by Heron Carvic
“No, indeed,” Miss Seeton disclaimed. “I knew nothing. It was only afterwards, when I tried to sort out my impressions on paper, to draw you, it came out as Niobe.”
The silence that followed was so long that Miss Seeton decided that Mrs. Venning had forgotten her presence. Quite understandable. And very natural, too, that she should wish to be alone. Indeed, she herself would never have dreamed of intruding, only it did seem so important Mrs. Venning should know the truth. Should know that that poor girl hadn’t suffered. And had been in no way to blame. It might eventually, if only a little, ease the pain of remembering. She didn’t, of course, want to appear rude, but perhaps if she could just slide out of her chair and steal quietly away. Yes. That would be best. Poor woman. It was quite dreadfully sad. And one felt so useless. But it couldn’t be good for her to keep staring at the fire like that without blinking. So bad for the eyes. She was beginning to ease herself out of her chair, when the other spoke. Miss Seeton gave a guilty start and sat back.
“Niobe.” Mrs. Venning laughed harshly. “Near enough, I suppose. Though I had only one child and it wasn’t vanity that started the trouble. It was fear. All my mistakes have been due to fear. Like most people. David,” her voice lingered on the name. For a brief moment the harsh lines in her face softened. She looked young. “David,” she repeated, “was earning good money when he was killed in a car smash. We’d spent up to the hilt. The future seemed safe and we’d never thought of saving. Angela was two and I was untrained. Apart from a small insurance policy there was nothing. And I was frightened. Someone I had never met contacted me and offered me a way out. If I would start people on the drug habit—without them even realising what it was they had started—I would be paid so much a head.”
Miss Seeton caught her breath.
“Oh, it was put differently. Wrapped up in fine words. But that’s what it amounted to. The only person I cared about was gone. Why should I care about others? I agreed. It was easy enough. Be a little gayer than usual at a party and when anybody asked you how you managed it: ‘But, dahling,’ ” viciously she parodied the social manner of previous years, “ ‘haven’t you heard? These new pills, too terribly divine and happy-making. I’ll let you have a bottle.’ And I did. If anyone had a headache or was out of sorts: ‘But, dahling, so sad-making and unnecessary. You must try these new pills. Too madly herbal and harmless, I believe. But quite too miraculous. I’ll give you some.’ And I did. Each time I unloaded a bottle I was paid, very well paid, and given another one. No pressure was ever put on you to unload unless you wanted to. Or rather, unless you wanted the money. You never had to deal with any case a second time. You merely passed on the name and address of whoever you had given the pills to, and the organisation took over from there. The person in question was watched and when the time was ripe, they would casually meet somebody who could supply them with what they wanted—and stronger. The organisation knew they were safe enough. Even supposing you had second thoughts, you were bound to keep quiet for your own sake. They always chose people who had good social contacts and a certain position to keep up, but needed money.”
Miss Seeton shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Really, this was a quite appalling story. And so private. One felt very sorry for poor Mrs. Venning. And, obviously, she believed that her daughter’s death was in the nature of a retribution. Well, to be fair, Miss Seeton admitted, she herself though not in the least understanding, had sensed something of the kind. Should one say that one was quite sure that poor Mrs. Venning was in no way to blame—to blame, that is for her daughter’s death? Because, in other respects, even allowing for her difficult situation at the time and the temptation, one must confess that one was very much afraid that she was—to blame, that is. Then again, it was all so long ago. Surely it would be better not to dwell on it and, Miss Seeton repressed a sigh, most certainly not to speak of it. What could one say? And how could one tactfully, and without appearing unfeeling, suggest that one must be going? Miss Seeton, having thought herself to a standstill, lost her chance as Mrs. Venning continued:
