by Heron Carvic
“Thank you, Sir George. This should save the patrols some unnecessary stopping and questioning. Though let’s hope none of this will be needed.”
“No. But if wanted, better to have it laid on. We don’t want to boob, with a last-minute shambles and the cars all swanning around over the same ground. If she’s not back on the bus, cars take off at twenty-two hours. And pack it in at o-thirty sharp. Two and a half hours’s long enough for amateurs to concentrate in the dark. After that, sure to be an accident.”
chapter
~6~
“WE TURN LEFT HERE. Then straight on along a curly bit. And then left again.” Miss Treeves snapped off the flashlight as Lady Colveden followed the directions.
They had driven slowly to the northern limit of their sector and were now on the first return lap. They had seen no one on foot, one man on a bicycle, seven cars, and stopped twice to examine dark shadows which had proved to be dark shadows. Miss Treeves watched the shoulder, Lady Colveden watched the road. She hoped—she did so hope—nothing had happened. It couldn’t have. The poor little thing must have gone somewhere and forgotten the time. But, if so, how would she get back? And it was so cold.
There was a loud clash of cymbals. Miss Seeton stirred. Through the mists of sleep voices murmured, pictures flickered. Miss Seeton shook her head to clear it and concentrated on the screen. A face swam forward, huge, dominating. Miss Seeton blinked in surprise. Hooded eyes languished at her. Sensuous lips invited her.
“Your wisdom yet but sleeps,” declared the face. “Come, I will awake you.”
Miss Seeton obeyed the summons. Miss Seeton sat up straight.
What a relief. For a moment she was almost afraid that she had dropped off. But, no, she remembered now. It was King Solomon and she’d seen him do it before. Before . . .? She glanced at the clock over the exit doors. She shook her head again; looked again. Surely, it couldn’t be, twenty to eleven. Oh dear, how truly dreadful. She must have slept right through the picture and round again. She jumped to her feet, stumbled over the three remaining patrons in her row, and hurried up the aisle. At the bus stop she read the timetable. It offered no hope until morning. What should she do? So extremely careless of her. Go to a hotel? But she’d nothing with her, not even a toothbrush. Remembering the cavity, she closed her mouth. Hire a taxi? But from where? And, in any case, surely it would be very expensive. Opposite her a signpost suggested London, Sevenoaks, Tunbridge Wells. Miss Seeton was turning away when a smaller arm to the post, pointing down a decline, caught her attention. It read: PLUMMERGEN 5¾ MILES. Of course, that way must lead to the road by the canal which ran by the bottom of her garden. Should she? And, then again, could she? Five and three-quarter miles. It was so like material in the old days which had never sounded so extravagant at five-eleven-three as it would have done at six shillings. But, even so, it was very far. But, again. Surely, distances between places were always measured from the centre. In the same way as London always meant Hyde Park Corner. Or was it Piccadilly? She was already on what one might call the outskirts of Rye, which would, in that case, make a difference of a mile or so. And at Plummergen her garden went right down to the canal, so that she was really nearer than it. Nearer than Plummergen, she meant. And that should make a difference. Well, not so much of a difference in a tiny village, but something. So, all in all, the distance between where she stood and where she lived should be considerably less than that given on the signpost. Shouldn’t it? Encouraged, Miss Seeton fished inside her handbag. Yes, she had her little flashlight. After all, when one got to the canal it was quite straight, so presumably the road was too. A year ago, one must admit, one wouldn’t have considered it, but things had changed. Or, rather, to be precise, she had. There was no question, in spite of the fact that many of the positions were strange and even embarrassing, that that book Yoga and Younger Every Day had made a big difference. Really she was very grateful to the advertisement which had seemed to jump at her from the newspaper: ARE YOUR KNEES STIFF? Well, they had been. And now they weren’t. So she might just as well put them to good use. Besides, a brisk walk—well, perhaps not too brisk. After all, it was quite far. But a good steady walk—would help the circulation and keep her warm. Miss Seeton crossed the road and started down the short, steep slope that led to the road below. Yes, she would be perfectly all right. She had her warm coat on and, in any case, it was better than standing about because, as one had begun to realize, it was very cold.
