpless sobbing, silence across the room.
A nursing-home? There must be some mistake. Bob gaped at the rather plain little girl in pigtails who had paused half-way down the staircase to stare back at him in a moment of equal bewilderment. She pulled her dressing-gown tighter—not such a little girl as he’d supposed.
Not another accident? What a day. Well, at least they weren’t dripping blood all over the place—like that poor wretched ploughman this morning who’d cut half his finger off—Good Lord—it looked as if he’d got that Miss Seeton who’d called on the Hant female. Not dead. Or he wouldn’t have brought her here. And if there was no blood, they were certainly dripping. She ran back up the stairs, calling over her shoulder:
“Up here. First door on the right.”
His clothes and Miss Seeton’s umbrella under one arm, Miss Seeton herself cradled in the other, Bob went up after her. Entering the first door on his right he found that an electric fire had been switched on, the bars beginning to redden and a large bath towel laid in front of it. The plain girl with the pigtails was taking a nightdress and some small towels from a chest of drawers. On a table by the bed glowed the orange light of an adjustable electric top blanket. Bob dropped his clothes and the umbrella near the door and laid Miss Seeton on the carpet beside the towel. Working together with the silent efficiency of a practiced team, they stripped her, dried her and slipped her into the nightdress.
In the doorway, Dr. Knight stood watching them. “I would of course be the last to interfere if this is a purely private affair. However, should you need the services of a doctor at any time, don’t hesitate to call on me.”
The plain girl looked up with a smile. “Ah, there you are, Dad. Good. I was just coming for you as soon as we’d got her into bed. I think she’s all right. The breathing’s not bad and the pulse is quite strong, though a little fast.”
“Right. Anne. I’ll have a look at her. To save time, you might fetch my bag. Anything I want will be there. I’m sure that your probationer is quite strong enough, from the looks of him, to put the lady to bed on his own. I’ll be here to keep an eye on the proprieties and to see that he knows which end the head goes and technical points of that kind.”
Bob picked Miss Seeton up and laid her on the bed as Anne went out and the doctor leaned forward, pulled back an eyelid to examine the pupil, then felt the pulse. Anne came back with his bag. He took his stethoscope, listened to Miss Seeton’s chest, then straightened.
“Shall we turn her for you, Dad?”
“No-o. I don’t think that’s necessary. At a guess, I should say immersion followed by shock.” He took a hypodermic syringe from a box in his bag while Anne produced cotton wool and a bottle of spirit from a drawer in the bedside table and swabbed Miss Seeton’s upper arm. “A sedative,” the doctor went on as he injected, “that’s the best thing. She’ll sleep right through and that, with warmth, should take care of the shock. As to the immersion, I doubt there’ll be any complications, but at her age you can never be sure. We shall know tomorrow. Since it’s that Miss Seeton that everybody’s so interested in, I think, Anne, you should ring The George and Dragon and tell that superintendent fellow that we’ve got his lady friend here. You had better, perhaps, mention that it would appear that she had been bathing, unseasonably and unsuitably clad. And that he can see her tomorrow morning, but not before.”
“Right, Dad.” Anne crossed to a corner cupboard, collected a kidney-shaped white enamel bowl, took a hypodermic from it, dropped the used one in its place, clipped the fresh one into her father’s case and slipped it into his bag. Carrying the bowl, she turned to the door as the telephone rang.
“Blast!” said Dr. Knight.
“Shall I take it, Dad?”
“No, my dear. I’d better go and learn the worst. It’s bound to be somebody giving birth to a clowder of kittens. It always is. And they always do—after hours. And the later, the bigger the litter,” he called back as he sped down the stairs.
Anne became conscious of Bob staring at her and embarrassment made her brisk. “I was on the point of having a bath when you arrived. You’d better take it over, it’ll only need some more hot water. If you like to bring your clothes, I’ll show you where the bathroom is.” She picked up Miss Seeton’s sodden garments, balancing the enamel bowl on top.
