by Heron Carvic
“Then for God’s sake,” urged Brinton, “send someone down to keep tabs on her. You know her shenanigans are way out of our class. She’ll run the whole force off their feet and all the cars off the road and we can’t cope. What about that young giant of a sergeant of yours? After all, he’s half local since he married the doctor’s daughter.”
“I might.” Delphick’s mouth twisted ironically. “In fact, could be I’m involved already. A casino called The Gold Fish, where all this started, was burnt down last night—or rather early this morning. They’ve found the remains of a time fuse, which makes it crime, and also the remains of the proprietor, which brings in Homicide. According to his secretary, the owner seemed worried and said he’d be spending the night in his office to keep an eye on the place. I doubt they meant to kill him, or even knew he was there—but it’s still murder.”
“Hmph.” Brinton was sobered. “A toe-the-line-or-else which went too far.” He waxed indignant again. “And that’s the place where you had the gall to send your girl friend.”
“Not I,” Delphick corrected him. “Fraud.”
“Well, it was you,” insisted Brinton, “who brought her back. I heard through our local man Potter, whose wife keeps her ear to the ground, that a whole party of you arrived in the middle of the night in front of the whole village, as tight as ticks and with her all dolled up like a tart. That’s fairly put the pigeon amongst the cats. I’m told two of the local tabbies are getting up a petition she must go.”
“She must go,” said Miss Erica Nuttel.
“You know, I’m afraid Eric’s too right,” agreed Mrs. Norah Blaine—Bunny to her friend. “I do try to make allowances and think the best of people, but—”
“It’s clear,” pursued Miss Nuttel, “she must go.”
The two ladies were known in Plummergen unaffectionately as the Nuts and their main purpose in life, useful in days of newspaper delivery strikes, was the spreading of local news, for which purpose the house they shared in the center of the village was ideally situated. From their sitting room window they could note, annotate and misinterpret almost every move made by the villagers and they were green-fingered at sowing seeds of dissension and misunderstanding in fertile soil. Their present call at Rhytham Hall, the home of Sir George and Lady Colveden, was in pursuit of their vocation. The fact that it happened to be tea-time was, naturally, fortuitous. No, really, they hadn’t meant . . . They didn’t want to be a trouble. . . . Well, since it was there, they wouldn’t say no to a cup.
Unwillingly Lady Colveden had provided extra cups and offered cake. The true reason the ladies had called at teatime was in order to be sure of catching Sir George.
“Why?” asked Sir George.
Mrs. Blaine put down her plate and leaned forward to add weight to her words. “Well, in your position as a—”
“Magistrate,” supplied Miss Nuttel.
“You would know who to speak to and could use your—”
“Influence,” contributed her friend.
“Poppycock,” said Sir George.
Lady Colveden broke in hurriedly. “What George means is that I’m afraid we don’t agree with you in the least. Personally we like Miss Seeton. We think she’s an asset to the village.”
“She’d be an asset anywhere,” subscribed her son Nigel.
“And in any case,” continued his mother, “there’s nothing you can do. This idea of a petition’s ridiculous—I mean you can’t order people to go and live somewhere else just because you don’t approve of them. If you could, we should all be moving around, like musical chairs.” This was idiotic. George and Nigel were both obviously spoiling for a fight. Somehow she must avoid open warfare. It was all very well for the men. But they forgot that being in a small village, and on committees and things, any awkwardnesses were—awkward. Firmness and tact, that was the answer. “It’s all nonsense.” Firmness. “I’m sure the whole thing is just a misunderstanding.”
“Lack of understanding,” corrected Nigel.
Well, it would have been tact if Nigel hadn’t butted in. Lady Colveden tried again. “What on earth’s Miss Seeton done to upset you?”
“Done?” exclaimed Norah Blaine. “You were there—you saw her. Coming back, at that hour, in front of everybody, dressed up like a—a—”
“Streetwalker,” furnished Miss Nuttel.
“And all those men.” Mrs. Blaine crumbled cake in agitation. “And all drunk, and all that—that—”
“Money,” said Miss Nuttel.
“Naturally, it’s no business of ours—”
“Quite.”
“Exactly,” chorused father and son.
“But we do feel—”
“Strongly—” urged her friend.
