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

by Heron Carvic

  “I think I’d better see the manager.” She went her way to knock at the inner sanctum.

  The cashier watched her, narrow-eyed. Slowly he expelled the breath he’d been holding.

  This was it. What passed in the cashier for a conscience began to talk to him. After years of inactivity his conscience, rudely awakened by a shock, not only talked to him, it took the floor, was voluble. If you took money, his conscience pointed out, that was not yours to take, you also took a risk and if you took risks, it went on to explain, you took the consequences. You might decide, imagine, or conclude that you were the master of your fate, that you would decide the how and when of what you did, and why. But there were things that people called externals, the unforeseen events or persons which might crop up in an unguarded moment and in cropping might, if you were not flexible and prepared for all eventualities, quite literally crop you. But in this instance, the cashier reasoned, he’d done exactly that. He had so reasoned, so foreseen, and so prepared himself.

  So they’d rumbled him. And that it should be her who’d cottoned to it of all people. He was still tense but his mind was steadying now from the tailspin she’d sent him into—now that he realized he’d got a chance. For a moment he’d thought it was all up. But now . . . He glanced through the window. No sign of a police car in the street. No sign of watchers; but then there wouldn’t be, not if they knew their job. They might be waiting for him—he’d just have to risk it. Yes, he had a chance. A chance given him by that silly old mare when she gave herself away, and in doing so had given him his cave. To be found out was bound to happen sometime, that he’d always known, but he’d expected to be able to judge the moment, before an audit, and to be well away before they pounced. But that dried-up old prune . . . To’ve been a police stoolie all this time—how the hell could he have guessed? The police were getting pretty fly, using old trouts like that. He’d never’ve suspected her, not in a hundred years. Lucky for him she couldn’t resist a bit of show-off. Mouselike as a rule when she did come in, but like a mouse she’d been burrowing underground, checking on him. But now she was onto him—like a full-sized cat, puffing herself up, waving her police checks under his nose; with her code name on them too, silly old fool, then leering at him; so full of herself she couldn’t hide it. And then—prissy as could be—“I’d better see the manager.” She better had. Better still that she’d tipped him off, and as from now neither the manager nor she would catch a glimpse of him. Deliberately, with no appearance of haste, he took the bundles of paper money allotted to him and pushed them inside his shirt. Pin money. He’d stash this little lot, pro tem, in Ashford with Maryse. Until he was sure they’d got no record of the numbers and he’d had time to see how things were jumping. With Maryse . . . His heartbeat quickened. With Maryse. Maryse: the mere thought of her stimulated him; made the game worthwhile. He’d nip round to the car park and drive his old car into the wood behind his house just outside Brettenden—the house that that old cat could have no idea of, not with all her burrowing. Slip in unnoticed across the garden, dye his hair, put on his mustache, put in his contact lenses, take the Rover from the garage, drive to the other side of the Dover motorway, and leave it near the quarry. He’d have to walk back to Brettenden; that was a sweat but he’d plenty of time. Daren’t go back to his Ashford digs—too dangerous; the police were welcome to anything they found there. Collect the old car from the wood as soon as it was dusk. With muddied number plates it’d be safe enough. Leave it near the top of the quarry in the undergrowth. Then back to the Rover, to Ashford, to Maryse. He’d stay there with her at her flat till it was time to carry out the main part of his plan. His jacket was tight to button over his money-padded shirt. He left it open; turned to the typist, busy at the back.

  “Hold the fort, ducks. Shan’t be a tick.”

  “. . . and unsecured loans. We regret that in the circumstances we cannot . . .” She stopped, surprised. Looked up to ask him . . . He was gone.

  Miss Seeton walked to the police station. The manager had been very understanding and just a little—could it be?—impressed. He’d seen her to the door. He had appeared astonished to find the cashier missing. The girl at the back had said that he’d gone out and wouldn’t be a moment. The manager had fussed; was quite disturbed. Of course, when one came to think, a cashier was always there, otherwise how would people get their money? Probably the man had gone to lunch a little early, without saying, before the other one came back.

