Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7)

by Hampton Charles

“State your business, Forby.”

  “I was just wondering . . .”

  “You were just wondering how badly I want to sell that photograph of Thumper and his boyfriend to a French scandal mag. Right?”

  “What a suggestion! Besides, he probably isn’t his boyfriend.”

  “Who’s to know? Anyhow, we can’t allow Miss S. to get upset, especially not by a creep like Thumper. Shall I tell you what I think we ought to do? I think we ought to stroll up to Rytham Hall, ask to have a word with Sir Wilfred, and show him that pic.”

  “Mister Banner!” Mel looked properly shocked. “I’m surprised at you. Are you proposing to blackmail that poor old gentleman?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Good. I was afraid you’d never get round to it.”

  “I can hear footsteps. And voices. Turn the light off, quickly, Norah.”

  “Well, that is the main street of the village out there, after all,” Mrs. Blaine pointed out, but nevertheless did as she was bidden, and plunged the sitting room into darkness. Miss Nuttel then drew the curtain aside by an inch or two and peered out.

  “Shh!”

  “I am shishing, Eric.”

  “. . . oh boy, am I glad you’re here!”

  “Couldn’t have done without me, sweetheart, could you? I wonder if Bob Ranger’s in on all this?”

  “The latest twist, you mean? I doubt . . .” The voices faded into the distance.

  “There! What did I tell you?”

  “You didn’t tell me anything. Can I put the light back on now?”

  “Very well, I suppose so.”

  Blinking, Mrs. Blaine observed the satisfied smile on her friend’s face. “Well, who was it, then?”

  “The Forby creature. With her paramour, Banner.”

  “I say, do you really think he’s her paramour?” Mrs. Blaine inquired interestedly. “Thrudd Banner’s quite famous, you know.”

  “He called her sweetheart.”

  “I think newspaper people use endearments quite casually, you know, Eric. Like in the theater world. Darling this and precious that,” Mrs. Blaine said wistfully. It had been a long time since the once demonstrative Miss Nuttel had said anything of the kind to her.

  “Take it from me, they are lovers. I saw the way she was clinging to his arm. And he was carrying a large envelope.”

  “It didn’t sound as if they were going toward Sweetbriars. Perhaps to Dr. Wright’s? Didn’t I hear Sergeant Ranger’s name mentioned?”

  “You did. And I infer that they assume that he is being kept in the dark about something. Presumably by his superiors, with whom they are conspiring. So they’re unlikely to be on their way to see him. I don’t know where they’re going, but I am quite certain of two things, Norah. First, that Forby and Banner are lovers as well as accomplices, and second, that they are involved in a criminal enterprise which has something to do with the contents of that envelope.”

  And for once, Miss Nuttel was absolutely right.

  chapter

  ~19~

  SIR HURBERT Everleigh made a steeple of his hands, arranged them in what looked vaguely like an attitude of prayer under one of his chins, and gazed at Delphick over the top of his glasses. “Don’t ask me, Oracle,” he said. “All I can tell you is what the commissioner in his infinite wisdom thought fit to impart to me: namely that Mr. Justice Thumper returned from Kent to his London residence yesterday morning, and that on arrival he telephoned to seek an urgent personal meeting with him. Though he had as always many other pressing claims upon his time, which of course costs the taxpayers even more than yours and mine, the commissioner received him for a few minutes that same afternoon. As a consequence of that interview, our master has had what he describes as a quiet word on the telephone with the chief constable of the county of Kent.”

  “Who is no doubt saying much the same thing at this moment to Chief Inspector Brinton as you have been saying to me, sir.”

  “That is not only entirely possible, but highly probable. Knowing that you two are as brothers, I’m quite sure that Brinton will be on the line to you presently to compare notes. Or you to him. Ever heard the expression ‘wheels within wheels’?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Mysterious phrase, come to think of it, but one knows more or less what it means.”

  “Quite. In this context for some reason it puts me in mind of other handy idioms, such as ‘old boy network’, sir.”

