Miss Seeton Draws the Line (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 2)

by Heron Carvic

  Bob coughed. Startled, they turned. “If you’re ready, ma’am?”

  “Of course.” Miss Seeton got up. “I’m so sorry, I forgot. I’ll get a hat and coat.”

  “Perhaps, Miss Seeton,” Bob suggested, “if you wouldn’t mind bringing what you put down about last night, it might save time and make things easier.”

  Miss Seeton was dubious. “I don’t think that would help.”

  “Oh, please, miss,” said the girl.

  “Go on, Miss S,” encouraged Mel, “give ’em the works.” Doubtful, Miss Seeton went upstairs.

  “Where you taking her?” the girl demanded.

  “To Ashford,” Bob replied. “To make a statement.”

  “And she’ll clear Len?” The girl’s eyes shone. “Please may I come?”

  “You’re Mrs. Hosigg?”

  “Of course. Can’t I come? I’ve got a right; I know what happened too, Len told me.”

  Bob was uncertain; Mel determined. “We’re all going,” she informed the girl.

  “No, not you, Miss Forby.”

  “Sure, me. You try to keep me out of this I’ll have your hide for knickknacks.”

  Bob, knowing that he would not win, succumbed and set out with misgivings and his female freight.

  Chief Detective Inspector Brinton was in a temper. The Ashford Choppers had struck again. A dance hall in Brettenden had been the scene of their foray and they had left the place a shambles. They had also left five people injured and two of the injuries were serious. One of his own men of the uniformed branch had attended the dance as a private individual. When the ruckus had started this officer had weighed in on the side of law and order. Three of the Choppers had tackled him and two had held him down while the third had belabored him about the head with a bicycle chain. He was now in Ashford hospital with brain damage and his condition was said to be critical. In court that morning the Choppers’ counsel had rehearsed the theme of how his clients’ youthful high spirits were misunderstood, their friendly overtures misconstrued, their wish to fraternize resented. As for his clients being armed with knives, knuckle-dusters, bicycle chains, and coshes, this was a more—a most—serious misunderstanding. His clients, he protested, had never carried—never would carry—weapons of offense. And of the youth who had been arrested with a bicycle chain wrapped round his fist before he could get rid of it, he drew a moving picture of a stainless boy examining in horror a deadly device that had been used—it went without saying—exclusively by the other side. His eloquence had so prevailed that the magistrate had once again, as always, let the boys off with a caution and a disciplinary fine of five shillings per head for any damage they had caused. Brinton’s anger had left him prepared to lay the blame for all local trouble on the Choppers’ shoulders and the fact that Len Hosigg had appeared upon the scene to befog the issue infuriated him. He had failed to find any connection between Hosigg and the Ashford gang; but at least the Hosigg case was cut and dried. Now to cap his morning Delphick was casting doubts and asking him to hold his hand.

  “You can’t get away from it. Oracle, the boy’s got form. Known to be violent, ducked his probation, skipped with a minor, and gone into hiding; in fact, he’s done his nut.” The chief inspector put the report from the Rochester Division back on his desk. “And now we nab him with the oodle before he has time to flog it. What more d’you want? It’s open and shut.”

  Delphick roamed the office. “Let’s keep it open, Chris, until we’ve seen Miss Seeton.” Brinton groaned. “Granted all you say, it still feels wrong. And how do you explain the whiskey and the ring?”

  “Don’t have to. You said yourself the ring’s a garnet. The pinched one’s a ruby. And as for the whiskey, who’s to say the lady’s not a secret toper; some of your don’t-touch-me misses can swig it with the best, a bottle in every shoe, you get it all the time.”

  A knock. Bob entered looking sheepish. “I’ve brought Miss Seeton, Mrs. Hosigg, and Miss Forby, sir.”

  “What d’you take this for,” demanded Brinton, “the women’s hostel?” Delphick merely looked.

  “I couldn’t help it, sir,” said Bob, “they would insist on coming and . . . they came.”

  “Well, ask Miss Seeton to come up. With regard to the Hosigg girl it’s just as well, we’ll need to see her. And you can tell Miss Forby from me,” Delphick’s eyes danced, “that she can stay downstairs. And not to try her luck, or me, too far.”

  Bob returned with Miss Seeton and a large envelope. The formalities observed, he put Miss Seeton in a chair and laid the envelope with pride on Brinton’s desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “A statement from Miss Seeton, sir.” Miss Seeton opened her mouth to protest.

