by Heron Carvic
Delphick got up, restless, and began to pace the office. “It’s whittling down. But as regards the Goffer child, it’s time we’re up against and that’s what worries me. Though she should be all right for the moment with your fancy-dress bodyguard. I’m a little worried about Miss Seeton too.”
“About her?” The chief inspector was surprised. “I don’t see there’s anything to worry about there. And from what I’ve heard of her, if any chummies did take it into their heads to tackle her, they’re likely to end up in hospital with a brolly through their linen basket.”
The superintendent at the window watched the Ashford traffic unseeing. “It may be a bit farfetched, but I had a word with your village P.C., Potter. He’s pretty bright, and his wife keeps her ear to the ground, works on church councils or something. The local idiots seem to’ve decided that Miss Seeton masterminded the raid in league with young Hosigg, then either double-crossed him and pinched the money herself or else staged the whole of her post-office act to cover his getaway and hold up pursuit.”
“But there wasn’t any money,” protested Brinton, “only one postal order.”
“I know. But that doesn’t suit the village. They feel they’ve been made to look ridiculous in the eyes of the world. And the Forby’s articles in the Negative haven’t helped—and of course they blame poor Miss Seeton for those too. And for the fact that Forby’s down here at all. They also blame her for our being about the place. In which of course they’re right, but for the wrong reasons. Anyway, they’ve decided that large sums were stolen—I gather the postmaster gave a pretty convincing performance—because they feel that large sums are better for their civic pride.”
“And where’s the money supposed to be?”
“Oh, Miss Seeton’s got it. Or, one of their brighter suggestions, she’s got half and I’ve got the other half on condition I keep quiet.”
Brinton guffawed. “I like that. I like that a lot. Can’t I have a share? After all, as regards the raid, we’ve been doing most of the work down here. But I get what you mean. If the raiders hear it—and believe it—they’ll be after her to get their oodle back.”
“That,” agreed Delphick, “is why I’m a bit worried.”
So very fortunate. And, really, not painful at all. Though, of course, one’s mouth still felt peculiar. Still, better than toothache. And, in any case, wisdom teeth were quite unnecessary. The dentist in London had warned her last year that he thought it was impacted, whatever that meant, and that if it gave her trouble it should come out. Well, it had—and now it was. She had found Mr. Geldson’s name and address among Cousin Flora’s papers, but dentists were always so busy she had been afraid it would have to wait until another day. But, no. On the phone Mr. Geldson had said at once that for any relative of Mrs. Bannet’s he would manage somehow and, that if she could get over to Rye during the afternoon he would fit her in late. By catching the morning bus into Brettenden and having lunch there she had got here all right and the thing had been done. But now she would have to wait nearly three hours for a bus back. The eight-thirty would get her to Brettenden just in time to catch the evening bus back to Plummergen. She had rather hoped, with time on her hands, to have a look round Rye, such a charming old town, but Mr. Geldson had said no. He advised her not to open her mouth in the street and to keep indoors as much as possible so as to avoid catching a cold in the cavity, and had suggested that she should have a light meal somewhere and to take one of the two tablets he had given her, so that the tooth or, rather, to be accurate, the lack of it should not be painful when the injection wore off. The other tablet she was to take when she went to bed. Mr. Geldson had warned her that the tablets might incline one to feel a little drowsy and, on no account, must one take them with spirits. Well—that wasn’t very likely.
This should do. Teas and Light Refreshments. She would have china tea, if they had it, an omelet and some toast—no, perhaps, in the circumstances, bread and butter would be wiser.
With some difficulty in enunciation, the meal was ordered, the omelet arrived, and Miss Seeton embarked upon it. The first forkful missed its mark.