“Are you sure, Sir George, that Miss Seeton will be on this road?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Arthur Treeves was puzzled. He gave the matter thought. “Wouldn’t it be better then perhaps if we went somewhere she would be?”
“It would, padre, if we knew where.”
“Yes. Of course, I see.” Though Arthur Treeves did not. An owl swooped across the road. The vicar swung round in excitement. “Long, I think—yes, I really think long-eared, don’t you?”
Sir George drove on. Hoped that little woman was all shipshape. Under cover somewhere. Cold night. And very windy.
Plummergen may be an odd five miles from Rye, but the distance was presumably judged by a crow in a hurry and, although Miss Seeton might share the crow’s impatience, she had neither its sense of direction nor its wings. The road is for ground traffic with no need for haste. It is bumpy, it wanders, returns on its tracks, it meanders, until it forks sharp right over a bridge for the beginning of the canal road. The canal may be straight. The road is not. It has straight stretches, on one side the ground drops a sheer ten feet or so to the canal, on the other wherever the land rises the road takes the line of least resistance and veers toward the canal in hairpin loops. It is narrow, with no room for passing, and even a pedestrian, on the approach of a car and according to where they meet, will have to take to the grass, to the water, or climb a bank. By the time Miss Seeton had reached the bridge the light from her small flashlight was down to bulb-glow. She dropped it into her handbag. Never mind, although it had taken rather longer to get here than one had expected, it should be quite straight now. After all, one’s eyes soon became accustomed to the dark and one should be able to see outlines. She must be careful to keep to the right-hand side of the road because, although the canal was only a few feet wide, the banks to it, she remembered, were very steep and one didn’t want to miss one’s footing. Especially since now one was out in the open it really was very windy.
On the road back from New Romney, Sergeant Ranger slowed the car almost to a stop. Anne Knight peered through the side window. No, it was a tree trunk lying near the hedge. He accelerated and changed gear. Wherever she’d got herself to he hoped Miss Seeton was all right. It was cold and windy and—he switched on the windshield wipers—it was beginning to rain.
Really, with such a strong wind, one was so very fortunate to have it behind one, helping one along. But—how tiresome—it was beginning to rain. Miss Seeton put up her umbrella. She came upon the first of the loops unexpectedly, faltered and the wind, ever helpful, caught her umbrella and sent her trotting smartly round it. Miss Seeton plowed on her way. The wind grew stronger, the rain heavier, Miss Seeton wetter. Light glowed ahead outlining another bend in the road. A car coming. Oh dear, there was no room. And they wouldn’t be able to see her till too late. Where could she . . .? Perforce she scrambled up the bank. Slowly the light grew stronger. Slowly a car rounded the curve. Slowly the little M.G., Nigel Colveden straining to see through the driving rain and Mel Forby trying to look through the streaming window, passed below her. Slowly the taillights dwindled.
• • •
No news. Delphick fretted. The landlord of the George and Dragon had placed his office at the superintendent’s disposal and had muted the telephone bell before going to bed. Where could she have gone? Delphick was certain that his reading of the situation at the cottage had been right: that she had left before it had been ransacked. It seemed too much of a coincidence to suppose that she could have met up with the raiders l
ater, though with her propensity for walking into and out of trouble almost anything was possible. But when was she going to walk in out of this? It was after midnight and Sir George’s battalions would be returning. If any of them had had anything to report they’d have come back earlier or have phoned. Sir George’s idea at best had been a worthwhile but a way-out chance. No proper search could be organized till daylight. Up to a point he felt responsible. It was he who’d drawn her into the case, though he could hardly be held to account for her antics at the post office. Why couldn’t she have told someone where she was going? Then at least they . . . The telephone bell gave a buzz. It was Ashford. A short conversation and Delphick replaced the receiver. A burglary in the village: just what they needed to round the night off. Ashford had sent a squad car over to deal with it and they could cope. Why must thieves choose tonight of all nights, with so many people loose around the countryside—and the patrols already busy enough? Probably the reason. And with Miss Seeton missing, half the village would be certain to muddle the issue by casting her as a sort of acquisitive flitter-mouse, winging her way through their back windows, pinching heirlooms. However, it wasn’t his pigeon . . . Yet . . . It matched. He jumped to his feet. Child killings, post-office raids, increase in thefts from houses and flats. He’d better check. Not worth taking the car. He headed up the Street in the punishing rain. Headlights blinded him and a car shot past, saturating his ankles as it hit a puddle. He hunched into his raincoat. People should be booked for not dipping their lights. And speed in this downpour was madness.