  At the station the car was ready waiting. Bob jumped out and held the door. Miss Seeton sat in front. Behind, the Hosiggs, hand in hand, sat next to Mel, who was writing on a scribbling pad. Len Hosigg’s face was sullen still; the eyes still watchful, but not wary. He leaned across and gripped Miss Seeton’s arm; sat back. She managed not to wince.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, “that the police misunderstood. Though not their fault. Or not entirely. I’m afraid the blame was largely mine. You see, I overslept. The whiskey—I’m not used to it. And then, of course, there was the tablet too.” She beamed upon them. So very, very young; so shy; and so dependable. “But everything is all right now?”

  “S’right,” said Len.

  They drove to Plummergen.

  The village seethed. Somehow the word had got around. The tribal drums had beaten and the news had spread. Things had been stolen; that was undisputed. The dispute raged round who had stolen what and why? The obliging Doris Quint, in deep, shocked sympathy with the burglars’ victims—“Wasn’t it lucky to think them things’d all been found?”—had done her quota to incite the rumors. Miss Seeton was involved, inevitably; she’d pinched a car and ditched it; was under arrest; her license was endorsed. The Hosiggs were mixed up in it. Miss Seeton, to evade pursuit and to confuse the scent, had swum to Rye. There was dope of course. And drink, bottles of it. Whiskey had flowed in streams. Miss Seeton had held an orgy in her cottage: furniture had been smashed; cushions and curtains ripped. The Colvedens had been there; the police—you couldn’t trust a soul; Miss Knight and that reporter woman; and Miss Treeves—too dreadful, you’d have thought the vicar’s sister . . . Shocking, the things that people did. Then, too plastered to notice it was pouring, they’d all gone on one of those midnight treasure hunts. While she, with that Hosigg, in a lorry, slipped back and pinched things. And all of this while they’d been worrying whether she’d been killed. Really. People.

  Mel, unused to village gossip, enlarged, in close-up, was hopping mad. She’d give them Cow-Face Posture.

  * * *

  From the Daily Negative—March 29

  THE PEACE OF THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE

  by Amelita Forby

  *

  Piece 3. Cows in Pasture

  In peaceful Plummergen, in this small serene, sweet-tempered corner of Olde Worlde Kent, sheep graze upon the marsh, cows in the meadows. Their bleatings and their mooings echo softly through the dusk.

  In peaceful Plummergen cows moo in houses too. And, apelike in their mimicry, sheep bleat in cottages.

  In peaceful Plummergen, where life flows smooth and nothing ever happens; except robbery and violence—three in one night is the score to date . . .

  Where the Brolly, working overtime on rescue work . . .

  Where a visit to the dentist can be termed an orgy . . .

  Where young love and nobility can be smeared and much maligned . . .

  Where the police work night and day, to help, to guard and cherish, only to finally be misunderstood . . .

  In peaceful Plummergen, where anything can happen—and it does—the only thing found to so far be missing is murder.

  Can we now confidently wait—do you suppose—for murder too in peaceful Plummergen?

  * * *

  chapter

  ~8~

  EFFIE GOFFER WAS HAVING the time of her life. Conducted to school, escorted from it, wherever she went one or the other of two stolid young men waited upon her. That neither of her squires liked her did not worry her. No
one ever had. She was not likable. Plain and precocious, with bad manners, whenever she had goaded schoolfellows they had retaliated. Now this was changed. In the playground and on the street she could vent her spite on whom she willed in safety. One stuck-out tongue, one raised shoe, one lifted arm, and she ran to her watchdog for protection. Never before had she been important. Now she was.

  Then it palled. Her favorite pastime of spying on others was impossible. When spied upon yourself you cannot spy. This irked her. Slowly it dawned that to be attended everywhere meant that your own actions were given close attention. They were playing her special game, “I Spy.” On her. This was a challenge not to be ignored. She’d show them who was who. She waited for the evening changing of the guard. Then on her way home to supper and to bed she ducked from sight and vanished.

  The body was found in a ditch next morning by a farm laborer on his way to work.

