by Heron Carvic
Miss Seeton paused, feeling a little dizzy. Her teeth began to chatter with the cold. A sense of languor grew upon her; things became unreal. Bearing rich gifts of silver and of jewels . . . Surely so very wrong to be so very blonde. But then again, dark hair and streaming . . . Much more appropriate. It was all research. Trembling a little, Miss Seeton slumped and sat. The water lapped her chin. Irritated, she tried to push it away. The movement roused her. This wouldn’t do. She’d heard of people falling asleep in snow, but that was no excuse for dropping off in a canal.
The light was bright, a broad swath shining high over her head on to the opposite bank, leaving her in comparative gloom. Perhaps this was the moment. She’d better try.
“Help,” piped Miss Seeton.
She listened. Only the wind and the incessant beat of rain. No answering shout; but then no one, she was sure, could have heard her. Maybe if she climbed on the car and waved . . . She studied it. It burrowed, hood down, in the canal like a pig feeding in its trough. But the back rose high: if she could get up there . . . She looked for handholds. The car loomed over her. Surely it had been straighter before? She put her hand on the top of the door and pulled. The car, cooperative and friendly, tipped toward her. Quickly she let go. It swayed gently at its new angle. Oh dear, she’d been right. It had been straighter. Slowly, inevitably, it was toppling—falling on her. She must get out at once. She dug her fingers into the slimy bank and tried to raise one foot. She failed. She tried the other. Failed again. She exerted all her strength. To no purpose. Oh dear, oh dear. Both feet were stuck solid in the mud. What could she do? She—she mustn’t panic. She must think and work it out. Of course—that was it. Work them out. She bent, felt under water and tried to scoop the mud from around her ankles. Quite close she heard a tinkle, then, distantly, a clank. She looked up, stared. The sack and her umbrella . . . But—they’d gone.
The car canted again. Miss Seeton turned her head. It was coming slowly down. Oh, please, no, please. She flung herself at the bank, stretched high and clawed. Her feet remained stuck fast. Above her the car wavered; no longer friendly, threatening now.
A slap upon one wrist, a clutch, a painful pull. The other wrist vise-gripped and dragged. She raised her head. A sullen, wet face was close to hers. Angry eyes glared through dripping lashes into hers.
The shy boy. “So kind,” Miss Seeton gasped. “So sorry . . . A little difficult . . . My feet . . . they’ve stuck.”
Spread-eagled down the bank, his feet dug in, he took a steady strain. Miss Seeton’s arms felt they would pull from their sockets; something would have to give. It did. With a vulgar pop one foot came free. She toe-holed on the bank, then heaved and freed the other. It jerked her upward. The car, disturbed by these convulsions, sighed and, with a ripple, lay down where she had been. One by one hands let go her wrists, slid over her shoulders and along her arms, to clutch her waist. The boy wriggled backwards a few inches up the near perpendicular slope, braced himself, and waited. Miss Seeton, pulling on his strength, wormed her way up and paused. Thus, stop and go, they reached the top at last and sat there blown, in triumph.
On the road, which barely contained its width, a lorry was standing facing toward Plummergen: the headlights shone upon the sack and her umbrella.
“Oh dear—it’s full of silver,” said Miss Seeton. So difficult to give the facts. But only fair. It must, she realized, seem a little strange. “They left it,” she explained, “when they climbed out. And you see I feel responsible because, of course, it was my fault that they were ever in. The umbrella, you know,” she added to make it clear. “But in a sack like that it does seem odd and might be, don’t you think, not theirs at all? But either way I feel we must take it to the police. Don’t you?”
“S’right,” agreed the boy.
He stood, picked up the sack, and working his way round between the lorry and the narrow shoulder, dumped it over the tailboard. Miss Seeton retrieved her umbrella and following him clambered into the cab on the driver’s side and eased herself across the seat. The boy jumped in, switched on the ignition, revved, engaged the gears and, wipers clicking, drove on down the road. Beside him dripped Miss Seeton.