  “It does indeed, Delphick, it does indeed. You’re doubtless recalling that Sir George Colveden is not only a respected member of the Bench at Brettenden Magistrates’ Court, but also often plays golf with the said chief constable. So it is safe to assume that the commissioner’s call is unlikely to have come entirely as a bolt from the blue. Just between ourselves, who or what do you think persuaded Thumper to change his mind so dramatically between the time you left him that afternoon and the following day when he begged the commissioner to call the whole Parsons thing off? Apart from the burglary charges, of course.”

  “I very much wish I knew.”

  “Perhaps I should have mentioned that the commissioner told me that when they met, Thumper appeared to be acutely embarrassed. Admitted indeed that were it not a matter of some urgency, and the circumstances such that he wished the commissioner to be in no doubt about his identity, he would greatly have preferred to make his request by letter or telephone. Tell me, did Thumper seem to be more or less his usual unlovable self when you interviewed him at Rytham Hall?”

  “Hardly that. In the first place he’d caught the father and mother of all colds in the head. He was wrapped up in an extraordinary dressing gown that looked a bit like a horse blanket, and got through half a box of Kleenex in about twenty minutes.”

  “It just goes to show that elderly gentlemen of sedentary habits shouldn’t go for dips in lakes. Even at Glyndebourne. I see. So understandably he was a bit down in the mouth. But you say the famously unbending upholder of the law was nevertheless very much in evidence.”

  “Not exactly, sir. He struck me as being not only thoroughly under the weather, but also somehow chastened. In spite of being doggedly insistent that Parsons should be brought to account for sending him the threatening letters. Naturally I asked him what he thought about his daughter’s decision not to press assault charges in respect of the incidents at the Hurlingham Club and at Glyndebourne.”

  “And?”

  “He simply muttered something about his daughter being under much too much pressure before Wimbledon to concern herself with such things. She’s due to play at Hastings tomorrow, by the way. The American girl who beat her at the Hurlingham Club last week.”

  “Well, judging by Ranger’s report on her set-to with those two chaps at Glyndebourne, she seems to be in cracking form. Let’s hope she wins this time. Is Ranger back here yet? Kent police have called off the protection arrangements, and it sounds as if there’s little need for him to stay in Plummergen now.”

  “On the contrary, sir. He’s getting married there tomorrow afternoon. To the local doctor’s daughter.” Delphick coughed modestly. “I am to assist at the ceremony.”

  “Indeed? In what capacity, may I ask?”

  “Until this morning, it was to have been simply as a friend of the groom. But then Ranger rang me in something of a state, saying that his brother, who was to have been his best man, has just broken his leg water-skiing and can’t be on parade. He asked me if I would consider helping him out. I was surprised to learn that he’s a wine merchant, in Tewkesbury, of all places. The brother.”

  “I don’t see anything odd about the idea of selling wine in Tewkesbury. Prosperous little place, he probably does quite well. Anyway, you have obviously been flattered into accepting.”

  “But of course. I’m pretty ancient to play best man, but—”

  “I hope very much that Mrs. Delphick has consented to this reckless idea. My dear Oracle, do you realize what it means? A stag night out with the flower of young Plummergen ma
nhood tonight? And tomorrow, the risk of mislaying the ring? A joky speech at the reception? Indiscriminate kissing of bridesmaids? Good gracious, I do envy you!”

  The moment he saw Trish emerge from the changing rooms, Nigel shot up from the bench on which he had been whiling away the time by carving a heart transfixed by an arrow, with the penknife he’d carried on him since boyhood. Rushing to her side, he beamed at her and seized the large shoulder bag containing her gear.

  “The car’s just over there, darling Trish. Well, how did it go today?”

  “Not bad. Not bad at all. My coach says he’ll slaughter me if I don’t beat Nancy this time.”

  “Gosh, I do think you’re fantastic. After what you’ve been through this week, nobody would have blamed you if you’d pulled out of the match tomorrow.”

  “That would have been a jolly feeble thing to do. Besides, I feel fine. Never better. Don’t bang my bag about, there’s a pet.” She watched while Nigel eased it into the space behind the two seats of the MG, and then slid into the car herself. Just as Nigel was about to start the engine, she reached over and put a hand on his wrist. “Don’t I get a kiss?” Then, a couple of languorous minutes later, “Mmm, that’s better. Off we go then, and drive nice and slowly. I want to feel lazy. You know, I rather miss the police escort, but at least we get a bit more privacy this way, don’t we?”