  “You took this down, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t seen it, but Miss Seeton told me—well, Miss Forby said—well, actually I overheard Miss Seeton say she’d put down everything about last night this morning, so I asked her if she’d mind. I thought it would save time, sir.” He retired to a chair with notebook and pen.

  Delphick moved round behind the desk as Brinton opened the envelope and took out a sheet of paper. There was a silence while the chief inspector struggled with his feelings.

  “You said you hadn’t read this, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, come and read it now.”

  With a sinking feeling—something was off—Bob went to the desk and looked at the paper. A cartoon of “The Knight’s Vigil.” In profile, in armor, the young knight knelt before an altar at his orisons. The clubbed hair framed a sullen face transformed. The hands joined in prayer held, not a sword, but one madonna lily on which the shining eye was fixed in ecstasy. Bob sighed. He should’ve known it’d be off. Way off.

  “I said I was afraid it wouldn’t help,” ventured Miss Seeton as Bob went back to his chair.

  Delphick smiled at her. “I’m not so sure. Is this young Hosigg?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your impression of him?”

  “Yes.”

  “In short,” still smiling, Delphick pointed to the drawing, “this sums up from your point of view everything of importance that took place last night.”

  Miss Seeton looked at him gratefully. “Well, yes. You see . . .” She told them of her rescue. Then gave the girl’s account of why they’d come to Plummergen.

  Delphick reached for the telephone, got through to Rochester, and left a message for Hosigg’s probation officer, outlining the story and asking him to check; to try breaking down Hosigg’s sister-in-law, a girl called Rosie. Would they ring him back? Miss Seeton was pleased. Those poor children. This should help to put things right. Delphick looked at the sketch again.

  “Tell me. Why the lily?”

  Miss Seeton frowned, surprised. “Lily? Is there? Oh, yes,” remembering, “I think I felt it seemed more right somehow.”

  Delphick frowned in turn and thought. “What’s his wife’s name?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” said Miss Seeton, “I don’t know. I never thought to ask.”

  “I can tell you that.” Brinton flipped over some papers. “Leonard Hosigg: wife, Lil Hosigg,” he read out. “Born Lily Smale.” He looked at Miss Seeton; for the first time really looked at her.

  Miss Seeton opened her handbag and produced the ring. “This was the ring that dropped out of the sack. Before the teapot. It caught in my umbrella. So fortunate. It might have fallen in the water. I didn’t like to put it back for fear it would get lost.”

  Brinton read from a list. “A valuable ruby ring belonging to a Mrs. Blaine: reported stolen, not recovered.” He eyed her severely. “You suggest this would be it then?”

  Miss Seeton was uncertain. “But this is a garnet. At least I think so. Oh—” as she realized, “oh, I see. Perhaps it would be kinder just to give it back and not say anything.”

  The chief inspector stared at her, then grinned. “Like her Georgian silver teapot which is modern stuff and plated? An
d Miss Nuttel’s cameo brooch in gold, turned pinchbeck overnight?”

  Miss Seeton smiled back at him. “It’s very tempting sometimes, Chief Inspector, to imagine one’s things to be a little better than they really are.”

  “Tell me, Miss Seeton,” Delphick took over, “the car that went into the canal—a car stolen from a Mr. and Mrs. Farmint, incidentally, where the last of the robberies took place—did you see what happened? Although some of the windshield splintering probably occurred when it fell, the lab reports that there’s a hole which could have been caused by a shot.”

  Miss Seeton flushed. “No, that, I fear, was me.” Brinton looked up sharply. “Or, rather, my umbrella,” she amended. “I dropped it when I slipped. And with that wind, so very strong, it hit the car. Dreadful. They might have both been killed.”

  “Pity they weren’t,” said Brinton.

  “You saw them?” Delphick asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Bob sat up, pen poised. “Just for a moment, that is, when I was in the water too, next to the car. They were climbing out the other side. Of the canal I mean. I couldn’t see them well because, you see, they had their backs to me and were beyond the light.” Bob relaxed. “The light from the car’s lamp, that is. I mean, of course, before it fizzed and then went out.” Why, wondered Bob, couldn’t she talk like other people? The Oracle understood her and even old Brimstone seemed to be keeping up, but say what you like, police statements had this to be said for them; they were clear. He tried one on for size: I was proceeding under water along the canal in an easterly direction when I encountered a fizz. A chuckle escaped him. Delphick frowned. Miss Seeton continued: “But, just before it fizzed, she slipped and fell into the light. He had to grab her.”