The police left the Farmints’ little wiser than when they had arrived. They had added to the list of silver and valuables stolen, but not to their knowledge of the thief or thieves. In each case entry had been effected through a back window; the window showing signs of having been forced. In the two he had seen Delphick suspected that the scratches and splintering round the catches had been done later for effect. The windows could have been forced but the marks in both cases were so alike that they made him wonder. They had, he considered, the feeling of inside jobs or at all events of jobs that had been inspired by inside information. Little had been disturbed: the thief going straight for what he wanted. There had been no noise and, although it was possible to jimmy a window unnoticed, it was impossible to do it in silence. That three households should have failed to have heard any such sounds seemed to be carrying the burglar’s luck to extremes.
The first victims had discovered their loss when the daughter of the house had gone downstairs to fetch some milk and found the kitchen window open. At Lilikot Mrs. Blain had noticed that her dressing-table drawer was disarranged and her ring missing when she was preparing for bed. The owner of Glenvale House, on hearing a car in his drive, had looked out the bedroom window in time to see his own car disappearing. Mrs. Farmint had rung the police while her husband searched the house, and, finding silver missing and his wife’s jewel case gone, they had rung the police again.
The superintendent had decided and the Ashford inspector had concurred that the fact that Doris Quint was newly employed at all three houses was a pointer which could not be ignored. Although it was now nearly one o’clock, they determined to pay the Quints an immediate visit and hear what Mrs. Quint had to say. Delphick begged the use of the Farmints’ telephone before setting out for Plummergen Common. Bob reported: still no news. The weather had not abated and Delphick’s concern for Miss Seeton increased. Although he knew it to be virtually useless he was beginning to brood upon the possibility of calling out reserves and instituting a night search.
The lorry stopped. The boy jumped out, signing to her to stay. Miss Seeton watched. He went into a small cottage. A light came on. A moment later a light appeared in an upstairs window. Of course. He must have gone to explain things to his wife. Such a kind boy. And so thoughtful. She peered through the windshield; through the rain. Surely—why, yes—they were just by the bridge over the canal which led up to her cottage. Barely two minutes and the boy was back. The childish figure of a girl was silhouetted in the open doorway: a hand was raised in half salute and the door closed. Miss Seeton struggled with the stiff handle on her side and climbed out. He hurried round to help her.
“You’ve been so very, very good,” she told him. “and I’m more than grateful. But this is just near where I live. I can easily walk from here. I’ve got the keys to the back in my bag.” She fished among the sad, soaked contents and produced them. “It would really be better, in a way, than driving up, because the noise might wake people. Whereas if I walk I can slip in unnoticed. And, after all,” she looked down—things dripped and draggled; the proud hat with the bit that stuck up on top that you couldn’t mistake, no longer proud and the bit, still unmistakable, hung in a sad cowlick on her brow, “I couldn’t be wetter, could I?”
The faintest trace of smile. “S’right,” agreed the boy.
She tried to shake his hand. He ignored her. She turned to go. He followed. Together they splashed up the lane. She unlocked the side door in the wall, went in. He followed. She held out her hand. He ignored it. With the side door closed they made their way across the garden to the kitchen. She unlocked it and prepared to say good-bye. He ignored her and went in. She followed. He switched on lights, he opened doors, looked into rooms. She made to speak. He ignored her and went upstairs. She followed. He found the bathroom, tu
rned on taps, and gestured her toward her bedroom. Miss Seeton took a towel and laid it on the floor, stripped off her clinging clothes and dropped them onto it, picked up her nightdress and put on her dressing gown. Really, so very, very kind. The young. So truly thoughtful. She repaired to the bathroom. The boy had gone.
Relaxed in hot water—one was so grateful for Cousin Flora’s immersion heater—then dried and much restored, she returned to the bedroom. Her clothes had gone.
Set out upon the towel were the contents of her handbag. Among them, secure in plastic, Mr. Geldson’s second tablet. Of course. To be taken when she went to bed. Well, she would. Though she couldn’t say she’d noticed any pain. But then, of course, one had been busy. She got into bed, picked up the tablet and was about to pour water from the bedside carafe when the boy came in carrying a steaming glass. He handed it. She took it by the rim. The liquid was deep amber and was hot. She popped the tablet in her mouth, she sipped and swallowed—choked. Good gracious. Very hot. And rather burning. And not nice. But—as it coursed down her—very warming. She offered back the glass. He shook his head. She sipped again; she drank. Not nice at all. But very, very comforting inside. Things were peculiar. The ceiling slanted more than usual. The bed rose up to meet it; dipped and rose again. How very fortunate that she was never seasick. Two boys leaned over her; took two glasses.
