Odds on Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 5)

by Heron Carvic

  Martha appeared in the doorway. “It’s a young lady won’t give her name—says you wouldn’t know it—but says you know her. I told her no but she wouldn’t have it, says it’s very important and she must see you.”

  Deirdre Kenharding pushed past her into the room. “Please, Miss Seeton, I didn’t know who you were last night, but it is important, really. I must talk to you—please.” Gone was the arrogance of assumed sophistication: a very pretty girl, beautiful when she smiled, in trouble and appealing.

  “It’s all right, Martha,” said Miss Seeton, and turned to her guest. “Have you had lunch—would you like some coffee?”

  “No, nothing, thanks. It’s just about last night. I must talk to you.”

  “Please sit down. I—” She broke off as another knock sounded. They heard an argument, then Martha returned.

  “A lady and gentleman says you know them which you do her seeing it’s that Miss Forby from the paper that was here before and he says he knew you abroad which don’t seem likely because he don’t sound it, more like English to me, but is sure you’ll want to see them.”

  “Of course she does, don’t you, Miss S.?” Mel breezed in, followed by Thrudd Banner. “This dragon of yours”—she grinned at Martha—“was determined—” She stopped on seeing the girl. “Oh, sorry. We didn’t know you’d got somebody with you.” And the Honorable Deirdre at that, reflected Mel. Miss S. certainly got around. “Now”—she bent and kissed Miss Seeton lightly on the cheek—“what’ve you been getting up to this time? It’s good to see you—and too long, but you live so far away.” She felt the constraint and sought to lighten the atmosphere. “May I go and rustle up some coffee? The stuff at the George is revolting, and I remember my way round the kitchen.”

  “I’ll get it,” said Martha, and departed.

  Miss Seeton had risen. Oh, dear. This was all really rather awkward. If only . . . And then again, she wasn’t sure how to introduce them. One should, of course, present the younger to the elder, except for the men, and that, naturally, was the other way about. Because of sex. Being different, she meant. But she didn’t know the girl’s surname and to call her Deirdre on such slight acquaintance would be most incorrect. Certainly she couldn’t do that. “Deirdre,” said Miss Seeton, “may I present Miss Forby and Mr. Banner.”

  They all found seats and there was an uneasy silence. To break the ice Thrudd asked Miss Seeton chattily:

  “Been doing much shooting lately?”

  It broke nothing but the silence. Mel and Thrudd tried together.

  “Miss S. . . .”

  “MissEss . . .”

  Both stopped. “You know,” observed Thrudd, “the way you pronounce that, I’d say you spelled it differently.”

  “You know,” retorted Mel, “the way you pronounce that, I’d say you’re copying a mistake by the Yard’s computer. Mine’s original, yours is duplicated.”

  The conversation sank for the third time and the noise of a car drawing up outside and yet one more knock upon the door was almost welcome.

  “Mr. Delphick,” announced Martha.

  Miss Seeton rose with relief, Mel’s and Thrudd’s identical beams expressed “We’ve hit pay dirt,” while Deirdre Kenharding shrank back in her armchair. Deirdre was beginning to realize that she had been a fool. From the morning papers she had concluded that it must have been Miss Seeton whom she had met the night before. Impulsively she had decided to go and see her with an appeal for help. Her own effort to extract information from the barman at the casino had been a failure and, when she was unable to think of what next she could do, the encounter with the older woman had appeared to be a pointer from Fate which must not be ignored. The Daily Negative had padded its report with a short summary of Miss Seeton’s exploits, mentioning the name of the village where she lived. Having found Plummergen on the map, the girl had set off by car, eaten an early lunch on the way and on her arrival in the village had found it to be merely a question of asking for directions to Sweetbriars at the post office cum general store.

  Reading that Miss Seeton was retained by Scotland Yard as an artist but was not an actual member of the police force, although the newspapers were inclined to make much of her powers as a detective, Deirdre felt that Miss Seeton might be able to help in a private capacity, keep confidence, yet still have authority behind her should it be needed. Intent upon her own problem, it had not occurred to her that after the trouble outside the casino the police would still be in evidence and that inevitably the press, too, would be upon the scene. Deirdre had walked straight into the very company she most wished to avoid. However, now that the damage was done, the only thing to do was to express a natural interest in Miss Seeton’s welfare—although, as she ruefully admitted, a journey of seventy miles was an unnaturally long expression—and to try and outstay the visitors.