It dawned on Bob, in horrid revelation, that he was not dressed—not dressed at all—for a social occasion. As his face flamed and he bent to retrieve his clothes, he had a moment’s fleeting thankfulness that he didn’t wear those rather tight triangular briefs that were so fashionable. At least his own loose undershorts were decent. He glanced down. But not, he realised, when wet. His colour mounting to a rich shade of petunia, he dropped his clothes, grabbed the towel from the floor and pulled it round his waist. He hung Miss Seeton’s umbrella on the door and recovered his clothes. Anne watched him with an expression of grave interest, but Bob caught the glint of laughter in her eyes.
“Of course,” she remarked, “I don’t know if you can talk. But so long as you can understand . . .” Bob sweated and cleared his throat, preparing to apologise—to explain—to say . . . what on earth could he say? “Don’t try,” Anne reassured him kindly. “There’s no need to speak. It’s just nice to know that you probably could. If you wanted to. Come along.”
She closed the door behind them and set off down the passage, Bob following: a leviathan in tow to a tiny tug.
With Bob settled in the bathroom, she disposed of Miss Seeton’s clothes and the basin, then repaired to her bedroom where she rang The George and Dragon, left a message, sat down at her dressing-table and looked at her reflection.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
And again, damn.
Her face was hopeless, of course, but her hair was pretty and her figure good. It would be just her luck, concluded Anne as she studied her reflection with distaste, that the former should be screwed up in pigtails for a bath, while the latter was hidden under pyjamas and a serviceable but shapeless dressing-gown. She pulled the offending ribands out of her hair, brushed it, dressed quickly, choosing something red that clung, then ran downstairs.
A drink. And a snack. Perhaps coffee? He must have something after plunging about in the canal, or the pond, or wherever—or he’d catch a cold. Her mother had gone with friends to the cinema in Brettenden and wouldn’t be back yet, so she was free to forage. She noted her father’s message on the telephone-pad by the hall extension. “Gone Vennings,” wondered briefly what was up, dismissed it and continued on her way to the kitchen. Once there, she paused. What would a snack be for someone of that size? A whole ham, a loaf of bread and suet pudding to follow? She began to put things on the trolley. Slices of ham, mustard, pickles, bread, butter, cheese and a jam-tart That should do. She pushed the trolley into the sitting-room, plugged in the percolator, put out the drinks and, hearing Bob on the stairs, went into the hall. The front door opened and her father came in followed by the superintendent.
Just her luck.
chapter
~11~
MANY OF THE villagers had a busy and satisfying evening. Facts were plentiful, fancies ab
ounded and rumours flew.
Miss Seeton was missing, gone off in a car—fact. The sound of shots had been heard—fact. Nigel Colveden, with his mother, had raced down The Street, hotly pursued by the police—fact. The Vennings’ car was smashed against a tree by the pond on The Common—fact. An ambulance had driven away from the scene of the crash—fact. Lady Colveden had driven in the opposite direction accompanied by a man without a stitch on—fact. Nigel Colveden was in a police car with the superintendent from London—fact. Two police cars were drawn up by the pond and the officers refused to allow anybody near—fact.
Nigel Colveden was under arrest—not exactly a fact, but what other explanation could there be? Angela Venning was drunk and had driven off the road with several of her friends from the club; they were all in the ambulance—well, if not a fact, it was only too likely, wasn’t it? There were things by the pond too horrible to be seen—must be a fact, surely. There’d been a gun battle on the Common—an audible fact. Miss Seeton had fled—evidently a fact. Lady Colveden was old enough to know better—an undisputed fact.
