“Good of you, sir.” Whatever it was, couldn’t be worrying him all that much if the Oracle was acting so pleased with himself.
“Think nothing of it.” Delphick waved his hand in airy acknowledgment and the letter opener flew from it and clattered to the floor. He hauled himself out of his chair and went to fetch it. “I’m looking forward to visiting Plummergen again. The Ideal Spot To Tie The Knot. I hope you heard me pronounce the capital letters. D’you know I actually saw that on a sign once, outside a wedding chapel in Nevada? But that’s by the way. Thing is, I’ve a little job for you, arising out of the contents of this slim file.” Being still on his feet, Delphick took it over to his assistant.
“You will find inside five threatening letters, with their envelopes, received at irregular intervals over the past few months by Sir Wilfred Thumper, the judge well-known for his Old Testament attitudes and quotable obiter dicta. In the past couple of years he’s acquired a second claim to fame as the father of Trish Thumper, the tennis player said by some to be in with an outside chance at Wimbledon this year. You’ll also find a confidential note dictated by no less than the commissioner in person, following a little chat he had with the judge. Now all I require from you is the name of the joker doing the menacing. Simple enough to dredge up for a chap with your talents.”
Ranger opened the file and stared at its meager contents for a moment before trusting himself to speak. Then he closed his eyes briefly as if in prayer, and only then raised his head again. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin. Have a heart, sir.”
“Come now, I do have a heart, the heart of a small boy. It’s in a jar on my mantelpiece at home. So I’ll take pity and guide you up the nursery slopes. As you see, the letters have been placed in a clear plastic envelope, presumably because some amateur—whether the judge or the commissioner I wouldn’t like to say—having almost certainly put his own dabs all over them, then thought the author might have obligingly done the same. I doubt very much if he or she would have done anything so foolish, though they’ll have to be checked, for form’s sake. The envelopes have been handled by umpteen post office employees so they’re obviously useless from that point of view. Or from any other, very likely. They look as if they came from Woolworths, they’re correctly addressed but in childish block capitals, and all seem to have been posted in Central London.”
“But good grief, sir, why bother, anyway? Hate mail’s an occupational hazard for judges. And people like us. Remember that bloke two or three years ago, used to write to you in green ink once a week as regular as clockwork, threatening I don’t know what?”
Delphick smiled reminiscently. “Yes indeed. The juicy bits underlined in red. And he became so frustrated at getting no reaction that in the end he enclosed a stamped, addressed envelope for my reply. Turned out to be the father of the chap who twisted his ankle coming downstairs with a pillowcase full of costly trinkets and waltzed into my welcoming arms.”
“Yes, well, I mean to say, sir. You used to chuck his letters in the wastepaper basket. Why doesn’t this judge do the same?”
“Great minds think alike. I made that very suggestion to the assistant commissioner, but then he explained the background and I had to agree that circumstances alter cases. Read the commissioner’s note, Bob. Mr. Justice Thumper has been handing out maximum sentences and blistering remarks for years, on circuit as well as at the Bailey. So, not surprisingly, his mailbag has yielded many a colorful warning that vengeance is nigh. He is a crusty old bigot, but not easily intimidated. He’s therefore in the habit of giving no more than a cursory glance at such missives before burning them. The commissioner notes that Thumper reckons he dealt with two, maybe three earlier letters from this fellow—I think it’s a man—in that way. They were rambling and unspecific, what you might call run-of-the-mill to an old hand like His Lordship, but the next one upset him, because in it the author came to the point and threatened his daughter Patricia, alias Trish. And as you’ll see, he repeated the threat in the following four, the last three of which were received during the last ten or twelve days.”
“What a louse! Does the poor kid know?”
“No. Thumper’s kept it from her and her mother. And since he’s presumably far from being a ray of sunshine at the best of times, they might not have noticed that he has a bad and understandable case of the jitters. Anyway, our masters have ordained that a protective eye is to be kept on Miss Thumper until we run the mystery man to earth.”