  Delphick sensed the strain in the room. He had hoped to see Miss Seeton alone and for her to be entertaining was unusual. That she should appear out of her depth was nothing abnormal, but for Mel Forby not to be in command of any situation was; the other two he didn’t know.

  Martha brought in a tray. “I brought biscuits as well, seeing you’re making a real party of it.” She placed the tray on the coffee table by the fire, pulled up a chair for Delphick, looked at the other guests with disapproval, sniffed and left the room.

  Since Miss Seeton appeared to be at a loss, Mel performed the introductions. Thrudd Delphick dismissed: more press—only to be expected; but Kenharding . . . So this was the girl Haley, when sobered up, had mentioned in his report. Her presence here today could hardly be pure chance—that would be stretching coincidence’s arm a little far. He decided to go ahead as though the others weren’t there; it could do no harm at this juncture and might stir something up. He smiled encouragingly at his hostess.

  “Done your homework?”

  “Why, yes, Chief Superintendent.” She went to her desk, lifted the flap and handed him the envelope. “Will you have coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I had lunch before I came.” He slid the drawing from the envelope and studied it. It was what Borden had asked for, but . . . He felt let down. The reason he’d come to Plummergen himself was because he’d more than half expected something different, something more—well, more revealing. He eyed her levelly. “This was the only one you did?”

  A telltale flush betrayed her. “Oh, no. I tried several times, but that was the best.”

  He held out his hand. “The others?”

  “I—I tore them up. You see, they weren’t as good.”

  “All of them?” The flush deepened, Delphick’s smile broadened. “Come along.”

  Unwillingly Miss Seeton went to the drawer, took out the portfolio, extracted the cartoon and gave it to him. Delphick was exultant. He’d been right—and right to come himself. Otherwise she’d never have admitted to this sketch—certainly wouldn’t have produced it. He examined the drawing carefully. Granted background knowledge, it told a tale and—he flicked a glance at Deirdre Kenharding—the girl’s face . . . It wasn’t exactly a portrait, but there was a likeness. Two men, two women in the group; he must check on the Kenharding family. Looked as if the odd mixture of intuition and observation which sprang unconsciously from her pencil when Miss Seeton’s hand overruled her head had been at work again. The burning building and falling people must be some of those who had tried to stand up to the syndicate. The nest with eggs, one hatching, would be the extending of the operation. All this they knew, though Miss Seeton didn’t. What interested him were the four beneath the eagle’s—hawk’s? ornithology was not his strong point—claws. Here, he felt a clue if he could interpret it. No use asking Miss Seeton. He doubted she had any idea what it meant herself; she’d only say it just came out like that or that she’d felt it that way but didn’t know why. Borden could use the other sketch for identification—or rather, if he’d any sense, the bird’s face from this one—but for himself he guessed it was the cartoon that might help. The girl—the
only one of the group whose face was shown—appeared to be trying to escape. He looked speculatively at Deirdre Kenharding, who avoided meeting his eye. Kenharding . . . He’d pass it on to Borden.

  He was brought back to immediate issues by Mel Forby.

  “Well, Oracle, anything in all this brown study for us poor writing hacks?”

  Delphick pushed the cartoon into the envelope with the other sketch. “ ’Fraid not, Mel. I imagine you know about as much as we do. There was an attack on a police officer outside The Gold Fish last night and Miss Seeton went to his assistance, thereby becoming incidentally involved, so we thought it best to bring her home, as she would have had difficulty in catching the last train. The two men concerned are in custody and we hope that’s the end of it.”

  “You hope?” challenged Thrudd. “Well, as an old comrade in arms of MissEss’ who fought side by side with her in Geneva Old Town, I’d say where she is the action’s likely to be. I’ll stick around.” In his experience chief superintendents from the Yard didn’t go chasing around the countryside without good reason. Some story was in the pot and coming to the boil.

