by Heron Carvic
A fanfare: the lights flashed ANGLETERRE; a bump upstage and the opening bars of “Rule Britannia” heralded the entrance of the new star, Missesse. In a concerted, if unsynchronized, movement the entire cast pivoted and pointed to the coffin. Even the nudes were inspired to turn their attention from the gentlemen in the stage boxes and front stalls and raised languid hands in approximately the right direction. The gold coffin for Miss England, with its suggestion of the Sleeping Beauty to be aroused at last by the young prince in white, brought anticipatory chuckles from the spectators. Cecil swung the coffin lid open: the umbrella fell, the handbag tumbled and the audience after a startled silence caught the gist and roared. With the rending of England’s veil to reveal the dowdy little figure with its old-fashioned hat, the theater shouted its approval. At the foot of the steps, with the whole company vocalizing their insistence that they would not be happy until they made “yew ’appy tew-ew,” Cecil was joined by the two stalwarts in an acrobatic dance while Miss England, wild-eyed with fright, fought them off at the point of an umbrella. When the ferrule landed on their toes they hopped, they clutched their feet and then returned to the attack, and the undertheme of political satire convulsed the house. Finally Missesse, muddled, legs intertwined and locked through trying to escape first this way and then that, was held aloft by Cecil with a firm grip round the waist: but when, belabored, he subsided in a split, his grip slipped for a moment and he tightened it.
“Ee—mind my bloody stitches,” gasped Missesse, and the curtain swept down to tumultuous applause.
London
OVATION FOR NEW STAR
MISSESSE WOWS THEM AT THE CASINO
from Thrudd Banner in Paris
Chief Superintendent Delphick lowered the paper and addressed his sergeant. “Hop over, Bob, and see if any of the French dailies have come in.”
“I don’t think they can have, sir. Miss Seeton’s plane will be the first out of Paris since the fog.”
“There are still the cross-Channel boats. Go and see.” Sergeant Ranger left the office at London Airport in which they were waiting, passed the counters of the banks and travel agencies, reached a news stall and returned triumphant. “Just this one, sir. Paris Midi.”
Delphick exchanged papers with him. “You did say ‘Miss Seeton’s plane,’” he observed. “Make what you can of that.” He pointed to the banner notice. In Paris Midi he found what he wanted on the front page.
UNE NOUVELLE MISTINGUETT?
MISSESSE AU CASINO DE PARIS
Hier soir on a vue ici le début de . . .
He skimmed down the review. It told him little more than had Thrudd Banner’s report.
Reading the English paper, Bob Ranger’s jaw dropped. “But she couldn’t’ve, sir—I mean she wouldn’t’ve.” Miss Seeton—Aunt Em, as he and Anne now called her—in a nudie show? Granted she never did what you expected and always what you didn’t, still this . . . No. “She couldn’t. Well, I mean she wouldn’t—would she, sir?” It was a plea for reassurance.
“I imagine not.” Yet Delphick was reminded that his imagination had conjured precisely such a vision at the last of the A.C.’s conferences. “But I find the coincidence of the names Missesse and MissEss a little hard to take; our version must be mixed up in it somewhere. After all, we knew she was likely to go to that theater. Obviously, as usual, she’s gone farther than was meant; but that she’s gone so far as to become their leading lady I doubt.”
The loudspeaker announced the flight from Paris and they descended to customs. Delphick had arranged with the airport authorities to be on hand for Miss Seeton’s arrival in case . . . No—no likelihood of trouble that he could foresee, but he would still prefer to be there—just in case. He and Bob watched the porters bring forward trolleys when the revolving volcano which ejects the luggage started to turn and the passengers began to filter through from passports. First class first.