“It’s got to be stopped.”
“Which?” asked Nigel. “The men, the drink or the money?”
“Nigel,” requested Lady Colveden. “Go and boil some more hot water, would you?” She sighed with relief as her son left the room. That was one of them out of the fight for a moment.
“Oh, it’s not us,” insisted Mrs. Blaine. “Eric and I can look after ourselves. It’s—”
“The village,” stated Miss Nuttel.
“Yes, it’s the effect on the village. That woman’s done nothing but cause trouble ever since she’s been here.” Mrs. Blaine spurred her high horse to a gallop. “It’s too much. We’ve had drugs and murder and robberies and witchcraft and the newspapers and murder and going abroad—too unsuitable at her age—and murder and television and they never”—a genuine grievance—“even used the interview I gave them and—and—”
“Prostitution,” offered Miss Nuttel.
“That’s what I mean. It’s all too, too dreadful and that’s why”—Mrs. Blaine offered Sir George a sheet of paper—“we’ve got up this petition and thought if you’d sign it and—”
“I?” Sir George rose, took the paper and scanned the five signatures. “Norah Lindly?” he barked. “Never heard of her. Who’s she?”
“It’s my maiden name,” confessed Mrs. Blaine.
“You can’t,” he exploded, “sign a petition twice.”
“Why not?” demanded Mrs. Blaine. “If you feel too strongly, as I do, and in my view—”
Miss Nuttel came to the aid of her friend. “In both our views . . .”
Sir George’s plump figure appeared to swell to alarming proportions; the bristles of his military mustache became a bunch of steel needles aimed at the intruders. On the point of stating some views of his own, he caught the appeal in his wife’s eye. He took a deep breath. Sooner he got out of the room the better. Meg’d been right to get rid of the boy. Smooth things over. Didn’t do to lose your temper. Flattered himself he’d kept his pretty well. But any more from these two harpies and he’d give ’em a dressing. Best retreat now, in good order, for Meg’s sake. He threw rather than handed back the offending paper and marched to the door. Before he reached it, it opened to reveal Nigel, kettle in hand. Father and son looked at each other and Sir George’s good resolutions evaporated. He turned on their visitors.
“Reminded me I’m a magistrate. Like to remind you—both of you: any more libelous bal—” he caught the word in midbreath: ladies present—“balderdash about friends of ours and you’ll find yourselves in—”
“Hot water?” suggested Nigel, holding out the kettle.
No one could say she hadn’t tried. But her son’s parody of Miss Nuttel undid her. Lady Colveden laughed.
chapter
~11~
MISS SEETON AWOKE. She listened to the verbal sparring of the two reporters on the front seat with satisfaction. Teasing each other—such a good sign. Thank heaven, after all that had happened earlier on, this journey home had been uneventful. And . . . A sign at the roadside diverted her thoughts.
She recognized the circular metal advertisement which turned in the wind. Why, that was Mr. Hyder’s garage. They were nearly home. Yet another sign on her left—a board with black lettering
on electric orange—confirmed this.
And the date in three days’ time. Oh, dear. She’d almost forgotten. She’d promised Sir George, as editor, and also Miss Treeves, the vicar’s sister, to do some pen sketches of the fête for the parish magazine. Well, she’d do her best. Meanwhile, the relief of being nearly home again . . . a pot of tea and the comfort of sinking into the anonymity of village life, where no one knew, or was interested in, what one did . . . Really, one was so very fortunate. To live a quiet existence amid peaceful surroundings. And then again, to have the retaining fee from Scotland Yard—for an instant the quiet and the peace frayed slightly at the edges—which solved her financial worries. If only, she wished, the fête weren’t quite so soon. After the rush of events during the last few days, she would have preferred to have had just a little more time.
For Thatcher, the timing was convenient. The only inconvenience in his estimation had been the death of the proprietor of The Gold Fish, which had made the police probe more deeply into the fire than otherwise they would have done. On the credit side, the fire and the death had proved a salutary lesson to others. In common with all dictators, the one thing that Thatcher could not afford was any successful opposition, and for that the elimination of Miss Seeton, whose continuing immortality was threatening to make him into a laughingstock, was now essential.
