Miss Seeton Cracks the Case (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 9)

by Hamilton Crane

  Delphick waved him to silence, but favoured him with a brief grin as he did so. Bob subsided, mollified. Oracular humour, he supposed he’d better put it down to, that talking of Miss Seeton suggesting a conspiracy. If it had been anyone else but Aunt Em, he’d have seen the funny side of it himself—but she was different.

  “She had to be different,” gloomed Brinton at last, when he’d finally brought himself to explain. “Everyone on that coach agreed on what they’d seen—even your precious Nuts—except Miss Seeton, of course. It’s my own fault—I should never have tried to out-Oracle you, Chief Superintendent Delphick, by asking her if she could do one of her little sketches to give me an idea of what went on. I mean,” said the superintendent in a near-pleading voice, “she’d been and bought herself a fine new lot of sketching stuff only that morning, hadn’t she? Fate, it seemed like to me, so I asked her to oblige . . .”

  As he trailed off into a despairing choke, Delphick said in some surprise: “Chris, d’you mean she wouldn’t do you a drawing? That’s not like her at all,” and he waved Bob to silence once more. “She’s most conscientious, and she knows this is police business, and we pay her, so—”

  “Oh, she drew me a very clear sketch, thank you, quick as winking and hardly looking at the paper.” Brinton drew in his breath deeply, which gave Delphick time to say:

  “When she draws like that, you’d best take notice of it, Chris. The slow, routine stuff hasn’t got the Seeton touch, but the quick cartoons—they’re what we want.” Then he paused, recalling the pirate sketch Miss Seeton had produced when helping with the Sherry Gang killing; and how there had been, as far as he could tell, nothing useful in it at all. Maybe she was losing her touch—maybe she was growing old. It happened, after all, even to the best . . .

  “Tell me what the drawing looked like,” he invited, with a quick glance at Sergeant Ranger. “Just because she saw, or rather interpreted, something a different way from everybody else doesn’t mean there might not be a purpose of some sort behind it, if we could just understand it. A matter of interpretation by ourselves, if you like.”

  Brinton groaned. “I knew it,” he said. “Anyone who has to deal with Miss Seeton needs an interpreter because she’s talking a different language—and they need a whole new vocabulary just to think about her. Or,” he added, “in this case, a history book. Because that’s what the drawing was, Oracle—not modern times at all, but obviously a war-time scene. The chummies wore helmets, you see—motorbike gear—and she translated it into your typical air-raid tin helmet, on your typical ARP warden’s head. Oh yes, we got the lot,” he said, above Delphick’s startled interjection. “Ruined buildings, searchlights, sandbags—and very cleverly done, even I can see that. It looked as if she only did a couple of quick squiggles, and bingo! There it was. But about as much use,” he concluded, “as one of those tin helmets would have been if a doodlebug’d scored a direct hit.”

  Delphick was silent. Old people, he knew, as they grew older developed a tendency to dwell more and more on their past life, rather than on the present and uncertain future. He had no idea of Miss Seeton’s exact age, but when they’d first met she had still been teaching, and thinking about an early retirement. Surely—he did a brief mental calculation, then frowned and double-checked it on his blotter—the mid-sixties was rather young to start living in the past—and (with thoughts of that female pirate very much in his mind) how far into the past was she likely to regress? Had all her adventures proved too much for Miss Seeton, and was their cumulative effect now to render her . . .

  “She’s not senile,” he said firmly. Bob Ranger goggled, then looked likely to explode. Delphick scowled at him and returned to the telephone. “Chris, I don’t know what she’s playing at, but there’s bound to be a good reason for these, well, historical drawings she’s doing now. I told you about the Sherry Gang pirate she sketched for me, didn’t I? And I thought at the time she was simply recreating from memory the conversation she and my sergeant—yes, the young giant who invited you to his wedding,” as Brinton said something, and Bob grinned a sheepish grin. “Miss Seeton and the sergeant, you see, had been talking about the Sherry lot being like vultures and pirates on the way up to Town, and I was daft enough then to suppose she’d just reproduced the talk. But I’m sure, now, there’s got to be more to it than that.”

