“Course,” said Mrs. Flax, “we never noticed him driving past down The Street, which by rights we did ought to have done—but then, we wouldn’t, would we? Seeing how she never had him. Suspicious, I calls it.”
“And it wasn’t Mr. Baxter from Brettenden, either,” said Mrs. Blaine. “Which simply proves she didn’t want anyone to know where she was going, doesn’t it?”
This argument, though having undeniable merit, was not the bombshell Mrs. Blaine had expected. Anyone who had ever taken aged Mr. Baxter’s equally aged taxi from Brettenden to Plummergen—to anywhere else, for that matter—knew that the car was unreliable, to say the least. Miss Seeton, in planning the escape she’d undoubtedly taken, would have been less than wise to rely on catching a train (an express, of course, to go farther faster) if she’d booked Mr. Baxter to take her to catch it ...
“If it wasn’t one o’ the Crabbes,” mused Mrs. Skinner, “and it wasn’t Mr. Baxter, then who ...?”
“That’s just what we were saying!” Mrs. Blaine’s little black eyes snapped with excitement. “Who? We certainly didn’t recognise the man at all, did we, Eric?”
Miss Nuttel nodded; then shook her head. “Never seen him before in my life,” she said.
Mrs. Henderson pounced. “Like the people gone to the George, you mean?”
“Strangers,” said Mrs. Flax, in hollow tones.
“Murreystone,” said Mrs. Spice, thrilling to the thought.
“Certainly came from that direction,” said Miss Nuttel. “Across the Marsh, now I think of it.” She frowned again. “Must mean ... either he’s in league with them, or ...”
“Or,” cried Bunny, “Miss Seeton was frightened they’d see him drive past the George to fetch her, and told him to come the back way where they couldn’t—oh, Eric, you’re so right! He’s too obviously On the Other Side, and he’s taken her into hiding so they shan’t see her!”
Erica Nuttel looked at her friend. She shook her head for Bunny’s innocence. “Or,” said Miss Nuttel, “he’s taken her somewhere else—for Further Instructions ...”
Which everyone realised at once must be the truth: and a delicious shudder ran at once around the post office.
chapter
~ 7 ~
DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT Delphick smiled, and held out a hand in welcome. “Miss Seeton, good afternoon. It really is kind of you to have come up to Town at such short notice. I do hope, though, that you didn’t let us disturb you in the middle of anything important.”
Miss Seeton, courteous as ever, hurried to reassure him. “Oh, no, only the garden—which is there all the time, of course. Except that after last night’s rain it needs rather a lot of tidying to suit dear Stan ...”
Bob politely relieved her of her handbag and umbrella; Delphick took her light tweed coat and hung it on the stand. Miss Seeton’s eyes held a shamefaced twinkle as she went on: “He is a little vexed with me, I fear, for having allowed the garden roller to split the handle of my besom so that we have nothing with which to sweep away the worms—when the telephone rang—or rather their casts, all over the lawn, as well as the leaves. Such surprisingly high winds, for October, though one can always make compost with them, and the earth is of great benefit—and the worms, of course.”
Delphick ushered her to the most comfortable of the visitors’ chairs, and she sat down, still trying to explain the unimportance of her doings that afternoon when duty called her elsewhere. “To the compost. Of course, it was an accident—the telephone—and naturally I have promised to take greater care in future. Besides, it can always be used for stakes, and to stop the birds eating the seeds, so it won’t be as much of a waste as I had at first feared—and he will not be coming again until the day after tomorrow, which gives me plenty of time to buy a new one, since you did, I believe, say”—she paused, her head slightly to one side, a questioning note in her voice—“that it would be merely a matter of this afternoon when you required my services.”
“Just this afternoon,” Delphick agreed, crossing mental fingers as he added the silent rider Deo volente. With Miss Seeton, he knew, you could never be sure ...
Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton stands five foot nothing in her stockinged feet, weighs no more than seven stone fully clothed, and is in her mid-sixties. With her grey hair, sensible shoes, and restrained (apart from her hats) attire, she is the epitome of the English spinster pensioner, having taken early retirement some seven years ago from the post of art teacher at Mrs. Benn’s little school in Hampstead. There is, clearly, nothing in her appearance or general demeanour to explain why even experienced police officers such as Scotland Yard’s own Oracle are apt to view any dealings they might have with Miss Seeton with a degree of circumspection. Who, after all, could be supposed more circumspect in her behaviour than a retired teacher of art?
