Miss Seeton was shaking her head sadly. “I’m afraid not. I did make a sketch of the man afterwards, if that might be of interest. After the tennis match, that is.” She got up and went to rummage through the untidy stacks of sketches on the writing surface of her old-fashioned desk, while her visitors watched her in admiration mixed with awe.
chapter
~11~
“BE REASONABLE,” Mel pleaded, with a luscious smile. Delphick couldn’t remember ever having seen her look more seductively feminine. She had waylaid him and Ranger in the George and Dragon, after Chief Inspector Brinton and DC Foxon had gobbled their sandwiches and gone off, Brinton having decided they should both interview the vicars of the other two churches burgled during the night.
“I’m always reasonable, Mel. Sergeant Ranger here will confirm that when I do roar, I roar as gently as any sucking dove.” Bob raised his eyes to heaven but judged it better to remain silent. “But when I say no comment, I mean no comment.”
Delphick liked and respected Amelita Forby. Often enough in the past she had proved herself to be a valued ally, and he had no wish to alienate her. On the other hand, he had a lot of thinking to do before deciding how best to act on the startling information Miss Seeton had so nonchalantly provided. He certainly wasn’t anything like ready to allow himself to be quoted in the tabloid press.
“But everybody in Plummergen’s talking about it, for heaven’s sake. Don’t you realize how efficient the gossip grapevine is in a village? They’ve all heard about the burglaries at the other two churches as well. And above all, there are all kinds of wild stories going round about Miss Seeton. Listen, if you think you’re going to be able to keep her name out of the papers, you’re off your rocker. As a matter of fact, I’m going to give this to the Sunday Negative. There’s just time. If I wait for my usual spot in Monday’s Daily, other people’ll probably have picked it up and the competition might run spoilers.”
“Tomorrow’s paper? Out of the question. In any case, this whole thing’s a matter for the Kent County Constabulary, not Scotland Yard,” Delphick said, wincing inwardly as he heard himself being pompous. “Mr. Brinton may have something to say to the media after he’s visited the other two villages concerned.”
“Oh, foo nuts to that!” Mel felt simply marvelous. Wow, who needs sleep, anyway? She reckoned her strength was as the strength of ten all right, but not, as the Scriptures had it, because her heart was pure. Oh dear no, quite the reverse. She could just bear to be apart from scrumptious Thrudd for an hour or so while he was out taking pictures of the church, the vicar, and with any luck Miss S. herself, but had plans for the two of them after she’d phoned her story through to the news desk of the Negative’s Sunday edition.
“Let me tell you something,” she went on after gulping and doing her best to banish the more distracting mental images of pleasures to come to the back burner of her consciousness. “My paper isn’t paying me to sit here in Plummergen and let the Kent Messenger or Brettenden Advertiser or some other local rag send some pimply youth along to talk to Brinton and scoop this story. Here, I don’t know why I’m so nice to you, but you can read what I’ve drafted.”
Mel rootled in her shoulder bag and took out a spiral-bound note pad. It was already open, and she flipped back a couple of pages before handing it to Delphick. “Don’t worry, it isn’t shorthand. And at school I once got a prize for Legible Handwriting.”
This is what Delphick read:
VERSATILE BATTLING BROLLY SWOPS WEAPONS
Warm Reception For Thieves In The Night
The villagers of sleepy Plummergen in Kent are justly proud of their local celebrity, retired art teacher Emily Seeton (writes Amelita Forby, our prize-winning Seeton-watcher). Loyal Negative readers will recall many of the redoubtable little lady’s exploits during recent years, and will be thrilled to learn that she has within the last day or two shown that she’s in her usual sparkling form.
This unlikely scourge of the criminal fraternity is rarely parted from the trusty umbrella that has featured in so many of her notable adventures. But when she popped into the village church late on Friday evening to plan her flower arrangements for the forthcoming Sunday services, even Miss Seeton reckoned she could do without it. She carried instead a long and hefty flashlight of the kind sensible country folk keep handy.