  “If you say so,” said Brinton with a sigh. “The Oracle has spoken, and who am I to argue? What do you suggest I do with this damned air-raid then—frame it and stare at it until inspiration strikes? I prefer a method of policing that’s slightly more efficient, thanks.”

  “Carry on detecting, by all means,” Delphick said, “and don’t worry too much about Miss Seeton’s sketch. When the time’s right, everything will fall into place, and you’ll be kicking yourself for not acting on such an obvious clue much earlier, after she’s handed it to you on a plate. Just as I’m hoping will happen with the pirate—eventually. But Miss Seeton would be the last person to expect us to neglect the ordinary police routine while we wait for inspiration to strike—so, while we’re waiting, what’s the routine news?”

  Brinton told him. The Turpin robbery had been just like all the others, and details of those were well-known to the general public, let alone to the police. “All we’ve got to go on—what I hoped would help—is Miss Seeton, Oracle, and her doodles. I wish I’d listened to myself,” he almost moaned, “when I warned Harry Furneux there was worse to come. I wish I hadn’t been so relieved it hadn’t happened to me because, like I said, this is a judgement on me . . .”

  “Surely it’s not as bad as that. Oh!” For Delphick had remembered the other case in which his Ashford colleague had an interest: the Sherry Gang, and their wheelchair victim. “Er, yes, I was just wondering,” he began. “How’s that poor young woman in hospital?” If she were on the mend and able to give a clear statement, that could be at least something to lighten the gloom.

  “No better,” Brinton told him. “And did you know the driver in the Hastings incident had a heart attack? The sawbones said it was brought on by stress. He’s still on the danger list. These Turpins could be facing a manslaughter charge if he dies, never mind the Sherry killers. Tell me, Oracle—why do the chummies all seem to prefer my patch to yours? What’s got into everybody?” And then, before Delphick had a chance to reply, he answered his own impassioned question.

  “It’s because she’s here,” he said. “She doesn’t have to do anything—she just opens that umbrella of hers, and everything goes wobbly. I’m tearing my hair out by the handful, let me tell you, and I’m sure there’s worse to come—which is why I’m ringing you, Oracle. You seem to be able to cope with her—and your Sherry lot have turned up here—so how would you like to do me a big favour? Come along to Kent and join in the fun, can’t you? Bring your tame giant, and see if between the pair of you you can cope with Miss Seeton . . . because I don’t believe,” groaned Brinton, “that I’m up to it . . .”

  chapter

  ~17~

  THOUGH THE MAJORITY of those now converging carelessly upon the post office had done most of their shopping in Brettenden, in the interests of scandal-mongering, it is always possible for Plummergen gossips to find that their shelves are bare of some absolute essential which must be purchased at once.

  The storm might have blown over to leave skies of summer blue, but Mrs. Flax insisted that she planned hot bread-and-cheese pudding for her supper, and would thank Mr. Stillman to serve her with a pound and a half of strong cheddar, two of onions, and to mind as they weren’t shooting because the green bits did no good to anybody’s innards, and she’d got troubles enough already. “Fairly soaked through this morning, I was,” she grumbled. “And then having to wait around with wet feet in case them Nuts decided to come back on the bus with the rest of us, lucky if I don’t end up with galloping pewmonia.”

  “And it’s no time for me to fall sick, neither,” sighed Mrs. Scillicough, brooding on her triplets. “I’ll take one o
f your biggest tins of mustard powder for a footbath, Mr. Stillman, and the last time I go on that bus if there’s to be no regular timetable kept to.”

  The field was now open. Mrs. Spice, in urgent need of a fresh lemon and a pot of honey, and then she’d be along to the George and Dragon’s off-licence to buy the makings of a hot toddy, added her own complaint about the selfish tardiness of the Nuts. “Never known such a thing to happen, not once before, I haven’t,” said Mrs. Spice. “Mind you, there’s no telling, is there, with some people.”

  “Only to be expected from newcomers, not used to our way of doing things and only thinking of theirselves, that’s the truth of the matter. Never fitted in properly, have they?” And Mrs. Scillicough looked round, pleased with herself, then caught the warning eye of Mrs. Spice. Oh, dear, what had she said . . . oh. That little Mrs. Manuden, young Betsy as lived in Old Mother Dawkin’s place next to the Nuts, she’d come in and was listening, turned pink, she had. Mrs. Scillicough turned slightly pink herself. But if young Betsy’d had so little sleep as the mother of triplets, maybe she’d be less watchful with her tongue and not sure of what, much of the time, she was saying. Mrs. Scillicough tossed her head and slapped down on the counter enough money for ten tins of mustard powder.