Headlights, dazzling, coming fast. How very reckless in weather like this. Miss Seeton jumped for the high side bank, hauled herself up, a foot slipped, she clutched, dropping her umbrella—oh, dash. She turned her head: Oh, no, eyes widened in horror, oh, no, please no. With the wind as direction finder the umbrella beamed on its target, cavorted on its way. A shout, a high-pitched scream, protesting tires braked on a slippery road, curses, another scream as the umbrella ferrule hit the windshield, splintered it, and made a hole, striking the driver on the nose and drawing blood. The car swung sideways, seemed to pause, surprised and airborne, before it tilted, dropped—a final scream—and sploshed into the canal. Dreadful—dreadful. And all her fault. Oh dear, oh dear. Miss Seeton’s heart was racing, her feet were racing, pelting down the bank. Too fast. Rain was pelting down. Soaked shoes on sodden grass. The wind, still helpful, whirled her on. She tried to stop. Too late. She paddled gamely into space. She in her turn was falling, to splash beside the car in the canal.
A squad car was parked outside a house halfway up the Street. Delphick crossed over and read the name on the gate. Lilikot? Not the address he’d been given. Recognizing him, the driver made to get out but the superintendent waved him back.
“No point in both of us getting drowned. If it won’t flood your carburetor or ruin the upholstery, I’ll sit in a moment.” He opened the passenger door and sat down with a squelch. “Why here?”
He learned that this second burglary had been reported while the Ashford inspector with a sergeant had still been making inquiries at the first house. Silver and jewelry mostly, the driver had gathered. The car number came through on the speaker: he turned up the volume. “Burglary, Glenvale House, one mile outside village on Brettenden Road. Also car stolen,” the speaker told him. “Name of Farmint and ν. up,” it added. The driver started to open his door: Delphick stopped him.
“I’ll give the inspector the glad news. And tell him that Mr. and, or, Mrs. Farmint is, or are, very upset. When we’ve finished here I’ll probably come along to the Farmints’ with you. Keep tabs on any messages for me, please.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Delphick got out, bolted for the shelter of Lilikot’s front door, and rang the bell.
* * *
Miss Seeton struggled to her feet. Those poor, poor people in the car. She must hurry and see what she could do. At least they weren’t likely to be drowned. The water barely came above her knees. But they might be unconscious. Badly injured. If she could get the car open. It proved to be unnecessary. The front and rear doors facing her swung wide. No one was in the car. Oh dear, they must have been thrown out. They might be drowning after all. One headlight still shone under water. How? she wondered fleetingly. One had always understood that water and electricity didn’t mix. But at least she could see. She looked around. Was there a movement? Yes, over there, on the other side, just beyond the edge of the light. A figure emerged from the canal and scrabbled up the bank. A second figure followed: slipped, fell sideways. For an instant through the slanting rods of rain wet clothes were outlined clinging to a girl’s slight figure. Long dark hair streamed. Both figures sprawled their way up, to vanish in the dark. There was a fizz. The headlight died.
Delphick quitted Lilikot with relief to accompany the Ashford inspector to the scene of the next and, he devoutly hoped, the last of the night’s burglaries. However upset the Farmints might turn out to be, they could hardly prove more v. up than had Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine. From the too, too voluble complaints, Delphick had gathered that among the list of valuables stolen the most bewailed were a cameo brooch of Miss Nuttel’s, inherited from an aunt, and a too exquisite Georgian silver teapot of Mrs. Blaine’s, and a too irreplaceable ruby ring set in gold, a genuine heirloom, which had belonged to Mrs. Blaine’s grandmother. By the end of the too, too tiresome recital, the superintendent had felt that he not only knew too much about Mrs. Blaine but too much about her grandmother and too many other generations too.