“I was able to afford to engage my old nurse to help me in the flat and with Angela. One evening, when I went to tell Angela her bedtime story, she was still in her bath, and Mrs. Fratters was teaching her that nursery rhyme she’d taught me as a child: ‘Don’t care was made to care, Don’t care was hung. Don’t care was put in the pot And boiled till he was done.’ That night I was woken by David’s voice repeating over and over and over, ‘Don’t care was made to care, Don’t care was hung’. I didn’t go out for a week. Mrs. Fratters did all the shopping and I stayed in the flat, trying to decide what to do. I tried putting the stories I invented for Angela down on paper in book form. I was lucky. They were accepted. And successful. When the second book was taken, I felt safe enough to buy this place. I cut all connection with London and tried to start again. It might have worked, if I hadn’t still been afraid. Too afraid to throw away the next bottle of pills. Afraid not to keep it by me as insurance against a rainy day, just in case. I stuck it at the back of a medicine cupboard and after some years I forgot all about it. Last year Angela must have found it. Probably one of the times when I had to stay overnight in London for a session with my publishers. I began to notice that she was very gay, lighthearted—and I was glad. Then too gay, too many ups and downs—and I began to wonder. She was always running around with that awful crowd from the club. I suspected they might be introducing her to drugs, though I knew it couldn’t be marijuana—I’d have known. It made me remember that damned bottle and I decided to throw it out, for safety, then get her to a doctor, in case I was right, and find out what could be done. The bottle was gone. I was afraid to call in a doctor for fear of what might come out, what I might be accused of, above all afraid of Angela finding out what I had done in the past. I never even dared to question her. We never discussed it. I stupidly tried to control or cure her myself, by searching her things, by nagging her about where she went and with whom and why—setting her against me. Knowing all the time that it was I who was responsible. Knowing now that I’m responsible for her death. That was why, when you came waving one of those wretched bottles at me, I thought to begin with you were another poor fool like me. Then I was frightened you were from the police, come to test me in some way, to spy on me. I only realised afterwards, when I had time to think, that you couldn’t be. That it was just an idiotic coincidence.” For the first time she turned and spoke directly to her visitor. “Where did you get it?”
Miss Seeton was flustered. “That sort of phial thing with the headache tablets? Why, from my solicitor.”
“Then leave your solicitor and go to the police. Headache tablets!” She laughed with derision. “The old gags. They never fail. It’s too late for Angela. Too late for me. But not too late for you—and others. Go to the police.”
“Oh, but the police know,” Miss Seeton assured her earnestly. “I told them. Oh, not that they were drugs, of course,” she added hastily, “because, naturally, I didn’t know. And then I”—remembering how Mrs. Venning had slapped it from her hand—“I didn’t actually have the phial with me any more. You’re quite sure that they were? Drugs, I mean?”
“Quite sure. That bottle—phial, whatever you like to call it—was designed to be unremarkable, but unmistakable.”
“Well, of course,” Miss Seeton acknowledged, “I’m bound to say that I don’t really like him. I find him rather tiresome. But that a solicitor should . . . someone in a position of trust . . . Drugs . . . Somehow I find that quite shocking.” Quite shocked, Miss Seeton stood up.
Mrs. Venning rose. “Well, now that you do know, tell the police.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t do that,” protested Miss Seeton, “without involving you. And I wouldn’t dream of doing that. You’ve quite enough worries of your own.”
“You’re wrong. I’ve no worries any more. None. You will involve me in nothing. Tell them everything I’ve told you. It will probably save trouble.” She held out her hand. “Good
bye. And thank you. You’ve been kind. I apologise for having used you as a confessional.”
Miss Seeton took the outstretched hand. “There’s nothing I can do?” she asked tentatively. “Nothing I can get? No shopping?”
“No. Nothing, thank you. Wait—yes.” She went to the desk and picked up the manuscript for her publishers. “There’s this.” She handed the envelope to Miss Seeton. “If you’re going through the village, perhaps you’d be kind enough to take this to the post office. It will probably,” a bitter smile, “save delay.”
“With pleasure. But, please don’t come out. I can find my own way.” At the door, Miss Seeton stopped, worried. “You’re sure you’ll be all right.”
“Quite sure,” replied Mrs. Venning. “I’ve done with fear. I’ve nothing to be afraid of any more.”