A chic, fair-haired, attractive woman won Delphick’s appreciation. She had secured a porter and was standing beside an equally smart older woman wearing a stylish hat and a black-and-red-check coat. The older woman was cluttered with a long parcel, a large handbag and, incongruously, an old-fashioned umbrel—Good God. He stared in disbelief: their Miss Seeton—metamorphosed. If it hadn’t been for the umbrella he’d never have . . . Quickly he showed his pass and, followed by Bob, went across to greet her.
• • •
Miss Seeton was happy; to be back at last; to see the chief superintendent and Bob; and to introduce them to her friend Mme de Brillot, who had been so kind and had arranged everything. A further cause for happiness had been the notices of the revue in the morning papers, which Mme de Brillot had translated during the journey. It was so gratifying to know that the twins had had a great success. Such nice, kind boys. They deserved it. Though how that poor Cyril had managed all those acrobatics and that fooling with his strapping and his stitches she couldn’t think. Her heart had been in her mouth quite half the time. It had been rather a shock, and embarrassing at first—although she had given Mr. Eigord permission to use the name Missesse and what he had repeatedly referred to as her “act”—to see her own clothes—mended? or were they copies?—on the stage. But after a while one had realized how amusing it appeared. And Mr. Eigord, so generous, after giving them his box at the theater, had taken them to supper, Mme de Brillot, herself, the twins and Mr. and Mousha Stemkos, and they’d all been so gay. And all that other, unpleasant, and quite dreadful, business was finished. Left behind. And now she was nearly home. Miss Seeton was happy.
Mme de Brillot was disappointed. It had appeared a good idea to take Miss Seeton to Paris but, professionally, it had not succeeded. In truth, they had established that Mantoni was in the city—and, by inference, Librecksin—but there was no proof. Her telephone call to the police at lunch yesterday had been useful to a point and she had gained a certain satisfaction from a small paragraph in the papers this morning to the effect that the remains of an unidentified woman—the head and an arm were missing—had been discovered in suitcases at various left-luggage offices. However, although she and the police might presume the body to be that of Lilianne, again there was no proof. As an indirect bonus Miss Seeton had reunited Heracles and Mousha Stemkos, had transformed the Cyrcil Twins into stars and had turned a revue from bad to good—but these were the fringe benefits of a fairy godmother; no part of the case; nor sufficient restitution for Vee’s death. But then—she shrugged—it was not reasonable to hope to win every trick, nor to count on Miss Seeton to establish every detail.
She indicated their luggage as it rotated and the porter asked had they anything to declare? She shook her head.
Miss Seeton promptly contradicted, saying, “This.” With an effort she held up the parcel, which appeared to grow heavier the longer she carried it.
With Miss Seeton heading for a customs officer, their paths diverged. Mme de Brillot stopped on her way to the farther exit.
“Do not forget,” she reminded, “to pass word”—she stressed both syllables—“to your friend of that song you have so often heard.” She gave a wave of the hand and walked out of Miss Seeton’s life with the same apparent casualness with which she had entered it.
Delphick, who had done no more than smile and say How do you do, was surprised to experience a sense of loss and was perceptive enough to realize that Miss Seeton also felt deserted. He watched the elegant, somehow lonely figure follow the porter, whom Bob had relieved of Miss Seeton’s luggage, and then it struck him. “Pass word,” “so kind,” “arranged everything.” She must’ve been—must be—Fenn’s “man.” Give the Special Branch its due—to guard a woman it’d take a woman. He turned to Miss Seeton, who was explaining to the customs officer: no, not the two cases, both of which were now open; it was really this. She handed over the parcel.
“You see,” she confided, “I’d rather that tall young man behind me didn’t know what’s in it. It’s for his wedding next week.”
The off
icer smiled. “Did it cost more than ten pounds?”
“Good gracious, no. At least, that is to say, I shouldn’t think so. It was French—the money, I mean—which isn’t quite the same thing. Though,” she admitted, “it did take rather a lot of it.”
He propped the parcel on the open suitcase so that their lids would conceal it from Bob Ranger and began to undo the string.
“Tell me,” Delphick asked. “What was this password—this song your friend spoke of?”