  Even Mel, who had the advantage of knowing Delphick’s responsible affection for the little ex-art teacher, found it extreme that he should be running errands. Then there was the Honorable Deirdre. . . . Beyond murmured “How do’you dos,” she hadn’t said a word, but she seemed determined to sit the party out. She wasn’t local and, as a social columnist, Mel knew that old man Kenharding was on the board of directors of The Gold Fish, added to which baby brother Derrick was busy earning himself a bad reputation, had kicked over every trace and was obviously hell-bent on derailing himself. Yes, it was the Kenharding angle that interested her.

  Delphick broke up the party by thanking Miss Seeton, saying that he must be getting back, that they’d let her know later whether she would be needed as a witness should the two men decide to plead not guilty and that Inspector Borden would ring her or send Haley down if anything cropped up about last night or if he had any query over the drawings.

  “You wouldn’t like me to cast a semiprofessional eye over those sketches?” asked Mel.

  Delphick laughed. “I would not. They’re strictly professional and no half measures about it. I suggest”—a slight movement of the eyes indicated Deirdre—“that if you two, with your expense accounts, really want to help, you might come back this evening and take Miss Seeton out to dinner and save her having to cook.”

  There was nothing, he reflected, that Miss Seeton could tell the press which they didn’t already know or couldn’t deduce, except the name Herrington-Casey, and since she was aware it was a confidential police matter she was unlikely to be tricked into spilling it. At that, a clever interviewer might winkle it out of one of the casino employees or The Gold Fish might deliberately leak it themselves. Leak . . .? Could that be where the leak of Miss Seeton’s name had originated? That would mean that they’d been on to her earlier in the evening, which jibed with his certainty that the attack outside had been organized from within. Would they go for her again? If Thatcher had guessed the portrait slant, he must know he’d failed and was too late. He remembered an earlier occasion when Miss Seeton’s cottage had been ransacked after the police had decided all danger was over. And there was still this Kenharding angle. . . .

  “You’ve no security here, have you?” Miss Seeton looked blank. “Burglar alarm system,” he explained.

  “Good gracious, no. There’s nothing here for anyone to steal.”

  “Very wrong of you,” he reproved her. “You ought to know the chief constable of Kent’s been having a drive to get householders to install them and save us poor police a lot of work. I’ll arrange it.”

  “But wouldn’t it be very expensive?”

  “Not to worry; we’ll give it you as a present—for our own sakes.” With all she’d won last night, even if they halved it with her, which was what he hoped, that was one expense there should be no difficulty over. Mel and Thrudd exchanged glances. So . . . the Oracle was expecting more trouble. Delphick nodded to Deirdre, waved to the others and took himself off, feeling pleased. The long drive and the better part of a day had not been wasted.

  After Mel and Thrudd had departed, overriding Miss Seeton’s protests that she would not hear of them taking her out to dinner, she turned to her remaining visitor. In spite of clothes and manner, Deirdre was, Miss Seeton realized, little more than a child. She became brisk.

  “Now, you had better tell me what it is you feel you must talk to me about.”

  Deirdre spread her hands and her fingers writhed toward speech. “I . . . You could help. But,” she added quickly, “you must promise not to tell anybody.”

  “My dear, I can’t possibly promise that without knowing what it is. If it’s anything to do with last night that the police ought to know, naturally I should. Tell them, I mean. It would be very wrong as well as very silly not to. You’d find Chief Superintendent Delphick most kind and understanding. And discreet.”

  The fingers were still for a moment, then plunged. “I don’t know if you know about my family?”

  Miss Seeton was surprised. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Mel had called her the Honorable Deirdre Kenharding, so her father must be a lord. Weren’t dukes’ daughters ladies? And earls’ and viscounts’ honorables? Or was it the other way about? It was not, she feared, the sort of thing that she understood. In any case, she didn’t. Know about the Kenhardings, that was to say.

  “Father had an accident last week. . . .” Once started, Deirdre began to gain confidence, finding relief in speech. “His brakes failed going downhill near home. Luckily, except for a broken arm and bruises, Father wasn’t badly hurt. And”—she looked directly at Miss Seeton—“it wasn’t an accident either.”