Delphick looked at his watch. “And that reminds me that I must be off to do something about that,” he added, and made for the door, where he paused. “Get the fingerprint tests out of the way quickly. Immerse yourself in the Olympian thoughts of the commissioner. We’re almost certainly looking for somebody Thumper sent down for a long stretch, and who got out late last year. Woo the computers, Bob. Let’s see what sort of a short list of candidates the beastly machines can draw up.” Then he was gone.
It wasn’t much, but enough to enable Ranger temporarily to thrust thoughts of invitation lists, wedding presents, and the cost of furniture and fitted carpets to the back of his mind and address himself to the file; but before he had begun to read the note dictated by the commissioner, the door was opened again and Delphick’s head appeared round it.
“I forgot to swear you to silence,” he said sternly. “The press must on no account get wind of this affair. Quite apart from all the other good reasons, it would muck up my plan to exploit the interesting Plummergen connection. Oh yes, there is one. You’ll get to it in a minute.”
“Yes, sir, of course. The two things go together. Until we can identify and deal with the originator of the threats, we must do everything within reason to ensure that Miss Thumper comes to no harm. Now as to the first, I’ve already given instructions for a list to be drawn up, of the names of people sentenced to significant stretches by her father and who were released about the end of last year. No guarantee that the man we’re looking for is among them, but it’s an obvious possibility and we’ve got to start somewhere. I’ve no idea how many names we’ll come up with, but even if there are comparatively few, it’ll be a time-consuming job to find out their current whereabouts and check up on them.”
“Fair. enough. Ask for whatever help you need on that. What’s to be done about the girl?”
“I have a suggestion to make there, sir. I’ve made discreet inquiries about Trish Thumper’s forthcoming public appearances, before Wimbledon itself, I mean, and she’s due only to play at Hastings, in about ten days’ time. She lost an exhibition match at Hurlingham yesterday, incidentally. Bit of a last-minute upset, according to the paper this morning. In the normal way she travels a lot, of course, taking part in various tournaments all over the place, but home is with her parents here in London so I suppose that’s where she plans to base herself for the time being. In the circumstances I think she’d be better off elsewhere, because the man we’re after knows the Thumper address.”
Sir Hubert frowned. “Don’t altogether follow you there. Why not simply put a uniformed man outside the front door? That’d stop his nonsense.”
“Not necessarily, I’m afraid, sir. She’s got to go to and fro to practice every day at the Queen’s Club or wherever she trains. Fellow might still be able to make a nuisance of himself and upset her badly. And there’s another thing. Even if he manages to keep his worries to himself, her father must be in a very twitchy state. It could make for an uneasy atmosphere and I understand these sports stars are easily put off their stroke.”
“Tender plants, eh? Fair enough in the case of a young woman, I s’pose. It’s these frightful long-haired football players hugging and kissing each other in public that get my goat. Well, I see your point, Delphick. What’s the alternative?”
“I can think of one that has its attractions, sir. Hastings isn’t all that far from Plummergen by car, and Sir George Colveden lives just outside Plummergen.”
“So what?”
“Well, sir, now that w
e know he and Thumper are lifelong cronies, it occurs to me that the Colvedens would probably be happy enough to put Miss Thumper up for a while at Rytham Hall, incognito. They’re kindly, hospitable people, and she must know them well and feel at home with them. Sir Wilfred would be reassured by the idea that she was under their protection, and without drawing attention to the fact we could lay on a discreet background presence. Even ferry her back and forth to Hastings—where she could presumably do her training—in an unmarked car.”
The assistant commissioner pondered almost audibly, and then directed a glare of deep suspicion at his subordinate. “Well?” he inquired.
“Sir?”
“Come off it, Oracle. Why have you so ostentatiously failed to mention that Miss Emily Seeton also lives in Plummergen? And that if there is any conceivable—or indeed inconceivable—way in which she can become inextricably involved in this affair, then involved she will most assuredly become?”
“Actually, Miss Seeton would be part of the discreet background presence I envisage, sir. She is on a retainer from us, after all.” Delphick raised his eyes heavenward. “And you must admit that somebody up there seems to like her.”