  Plummergen was besieged. CHILD STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN. It brought in more police. It brought the press. It brought the rubbernecks. It also brought dismay. Murder is fun to read about, but there are rules. Murder must know its place. Murder must be confined within an expected circle. But beyond all other considerations murder must—or risk its popularity—take place elsewhere. The rules were broken and the village was not pleased.

  At Rytham Hall breakfast was spoiled. The papers were unread.

  “I think,” said Lady Colveden, “that people are chiefly shocked because they’re not.” Nigel looked at her. “Well, it’s true,” protested his mother. “You see, we should be and we aren’t; or only because it’s happened so near home. You know, like that woman in Shakespeare somewhere who says it shouldn’t’ve happened in her house. Hamlet, I expect, it always is. You see, I feel I ought to care, to mind, about Effie; but I don’t. She was a horrid little girl. I’m sorry for her mother—really sorry—though personally if it was me I should feel . . .” She caught her husband’s eye. “But that’s just it, George,” she justified, “that’s what I’m driving at . . . The whole thing’s awful simply because it’s not.” She took another piece of toast, then drank some more tea. Looked troubled. “I’ll have to go and see her mother, shan’t I?” There was a silence of consent. “But what can one say? It would be even worse not to, I suppose. And you can’t take anything with you which always makes things easier. At least, I can’t think of anything.” She addressed her son. “Can you?” He shook his head. “No, nor can I. Well, I mean you can’t just walk in and say: I’m sorry your little girl’s been killed and here’s a pot of jam.” She appealed to her husband. “Couldn’t I just leave it? Sort of—let it go?” She got no answer. “No, I thought not.” She sighed, stood up, began to gather plates.

  The police reaction was one of fury tinged, for the superintendent, with despair. They called in reserves, deployed in force and questioned everyone. Delphick himself examined both the Quints. The result was negative. The pathologist’s report placed the time of the killing between six and eight in the evening. The rest of the forensic details, the wire, the method, the contusions, Delphick knew by heart.

  Quint, at ease, was cheerful and cooperative: the sergeant in his notes described him as “cocky.” Been for a walk in the afternoon, he said, just for a breather. Got home by four and had a lay-down, waiting for Dorrie to come back. Ticker trouble—the doc said to watch it. Delphick noted that the nervous breakdown from overwork had become heart disease, but made no comment. It wasn’t altogether contradictory; the one could cause the other. The kid, Quint said, had been about the place on and off, he hadn’t really noticed. After tea they’d watched the telly—muck mostly—then gone to bed. He didn’t know a thing about any trouble till the milkman came.

  Doris’s story tallied. She’d finished off her ladies at five. That’d been at Lilikot—them they called the Nuts, and not surprising, nutty as fruitcakes both of them, only eating vegetables and such. Still crabbing about the crib. Awful that had been. Though what they’d got to crab about with everything got back she couldn’t see. Anyway she was home at ten past five and got the tea. Eggs they’d had and a nice tin of spaghetti and some ham, with cheese for afters. Then, like Dick said, they’d watched the telly and gone to bed. Awful it was when they heard this morning. With all these goings-on in a piddling little place like this it made you wonder.

  It made Delphick wonder. The Quints’ story was straightforward enough, even likely, but there was no proof either way. Doris was very voluble. For her, forthright. It struck him she was nervous; that she was covering up. Just as, to him, the Hosiggs felt right, the Quints felt wrong. Their explanation of their presence in the village and their stories were reasonable enough and could be true; the feel was, they weren’t. He’d had inquiries made and London was still checking, but so far nothing about the Quints seemed known to anyone. It was as if they’d plucked themselves out of the air and landed here. Without more to go on than feelings and vague suspicions, all confounded by that alibi, he couldn’t take it further. He’d even toyed with the possibility of bringing down the landlady who had suspected her daily help of theft, on the chance that she might identify Doris. But even if he did, and if she did, he’d be no forrader. It would add no proof—merely a vague and questionable confirmation of a matter of which, he now decided, he’d already made up his mind. He looked at the younger brother. The boy was watching him. Had there been . . .? Delphick was almost certain that he had caught a change of expression, a flicker too brief to analyze. Fear? The boy’s face was smooth now, empty. But there had been something. The superintendent tried to make his mind a blank; to let it recapture of its own volition the impression it had received; to allow it to develop the blurred negative, snapped in the blinking of an eyelid and out of focus. Antagonism? Derision? He could not be sure. Somehow the imprint that remained, however hazy and obscure, was one of fear. And, if so, fear of what? Of him—as a stranger?—as a police officer? Of the boy’s own family? How did you go about questioning a deaf-mute? Could he lip-read? Was he old enough? Exaggerating his speech, Delphick tried a question. He got his answer in strained and ugly sounds; confused babble.