Which was lucky for her and unlucky for the trio of burglars she surprised in the act of cleaning out the cupboard containing the church’s treasured collection of silver chalices and other rare items. Wielding her flashlight like King Arthur’s legendary sword Excalibur, Miss Seeton waded into the crooks and gave them a thoroughly disagreeable quarter of an hour before they fled in panic, but alas with their loot intact. It later emerged that two other village churches in the area were similarly burgled during Friday night, and Kent police are assuming that the same gang was responsible, getting away with a total haul worth many thousands of pounds.
Interviewed on the day after her ordeal, demure but spry Miss Seeton coolly insisted to your reporter that she had done, “nothing out of the ordinary” and that the whole episode was “all most unfortunate.” Asked if she hadn’t been a little rash in having a go in the face of odds of three determined crooks against one retired lady teacher, Miss Seeton smiled inscrutably.
It seems it was all in the day’s—or rather, night’s— work for Scotland Yard’s part-time consultant and favorite senior citizen, of whom on hearing the news the Yard’s Chief Superintendent Delphick said, “Blah blah blah, and moreover blah. Miss Seeton has already provided the police with valuable information, which is expected to lead to early arrests. Blah blah.”
Having read the piece not once but twice, Delphick sighed, shaking his head from side to side slowly, and passed the pad to Ranger. Then he gazed at Mel, a lugubrious expression on his face. “I congratulate you,” he said. “You have a flawless command of the Negative’s appalling house style, and a splendidly cavalier attitude to the facts. That’s not what happened at all, and you know it.”
Mel shrugged. “First rule of popular journalism: don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story.”
“Please, Mel. I know it’s not exactly a state secret that Miss S. does some work for us, but do you have to spell it out like that? And I absolutely refuse to be quoted. Blah blah indeed!”
“You get to fill in the blahs, Mr. Delphick. They’re just to indicate the rough length of quote I want from you.”
“No, no, a thousand times no.”
“Oh dear. Well, in that case I guess I shall just have to fill up the space by mentioning that quite coincidentally, there’s another newsworthy person in Plummergen at the moment, a star tennis player staying incognito as a house-guest at the home of the local squire, Sir George Colveden. Won’t I? That should bring the Fleet Street rat pack here in double quick time.” Mel batted her eyelids languorously.
“Mel, you wouldn’t!” Then, after an moment or two, “Would you?”
“Try me.”
“How the blazes did you find out, anyway?” Delphick wheeled round in his chair and glared at Ranger. “Is this your doing? If it is, may the Lord have mercy on you, for I certainly won’t.”
“Calm down, Mr. Delphick. Of course it wasn’t Bob.” Mel sighed. “Honestly, you high-up officials can be so naive. You cook up your little secret schemes and imagine the rest of us are too dumb to put two and two together. Why in the world do you suppose a couple of high-priced journos like Thrudd and me just happen to be lurking around Plummergen? Simply on the off-chance that Miss S. is about to perform one of her conjuring tricks? Mind you, it’s a pretty safe bet that something weird’ll happen to her in any average week, but face it, this burglary deal’s not much of a story. It wouldn’t rate two column inches in the nationals if she hadn’t already been notorious. No sirree, I was on to the Trish Thumper affair from the word go, and we’re here to watch what Miss S. makes of it when she gets involved. As I’ll bet my bottom dollar she will.”
>
“My apologies, Bob. It was unworthy of me to entertain even for a moment the idea that you might have blabbed. I should have realized that this ruthless female would outwit me yet again. And now you see her holding me to ransom.”
“Oh, come on. It isn’t that bad. Give me my notebook back, Bob. Let’s have another look at that last para.” Mel considered it. “I’ll offer you a deal, okay? Keep me in the picture, and I won’t breathe a word about you know who until you give me the go-ahead. And I’ll cut the part-time consultant reference and make that last para read . . . ‘all in the day’s work, etcetera, for this amazing lady whose reputation is as high among senior police officers as it is among readers of the Negative. Told of the news, Scotland Yard’s Chief Superintendent Delphick said, “We have good reason to be grateful to Miss Seeton for her public-spirited actions in the past, and I am not at all surprised to hear that she has once again demonstrated her bravery and resourcefulness.”’ Okay?”