Everleigh glanced up, too. “Don’t be absurd, the commissioner’s never even met her.”
“I’d forgotten for the moment that his office is directly above yours, sir. Actually, I was referring to the Almighty.”
“So was I, Chief Superintendent. Let us not forget who we both work for.” Delighted at having for once defeated Delphick in a battle of wits, Sir Hubert decided to quit while he was ahead. “Very well. On the whole it doesn’t sound a bad idea, provided it can be set up without too much trouble and the young lady herself approves. You’d better get in touch with both Colveden and Thumper and try it out on them. Thumper’s been given your name as the person to contact in all this business, by the way, so he won’t be surprised to hear from you. And you know Colveden already. Keep me posted.”
chapter
~4~
“SHE’S BACK, Bunny,” Miss Erica Nuttel announced grimly, allowing the net curtain to drop back into place.
“Who ith, aagh?” Mrs. Norah Blaine had been trying to persuade a length of embroidery silk through the eye of a needle, a fiddly job for which she needed to stick her tongue out, and omitted to reel it in before responding to her friend, who turned and surveyed her.
“Why are you squawking like that?”
“You made me bite my tongue and my eyes water, Eric.”
“I did no such thing. If you weren’t so vain you’d wear your glasses, and then you wouldn’t keep sticking it out in the first place.”
Having partly recovered her composure and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, Mrs. Blaine managed a timid smile. “I’ll try to remember, in future. Promise. Who’s back?”
“The frightful journalist person who wrote all those beastly things about the village in the Daily Negative after That Woman held up the post office.”
This was a little too much even for the staunchly loyal Bunny. “Well, actually, it did turn out that we formed a misleading—”
“Nonsense! The police and the press connived to hush up the true facts. They’re always doing it. You can’t even rely on the Daily Telegraph these days. She’s left her car outside the George and Dragon. Probably too drunk to trust herself to drive.” Miss Nuttel peered out of the window again, and Mrs. Blaine went over and joined her. “There you are. Distinctly unsteady on her feet, as you can see. Well no, you probably can’t, without your glasses, but she is, take my word for it. And you don’t need me to tell you where she’s heading for. Sweetbriars.”
Miss Nuttel pronounced the name of Miss Seeton’s cottage in such a way that, hearing it, a stranger could well be prompted to form a mental picture of the sinister lair of an evil witch. In fact the modest dwelling Miss Seeton had, while still teaching art in London, inherited from her godmother was aptly named, and Plummergen itself a pleasant Kentish village, if hardly the sort of which picture postcards are made.
“Really? I wonder why she should be going to see Miss Seeton?”
“Because the pair of them are partners in crime, of course. And I should imagine that whatever business they have to discuss isn’t the kind that can be done over the telephone. Just think of some of the things that have happened since That Woman moved here! Arson, forgery, witchcraft, murder, jewel thefts. We’ve personally seen her savagely assault an innocent bird watcher. And don’t forget she put a bomb in that unfortunate man’s car. She’s a menace to society.”
“Yes, but Eric, according to the newspapers, it was his own bomb that he’d planted in her house, trying to kill her. And all the other times, she was helping the police, they say. Constable Potter won’t hear a word against her.”
Miss Nuttel withered her with a smile. “That just proves my point. Potter is clearly under instructions to take that line. For the very good reason that she has powerful protectors at Scotland Yard, high-ranking Freemasons, I expect. Look how they covered up for Jack the Ripper. Potter may well be one himself.”
“Potter a Freemason?”
“Appearances can be deceptive, Bunny. I know he looks and behaves like a rustic simpleton, but I sense a certain low, animal cunning about that man. Anyway, it’s my belief that this journalist creature and the Seeton woman are able to lead their charmed lives because they know certain things that various senior policemen cannot afford to have revealed. So the so-called authorities pay the price for their silence.”
Mrs. Blaine opened her myopic eyes wide. “Blackmail, Eric?” she breathed.
Miss Nuttel nodded curtly and hitched up the waistband of her slacks. “And I mean to get to the bottom of it,” she said, moving toward the door. “You stay here, Bunny. I intend to shadow this corrupt Forby person.”