The Kenharding boy, from being an asset, had become a liability. This puny fête in the woman’s tin-pot village would solve both problems in one. Send Derrick down there, backed by some of his teen-age pals, with orders to kill, and if the police didn’t pick him up afterward the boy would then be on the run in earnest, without a sanctuary.
With regard to the girl, Deirdre, he had a man keeping tabs on her, waiting the opportunity for a snatch. Thatcher smiled briefly. That’d keep the father and mother in order. So far the girl had remained at Kenharding Abbey, with excursions only to the hospital at Guildford to see some fool detective constable who’d mixed himself into the affray. However, he had information that the D.C. was due to be discharged. Deirdre would come south and the rest would be easy.
Incidentally, the Plummergen fête, though small beer, would give the syndicate a chance to show they meant business in this as in all other fields of gambling. Thatcher smiled again, dismissed Miss Seeton along with the Kenhardings from his mind, and turned to more important matters.
The fête at Plummergen was in full swing. Miss Seeton had visited the marquee, in which floral arrangements, fruit and vegetables were on display, and had dutifully made one or two sketches, although she had hardly felt that the exhibits were worthy of record. She had watched the crowning of Miss Plummergen to an under-rehearsed accompaniment by the village band and had made notes; though here again she had considered it was an incident better omitted, since Emmy Putts, who served behind the grocery counter at the post office, had short dark hair, and a diaphanous dress crossed by a sash emblazoned with her sovereignty did not, in Miss Seeton’s opinion, counterbalance the dishonesty of a long blond wig. Also, Deirdre’s scathing comments, though amusing, had not been helpful.
Miss Seeton had been taken by surprise when Deirdre Kenharding, glowing with happiness, had arrived at two o’clock, just when she herself had been prepared to set off for the fête. Tom Haley, it appeared, at his own insistence, had been allowed to leave the hospital on the weekend and Deirdre had given him a lift, dropping him off in London, having arranged to meet him again that evening at The 10/20. The 10/20 had been recommended by Mel Forby as her favorite nightclub. They would meet there, Tom had decreed, at ten-twenty for luck, to spend a part of his winnings, and Deirdre had then continued the journey to Plummergen in order to bring the £250 which Tom—quite wrongly, Miss Seeton insisted—declared that he owed her. Deirdre, however, on Tom’s behalf, was adamant and the older woman had been forced to accept the money. Learning of the afternoon’s festivities, the girl had decided to join the merry-go-round and was now doing so literally, rising and sinking astride a painted wooden horse.
Now, here, Miss Seeton looked up at a circular tower entitled Penny-on-the-Mat. A misnomer, she decided, since a smaller notice informed the public that it was “5p. a go.” That would be ideal. From the top she could get an overall impression of the festival far better than she could do from the ground. Miss Seeton paid her five pence, climbed the steep and twisting stairway, then, balancing her sketchbook on the wooden barrier, to one side of where people might wish to slide on mats to their enjoyment, she settled down to work. From this point of vantage the mass of people moving down the lines between the gaily striped awnings resembled ants marching in formation through the spilled contents of a box of licorice allsorts, which had been so popular with her pupils at the school. A fine study; a most interesting perspective.
A grubby youth paused alongside her.
“Ain’t cher goin’ dam?” he demanded.
“No,” Miss Seeton explained. “You see, I—”
“Y’are, y’know.” He lurched, knocking Miss Seeton to the floor and her sketchbook over the balustrade. He reached for her. They’d never prove a broken neck wasn’t but an accident.
Miss Seeton, to save herself, tried to hook her second-best umbrella round the post which held the stairs. Instead she ensnared the young man’s ankle and he, off balance, uttering an expletive, flung himself against the barrier, but his victim’s gathering momentum pulled his feet from under him and, still entangled with the umbrella, he described an ungraceful somersault to take the quickest route, while Miss Seeton, without benefit of mat, up one side, down the other, of the enclosing polished walls, spiraled her way to earth.
Sergeant Ranger stood transfixed. A sketchbook fluttered, a body plummeted and an umbrella arrowed down within feet of him. He stared at the Penny-on-the-Mat. He glimpsed a pair of sensible shoes; a hat—there could not be two like it; the shoes again, gray stockings showing; the hat, more crumpled than before. He ran to the end of the chute, to find Miss Seeton sitting up in dazed bewilderment.