Delphick thought about it for a while. It was horribly risky to trust a determined, highly professional newspaperwoman like Mel. Then he remembered the times he had done so previously—and the fact that this time he had no option in the matter anyway—and nodded. “Okay, you win. And, er, by the way, you can leave in the last bit about her having provided useful information likely to lead to early arrests.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. She has done, actually, and seeing it in print might scare somebody into doing something silly.”
“Now then,” Norman said sharply over the telephone, “I don’t want you doin’ nothin’ silly. I know you’ve ’ad your troubles with the fuzz, but you don’t know ’em like I do.” He listened quietly enough while William Parsons replied at some length. “Not a bit of it,” he said then. “I saw the paper an hour ago. ’Ad longer to think about it than what you ’ave. An’ I already woke up ’Arvey out of ’is beauty sleep an’ told ’im. Right, I’ll admit it’s a bit of a facer that old girl turnin’ out to be ’oo she is, but it don’t change nothin’, Bill. All that about an early arrest, dear oh dear, they always put out that sort o’ guff, just to kid their guv’nors they’re earnin’ their pay. Woss that? Lie low? Not on your nelly, my lad. Nah, a deal’s a deal. We know where Thumper’s kid is, an’ me ’n’ Arvey’ll do our bit. Fact is, I’m nippin’ back down that way meself later on, when the pubs are open. Loose lot o’ tongues them rustics’ve got. I’ll give you another bell tonight, when I’ve worked out ways an’ means. Meantime, cheer up, cully, we in’t dead yet, not even breathin’ ’eavy.”
After he had replaced the receiver, Norman sucked his teeth for a while and then picked it up again and dialed another number. The ringing tone seemed to go on for quite a long time, but eventually there was a response.
“About flippin’ time. S’me again. What? In the bath? You know what, you overdo them baths o’ yours, you’ll dry up all yer natural oils. A feller in a pub told me that ’appened to ’is ol’ lady. Listen, ’Arve. Remember what I told yer after Bill went ’ome that night? About ’is barmy idea o’ snatchin’ that bird? Well, we might be lendin’ ’im an ’and.” He held out the receiver at arm’s length until the agitated quacking sound emerging from the earpiece died down, then spoke again.
“You’re beginnin’ to repeat yerself, son. Pin back yer lug’ole an’ listen. Like I said, I’m the only one what said a dicky bird in that church. You got no cause to get into a mucksweat. Any’ow, I still don’t reckon there’s a snowball’s chance in ’ell she got a make on any of us. On the other ‘and, they do say she’s a fly ol’ soul, so I bin workin’ out ways an’ means o’ takin’ out a bit of what yer might call insurance. Nah, not over the blower. Meet me tomorrer mornin’, my place, arpass ten.”
• • •
“Thrudd, darling?”
“Mmm?”
“It’s morning, you gorgeous creature.”
“Don’t wanna know.”
“Sunday. So we can always come back to bed later, but you’d better go back to your own room before the maid comes round to do the beds. The coast’ll be clear again by the time we’ve had breakfast and popped out to get the Negative.”
“Screw the maid.”
Mel gazed down at him proudly. “You couldn’t possibly,” she murmured. “Not even you, superman. Not after . . . oh, and by the way, don’t try to raise the roller blind.”
“Roller blind? Whaddya mean?”
“I have a feeling you might go up with it.”
Lady Colveden entered the kitchen and stopped short in astonishment. “Why are you brandishing that rose, Nigel?”
“Rose? What rose? Oh, you mean this rose.”
“Yes. The one you’re brandishing.”
“Hardly brandishing, I should have thought, Ma. I say, you’re up jolly early, aren’t you?”
“Don’t evade the question. Nigel, there is a tray on the table.”
“Oh. So there is.”
“And on it, a pot of tea, jug of milk, etcetera. And two of my special Fortnum’s biscuits on a plate.”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well. Place the rose beside the plate, and I shall then carry her early morning tea up to Patricia in her room.”