Before going on to the Farmints’ the squad car took Delphick down to the George and Dragon. Mel Forby had been dropped a few minutes earlier by Nigel Colveden. No news. It struck the superintendent that Miss Forby was looking strained and anxious. He told her there was nothing further that she could do and she would be well advised to go to bed. Mel refused, saying she would prefer to wait. Delphick shrugged: reporters were all the same, once they got their teeth into a story they never let go. As he was leaving, Anne Knight drove up with Bob. No news. He sent Anne home, brought Bob up to date on the night’s activities and left him in charge of the telephone in the office. He returned to the squad car and set out for the Farmints’. No news . . . Except burglaries galore. In an idiotic, backhanded way that made his concern for Miss Seeton’s fate the more acute. Murder—yes. No one could stop a determined murderer; only clear up the ensuing mess. But robbery was different. Where theft was in question, especially in her own bailiwick, Miss Seeton was usually to be found in there with the best, retrieving, lashing out with her umbrella, and generally creating havoc. This time, it seemed, she wasn’t. The situation was becoming very worrisome indeed.
Was it getting lighter? Or was it just that one’s eyes were becoming acclimatized? No, she was right. She could see the rain now as well as hear and feel it, glinting here and there in gold. Well, there was no moon, so it had to be—yes, it could only be—the headlights of a car. Miss Seeton felt cheered. If she could attract their attention . . . In the faint light the realities of her predicament became apparent. She was in a deep ditch, some ten feet below the road, on a dark night, in a storm. There was no possibility that anyone in the car would be able to see her. And unlikely that they would be able to hear her against the noise of their engine. Even supposing she could make herself heard above the weather. Miss Seeton felt dashed. She would, of course, try calling out when she judged the car to be near enough, but meanwhile she’d better fend for herself while she could. She looked across at the opposite bank. Yes, that would be best. It didn’t seem quite so steep. Those poor people in the car had managed it. And if they could so could she. And in any case they were sure to have gone for help. For the car that was. Naturally they could have no idea that she’d been so careless as to fall into the canal as well. At least, she reflected with satisfaction, although the accident had been entirely her fault, they hadn’t appeared to be seriously hurt.
A black swan, its head gleaming in the strengthening l
ight, glided on the water between her and the car. It nudged her. Miss Seeton gave a startled squeak and turned. Oh, really, how very fortunate. Her umbrella. Miss Seeton reached. Coyly it backed, hitting the open rear door. Something fell. Miss Seeton waded forward. She grasped her umbrella and began to close it. It resisted. She put her hand down and from below the spokes withdrew—how very odd—a ring. She opened her soggy handbag and put the ring inside for safety; thank goodness the straps were strong. You could say what you liked, but these old-fashioned bags were the best. Once you’d hooked them over your arm they stayed with you even in emergencies.
The car shifted, tilted slightly, inside it something moved. Something shining slipped, began to fall. She caught it. It couldn’t be . . .? Aladdin’s lamp? No, no, of course, a teapot. On the floor an open-mouthed sack leaned toward her. She pushed the teapot in; below it shone more silver. How very strange. Had those poor people been moving house? she wondered. But, no, because, surely, one would wrap the things in tissue. Or, at least, in newspaper. How dreadful. There was, or course, probably some explanation. But, after all, there’d been the post office and these things might, just might, be stolen. The car, subsiding, moved again; so did the sack. It clinked. Oh dear, Miss Seeton clutched at it. It was heavy. The car, as though realizing her difficulty, tilted again. The sack fell out. Miss Seeton hauled. The sack, heavier now with water, refused to budge. She couldn’t leave the things. They might belong to somebody. She hauled again, she pulled and tugged and toted. Slowly the sack rose, lightening as the water drained away. She pushed it up the bank. It wouldn’t stay. She kept her shoulder under it, took her umbrella and spiked the ferrule through the top of the sack into the earth. The sack remained pinned to the bank like an outsize Christmas stocking. There, that was done.