Really, it was all very well Mr. Geldson saying “Have a light meal” but she didn’t feel he quite appreciated the difficulties. After all, if one couldn’t be sure where one’s mouth was—and even less sure whether it was open or shut . . . Perhaps if she tried on the other side and used her left hand. By the end of the omelet Miss Seeton had become quite expert, following each forkful with a quick administration of bread and butter. It was so much easier to tell where one was going with the hand rather than with the fork. Tea was really very awkward indeed. She managed a few sips, sufficient to wash down the tablet, then gave it up in embarrassment. Actually, Mr. Geldson’s suggestion of a cinema was a wise one. One probably did not, in fact, look as grotesque as one felt, but in a cinema, where it would be dark, one would be less self-conscious. And it would, presumably, be warm. Miss Seeton paid her bill and went in search of entertainment.
Sheba. This should be interesting. One read so much about the accurate research they did on these historical films. In the darkened auditorium Miss Seeton stumbled over several invisible bodies and settled down in a vacant seat. How very convenient. There was a clock over some doors marked EXIT. She could keep an eye on it and if she left here at eight-fifteen it would give her ample time to get to the bus stop just down the road.
There was a loud clash of cymbals. On the screen appeared a long train embroidered with peacock feathers, which hung from the shoulders of a very blonde young lady who was standing at some distance.
“The Queen of Sheba, O King Solomon,” declaimed a voice, “desires your acceptance of a few trifling gifts that she’s brought.”
The screen changed to a string of camels with several colored gentlemen, wearing loincloths, unstrapping large wooden chests and wicker hampers. These they carried with some difficulty toward an imposing palace. Miss Seeton nodded with satisfaction. So accurate: the long train of camels bearing many precious gifts. She settled farther down in her seat. It was beautifully warm in here and her mouth wasn’t worrying her at all. Mr. Geldson had been quite right. She felt very relaxed. The colored gentlemen with the luggage skirted the main entrance to the palace and disappeared through a small door at the side. How odd. She wondered vaguely where they’d gone. Some sort of tradesmen’s entrance probably. The very blonde young lady appeared again, much closer now. Blonde? But one would have expected that, as Queen of Saba—which, if she remembered correctly, was in South Arabia, near the Persian Gulf—the lady would have been comparatively dark-skinned. Or, at all events, dark-haired. But then, of course, many people thought of Cleopatra as a dark Egyptian, whereas the Ptolemies had, in fact, been almost pure Greek. Perhaps something of the same sort applied here. Also the peacock feathers struck her as strange. Miss Seeton blinked a little to bring the picture into focus. After all, the tail feathers of a peacock were a male perquisite and, since the Sabian religion worshipped the sun, moon, and stars, an embroidery of astronomical signs would have seemed more appropriate. She must borrow an encyclopedia from the library in Brettenden and look it up. The very blonde young lady raised an arm and smiled. Miss Seeton smiled in sympathy. Such a comfort, just at the moment, to see someone who evidently had no trouble with her teeth.
“Hail, Saarlyman,” nasalized the very blonde young lady. “I’ve heard great reports of your wisdom, that it is the greatest, so I’ve come to test you,” said the very blonde young lady.
The majestic figure of the king rose from his seat. Miss Seeton sank in hers. The king’s face swam forward, huge, dominating. Miss Seeton blinked again. It remained a little blurred. Hooded eyes languished at her. Sensuous lips invited her.
“Your wisdom yet but sleeps,” declared King Solomon. “Come, I will awake you.”
Miss Seeton ignored the summons. Miss Seeton slept.
Where’s Miss S? Gee, what in God’s . . .? Mel Forby peered through a window of Sweetbriars at
the ransacked living room. She tried the front door. Locked. She glanced through the window beyond into the small room opposite. The same. She spun and ran back to the George and Dragon.