  “Police escort? Whatever—?”

  “Dear Nigel, you’re a rotten actor. Do you really think I didn’t notice the plods following us every day? Honestly, I don’t know why everybody takes one look at a girl with a few muscles and immediately assumes she must be thick in the head, too. I knew more or less what you were all up to from day one. And Mummy told me she’d known about the anonymous letters from the first, too.”

  “She did? But neither of you were supposed to! It was all to be a deathly secret, even that you were staying with us!”

  “Which is why you went barging about the village telling everybody you met, I presume. Of course Mummy knew, but she was too frightened of my tyrannical old father to say so. Until going to Glyndebourne changed her life. Once she saw him go into the lake, and then the way he looked so terrified, clutching pathetically at that rather dishy man with the pink cummerbund who fished him out, well, I ask you!”

  “Rather dishy? What an extraordinary thing to say. Especially as the blighter you see fit to describe as rather dishy is under arrest for conspiring to kidnap you.”

  “No, he isn’t. Well, he’s still in jug I think, but only for nicking the church silver. Miss Seeton and I put a stop to all the other nonsense. Wasn’t easy getting my father to see reason, mind you, but in the end we got by with a little help from our friends.” Trish hummed a snatch of the Beatles song and smiled enigmatically.

  “What friends? You don’t mean Mel and Thrudd, do you? Why did they drop in unexpectedly yesterday evening, wanting to see him privately?”

  “Can’t imagine.” Trish broke into a fit of giggles, and it was a little while before she could continue. “You never know, perhaps they wanted his photo for the Daily Negative. Anyway, don’t be cross. You’re much dishier than the man in the cummerbund. And Mummy’s a totally different woman. She was on the phone even before they left for London this morning, booking herself a beauty treatment at Claridges and a first-class stateroom on the Queen Elizabeth II. She’s off to do some shopping in New York next week.”

  “Is she really? Well, good for her . . . but I say, what’s going to happen about—”

  “Father? Oh, do him good to fend for himself for a while. Give him a chance to meditate on the error of his ways. Everyone’s been getting at him, but it’s only his vanity that’s really hurt, you know. That and the fact that Colveden Senior gave him a jolly good talking to, according to Mummy. Told him he was a rotten bully and a disgrace to the old school. Quite right, too. You know, Nigel, I really think that must have got through to him. When he said good-bye to me this morning, he snuffled a bit—”

  “Not surprised, he’s got a stinker of a cold.”

  “Don’t interrupt. No, I mean he went a bit soppy, apologized for not having been a better father, and promised to try to improve in future. Even told me he loves me. First time in my life he’s ever come out with anything like that. He could have fooled me all those years. Honestly, it was dead embarrassing, I can tell you.”

  “Must have been. Oh Trish, I am going to miss you after this weekend. I wish I could be with you during Wimbledon fortnight.”

  Trish threw back her head and gave herself up to warm, full-hearted, infectious laughter. “Fortnight?” she managed to splutter eventually. “You must be kidding! Darling Nigel, I’m not a bad tennis player and I plan to get a lot better in the next two or three years, but if I get into the second round it’ll be a surprise, and a miracle if I last into the third. After which my services won’t be required. And your lovely ma and pa have already invited me back. So don’t go chasing any other girls for at least a week, okay?”

  “Tween yoonme,” Bob Ranger said owlishly to his superior, “got admit tried Nige first.” He pointed an unsteady finger at the young man in question, who was standing at the bar a few feet away, deep in conversation with PC Potter, Mr. Jessyp the headmaster of the village school, and Martha Bloomer’s husband Stan. Potter was overawed by the honor of having been invited to a gathering of the notables of Plummergen, being modest by nature, and the presence of horny-handed Stan Bloomer was something of a comfort to him.

  “And why not? Fine young man.” Delphick wasn’t anything like as tight as the bridegroom, but more than mellow enough to take a charitable view. He caught the eye of Thrudd Banner, who was sitting with them, and they exchanged winks while Bob sat back and nodded his head a good many times.

  “Coon make it, though. Gotter go Trishtings with Hash. Hashtings with Triss.” He peered anxiously into Delphick’s eyes.