Miss Seeton had fled; possibly to London; probably abroad. Miss Seeton had caused the accident, attacked Angela Venning and her friends and, always ready with that revolver of hers, had shot three and wounded one; the bodies had been taken away in the ambulance. The bodies were laid out in a row by the edge of the pond and guarded by police; the ambulance had rushed a wounded man to the Ashford Hospital for a blood transfusion. There had been a moonlight bathing party which the police had raided; Lady Colveden had got away with Nigel, but without his clothes. Lady Colveden had absconded with one of the men. Angela Venning and one, two, three of her friends had been drowned and taken away by ambulance. Angela Venning had crashed her car trying to escape and she and two, three, four of her friends had been rushed to the Ashford hospital, by ambulance, in a critical condition. Miss Seeton had made a getaway driving the ambulance. Miss Seeton had been found drugged in the pond and had been taken away by ambulance. Miss Seeton was still in the pond, refusing to come out and the police were on the bank trying to persuade her. Nigel Colveden had been arrested: for fighting Miss Seeton; for fighting Angela and her friends; for fighting the police; for indecent exposure.
It was deplorable. It was tragic. It was shocking.
Admittedly all these allegations were but kite-flying. However, they were worth the enjoyment spent on them, since there was the knowledge, born of experience, that with a little tailoring here and a touch of embroidery there a fair proportion of them would be deemed to have achieved factual status by the morning.
Most of the police had a busy, if not wholly satisfying, night. Delphick blamed himself. He should have cottoned on to the fake accident. He should not have allowed the body to be moved, nor let people trample the ground, until the police surgeon and the murder squad had arrived. He should have found Miss Seeton earlier. He should have been able with luck to get a statement from her.
“She said nothing, Bob? Nothing at all?”
“No, sir. Not really. She was trying to say something. I think it was about her school. Exams, perhaps. It sounded like Grade A. Then Ball—it was more like Football, really, but it couldn’t have been that. Then Must—or Just. Then her eyes opened and she suddenly looked scared silly and passed out cold.”
He should not have allowed the killer time to get clear before a call could be put out. He should have broken the news to Mrs. Venning himself. He should not have allowed Dr. Knight to put the only two possible witnesses incommunicado until morning. Above all, he should have managed somehow to have been in three places at once.
“Stop beefing, Oracle, about all the might-have-beens and the never-looked-like-its. Start counting your blessings for a change.” Chief Detective Inspector Brinton of the Ashford Criminal Investigation Department picked up a small pile of papers and began to deal them face upward on to his desk, as if preparing for a game of solitaire. “Now, the Venning girl first.” He took the top of three overlapping sheets. “A preliminary canter from our medic. ‘Time of death . . .’ Well, we know that near enough. ‘Cause of death. Fracture of left temporal area and a fracture-dislocation of the left cervical vertebrae . . .’—all that the Latin for she died of a hole in the head, or a broken neck—or both. ‘There are also signs of contusions around both ankles . . .’—chummy probably gripped her by ’em. ‘Marks on both thighs give a strong suggestion of the use of a hypodermic needle: may well have been a drug addict . . .’—all this, of course, is subject to the usual ifs and buts and why can’t we wait for a proper post mortem—except that he’d call it autopsy because it’s more difficult to pronounce—when he’d tell all.” The chief inspector considered the next paper. “Ah, yes, our Scientific Branch. Clever lot. Write Greek. Latents on steering-wheel and door—What’s the poor twit think he’s talking about? If it’s latent it’s damn well invisible. He probably thinks Latent is the Chinese for fingerprint. I’m all for science, but save me the jargon. I’d be in favour of a computer if I wasn’t afraid it’d give me the answers in Arabic. What it boils down to is: the girl’s dabs on the car, padlock and garage door are mostly overlaid by smudges—so chummy wore gloves and was probably driving.” He pushed the paper aside and looked at the next. “Ah, yes. The car. Nothing wrong with it. No brake failure or what-have-you. No skid marks on road. So it was deliberately driven off the road and into the tree. But not very hard. Just enough to mess up the front a bit. Chummy wanted it to look like an accident, but was careful not to hurt himself. Oh, and—yes—a woman’s hat, crushed under the near front wheel.
Sergeant Ranger sat up. “That was Miss Seeton’s.”