  Mrs. Spice took pity on her friend. “Nobody,” she said, “could be expected to go fitting in when they’re up to such mischief as them Nuts seem to be. For what reason could they have for missing the bus back? Up to no good, I’ll be bound, and in such dreadful weather you’ll not convince me it was window-shopping they was about, not never you won’t.”

  “They’ll be in London by now, about their evil business, luring people,” breathed Emmy Putts from behind the grocery counter. “Slipping drugs in cups of tea, and the poor girls waking up in rooms with mirrors and red velvet curtains and, well, double beds,” and she shuddered with delicious horror. There was a general murmur of agreement, which was broken by a sharp word from Mrs. Stillman.

  “Don’t talk so silly, Emmeline. A young girl like you oughtn’t to know about things like that, never mind speaking of them in such a fashion, so you get on with your work and put these nonsensical matters right out of your head. What your mother would think, if she could hear you talking this way, I couldn’t say,” said Mrs. Stillman, as her husband gave her an approving nod. Emmy flounced and turned red, and was heard to mutter rebelliously, though nobody could quite make out her words.

  In the ensuing slight awkwardness, Mrs. Manuden decided to ignore any aspersions that might have been cast upon her status, and to introduce a fresh topic of conversation just like any real villager. “My Den,” she said proudly, “is doing ever so well with the garden, you know. Looks a proper treat now. He’s got rid of nearly all those nasty brambles in the far corner, and you can see almost to the door of the air-raid shelter.” She looked round, delighted with the effect of her words. There was much shuffling of feet, and nobody could meet her eyes: a casual observer might have supposed everyone to have been struck dumb with embarrassed gratitude. “And won’t the vicar be pleased when Den’s sold all his raffle tickets,” she added brightly, “and there’ll be that much more money for the church roof.”

  Plummergen might have been expected to rejoice at the notion that its collective head would no longer run the risk of repeated soakings in wet weather, but Betsy’s remarks met with continued uncomfortable silence. Betsy’s smile wavered as she advanced on Mr. Stillman behind his counter. Here was someone she could talk to. “You’ll put some tickets out for sale when Den’s had them printed, won’t you, Mr. Stillman?” she enquired prettily. With her old-fashioned costume and style of dressing her hair, she could even have pouted and got away with it, but Betsy was shrewd enough to calculate exactly how far she could go. “The vicar’s going to mention it in his church newsletter,” she said in conclusion, since nobody else was saying anything. “Ever so glad we’ll be, Den and me, to do something for the village when you’ve all been so nice and friendly . . .”

  Plummergen does not possess a conscience, as such, but from time to time it can feel uncomfortable, as it did now. It hurried to be nice and friendly to little Mrs. Manuden, since it could hardly gossip about her as it wished to do when she was there in person. “Well, it’s very kind of you and your husband, dear,” said Mrs. Henderson, “to think of us like this. I’m sure I’ll be buying a ticket, maybe two.”

  “I’ll certainly be stocking them,” said Mr. Stillman, “as the vicar’s in agreement—raffles being along the lines of gambling, you see, which some folk don’t approve of. But he seems happy enough with the idea, and anyway it’d be a shame to waste my window display, so tell your husband, Mrs. Manuden, to bring along as many books as he likes. And now what was it,” he asked her, “that you wanted?”

  For Mr. Stillman knew that by serving this interloper—despite her greatest efforts, that was all Betsy Manuden could ever be—he would help to speed her on her way; at which time the conversation, and the concurrent commercial transactions, could thankfully resume. Mr. Stillman did not approve of gossip, but was realistic enough to understand that it was the lifeblood of the villagers, whose custom was his own livelihood.

  Village instinct was in his favour. “And when you’ve finished serving Mrs. Manuden,” said Mrs. Skinner, quickly moving to form the start of a queue at Betsy’s rear, “I’ll have a pound of jacket potatoes and a half of butter, thank you. Quite fancy something hot for my supper.”