  “Not offended?”

  “Not a bit of it. Glad to oblige. Any time.”

  “Damn silly things, stag parties, don’t you think?” Thrudd inquired. “Bob here would much rather be with Anne than brooding into his glass, and half the others aren’t really eligible, anyway. Isn’t it supposed to be all the groom’s bachelor buddies that gather round to help him say good-bye to the single state?”

  “Perfectly right. But I’m married, Potter’s married, Bloomer’s married. Don’t think the schoolmaster is though. Nigel’s a bachelor, and so are you, come to that.”

  Bob Ranger looked blearily from one to the other, and then himself winked with deliberation at Delphick. “Not long now,” he then said. “Cording to Missessess. Weddin bells f’rim soon, too.”

  “Rubbish,” Thrudd said at once.

  “Who’s the lucky girl, Thrudd? Not Mel, by any chance?” One look at his face was enough to tell Delphick that he had hit the jackpot. “Well I’m blowed! Congratulations!”

  chapter

  ~20~

  IT WAS a busy Saturday morning for a good many of the residents of Plummergen, and for all of the visitors temporarily housed there; except for a Dutch anthropologist and her engineer husband, who were on a bicycling holiday and had taken a room at the George and Dragon the previous evening. As sophisticated Hollanders they were naturally fluent English speakers, who had listened with fascination to snatches of conversation in the saloon bar, and correctly interpreted the status of the huge young man at the center of the ill-assorted but all-male group of revellers.

  After they had enjoyed watching the entire ensemble, including the immensely respectable-looking older gentleman, join in a ragged but spirited performance of “Knees Up, Mother Brown”, the anthropologist had jotted down for subsequent analysis a phonetic transcription of the incomprehensible words of what had to be a ribald bucolic song sung by Stan Bloomer. Then (tactfully in Dutch) she wondered aloud to her husband whether she hadn’t made a mistake in devoting years of study to the customs of the people of the island of Lombok in Indonesia when there were equally fascinat
ing rituals to be observed so much nearer home.

  Their pleasure had been crowned when, later, they saw Thrudd Banner tiptoeing with exaggerated caution from his own room to the one they knew to be occupied by the young woman they had met and spoken to briefly when settling in. Since it was next door to their own, they also gathered aural evidence that not all the English are as phlegmatic and undemonstrative as they are reputed to be.

  Now, at eight-forty on Saturday morning, having managed to deal with most of the Full English Breakfast included in the price of their room, they had nothing to do except decide whether to remain in the village long enough to see the actual wedding, or to press on as planned to Dover where the husband, a lover of poetry, wanted to spend some time on the beach in homage to Matthew Arnold.

  The other guests at the George and Dragon had more on their minds. These now included Bob Ranger, for everybody concerned was agreed that it would never do for the bride and groom to spend the night before the wedding under the same roof, much less to court bad luck by setting eyes on each other on the great day, until the moment when Dr. Wright piloted his daughter to Bob’s side in church.

  Contemplating his reflection in the looking glass in his room, Bob decided that he wasn’t in such bad shape as all that. Slightly fragile, but nothing a hearty breakfast wouldn’t put right. The beer and whiskey chasers had flowed freely with a good time being had by all, but his wedding-eve booze-up had been positively sedate compared with some he’d participated in, not to mention certain post-rugger match celebrations. As the local representative of the law, PC Potter had been obliged to remove himself, Nigel, Jessyp, and Stan Bloomer at closing time anyway, but the three of them staying at the pub could’ve legally gone on drinking as long as they liked.

  Thrudd hadn’t hung about, though, once he spotted Mel pop her face round the door to the bar and blow him a kiss, and as soon as he’d gone upstairs it was obvious the Oracle was more than ready for bed. Good sport he’d been, though, joining in like that. That was a laugh, when poor old Potter had nearly had a fit, when he realized that as a humble village bobby he had to cross arms and hold hands with a detective chief superintendent to sing “Auld Lang Syne”. He’d probably tell the story for years to come and bore the pants off everybody he knew. Anyway, all that was last night, and today was today. Wedding at half past twelve, reception in the banqueting room here at the pub, should be over by three at the latest, and then—whoopee!