  Not an . . . “How do you know?”

  “The brake hose had been cut underneath. The garage told me.”

  “Why?” demanded Miss Seeton unexpectedly.

  “Why? Because I asked them.”

  “Why?”

  “I—” Deirdre was thrown off balance. She had only seen Miss Seeton out of her element and was unprepared to be catechized by an experienced schoolmistress. “Well, I—I knew there was something spoof about it.”

  “I realize that, my dear. But why?”

  Deirdre laughed shortly. “If you’d been up at home last weekend, you’d know. Father was like a bear with a sore head, and when I asked about the car and what’d happened and said I thought I’d go down to the local garage and have a look at it, he blew up and told me to mind my own business and keep out of his.”

  “But,” Miss Seeton pointed out, “you went just the same.”

  The girl gave a half smile. “Well, of course—wouldn’t you? I’d tried talking to Mummy, but she was hopeless—just dithered and said Father knew best.” She leaned forward. “They’re—they’re frightened. Somebody’s got to do something.”

  How like the young, thought Miss Seeton. This sense of responsibility—ready to take on their elders’ problems without even knowing how serious these problems might be. Not, she allowed, that anything, however serious, deterred them. “You don’t think,” she suggested, “that your father’s attitude might have been only his reaction to an implied criticism of his driving ability? Gentlemen are, I believe, very touchy on the subject. I’m not implying,” she added hastily on seeing the girl’s expression, “that it was. Was to do with his driving, I mean. If the garage says the whatever-it-was was cut, obviously it must have been, but does your father know that?”

  “Yes, they’d told him and said it ought to be reported, but Father apparently went up in the air and said nonsense, if the hose had really been cut he must’ve done it himself when tinkering with the car.” Deirdre was scornful. “But he doesn’t tinker with cars; he’s got more sense. He knows nothing about them, except how to drive, and it goes straight to the garage when anything’s wrong with it.”

  What, Miss Seeton wondered, had all this to d
o with last night? One hardly liked to ask outright for fear of sounding, perhaps, a little unsympathetic. “What,” she asked, “has all this to do with last night?”

  The girl was taken aback. “Oh, I thought you knew. Father’s one of the original directors of The Gold Fish.”

  So that explained . . . “I do remember that Mr. Thatcher asked after your father and sent messages.”

  “Sent threats, you mean,” retorted Deirdre.

  No, really. That was too melodramatic. She had not, it was true, cared for Mr. Thatcher’s manner. But threats? A vision of her own cartoon rose to contradict her. But that, argued Miss Seeton, was pure fancy and had no relation to fact. Although one was bound to admit that it did show . . . Oh, dear. It was all very muddling. If only Deirdre had gone to the police. But there again, one could see the difficulty. If her father insisted that he was responsible, then, whatever the garage—or Deirdre—might say, one failed to see what the police could do. Nor could one very well advise the girl to go against her parents’ wishes. Or certainly not without knowing a great deal more of the circumstances than one did. It was quite impossible to believe that Mr. Thatcher, someone whom one had actually met, could . . . But then it was equally apparent that the police could. Believe it, she meant. Whatever “it” was. Once more out of her element and with her thoughts squirreling in concentric circles, Miss Seeton sighed. She did so wish the chief superintendent were here. It was all so—so very muddling.

  “It’s all so very muddling.” Miss Seeton echoed her own conclusions.

  Deirdre suppressed a smile. She had watched Miss Seeton the night before, disguised in that awful war paint, gambling large sums with complete indifference and not batting an eyelash when Thatcher, as the girl now realized, had pretty well told her he knew that she was spoof. She didn’t even seem a bit worried that she and Tom Haley had been attacked just after and she hadn’t meant to give that chief superintendent the extra drawing either till he’d guessed and insisted; probably it had had some notes for her own use. She must be a pretty good detective, from what the papers said, and those two who were coming back to take her out to dinner obviously thought so and were hoping to get something out of her—some hope. And now to cap it all she was pretending to be muddled.