  Mrs. Henderson added her voice to the requests and her person to the queue. She would like a bar of soap, please. Mrs. Spice remarked on her need for some dried fruit and a packet of icing sugar before lining up behind Mrs. Henderson, whose support for Mrs. Skinner was felt to be something of a miracle. The two ladies had barely spoken one civil word to each other since a little dispute over whose turn it was to arrange the flowers in church; but in the general interests of the village, old scores are, if not forgotten, at least put into abeyance for the duration. Betsy Manuden found herself being edged out of the way, and out of the shop, by a splendid example of crowd co-operation.

  Once she had departed, with her shopping in her bag and a crooked smile on her face, everyone felt free to indulge in the wildest speculation, although there was a certain amount of confusion as to which of the two items of greatest interest should be talked through first: the disappearance of the Nuts on some presumably unimaginable private ploy, or the possibility of Susannah Dawkin’s body being discovered in the air-raid bunker and a posthumous charge of murder being directed against Queer Albie.

  After much discussion and confused argument, victory was claimed by Mrs. Flax, who had the loudest voice. She pointed out with regret that, since Albie was long dead, and there were (with his mother’s recent death) no other interested parties, there’d be little sense in raising a cry of murder, as what could they do about it even if they knew for sure? “There’d be some business in it for me, I make no doubt,” she said, reminding everyone of her function as Plummergen’s layer-out of the dead, “but’s not to say I’d welcome finding the poor girl’s corpus, although glad to see her put to rest in a proper place at last. But them Nuts, now, they’re fine and alive this very day, and up to mischief, what’s more, to make no bones about it . . .” which was accepted as a valid argument. Everyone began to prepare themselves for some enjoyable imaginings, and indeed Mrs. Henderson had opened her mouth to speak, when Mrs. Flax capped her triumph by adding, in sinister tones:

  “Not that they were the only ones as never come back on the bus with the rest of us. Didn’t nobody notice but me?” She beamed round at the suddenly enthralled little group and savoured her moment of glory. And then:

  “Neither did Miss Seeton never come back,” piped up Mrs. Scillicough, who was feeling crotchety at the thought of returning to the demands of the triplets, and consequently cared not a jot about hurting the feelings of one who, a school of thought insisted, as the local wise woman had powers beyond ordinary folk. Mrs. Scillicough had re
cently consulted Mother Flax about the behaviour of the triplets, but all the herbal potions and nostrums the fat old fraud had come up with hadn’t done not a pennyworth of good. So much, thought Mrs. Scillicough, for trying to keep her sweet all these years—it was all pretence, and there wasn’t nothing she could do about nothing, for all her fine talk, so no need to act scared of her, and: “Miss Seeton never come back on the bus,” she insisted, with a weary hand shoving the hair back from her face.

  “No more she did,” agreed Mrs. Spice. “I was that wet about the feet and looking forward to being home in the dry, I never noticed before, but you’re right.” A general murmur of assent rose from everyone else, overvoiced by Mrs. Flax, who saw her advantage being snatched from her.

  She stared round with a burning gaze at the audience she was in danger of losing, and uttered the thrilling words: “So, why d’you reckon she never come back? Supposing she wasn’t never to come back no more? Those Nuts, they’ve not bin exactly what you’d call friends to Miss Seeton. They’ve got it in right and proper for her, and you’ll never tell me as they’ll have gone off somewhere the three of ’em together being sociable. But we all know,” she said slowly, nodding a sage head, “how it is when people set to quarrelling, so we do. Queer Albie Dawkin quarrelled with Susannah, and look what happened to her—”

  “You said he didn’t kill her,” objected Mrs. Scillicough, above the scandalised gasps of the others. The burning eyes of Mrs. Flax began to spit fire. Such rebellion, especially from one she’d thought her ally, would have to be quelled if she was not to lose her position as Plummergen’s fount of all wisdom. It had its advantages to be respected, feared, as was her intent, in a rural community. There were placatory presents left on her doorstep overnight; people stopped to pass the time of day and were always polite; hers was always one of the most comfortable seats in the village hall for any public function. Now here was Mrs. Scillicough, the ingrate, twisting her words and making her look foolish.