People’s lives, reflected Miss Seeton. So terribly involved. And so sad. Of course most people would consider her own life humdrum and dull. But at least it wasn’t complicated, she decided with satisfaction. Though, whatever Mrs. Venning might say, she did not feel that she could tell the police that dreadful story. After all, what good could it do now? It was all over. And surely that poor woman had been punished enough. The less one discussed, or interfered in, other people’s affairs, the better. And with regard to Mr. Trefold Morton—well—that was rather difficult. After all, there was nothing definite. Only her own prejudice. And now something that she’d been told. And one did so dislike gossip. But perhaps if she dropped a hint to the superintendent that she’d been told—without mentioning names, of course . . . Didn’t the French have a word for it? Ah yes. An ondit . . . that he wasn’t very satisfactory. The superintendent already seemed interested in Mr. Trefold Morton, so he would probably find out anything there was to find out. If there was anything. Mr. Trefold Morton and the drug traffic disposed of, Miss Seeton entered the post office.
Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, who were on the point of leaving the same establishment, stopped, smiled, bowed and said “Good morning”.
How tiresome. One could not, of course, make a scene in public. One would have to smile and bow in return. Or, at least, nod. Miss Seeton looked straight through the two women, then deliberately turned her back. Oh dear. Now she’d been rude. But, thinking of Mrs. Venning and what those two dreadful women had said, she really could not bring herself to . . . oh dear. She crossed to that nice Mr. Stillman and handed him the envelope. As he took it from her to weigh it and check the postage, Miss Seeton found herself loth to relinquish it.
“There’s something wrong,” she murmured.
“No, nothing wrong,” Mr. Stillman assured her cheerfully, “in fact it’s overstamped.” Miss Seeton gazed at him, unseeing, shook her head, then hurried from the shop. Poor old thing, thought Mr. Stillman, all these goings-on had been too much for her. From what he’d heard, she’d have been better off to stay at Dr. Knight’s for a bit.
On The Street, Miss Seeton found herself at a loss. This was ridiculous. She’d go straight home. She turned and walked rapidly in the opposite direction.
“My dear Miss Seeton.” Both her hands were caught and held. “How fortunate. I’ve just been to Dr. Knight’s to see you and they told me you’d left already. Remarkable. The human frame is wonderfully elastic. But is it wise. I’m sure my sister would say the same. Rest, the great restorer. And while there I called at The Meadows. I’ve seldom met Mrs. Venning—not one of my congregation I fear—but, more important, one of my people. A tragic loss. Nothing I could say, but I felt bound to say it. I’m shocked to find that she’s away. The house is locked. She won’t have heard. What a home-coming. Perhaps my sister will know her address. Poor, silly child. Youth is so reckless. To go bathing late at night. If only I had been there. But I didn’t hear until this morning. And then you. To plunge to her rescue as you did, they tell me—a simple act of heroism. An example to us all,” declared the Reverend Arthur Treeves. He descended from the heights to shake his head and look severe. “If only some that I could name would follow your example. Other stories are going about. I am disturbed. Perversions of the truth. Malicious lies.” Emotion coloured his face and deepened his voice. “Ill-natured gossip is a wickedness that spreads like poison gas. I will not have it. I shall put my foot down and stamp upon it. I shall speak my mind.”
Miss Seeton stared blindly at the vicar. Of all the sincere and well-intentioned bumble but one word had penetrated. She pulled her hands away.
“Gas,” said Miss Seeton.
She moved quickly round him. She began to run.
chapter
~13~
MISS SEETON WAS NOT AT HER COTTAGE. Representatives from the newspapers were. News of the previous night’s events was spreading and the news hawks, who had withdrawn to hover with watchful eyes, were once more swooping to the attack. Martha Bloomer had kept them out of the cottage itself, but she was powerless to prevent them from flocking round the gate, pecking about the front garden and making occasional forays into the main garden at the back. The Battling Brolly was headlines again and it was understandable that editors and reporters alike should wish for some story, preferably based on fact, to follow in smaller print under the main heading. Such accounts as they had gleaned around the village were too libellous to print and too diverse to be anything but patently inaccurate. One piece of good fortune, shared equally between Miss Seeton and Dr. Knight’s nursing-home, was that news of her visitation there had not been disclosed.