Where’s Miss Seeton? What the hell . . .? Bob Ranger stood in the doorway of Miss Seeton’s sitting room and gazed at the mess. He had just returned from doing the rounds, asking questions, when that reporter woman had panted into the pub with the news. Followed by Mel, he had hurried round the cottage to find the back door locked but the window next to it open, a pane broken. Too small for him, he had boosted Mel through it and she, careful to touch nothing, had stepped across the jumbled kitchen into the passage, eased herself round the heavy oak door to the cupboard under the stairs of which the contents, a miscellany of coats, suitcases, brushes, cleaning materials and a vacuum cleaner, littered the floor and, finding the front door to be barred but not locked, had drawn the bolts and let him in. A slow burn began inside Bob. Privately he might think that the Oracle’s MissEss was a bit off, he might have his own doubts about her. But that didn’t give others a right to criticize her, let alone, be damned sure, anything like this. He ran upstairs. It was the same: cupboards opened, drawers pulled out, the contents spilled onto the floor, rugs thrown aside, carpets ripped back, pillows and cushions slashed. He went back to the living room and, using a handkerchief, picked up the telephone. Fingerprints—what a hope. He got through to Delphick at Ashford.
“Very good, sir. I’ll wait till you get here and phone round Dr. Knight’s, the Colvedens’, the Treeves’ and anybody else to see if I can get a line on her.”
“Where’s Miss Seeton? What on earth . . .?” “Where’s Miss Seeton? What in heaven’s name . . .?” “Bit of a shambles, what?” “Where . . .?” “What . . .?” And why?
Bob Ranger was beginning to feel like an attendant at a preview. Lady Colveden and Anne Knight had proved too much for him and, upon promise to disturb nothing, had gone over the cottage with paper and pencils talking notes as if preparing to bid at an auction, and had then retired to confer with Miss Treeves. Outside, in the fading daylight, the villagers were gathering, intrigued by the activity, brightly speculative. “Stabbed she’s been, I doubt above a dozen times.” “Done a bunk, like to be, with the post-office wad.” “Her throat cut right through near enough.” “Mutilated.” “Makes you wonder.” “Too horrible, of course, but what can you expect? I’ve always said . . .”
Where’s MissEss? What the devil . . .? A flick of wry humor shot through Delphick’s mind. That confounded nickname had popped up unexpectedly from his subconscious. With the scientific squad that had followed him from Ashford he made a thorough examination of the cottage. No classic clues presented themselves. No footprints, no cigarette stubs, or even ash, no torn scraps of paper with half a name and address, and of course no fingerprints. The knife used for slashing the cushions and mattress was from the kitchen. On the credit side, there was no sign of any struggle, though that proved nothing. The affair had all the earmarks of an unhurried but fruitless search and the superintendent sent the squad back to Ashford with several envelopes full of probably useless dust and fluff and two dark hairs, one found on the sofa in the sitting room and one on the floor in the bedroom, which looked to be from a human scalp and which might, or might not, prove something provided that they had no innocent explanation and provided that they ever found a head to which to match them. An inventory taken with Martha Bloomer produced the information that: shoes, she couldn’t be sure; and gloves she didn’t know; but that big handbag of hers, well more like a hold-all, really, that was missing; and one of her hats, the one with the bit that stuck up on top which you couldn’t mistake, that was gone; and so was her winter coat; the key to the kitchen door and the key to the door in the garden wall, they were gone too; and so, of course, was her brolly. Delphick felt comforted. It looked as if Miss Seeton had left under her own steam for wherever she’d gone and that the intruder or intruders had either watched her go or had arrived by chance in her absence. Most likely climbed over the low wall down by the hen houses, broken in, searched at leisure, and left by the way they’d come back on to the footpath by the canal. Somehow the umbrella clinched it. If abduction had been in question, he couldn’t see even Miss Seeton insisting on taking her umbrella with her, nor could he imagine anyone with any knowledge of her reputation being so foolhardy as to allow her to do so. Nothing appeared to have been stolen but then there was nothing of any great value to attract thieves. No, on the whole, he thought his first guess had been right. It was the post-office raiders after what Chris called their oodle. And for that the villagers’ passion for sensation was largely to blame.