“Oh. Well, actually, I had—”
“I can see perfectly well what you had in mind, Nigel. Quite apart from the fact that you’ve shaved already and reek of cologne.” Her mouth twitched. “Sorry, dear, but I have to explain that women of any age past puberty prefer not to receive gentlemen callers until they’ve looked at themselves in the mirror, shrieked inwardly, and then done something about what they saw. Cheer up, I’ll tell her the rose is from you.”
Halfway through the door, Meg Colveden looked back, suddenly aghast. “Nigel—you haven’t been doing this every morning since she arrived, have you?”
“No,” said Nigel despondently. “Only occurred to me first thing today.”
“Well, thank heavens for that.” She took pity on the son she adored. “Tell you what, it’s Sunday, so no practice session today, right? Why don’t you invite Patricia to go out for a stroll with you later on? Sharpen your appetites for lunch. I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
Nigel’s face brightened. “Do you really think so, Ma?”
“Of course she will.”
Because I shall make it crystal clear to her that she’d bloody well better, Lady Colveden said to herself as she mounted the stairs with the tray.
Norah Blaine heard Erica Nuttel return to the house. The way she banged the door behind her would have wakened the dead, but Norah was in any case up and about. She hastily popped their eggs into the water she had already brought to the boil, and set the timer at four minutes. Eric was inclined to be fussy about her egg. Turning to her friend when she entered the kitchen, Norah glanced in puzzlement at the folded newspaper under her arm.
“Why have you been out to buy a paper, Eric? The boy delivered our Sunday Telegraph ages ago. Oh dear, you do look cross.”
“I am not in the least cross,” Miss Nuttel said, but Mrs. Blaine knew she was. She had over their years together become something of a connoisseur of her friends’ moods. “Nor am I surprised, for I quite expected something of the kind. I am, however, disgusted. Look for yourself.”
Mrs. Blaine took the paper thrust toward her and unfolded it. It was already open at page three, which was dominated by the headline BRITAIN IS PROUD OF YOU, MISS S.! Subeditors cherish the privilege of inventing their own titles, but the report Mrs. Blaine read was substantially as Mel Forby had dictated it over the telephone the previous afternoon.
“Oh dear, the eggs are ready.” Mrs. Blaine said as the timer buzzed. She took the saucepan off the stove, spooned the eggs into bright red china egg cups embellished with Tweetie-pie cartoons, put them on the table, and then sank weakly into a chair.
“And is that all you have to say for yourself, pray?”
“Well, I can see that you must find it very upsetting, Eric.”
“Upsetting? It’s
preposterous! It is perfectly obvious to me that once more a complete perversion of justice is taking place. The Forby creature and That Woman were themselves behind those burglaries, Norah. It’s clear to me now that they were plotting the details that afternoon. Why else would That Woman have been in the church at night? Planning flower arrangements indeed! In the dark? No, she supervised the whole thing, saw her criminal associates safely off the premises, and then claimed to have tried to stop them. And now this Forby has duly printed the farrago of lies they prepared between them in advance.”
“When you put it like that, Erica—”
“Even you can see the force of my argument. Precisely.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“My duty.”
“What, you mean go to the police?”
“Really, Norah! What on earth would be the point of that? The police are in her pocket. No, I intend to denounce her publicly.”
“When you did that at the Women’s Institute, they wouldn’t listen. Said we hadn’t paid our subs.”
“I shall choose my time and place, Norah. Now eat your egg before it gets cold.”
chapter
~12~
CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT Delphick sat in his office at New Scotland Yard musing on the difficulties of getting anything done on a Sunday. It had been a good many years since he had been liable to be rostered for weekend duty in the ordinary way, and the occasions he had been called out on the Sabbath had for the most part required his presence at the scene of some spectacular crime or emergency, with appropriate specialists in busy attendance, weekend or no weekend. He had therefore fallen into the habit of assuming that, just as the metropolitan police force seemed to carry on as usual when he was away on his annual vacations, so it did on Saturdays and Sundays. He couldn’t remember when he had last entered his own office other than on a weekday, and it had come as a shock to him that day to discover that it was like a blessed tomb.
Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7) Page 9