Superintendent Delphick’s and Sergeant Ranger’s arrival at Sweetbriars was greeted with enthusiam, but their disappearance into the cottage without comment or statement was not so popular.
Martha had no idea where Miss Seeton was, but as she’d taken clean clothes round to the nursing-home for her the night before she’d probably be back for lunch. As for now, well—she might be shopping or with all this crowd round the cottage she might’ve gone somewhere.
The superintendent was in a quandary. It was essential that Mrs. Venning should be interviewed as well, but he came to the conclusion that Miss Seeton’s whereabouts must take precedence. A few discreet telephone calls having produced no results, Delphick and Bob decided that their only course was to seek information in the village.
At the post office, Mr. Stillman proved helpful. Yes, Miss Seeton had been in. She’d come in with something to post. Actually, he thought she was doing an errand for Mrs. Venning as the envelope was addressed to her publishers. Mrs. Venning’s publishers of course. And he knew the name because Mrs. Venning always posted her things here and the envelope was overstamped, as Mrs. Venning often did. Well, now that they came to ask him, Miss Seeton had seemed a bit vague. And was in a bit of a hurry when she left.
The vicar, who happened to be in the shop with his sister, added his quota. Yes, he had met dear Miss Seeton upon The Street; had stopped to have a word—to congratulate her, he could do no less, upon her heroism of last night. Remarkable at her age. And such a tragedy, too. And then, with Mrs. Venning not at home, that made it worse. It was to be hoped that she could be reached in time. But he would put a stop to it. Too much had happened, and a great deal too much had been said. It was his bounden duty . . . No, Miss Seeton had said nothing of her intentions. She had seemed—well, preoccupied.
“But what did she do?” demanded Delphick.
“Do?” answered the vicar. He was at a loss. “She didn’t do anything. She—just ran.”
Miss Treeves was exasperated. “Oh, Arthur, do pull yourself together. Where did she run?”
“Why, home, I suppose,” her brother told her. “Really remarkable. Most ladies, after a certain age, trot. But she was running. Running like a girl. Really remarkable.”
Delphick restrained himself and spoke as to a child. “You saw Miss Seeton run home?”
“Well, no. Not exactly home,” admitted the vicar. “She was going in the other direction.” Inspiration came to him. “She was going back to Dr. Knight’s, I expect.”
“And she didn’t spea
k to you?” asked Delphick.
“No,” replied the Reverend Arthur.
“Nonsense,” cried Miss Treeves. “Do try to think, Arthur. She must have said something.”
Her brother became fussed. “Now don’t muddle me, Molly. I don’t need to think. I’m perfectly clear about it. I tell you she didn’t say anything. At least only one word. And, quite obviously, she was thinking of something else.”
“What?” pressed Miss Treeves.
“What?” echoed Bob.
“What word?” urged Delphick.
“Gas,” said the vicar.
Outside the post office, Delphick and Bob instinctively looked for their car before remembering that on this occasion they were on foot. They began to run.
Miss Treeves, the vicar, Mr. Stillman and the rest of the customers surged on to The Street to join the crowd of villagers and reporters, grouped outside the shop. All watched the fleeing figures of the two detectives. They started to follow. They began to run.
Bob, with more length to his leg, more breath and less years to his credit than Delphick, won the race. The side door, next to the big wooden gates in the boundary wall of The Meadows, was open. Bob pounded through it, down the path by the garage, rounded the hedge, skidded to a crunching halt by the back door and looked down: broken glass, a broken umbrella and two heads with pink faces lying in the open doorway. He drew a deep breath, choked on the reeking gas fumes, then dragged the two bodies on to the path as Delphick panted into view.
“Leave—you, sir—hospital—quickest,” gasped Bob.
Delphick, no breath to waste on words, nodded and, holding his handkerchief to his face, plunged into the kitchen.
Having left his blown superior to throw open all the ground-floor windows and to pass on the news by telephone to Ashford, Bob’s re-emergence from the lane, on his way to the nursing-home, with Miss Seeton draped over one shoulder and Mrs. Venning slung over the other, was greeted with cheers by the villagers, shouts of approval from the Pressmen and flashes of light from the photographers.