“Oh, something Russian, I think,” she told him. “About India, I believe.”
Oblon complaining of Miss Seeton being drunk and singing. “Did you sing it at some eating place in Italy?”
“Why, yes.” She was surprised to learn that he should know of it. “Or rather, I should say, Mme de Brillot did. I only hummed.”
“What happened?”
“The police arrested him.”
“Him?”
It dawned upon her that Delphick was not versed in all the details and she hastened to supply them. “The man with the wrong briefcase, who took the other man’s when he, the other one, was singing it. Not there, of course, but here. Originally. And he tried to take Mme de Brillot’s handbag. The other one, I mean. The one in Italy.”
Delphick shook his head to clear it. He’d get it out of her later if it was important. Meanwhile . . . Russian—India? “Do you mean Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Song of India’?”
“It may be,” she accepted. “I’m afraid I’m not very knowledgeable about music.”
In a pleasant baritone Delphick sang:
“Les diamants chez nous sont innombrables,
Les perles dans nos mers incalculables;
C’est l’Inde . . .”
Behind him there was an exclamation and a thud. He looked around. Miss Seeton turned.
In spite of the difficulty in obtaining seats, Librecksin recognized that the package flight had worked to his advantage. The police had been in evidence at Orly Airport, but a multitude of faces dulls the visual sense and both his and Mantoni’s disguises and forged passports had passed through without comment.
Now, at Heathrow, wedged in the crowd around the luggage conveyor, he was feeling confident. He and Mantoni pressed forward in the crush toward the No Declaration exit. Abruptly the Italian halted, trembling.
“Polizia,” he breathed.
Librecksin scanned the scene ahead of them: a middle-aged man and an enormous younger one were standing behind a woman at the customs desk. The trio had their backs to them and, police or not, neither man was showing the least interest in his surroundings. Librecksin reassured the jittering Italian. The elder of the men in front began to sing. Mantoni gave a stifled scream, dropping his case and the rug holdall which contained the canvases. Allora, he had been tricked. This Librecksin had betrayed him. And now the English pigs derided him—sang at him in derision. The song stopped short and the man swung round. The woman turned.
“Good gracious,” said Miss Seeton, “it’s Mr. Mantoni.”
Librecksin remained transfixed. Elio gaped at her, petrified by this vision from the pit. Betrayed. . . . He gobbled on rising notes. Betrayed. . . . He went berserk.
For an instant Delphick was thrown off balance. A little man, emoting in Italian in which only such words as diavolo, strega and tradimento were distinguishable, had leaped at a gray-haired man beside him, knocking him to the ground, but Miss Seeton’s mention of the name Mantoni had galvanized both him and his sergeant into action and Bob Ranger plucked the Italian from his victim and held him, shrieking and kicking, in midair while Delphick assisted the other to his feet.
“Know this one too?” he asked.
Miss Seeton studied the man. To an artist the trivia of substitution or the color of hair must always be subordinate to bone structure. “Why, yes. Yes, that’s Mr. Librecksin.” She glanced about her in uncertainty: what a pity that Mme de Brillot wasn’t here.
Two uniformed policemen, alerted by the noise, broke through the cordon of passengers which had formed around the combatants. Delphick showed his credentials.
“I suggest you hold both these men on suspicion and search them while we confirm identification.” He addressed Miss Seeton. “If you’re ready, we’ll have to go along too. Sorry,” he sympathized on seeing her expression, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to make a statement and sign it. Shouldn’t take long.”
Miss Seeton turned back to the customs officer to find that he had been joined by an older man with a face like a granite mask. The latter spoke.
“This parcel is yours, madam?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward to whisper. “You see, as I explained, it’s a wedding present for the tall young man behind me. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’ve no doubt it would’ve been, madam.”
His grim manner disturbed her. “Shouldn’t I have brought it?”