  Doris flared up at once. He’d leave the kid alone, she ordered. Coming here bullying kids that couldn’t even speak, let alone understand. Who did he think he was? She knew her rights.

  In turn Delphick studied the older couple. Dick Quint’s face was unremarkable: low-browed; low cunning; thick-lipped; a little brutish; the total sum still unremarkable. In Doris there was a likeness to her brother: in her the under-hung jaw and slack mouth looked unstable, weakly obstinate; the slightly protruding eyes reminded him of exophthalmic goiter. On the younger face the same features gave an appealing uncertainty of immaturity to the mouth and a rounded air of innocence to the eyes. If there was mental disorder here—and unless his instinct and conviction were at fault there must be—where did it lie?

  Dick Quint’s mental reaction was simple and straightforward: this busy had nothing hard on them; just doing a spot o’ ferreting. Let him. He’d get sweet all of proof. Lamping the kid a bit, though, wasn’t he?

  Doris’s response was more involved: this bit o’ fuzz could stuff himself; he wasn’t fly—just poking around in general, what they called routine. Let ’im. It’d get him no place. But starting on the kid was different. Doris knew her brother, knew that of the family he had the strongest will, knew that if his mind was set nothing would shift it, knew from experience that to try such a shift meant stirring dangerous depths of temper, knew too that, when he wished, he could find means to communicate with others. That Delphick should have dared to question him both scared her and enraged her. But she’d settled his hash, she decided, and given him the right-about. He’d leave the kid alone in future or she’d know why.

  For Doris’s brother? Who can guess what reflexes take place within a shuttered mind. Alienists may argue; psychiatrists may suggest; graphs can be drawn from stimulation of the heart or brain; but all is only guesswork. Distortion of the mind can be difficult to
define and no reasoning can accurately forecast action or reaction. Cause may be argued from effect but without effect, for without an effect there is no ground for argument and in effect such argument remains but guesswork. Whether Doris’s brother had understood Delphick’s attempt to question him; whether in turn he had attempted to reply; whether he had understood the purpose of Delphick’s visit and whether, in understanding, he had deliberately evaded could only be conjecture, conclusions drawn from imperfect information.

  Delphick prepared to leave. He looked again at the brother; attractive-looking kid. He stared again at Doris and her husband, visualizing wire dangling ready from expectant hands. He felt a little sick.

  At Ashford the chief inspector was regretting having freed Len Hosigg.

  “If only we’d held him, Oracle, we’d know more where we stood. As it is, soon as we ride him a bit, then let him go, this happens. It looks bad.”

  “There’d still have been his wife,” the superintendent pointed out. “And in this case my bet is on the weaker vessel.”

  At Delphick’s request they arranged that if the Quints’ van was noticed on the road it was to be stopped on a technicality and the driver’s license asked for, to give them a chance to check the name and address. To insist upon seeing it in the garage the police would require a search warrant, which no responsible magistrate would grant since there was no evidence. Bob Ranger had done a scout round when the Quints weren’t there; no tracks of motorcycles about the place; no traces in the shed; in fact no sign that they had ever ridden or possessed such things. Only the small van which needed cleaning and the doors of which were locked. Brinton came up with an idea. Would Delphick get Miss Seeton to go to the village school and draw all the children there?