She was, perhaps, not (Miss Seeton will regretfully admit) the most inspirational of instructors. Her enthusiasm for her subject she will never be so foolish as to deny; but her ability to impart to her pupils both her enthusiasm and the skill necessary to express their own were—and indeed, when she emerges from retirement to help out from time to time in Plummergen’s little school, still are—sadly (she will sigh) limited. One did, of course, one’s best to help people to look at things properly: to see things, and then to express what they saw on paper so that the seeing might be communicated to, and enjoyed by, all ...
Miss Seeton, even judged by the exacting standards of an English gentlewoman, is too modest: she was, and is, a very good teacher. She will coax and encourage the most unobservant pupils to produce work of a standard far higher than anyone would suppose possible. She is a very good teacher, but she is not, in this respect, unique; and it is for Miss Seeton’s unique talent for communication that she is so very highly regarded by the police—her ability to See, and to show in her work what she has Seen in so unique a fashion.
This unique ability she does her very best to suppress. She has the strongest possible feeling that one should only draw what is really there: she is always embarrassed when what she has drawn, or sketched, or painted proves her to have noticed far more than that—to have seen what, in philosophical terms, might be regarded as really there: the Ultimate Truth of that which has been painted, sketched, or drawn. She would blush to be considered psychic: she would think it not quite right; and perhaps, indeed, it is too strong a word, though it is hard to find another which will adequately sum up Miss Seeton’s qualities. Her vision of life is ... different. It is clear, and uncluttered; it is instinctive, and cannot be explained—but it can, by those who understand something of its value, be harnessed. And harnessed it has been: by the police.
When Miss Seeton, walking through Covent Garden one evening after enjoying a performance of Carmen, remonstrated with a young man behaving in an unacceptable manner towards his female companion, she did so by applying the ferrule of her umbrella to the small of the young man’s back. She had no idea, as she did so, that she had interrupted the notorious Cesar Lebel, drug dealer and thug, in the act of knifing to death a prostitute—had no idea that such a person as Lebel existed, and certainly knew nothing of his name. But his name was only too well known to Superintendent (as he had then been) Delphick of Scotland Yard, and his face, when at Delphick’s request Miss Seeton sketched it, was instantly recogniseable.
At Delphick’s further request, Miss Seeton sketched again—and again: faces, scenery, impressions. All showed aspects of the case which had not previously occurred to any of those involved in the investigation: it was as if a new light, a new vision, had appeared in the drugs-riddled darkness. With Miss Seeton’s help, Scotland Yard had managed to curtail the activities of certain of the drugging fraternity, arresting Lebel, among others, and leaving the air of London a little sweeter for those arrests. Miss Seeton, in recognition of her contribution to that sweetness, to her delighted surprise received the gift of a gold-handled black silk umbrella from Superintendent Delphick as a token of his gratitude an
d esteem. Seven years later, Chief Superintendent Delphick had lost count of the number of reasons he had for being grateful to Miss Seeton, the number of cases her remarkable insights had helped him (and his colleagues both at the Yard and in other forces) to solve. So grateful were they for her efforts that they had officially retained Miss Seeton, on a modest salary, as an art consultant ...
A pity, though, that so much of what happened in the vicinity of Miss Seeton wasn’t always as clear and uncluttered as her invaluable insights. Was often anything but clear and uncluttered. Could be (to say the least) confused ... exasperating ... bewildering ... exhausting.