Mrs. Blaine gazed at her in admiration. “Oh, Eric, you’re so decisive! But do be careful, won’t you?”
Mel Forby wasn’t in the least drunk, but she had enjoyed a single glass of wine in the bar with one of the George and Dragon’s rare roast beef sandwiches, about the only good thing to be had there. It was pleasant to be back in Plummergen and strolling down its single street, imaginatively called The Street. It would have been even better had Thrudd Banner been at her side, but he was in Germany, having managed to secure an exclusive interview with Chancellor Willy Brandt. Mel was sublimely uninterested in international politics and couldn’t imagine why Thrudd had ever gone in for that kind of journalism in the first place, before deciding to double up as a photographer, too.
Thrudd was all right, though. It was fun the way they joshed each other all the time. Good, clean fun. Kind of a shame it was always such good, clean fun, but—now that’s quite enough of that, Forby. Impure thoughts are out of order when you’re on your way to talk to Miss Emily D. Seeton. Wonder what the D stands for. Not Delilah, that’s for sure. Dorothy? Daphne? Something quiet and respectable, anyway.
And here we are at Sweetbriars. Tap on the door. No answer. Tap again, still no answer. Out to lunch? Try door, unlocked, peek inside. “Yoohoo! Anybody home?”
Strange. No reply, but a distinct sound of, what, something between a grunt and a moan, oh for heaven’s sake, the poor old thing isn’t in trouble, is she? Pound up the stairs, open bedroom door, and—gee, what a relief! Just a case of whatchamacallit, déjà vu. Even the old-fashioned stockings and bloomers looked familiar, but it was the way Miss S. was sitting on the floor, her lower legs splayed out on either side of her in a peculiar way and her feet somehow turned back out of sight behind her that really took a girl back to her first visit to this bedroom.
“Cow-Face!” Mel yelled delightedly, and then waited, grinning until Miss Seeton uttered a single word, loudly and explosively, because she was expelling a deep abdominal breath at the same time.
“Frog! Oh dear, I didn’t mean to shout. Not Cow-Face, actually. I was practicing the Frog Posture. Cow-Face is like this,” Miss Seeton added in a more subdued tone, fli
nging one arm up and over her shoulder and the other sideways behind her back, joining her hands there without apparent effort. “But how nice that you remembered the name.” She disengaged her arms and smiled. “Good afternoon, er, Mel.” Oh dear, one really was too set in one’s ways to find it at all easy to use first names, but dear Miss Forby was so insistent that it would be impolite not to . . .
“Trust me to get it wrong. Sorry to come busting in on you like that. It sounded as if you might be in some sort of trouble, but I should have known better. The yoga’s going well, then?”
“Reasonably well, thank you. Many of the Group B postures will, I fear, always be beyond me. They should not be attempted by elderly persons who come late in life to hatha yoga, and certainly not while alone. Balancing Tortoise, Yogin’s Staff, and so forth.”
“Wow, they sound pretty wild. And here was I congratulating myself on remembering Cow-Face. Mind you, I could hardly forget it, I thought you were being rude to me that other time.” Miss Seeton having untangled her arms and legs, Mel stretched out her hand, helped her to her feet, and then into her dressing gown. “Actually, it was a pretty fair description of the way I looked in those days,” she added, blushing a little at recalling the extravagant makeup she had been in the habit of affecting before coming under Miss Seeton’s civilizing influence.
“Such nonsense! Now, why don’t you go downstairs and put the kettle on? While I make myself look a little more respectable. Then we’ll have a nice chat. Dear dear, I should have emptied that this morning.” Miss Seeton reached for the carafe of drinking water from her bedside table. “Waste not want not,” she said, crossing to the open window. “During this very dry spell we’re being asked to economize by not watering our gardens with hose-pipes.” With her head still turned toward Mel, she stretched out her arm and upended the carafe. The simple action was followed immediately by the sound of a stifled scream from outside, and Miss Seeton leaned in consternation out the window.
Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7) Page 3