“Was it? Didn’t you say, Oracle, that she was fit to be tied because they mucked up her titfer when they bagged her in the sack?”
Delphick grinned. “Yes. I think it was what annoyed her most.”
“On recent form she’d do better with a crash helmet.” He glanced at the next set of papers. “Trefold Morton. Looks like you’ve hooked a tidy fish there. We picked him up for you at his friend’s house and bunged him over to Brettenden to cool off. The inspector wanted to bring him here, but I said no, I thought he’d do better in his home town. Very impressed the inspector was and said, ‘Ah, yes. Bringing psychological pressure to bear’, which is French for using your nut.”
“How’s he coming along, Chris?” asked Delphick.
“Morton? Oh, quite nicely, I think. Very blustery to start with, but the wind’s dying down a bit now.” He pushed the top paper to one side. “I had a chat with Brettenden on the phone half an hour ago and they think he’s beginning to come apart at the seams. Anyway they’ll sit with him and hold his hand till you want him. By which time he should be ready to sob it all out on your shoulder. Particularly if you find anything in his office or in his house.” Brinton scanned the next note. “That’s all laid on. I rang Sir George Colveden. He’ll have the search warrants ready and you can pick them up on your way back. He sounded delighted. At a meeting and missed all the fun earlier on, I gather.”
“Yes,” agreed Delphick, “but luckily he was back by the time I took young Colveden home. I felt sorry for that boy. He’s a trier. Your first corpse is no fun; especially when you’re young and it was someone you knew. I made him drive me. Not strictly according to regulations perhaps, but it helped to keep his mind on the road, instead of other things. His father should be able to sort him out. They’re a close family.”
“One more thing about Morton.” The chief inspector prodded another piece of paper. “Remember, Oracle, you rang me from the Yard about The Singing Swan?”
“I did. On a tip-off from Miss Seeton.”
“It would be. That woman gets her umbrella into everything. Well, I told you that we’d raided once or twice, but were pretty sure that they’d caught the whisper. We’ve found where the leak was. Or rather it’s up and found us. When Morton was taken into the station at Brettenden, one of the local flat-feet said, well, good gracious him. If it weren�
��t Councillor Trefold Morton—him that was always on about what a disgrace The Singing Swan was. It came out that every time we were going to raid, this idiot in uniform proudly told Morton, to show how on the ball we were and because he didn’t like criticism of the force. Well, he’s now learning all about criticism of the force at first hand.” Brinton leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Well, that’s the lot, I think. I suppose you two want to get weaving if you’re ever to get to bed tonight, though I wouldn’t give much for your chances. By the way, Sergeant”—he eyed Bod severely—“what’s this note from the ambulance men, that you were gambolling about Plummergen Common in female company and driving round the countryside all starkers?”
Bob’s face flamed. “I was all wet, sir,” he explained.
“I see.” The chief inspector nodded. “Well, I won’t argue with you, you should know and they say self-knowledge is the first step to wisdom.”
“Lay off him, Chris,” laughed Delphick. “If it hadn’t been for Bob and his skin-diving act, we should have lost Miss Seeton.”
“Quite. Well, I haven’t met the lady myself, but before she came we just had nice quiet larcenies, dopings, muggings and the like. But since her arrival, it’s been shootings, abductions and now murders—the lot. I suppose you wouldn’t like to take her back to London with you and give us all a rest?”
“I believe she’s considering settling down in Plummergen, Chris,” Delphick told him cheerfully.
“She is, is she? Well, at the rate she’s going we’d do better to call in the army and settle for martial law. Break Morton down if you can, Oracle. At the moment he’s only assisting us. But if we’re to hold him we’ll have to work out what charges. I’ll stay put till you’re through with him. Even it it means dossing down here for the night.”
Delphick and Bob Ranger drove from Ashford to Plummergen, called at Rytham Hall for the search warrants, then dropped in at Sweetbriars.