“Just this afternoon,” agreed Delphick, feeling exhausted at the very idea of trying to work out what she’d been trying to tell him about the garden roller, the besom, the worms, the stakes, and the compost. Worn out when they’d barely begun—their official business yet to come—and he wanted to see her safely on the homeward train well before midnight, if remotely possible.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, just this afternoon, with luck, and once we’ve had tea and biscuits—be a good chap, Bob, and chivvy the canteen, will you?—we’ll be off on our guided tour, as I explained on the phone. And afterwards, a proper tea—at the Ritz, if you’d like it, or the Savoy—no,” as Miss Seeton seemed about to protest at this lavish invitation, “you must allow Scotland Yard to treat you, please, without questioning our motives too closely.” He smiled. “Although I’m sure you, of all people, will understand those motives only too well, and realise that we expect you to sing—or rather, draw—for your supper. You have, of course, brought your sketchpad with you.”
It was not a question. Miss Seeton smiled back at him, nodded, and reached down for the enormous handbag Bob had placed by the foot of her chair. “And my pencils, and my eraser—plain, I thought, rather than coloured—the pencils, I mean. Autumn in the country,” said Miss Seeton, turning a little pink, “is undoubtedly gold and copper and fading red, but in London, I always feel ... except, that is, in the parks, of course, with the trees in silhouette, and the reappearance of form and line—my favourite season, and of course one notices such things so much better in the country, where there are so many more—and certainly more than we are likely to see today, of course, as you said we should be visiting only the shops and galleries which have been so disgracefully robbed. Trees, I mean. And although one appreciates that antiques and objets d’art are certainly not without colour, and the patina of the years”—the pink returned to her cheeks at this fanciful notion—“it is perhaps more—more rich than I feel mere pencils could in any case do justice to. And a paintbox,” said Miss Seeton, recovering herself with a twinkle, “would be somewhat out of place at the Ritz or the Savoy, don’t you think?”
Delphick said that he certainly did, adding that he was pleased she’d decided to accept his, or rather the Yard’s, hospitality without worrying about it any more. It would, he reminded her, be on expenses—
“And fully deserved, I’ve no doubt,” he added, as there came a tap at the door, and a uniformed constable appeared with a tray in his hands, a look of awe on his face as he gazed at the renowned Battling Brolly, maker of headlines, solver of crimes, sitting just like anyone ordinary—apart from the hat—in the Oracle’s chair. Could almost be someone’s old auntie up for the day, except that people’s aunts didn’t drop in on top-notch Yarders for a gossip over tea and buns the way everyone knew MissEss did.
“Thank you, Constable.” Delphick, divining something of the new arrival’s emotion, waved at Bob to grab the tray before it tilted to disaster and soaked MissEss sitting so unknowing underneath. MissEss! A quiet smile quirked Delphick’s mouth as he recalled the argument he’d had with the Yard’s basement computer, which considered itself infallible—how it had insisted that Miss Seeton, misheard, was first of all Delphick’s Missus (the imagination boggled) and then, after much wearisome explanation, Delphick’s MissEss, which seemed the best anyone was ever going to manage.
Bob reached for the tray. Shining buttons, their wearer still staring with fascination at the living legend in front of the Oracle’s desk, moved forward to effect the handover. A booted foot caught—tripped—stumbled. The tray leaped, cups clattering, and was caught just in time by big Bob Ranger, stalwart of the police football eleven. Breathing heavily, he swooped the tray past Miss Seeton’s innocent nose by just half an inch to set it, with shaking hands, on top of Delphick’s blotter.
Miss Seeton, bending to retrieve her umbrella, babbled apologies, oblivious to the recent risk of boiling tea or falling china. Blushing, babbling his own apologies, the bobby beat a hasty retreat. Delphick said:
“Shall I pour, Miss Seeton, or will you?” No point in asking Bob: his hands were still visibly shaking as he sat down, without invitation, on the other visitors’ chair: Miss Seeton, his dear adopted Aunt Em, had rattled his normal composure. Come to think of it, Delphick didn’t think his own voice sounded too steady, either ...
“I know you like it weak.” He forced himself to pour as Miss Seeton fumbled with the clasp of her handbag, settled her tumbled umbrella safely—was there ever such a word, if you were dealing with the Battling Brolly’s brolly?—across her knees, automatically adjusted that incredible hat, and dutifully prepared to be given her latest assignment.