The Colvedens arrived accompanied by Anne Knight in Sir George’s enormous station wagon with an assortment of cushions, pillows, and a mattress. Miss Treeves came over from the vicarage to help and the cottage began to hum with activity. Martha fetched her husband, Stan, who cut a piece of glass from a spare cloche in the toolshed and repaired the kitchen window. A sibilance at the front door announced Miss Wicks.
“I shan’t stop, but they said all poor Miss Seeton’s things had been stolen and I wanted to be of some assistance so I brought my silk shawl in case it should be of service.”
Lady Colveden was touched. She knew that the Chinese shawl was the old lady’s most cherished possession, always worn at afternoon tea parties. But why should someone who whistled on their esses always choose such unfortunate words? And why, for one’s own part, in conversation with Miss Wicks, should every word in the English language suddenly begin with ess? She braced herself. Not an ess would she utter.
“It’s really very good of you indeed. I’m sure Miss Seeton . . .?” Betrayed, she floundered.
Molly Treeves came to her aid. “How very, very kind of you, Miss Wicks. Miss Seeton is certain . . .” In her turn she wavered.
“To be much moved,” finished Lady Colveden.
In a glow of pleasure the old lady departed.
It should have been pandemonium, reflected Delphick. But it wasn’t. Drawers had been repacked and put back, cupboards tidied and closed. Bob had been organized to tack carpets, to fetch and carry. All damaged articles were neatly stacked in the station wagon with a list ready for the insurance. Upstairs Lady Colveden and Anne Knight were remaking the bed on a fresh mattress. Downstairs new cushions were in place and Miss Treeves, having straightened the rugs, was vacuuming up feathers. In the kitchen Martha, whose panacea for all troubles was food, was making a stew—“she might want it tonight and if not it’ll do for tomorrow’s lunch regardless and all the better for staying over.” At the kitchen sink Mel Forby, helped by Nigel Colveden, on whom the luminous, softly shadowed eyes copied from Miss Seeton’s impression of her were evidently making an impression of their own, sliced onions, scraped carrots, peeled potatoes. Extraordinary, mused Delphick. People of good will producing order out of chaos with no fuss, in no time.
In the sitting room Sir George Colveden, with a large-scale map of the district spread on a table, had set up his divisional headquarters. Delphick had telephoned to Ashford and apprised the chief inspector of the situation. They had agreed that on the face of it there was nothing to worry about. Miss Seeton would almost certainly return on the last bus. Should she fail to do so they would alert patrols and institute a search. Further telephone calls made it appear unlikely that she had taken a train to London. At all events she had not been to her flat, nor to the school. And in any case she’d’ve been sure to tell Martha Bloomer of any such intention. The superintendent crossed the room to examine Sir George’s plan of campaign. On the map a circle with a five-mile radius had been drawn with Plummergen as its centre. The circle was quartered. Neat tracings had been taken of each quarter with, below, the make and registration number of the car allotted to that segment, the name of the driver, the name of the passenger. Nigel Colveden, he saw, was paired with the Forby. He frowned. Pity there was no way of keeping her out of this. The last thing they wanted was the press.
“Your son’s got his own car then?”
“Gave him m’wife’s little M.G. he was always borrowing. She’s got a small Hillman now. More suitable.”
Lady Colveden and Miss Treeves. Arthur Treeves with Sir George.
“Isn’t the vicar a little old for this sort of thing?” he asked.
Sir George grunted. “Mad keen. If I don’t take him we’ll have the padre going off into the blue on his push-bike. Forget what he was doing after ten minutes. We’ll’ve enough on our plate without having to round him up as well.”
Bob was going with Anne Knight in the car she shared with her mother. Well, he’d agreed to that. It was a good idea as long as they kept their minds on the job, which, knowing them, they would. He himself would stay with the police car at the George and Dragon, in touch with Ashford and the patrols, and stand by ready to head in any direction if there was news. It’d be waste of a man to immobilize Bob as well. Delphick picked up a separate sheet marked POLICE: FOR USE OF. It listed the names of the cars, their sectors and occupants. You had to hand it to the military. When it came to planning they knew their job.