“Sho ver’ kine,” she muttered.
Three boys turned out three lights and left the room. She dropped back on her pillows.
Light shone behind a curtain at Saturday Stop. Doris Quint, in a dressing gown and with a towel round her head, answered the door and regarded the dripping policemen with disfavor.
“The fuzz? At this time o’ night? What d’you want?”
They told her. She appeared to be shocked but maintained, rather overemphatically, that she didn’t see it was any business of hers. She couldn’t, she explained, ask them in since, as they could see, she weren’t dressed seeing she’d just been washing her hair before getting to bed. Didn’t get much time in the day what with this and that, and with her husband asleep and the boy in bed, well, they could see how it was. They had no authority to enter and she kept them standing in the downpour while she propounded her husband’s breakdown, his need for sleep, the danger of disturbing him, her little brother’s difficulties, her own, and how she managed she didn’t really know. In length, she was voluble but uninformative.
At that the officers had to leave it, unimpressed and unconvinced. They discussed it in the car. Doris’s manner and her instinctive use of the word “fuzz” suggested some knowledge of crime or criminal associates. She might have been washing her hair; then she might have been drying it after having been out in the rain, though in such weather she could have been expected to wear some form of protection. Her husband might have been asleep; or out of sight; or out. On vague suspicion alone they were in no position to insist on seeing him. The little brother, they felt, could probably be discounted as being too young. The Ashford inspector reminded Delphick that the whole Quint family were alibied for the post-office raid.
Delphick grunted. “Picnics in March.”
The squad car dropped the superintendent off at the George and Dragon before returning to base. Delphick hesitated, worried and unable to settle his mind: should he turn in and contain his anxiety till morning, which was the obvious and sensible course to adopt, or should he drag out a lot of overworked men on a filthy night to scour the countryside for miles around, knowing such a move, though it might assuage his conscience, would be virtually useless until morning? Once it was light enough they could call in a helicopter which, apart from the advantage of aerial observation, could correlate the searchers and save valuable time. She might be anywhere: miles away, or close; holed up somewhere because of the storm; or even, in view of her uncanny knack for getting herself out of difficulties in the same predestined manner with which she got herself into them, asleep—tucked up in bed somewhere by a kindly good Samaritan.
He looked across at Sweetbriars. On impulse he determined to check the cottage; to assure himself there’d been no further trouble there before making a final decision. The police had arranged to leave the front door shut but unlocked as it seemed unlikely there would be another disturbance and, more particularly, in case Miss Seeton was found and they should have need of quick access without the necessity for rousing Martha Bloomer, possibly in the early hours.
The moment Delphick opened the door he sensed a change. It hadn’t the feel of an empty house. Something . . . yes, a smell of damp cloth. He traced it to the kitchen. Neatly laid out on chairs and table were Miss Seeton’s sopping clothes. Her handbag, empty and upside down, still dripped upon the drain board beside a rinsed-out glass. In the sink stood her umbrella.
He turned, looked quickly into the other rooms, then ran upstairs. Forgetful of decorum, he flung open her bedroom door, switched on the light. He stopped and stared. Miss Seeton ignored the intrusion. Miss Seeton slept.
Near Delphick’s feet the towel with its handbag medley caught his attention. He knelt down: all soaking. What had she been doing? Even she couldn’t’ve gone swimming fully clothed. And yet . . . He remembered she had once fallen in a pond. That too had been at night, and but for Bob she’d have been drowned. A ring? He’d never seen her wear a ring. Perhaps her godmother’s or her mother’s, carried for sentimental reasons, a sort of heir- . . . A red stone, set in gold? A genuine heirloom? She couldn’t’ve been—was it possible she’d been—retrieving after all? He jumped to his feet and held the ring under the light. No, not, he thought, a ruby. A carbuncle; a cabochon-cut garnet. But people did exaggerate their treasures. Particularly a type like Mrs. Blaine. He frowned and replaced the ring. He sniffed, crossed to the bed, and stooped. He thought so—whiskey. Gently he shook her shoulder. She took no notice. He shook her harder.
Dimly, in dreams, cascades of silver and of jewels floated down rivers. Black swans accompanied them. Behind them glided Cleopatra’s barge bedecked with peacock feathers. The queen reclined on cushions.
“Blon’ish wrong,” Miss Seeton murmured. The queen sat up. Long dark hair streamed. “Dark hair mush more ’propriate.”
Delphick strained to catch the words. Blond? Dark hair? What was all this? For her own sake, and considering that ring, he couldn’t let it ride. He must find out what she’d been up to.
“Wake up, Miss Seeton,” he commanded. Shook her again. “Wake up. Wake up.”
Upon the river bank a figure rose; majestic. It swam to midstream, huge and dominating. “You will awake,” it cried. “Awake. Awake.”
How very tiresome, just when one was tired. Not now, decided Miss Seeton firmly. No, really, not just now. She sat up straight. Eyes opened wide.
“Not now, O king,” said Miss Seeton distinctly and relapsed into a coma.
Delphick looked at her, helpless. His palm itched to smack her. How dare she lie there in a drunken stupor, grinning all over her face when they’d all been worrying themselves sick? He looked at her. His lips began to twitch in amusement. The crumpled little face, flushed in sleep, the lips parted in a half smile. MissEss. The wretched nickname suited her somehow. Where had the silly little scrap been, getting herself soaked and sozzled? And who’d given her the whiskey? There was none in the place, as he knew from when they’d had to go over the cottage earlier. That tumbler on the drainboard. But, no—she could hardly have carried her tipple home with her in a glass through a downpour.
Delphick hurried downstairs. He telephoned to Dr. Knight. Apologized for disturbing him. He described Miss Seeton’s condition as best he could, saying that he was sure there must be more to it than whiskey. She couldn’t, he felt certain, be as drunk as that. Would Dr. Knight mind very much having a look at her?
Dr. Knight replied that he would mind very much indeed, considering the hour. He’d be along in five minutes.
Thankful, Delphick rang his sergeant and told him to let Ashford know Miss Seeton had been found.
>
Bob arrived with news: the loot from the burglaries had been recovered and the thief detained. A patrol, following instructions to question all drivers in the search for Miss Seeton, had stopped a lorry on the Brettenden Road. Not satisfied with the driver’s manner, they had searched the lorry and found the missing silver and jewels in a wet sack. They were checking the items against the list now. The driver’s license gave his name as Leonard Hosigg with an address near Rochester. He claimed to be working for a haulage firm in Brettenden to which the lorry belonged. His explanation was the old gag: he was on his way to Brettenden police station to hand over the stuff, which he’d found lying by the road. Questioned further, he’d clammed up and refused to say anything more. He’d been cautioned and held at Brettenden. They were not charging him till the inventory of the stolen valuables was complete. The local force, Bob told his superior, was cock-a-hoop. The burglaries solved within two hours, at least one of the post-office raiders under lock and key, and no danger now to the Goffer girl, though the watch on her was being maintained for tonight until it was called off officially.
Delphick paced the sitting room, then went to the telephone and rang Ashford headquarters. Was the inventory of the Plummergen robberies completed yet? One moment, while they checked with Brettenden. . . . It was. Was there a ring missing? One moment. . . . Yes, there was, but after all, with an open sack and things just chucked in anyhow it was a wonder more of the stuff hadn’t fallen out. Pretty good going to’ve only lost one small ring and even that would probably be found either wedged somewhere in the lorry or else along the route. The superintendent asked for Chief Detective Inspector Brinton’s home number. He rang it. The chief inspector was not pleased. Delphick suggested that it might be wise not to charge the Hosigg boy till further inquiries had been made. Brinton, roused from sleep at half past one and knowing only half the facts, nearly blew his top. What for God’s sake did the Oracle want? To catch a chummie redhanded, then not charge him? Further inquiries into what? All right, they’d solved the Oracle’s cases for him, hadn’t they? All right, he’d got his girl friend back again, hadn’t he? So all right, everything was hunky-dory. What more did he want? For once they’d got a nice straight case, and Miss Seeton hadn’t stirred it up with her umbrella and pinched the oodle back herself.