“You’ll have read more details than we had time for on the phone in the press, I expect.” Not that Miss Seeton was known to pore over Fleet Street’s daily output with particular interest, for all it so often featured her activities in blazing headlines, but she had, he knew, the local paper once a week, and the milkman delivered a daily Times (if it arrived from London at the Brettenden distributors before he left on his rounds) or—since acquaintance had blossomed with Amelita Forby—the occasional Daily Negative, out of loyalty to a friend.
Miss Seeton, sipping tea, sighed, and nodded. “A great pity that so much intelligence—for such, from the little one reads, it appears is used to plan these ... these raids—could not be put to better use; and a real tragedy for so many works of art and pieces of genuine historical interest to be lost to the nation if, as one has been led to understand, the items in question are being ... being stolen to order on behalf of someone who lives abroad. Although even if he lives in this country, of course, the fact that he will have to keep them hidden in future means that they are, to all intents and purposes, still lost. If they are of such a size as to fit inside a car, it will be regrettably easy for him to do so. And very selfish ...”
She sighed again. “And very callous, too, as well as thoroughly dishonest—that someone with more money than, I fear, moral responsibility should, so to speak, simply write out a—a shopping list, and hire people to fulfil his requirements. In other words”—Miss Seeton sat upright, the cockscomb ribbon above her right eye bristling—“deliberately encouraging those who might originally be merely weak to become true criminals. Not just stealing the pictures and the porcelain, but even the cars with which to—to ram their way through the shop windows—and it is, as I understand it, no more than good fortune that so far nobody has been hurt in these disgraceful robberies ...”
She looked at Delphick in sudden dismay. “Oh, dear—am I to understand that the reason you have asked me to—”
“No, no, Miss Seeton.” Delphick forgot courtesy and interrupted before she could distress herself further. “No, you’re right in your understanding—nobody’s been hurt in any of the Ram Raids, not even the one early this morning.” He paused; he met her eye with a look as knowing as her own.
“Nobody,” he emphasised, “has been hurt—yet. But I have the feeling, Miss Seeton, as does Inspector Terling of the Art Squad, that it may only be a matter of time ...”
chapter
~ 8 ~
DELPHICK PUT DOWN his empty cup. “Will you excuse me for one moment, Miss Seeton?” He swivelled his chair to face the window, and contemplated the view from the umpteenth floor of New Scotland Yard. Though smoky grey clouds were moving across
the sky at some speed, patches of blue appeared between the smoke often enough for him to hope that it would keep fine for the next couple of hours, at any rate.
He turned back to his visitor with a smile. “There’s no tremendous hurry, but when you’ve finished your tea. I’ll phone for a car to Mayfair. And then, weather permitting—Miss Seeton?” Her expression brought him up with a start. “Miss Seeton, you seem somewhat troubled. Was it something I said? Or would you rather not go, after all? Believe me, there’s no ...” He was about to say danger, then thought better of it and, as he searched for a more suitable word, was forestalled by Miss Seeton herself.
“Of course, Chief Superintendent, I appreciate the kindness, but I can easily walk, or go by public transport. The expense of a taxi—unless, of course, you are anxious to see my sketches as soon as possible ...” Miss Seeton blushed for her presumption in daring to suggest that Scotland Yard should rank her little scribbles so highly, then blushed still more as she recollected that time, in business, was considered to be money, and that her relationship with dear Mr. Delphick was (although undoubtedly, after so many years, deserving, she hoped, of the name of friendship) in many respects still a business, or at least professional, relationship; and her proposal to walk, or to travel by bus or tube, while cheaper in the short term, could perhaps work out more costly in the long. Which might not, in the circumstances, be sensible, although ... a police car—when it was, after all, the second time today, which did seem perhaps ...
Delphick made a praiseworthy effort, and kept his face absolutely straight as she flustered through her explanation, then smiled kindly on her.
“I think, Miss Seeton, that official funds could stretch to a car for you—or, failing a suitable unmarked vehicle, a taxi—without too much difficulty: we must take care of our experts, you know, for fear of offending them. We cannot run the slightest risk that they might fail to renew their contracts when the time came. We need our retained art consultant, believe me—and, if you don’t, then let me assure you that it would be completely beneath the dignity of a Scotland Yard chief superintendent to arrive in Mayfair on foot, or from a bus, or by underground.”
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 6