A flicker of expression threatened to crack the mask. “Frankly no, madam, I don’t think you should.” He stood back as a young man approached. “This gentleman would like you to go with him and give an account of it.”
Detective Constable Haley reached the desk. On a tip from the Sûreté, Fraud had sent him over to check all flights from Paris in case Mantoni tried to reenter the country, also supplying him with a photograph of Librecksin. And now here was customs chasing themselves up the wall about some murder they’d uncovered. He looked down at Miss Seeton’s luggage, flinched, hurriedly raised his eyes and swallowed.
“Where did you . . .?” he began, then stopped.
“It’s only fair to say the lady declared it herself,” volunteered the elder customs officer.
Haley wasn’t listening. He stared: the Brolly—or he was a blue-eyed baboon—all dressed to kill; then he winced at the aptness of the metaphor. And, behind her, the Oracle himself; with his sergeant. Well, what the hell were customs up to, dragging in a lowly D.C. when everything was already under control.
“Sorry, Chief Superintendent,” he apologized, “for butting in, it’s all—er—yours.”
“What is?”
“You haven’t seen it, sir?”
“Not yet.”
Haley hesitated. “I think, sir, you’d better come round. If we shut the case lids and the crowd get an eyeful half of ’em’ll faint and the rest’ll leg it for the loo.”
Delphick and Bob Ranger moved to stare down at a human arm sealed in polythene lying on a long stainless steel platter. Miss Seeton joined them.
“Oh, no.” She caught her breath. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. “Oh, dear, how truly dreadful. That poor young woman.”
“You know who this belongs to?” demanded Delphick.
“But of course.” She indicated a birthmark on the upper arm. “I remember noticing that particularly in the theater. It’s the girl Lilianne, whom Mme de Brillot told me was a friend—or rather, to be frank, I understood her to be a mistress of Mr. Librecksin there.” She pointed.
Librecksin made a convulsive movement, but hands tightened on his arm and he closed his eyes. Nothing to be done. The diamonds in his pocket would be found; the canvases in Mantoni’s holdall would be discovered; this devil-woman had outwitted him and the trick he had played on her—the delayed-action bomb that he had planted to keep her involved with the French police—had delayed too long and had exploded in his face.
On the whole he wouldn’t, Bob decided, tell Anne about the arm—it might spoil her pleasure in the present. And yet—you never knew. Suddenly he suspected that as a trained nurse Anne might even find it funny. Women were tougher over these things than men. He regarded Miss Seeton with a grudging, an affectionate, respect. When he’d seen her coming from passports he’d thought at first she’d changed out of recognition. But no—it’d only been the hat and coat—Aunt Em hadn’t changed. Nobody else in the world’d come trotting home clutching a dish with the joint already on it and then innocently serve it up to customs.
Note from the Publisher
While he was al
ive, Heron Carvic had tremendous fun creating Emily Seeton and the supporting characters who make the series what it is. We hope you enjoyed reading the novel as much.
In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her lead . . .”
You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr
Also, one of the joys of humorous fiction—and Miss Seeton is definitely at the light end of the mystery genre—is sharing the reaction of others. Did Miss Seeton drive you up the wall? Or drive you to tears of laughter? If you enjoyed the story, we would be thrilled if you could leave a short review. Getting feedback from readers makes all the difference and can help persuade others to pick up the series for the first time.
Thank you for reading, and here’s to the Battling Brolly …
Preview
COMING SOON
Miss Seeton Gets in on the Action . . .
“C’mon.” The taller man grabbed Miss Seeton’s arm. “In the car quick or I’ll do yer.” “I think,” said Miss Seeton, drawing herself up so that she reached nearly to his shoulder, “that you must have made a mistake.”
A short man rushed at her escort, Officer Tom Haley. Haley performed a high kick that would have secured him a place in any chorus line, came down astride his adversary’s neck, scissored the man’s head in an attempt to keep his seat and rode his unwilling charger down into the back of Miss Seeton’s assailant.