  “She?” demanded Delphick. “You’re certain it was a she?”

  “Oh, yes. Long hair.”

  “It couldn’t have been a long-haired boy?”

  “Oh, no. No, quite impossible. Her clothes were wet and clinging. Unmistakable.”

  “Just been washing my hair,” echoed a voice in Delphick’s brain, “don’t get much time in the day what with this and that.” Before he was through he’d bust that picnic alibi or bust himself. He took from his pocket an old envelope on which he’d made some notes. “You spoke—forgive me, Miss Seeton, this was later when you were, er, asleep—of ‘blonde being wrong.’ Had that any bearing, do you know?”

  Miss Seeton thought, then brightened. “Oh, no. That was the Queen of Saba. It struck me as wrong. Unless, of course, she was like Cleopatra. Greek, you know. It’s all research,” she added by way of explanation.

  Even Delphick was fazed. “Saba?”

  “Yes. You see, I went to Sheba because of the tea. So difficult to drink. With one’s mouth, that was.”

  Light dawned. “Oh, of course, the film Sheba. Yes, I see.” He referred to the envelope. “The other thing you said was ‘dark hair more appropriate.’”

  Miss Seeton considered. “I imagine that that might have been the girl. The girl who slipped in climbing out. Her hair was long and dark. Although, of course, it could have been the light. Or lack of it I mean.”

  There was nothing more of use that Miss Seeton could tell them. A call came through from Rochester. The Smale girl had come clean and, pressed, her mother backed her up. The stepfather had been brought in: under questioning and faced with his wife’s defection, he had admitted the truth. He appeared to be more concerned about a charge of perjury than troubled over proceedings for attempted rape: what were stepdaughters for? The Hosigg boy was in the clear and the whole case was to be reviewed. There was no need now to see his wife. Brinton rang Brettenden and gave orders to let young Hosigg go. Goodbyes were said and Bob escorted Miss Seeton down, with instructions to return to Plummergen via Brettenden with his seraglio, picking up Len Hosigg on the way.

  When the door was closed, the chief inspector laughed. “So that’s your Miss Seeton, Oracle. All right, I’m sold. I’ll buy her. But not too often; and can’t you keep her out of crime? Well, there was this car, you see,” he mimicked, “and it was in my way if you understand me so I gave it a swipe with me brolly that is and it ends up in the dike. And then of course I has to jump in too if you take my meaning just to see what’s going on in a manner of speaking.” He guffawed, then sobered. “All right, it’s all very pretty and everything’s cozy and she’s got the oodle back for us as per usual. But you realize, Oracle, it doesn’t mean the Hosigg lad’s out of it. He may be a knight in shining armor, I’m not saying he isn’t, and he may have it all over your market gardeners when it comes to growing lilies, but it doesn’t say he didn’t do the job, and when she pitched him in the drink, climbed out, went back and got his lorry, drove round, and pinched the stuff again.”

  “And the girl with him?” asked Delphick.

  “His wife, of course. Once they’ve climbed out she scarpers home while he goes round to have a second bash.”

  “It hardly squares with his behavior afterwards. Why get Miss Seeton out? Why not leave her there? Why waste his time? Why take her home? Why give her whiskey? Why lay out her clothes to dry? Because he did, you know, Chris. That young man took a lot of trouble.”

  “All right, so I’ll agree it isn’t likely. The Hosiggs’re out, the Quints’re out. We start again from scratch, and of the runners left the odds are in favor of the Ashford lot. You’ll find I’m right, Oracle, this doesn’t have to be fancy; there’s nothing to say that any of this is mixed up with child murder—nothing except that blasted drawing. I’d say that your Miss Seeton’s got you and the A.C. chasing your tails. Let’s look at what we’ve got: local jobs; and local chummies who’d fit the jobs. Why complicate it?”

  The superintendent shrugged. “You may be right, Chris. I know it sounds reasonable, but . . .”

  “But you don’t buy it.”