“A young man knocked into me and I’m afraid I slipped,” she explained. She looked about her. “Oh, dear. My drawing block and—”
“All present and correct.” Chief Superintendent Delphick handed her her sketchbook, pencil and umbrella as he helped her to her feet.
“Oh, thank you, Chief Superintendent.” Miss Seeton was relieved. “But the young man . . .?” She looked toward the top of the tower.
“Not to worry,” Delphick assured her. “He came down another way.” He glanced at his sergeant. “Fell on his head, broke his neck and good riddance,” he muttered. “Get her away from here while I sort things out.”
The excited crowd around the “accident” prevented Miss Seeton from realizing what had happened as Bob Ranger led her to another part of the field.
Chief Superintendent Delphick had been warned by an informer that the syndicate was planning to cause trouble at the Plummergen fête. After a telephone conversation with Brinton at Ashford, he had agreed to come down himself and join his sergeant, who was already on the spot, while Brinton had pledged to infiltrate as many plainsclothesmen as he could spare. Tom Haley had reported at the Yard before Delphick’s departure. Although officially on sick leave, when he had learned of possible trouble at Plummergen he begged, knowing that Deirdre was liable to arrive in the midst of it, that he should be allowed to accompany the Oracle, declaring that otherwise he’d “go it alone.” Delphick agreed and also yielded to Tom’s insistence, backed by his experience at Kempton, that on this occasion he should be armed. Thus, with already more than the normal complement of uniformed officers to direct the traffic, the police were present at the fête in force, but even this, Delphick was obliged to admit, had failed to prevent an attempt on Miss Seeton’s life. He supervised the removal of the grubby youth’s carcass by ambulance and went in search of his sergeant and Miss Seeton.
Blue—white—red—green. Miss Seeton noted the colors on her penciled sketch. If only it would keep still. If only, too,
that organ were not quite so loud. The carrousel began to slacken speed and she recognized Deirdre traveling in slowing circles. Miss Seeton’s pencil moved faster—lions, cocks, giraffes, bears, ostriches and horses. What a variety of animals these machines had nowadays. The difficulty, the age-old difficulty, was to convey the sense of movement. Those few artists who had achieved this had done so not by some technical trick but through a genius born into their fingers which defied analysis. Miss Seeton sighed. Painstaking she was, accurate she might be, but genius—no, she lacked it.
Miss Seeton was introducing Bob Ranger to Deirdre when she stopped in midsentence.
That tiny tot now, straining to climb up onto the platform. She opened her pad once more; her pencil flew. On her sketch quickly appeared the small, square, determined form reaching vainly upward. Here was her answer—her subject. No need to worry further over movement. It became essential for her purpose that the merry-go-round be still. That urchin should epitomize the whole human race in its everlasting and futile struggle to grasp what lay beyond its reach.
Before Deirdre or Bob had time to realize her intent, Miss Seeton had slipped her sketchbook and pencil into her handbag, moved forward, picked up the little girl, still futilely struggling, and, mounting the platform, placed her on the back of a giraffe. The child regarded her solemnly.
“Ta,” said the whole human race.
Slowly the platform began to move. The organ wheezed huskily off key.
Miss Seeton looked round. “One moment please,” she called. “I’m getting off.”
She reached a foot down, then drew back. No, really, the ground was beginning to go by too fast. The pace quickened.
“Stop, stop,” she cried.
The organ, gaining courage as it neared its key, began to blare, drowning her protests. Miss Seeton started to run. By her rushed faces, laughing mouths and waving arms. To save herself from being whirled into space, she clasped a wooden horse about its neck. Inspired by devilry, the horse rose in the air: Miss Seeton stood on tiptoe. Foiled, the horse plunged: Miss Seeton bent her knees. Gripping its bridle with one hand, she succeeded in hooking the handle of her umbrella round the brass pipe to which the beast was fixed. To waving hats, to laughter and to cries of “Atta girl” and “Ride ’em, cowboy,” Miss Seeton jumped. Drat it, she’d missed. Now was her chance—now, quick. She sprang and, midst cheers that almost drowned the strident music, somewhat flustered but secure, Miss Seeton rode the whirlwind in the saddle.