  The other shook his head. “I can’t afford to. This killing of small children . . .” He grimaced. “Oh, I’ll admit there’s always been the odd case, but it’s suddenly spiraled—over fifty percent increase in the past two years.” He shook his head. “What’s got into people? And now that we’ve found this one series that’s got a definite pattern I must stick with it, Chris, and follow it through; there’s too much at stake. I know that any headline crime’s liable to be copied but you don’t get a carbon as accurate as that post-office raid, except once in a blue moon. Somewhere down here,” Delphick frowned, “there’s someone who’s insane and somehow I’ve got to find him.”

  “Well,” suggested Brinton, “take your pick of the Choppers. They’re a bunch of halfwits if you like.”

  The superintendent continued unheeding. “Somewhere, somehow, a cog has slipped and someone’s brain is out of gear. It’s as though you were faced with a line of cars and are told that in one of them the clutch is slipping. How—without driving the cars yourself or stripping down the gears in all of them—do you make a guess as to which it is? On looks alone the Quint girl would be my fancy. Cheaply pretty, I suppose, but a bad forehead and an underhung jaw. Cunning, yes. But stable mentally? I doubt it. Wish to God I could find out something about them: background, parentage; there might be a pointer; but every line we’ve tried’s drawn a blank.”

  Brinton closed the file in front of him and laid it to one side. “So, all right, Oracle, I’ll leave the mental push-ups to you. We’ll work it sides to middle. I’ll give the Choppers a going-over and see if a couple of the little hatchets haven’t sharpened themselves up. You play the psycho angle and maybe somewhere our lines’ll cross.”

  Delphick began to pace again. “The Quints, Chris. It all hangs on the alibi. If we could find some way round that . . .”

  Since they were going into Brettenden, she might as well go to the bank and get it over, Miss Seeton decided. That was if the sergeant didn’t mind waiting. It wouldn’t take more than a minute or two. She would naturally have preferred to send the check by mail, but in this case she would need to speak with the manager and explain about its being
made out to her initials. Or, rather, not to her initials, which were, of course, E.D. for Emily Dorothea, but to MissEss which, when you came to think of it, was what Mel always called her. Quite natural. Newspapers and officials always did. Use initials, she meant. The manager must have met many cases like it and would understand. Certainly she would not attempt to explain to that young man. So supercilious. Of course young was relative, he must be over thirty, she supposed. Still young, she felt, to be a head cashier. She always tried, when she was in the bank, to see his colleague, but nearly always failed. Of course one knew that one’s account was very small. Quite unimportant. It made one feel one should apologize for taking up their time. But the head cashier was so superior, with such a bored manner, that it was embarrassing, and usually she managed things by post.

  At the bank the sergeant dropped Miss Seeton, who refused to be picked up, saying that she would walk down and join them. He took Lil Hosigg to the police station. Mel strung along. News-wise she was well in. The Brolly angle was going over fine. It had caught the public fancy, taking the spotlight off Miss S and giving the Pieces of Peace the attraction of a strip cartoon in narrative. She was on the inside track of a top news story and, provided she played it straight with the Oracle, was bound to scoop. Meanwhile these Hosigg kids were good for a bit on the side. Sound sob-sister stuff. It wouldn’t hurt them any and like it or not they’d make a para or so when his case came up again.

  It would happen: the assistant wasn’t there. He must be out at lunch. That left her no choice: it would have to be the chief cashier. Or could she ignore him and only see the manager? No, really, this was ridiculous; she was behaving stupidly. There was no necessity to explain to him and she would not, Miss Seeton decided, be intimidated. She would look him straight in the eye, smile, hand in the check, and ask to see the manager. She took a breath, braced herself, marched to the counter, and wrote a slip; then deflated as she fumbled in her bag. Now where had she put the check? Ah, here it was. Still fired with resolution, she drew herself up, looked the man straight in the eye . . . How curious. One had never looked at him before. Not, that was to say, looked. The eyes. Most unusual for such a light blue to be so brilliant. Piercing, perhaps, would be a better word. And with those flattened cheekbones and that fold of skin over the eye . . . After all, one associated the epicanthic fold with the rounder face of Asiatics—and, of course, with dark eyes and dark, straight hair. But to meet an external epicanthus in conjunction with light eyes was unusual—possibly therefore exaggerated their brilliance. Also, with a longish face, and that particular setting, one wouldn’t have expected it to be fair and wavy. The hair, that was. Curious. And interesting . . . Miss Seeton passed him the check without a word of explanation, smiled at him, and said: