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

by Heron Carvic

  “Really, it’s too dreadful the way that woman behaves,” declared Mrs. Blaine. “At her age too. It’s too, too—”

  “Vulgar,” conceded Miss Nuttel.

  The ladies sniffed in self-righteous unison and made their way to the tent set up for tea and scandal.

  “You watch this side, I’ll watch the other.” Bob Ranger hurried round to the opposite flank of the calliope.

  Deirdre, weak from laughter, failed to notice the group of somber, slit-eyed youths who gathered near her. The music slowed, the machine stopped and Miss Seeton alighted almost opposite Deirdre. Amid a crowd of parents and children dismounting, mounting or remounting, the woman and the girl were jostled away until they reached the rifle range. Here they were halted by a number of young men surrounding them. A gray-haired gentleman was being rewarded for his prowess with a blond doll which wailed Mama when doubled over. Crack—a louder sound—and Derrick Kenharding reloaded, turned and aimed a shotgun at Miss Seeton’s head.

  Tom Haley, prescience and experience having guided him to the danger spot, had little time. Deirdre was running forward into the line of fire as Derrick’s finger tightened on the trigger. Tom snatched his pistol from its holster and took a low snap shot, aiming for the hand. The bullet grazed Derrick’s fingers and then smashed through his jaw. The shotgun clattered and the boy fell. The youths encircling them quickly dispersed while Tom, aghast, stood desolate.

  Deirdre, stricken, knelt, cradling the bloodstained head. Her voice was hoarse. “You didn’t—you didn’t have to . . .”

  “I did,” he claimed. “What else could I do? You and MissEss were both . . . Oh, hell—what could I do?”

  Miss Seeton tried to intervene but the young people were enclosed in a world of their own.

  Deirdre lowered her brother to the ground and stood, her face stony. “This finishes”—she swallowed—“finishes us.”

  Unreason begat temper. “Rubbish,” he declared. “I’ll have to stay here now to order an ambulance, explain and help clear up. I’ll see you at The 10/20 tonight and we’ll talk things over then.”

  Her jaw set. “No. We can’t . . .” She faltered, then was obdurate. “We can’t meet again.”

  “I’ll see you,” he ordered, “at The 10/20.” He holstered his pistol and held out a hand in appeal. She ignored it. He dropped his hand and turned away. “If not, then it doesn’t matter”—his voice hardened—“never did. We’re through.”

  • • •

  Deirdre and Miss Seeton repaired to the latter’s cottage, where the urgent business of cleaning the bloodstains from the girl’s clothes had left Miss Seeton no time to remove her own outer garments.

  A uniformed P.C. borrowed from the fête was on duty by the front gate, more to protect them from curiosity than from danger, since the story was being broadcast, lightly buttered with fact and heavily spread with the jam of fiction by Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, that Miss Seeton had deliberately shot a young man at the festival and was now under house arrest. Foxon, from Ashford, had requested permission to station himself inside Miss Seeton’s cottage, but had been overruled by his superiors, as Delphick felt that any immediate risk was over for the moment and the police needed all the men they could muster to collect the youths involved, in the hope that Detective Constable Haley might be able to identify any of those who had taken part in the attack at Kempton.

  The situation was ideal for Deirdre’s shadow. After reconnoitering and finding the village practically deserted for the festivities, he told his driver to park the car by the side door to the garden, out of sight of the guard in front, while he himself slipped down to the canal road, climbed the low wall that bounded Miss Seeton’s domain at the back, crossed the roof of a henhouse, dropped to the ground and made his way carefully to the kitchen entrance.

  Deirdre was dressed and ready for departure. “You do see—you must see that Tom and I could never . . . Not now. I know it was really all Derrick’s fault and that Tom didn’t mean to . . . I know all that, but it doesn’t alter things. Derrick would always be bound to come between us.” Determined not to cry, she turned an anguished face toward the older woman. “I’m right—you do see that, don’t you?”

  “No,” said Miss Seeton. “I do not.”

  Deirdre was jolted out of drama, however sincerely felt.

  Miss Seeton closed the flap of the writing desk in which she had placed her sketchbook and began to unbutton her coat as she looked at the girl standing by the fireplace, distressed by the contrast between her happiness on arrival and her present misery. “I should have thought,” Miss Seeton resumed briskly, “that it’s simply a question of whether you believe in law and order or you don’t. You say yourself that it was your brother’s fault; Tom was merely doing his duty. In other circumstances, I imagine, you would consider Tom a hero, so to allow family feeling, or failings, to influence your relationship appears to me as grossly unfair to Tom. And to yourself.” Remembering her visit with Lord Kenharding to the picture gallery at the manor, where the father had, in a way, she supposed, foretold his son’s self-destruction, Miss Seeton became uncertain. “You must, of course, do what you think best. For yourself, that is, if not for him. Tom, that is to say. Best, I mean.”

  Her mentor’s earlier astringency was helping Deirdre to recover. “You mean that I must meet Tom tonight?”

  Well, yes, she did. But perhaps it would be better not to say so. Oh, dear. Miss Seeton suppressed a sigh. One did so dislike giving advice—becoming involved in other people’s lives. Certainly Deirdre should be at The 10 O’clock—or whatever it was—if her feelings for Tom were genuine and not superficial, though naturally, of course, one could not put it quite so bluntly.

  “If your feelings for Tom are genuine, and not superficial—” began Miss Seeton.

  “They are—oh, they are.” Deirdre clasped Miss Seeton’s hands in gratitude. “You’ve made me see how silly I was being. I’ll be at The 10/20—”

  “Not ternight cher won’t.”

  The woman and the girl turned in shock to face the man standing in the doorway, pistol in hand; Miss Seeton with her hands raised in the classic pose of surrender, preparatory to taking off her hat.

  She was tired of troubles, and very tired of guns. Dropping her arms, she moved toward the stranger. “Who are you—what are you doing here?” she demanded. “And put that ridiculous thing away.”

  The man aimed at Deirdre; addressed Miss Seeton. “One more squawk or step from you and her nibs gets it.”

  Miss Seeton stopped. However incredulous she might be when it came to threats to herself, she could not ignore the danger to the girl.

  “I’ve come for ’er—a snatch, an’ no ’arm meant, ’less that’s the way yer wannit,” the gunman declared. “An’ come to that, I’ll take yer too.” Couldn’t leave the old biddy here—she’d call the cops. He’d heard the word has been out to do her. Twice or more. The boss was slipping. A right Charlie she was making out of his nibs. So best take her along; might be a bonus in it, he decided. Chuckling, he said, “That’ll teach yer ter leave yer back door unlocked.” He ushered them out, down the garden, took the side door key from a nail in the jamb, forced them into the back of the waiting car, sat between them, making them lie on the floor under a rug until they were out of the district, ordered the man at the wheel to back down a few yards, take the road to Plummergen Station—which, in true English rural tradition, is some two miles south of the village on the road to Romney March-branch left for Ashford and head for London.

  Once clear of the vicinity and likely roadblocks, the gunman told the driver to pull up by a telephone kiosk. He handed over his pistol and put through a call to London for guidance.

  On his return, he said to the driver, “We’re to ’ang abaht till dark before makin’ fer the smoke. Safer. Up the A-20, through Lewisham, then straight to HQ and we c’n ’and ’em over. Right, you two.” He flipped back the rug. “Yer c’n sit up now if yer keeps quiet an’ be’aves.”
Aware of the futility of protest, Miss Seeton, her hat askew, and Deirdre, her hair mussed, took their places on either side of him.

  The car kept to side roads, halted near a public house while the driver fetched two hot meat pies and two cans of Courage’s pale ale. Further on, a small coppice provided a suitable lay-by. The car was pulled off the road and the men settled to their meal. Deirdre, thinking their captor’s attention was sufficiently distracted, eased down the door handle and tried to make a break. She was rewarded by a prod in the ribs from the pistol as he leaned across her and slammed the door shut. The movement had made him drop the remains of his pie and overturned the open can of beer on the floor. Furious, he gave the girl a second jab, more painful than the first, making her cry out.

  It was after eight o’clock and dusk was closing in. He gave the order to start for London, then settled back on the seat and spared a glance for Miss Seeton. The old one was proper cowed—and no wonder. It was a mistaken diagnosis, he could not understand that Miss Seeton, indifferent to personal threat through disbelief in it, was in this instance held by the evident menace to Deirdre, nor could he know that two things roused Miss Seeton’s equable temper, unkindness and injustice, both were present here, and that Miss Seeton was at last becoming angry.

  chapter

  ~12~

  DELPHICK WAS BITTER with self-reproach. He had been so sure that Miss Seeton would be safe for a few hours; that no further attack upon her was likely to be mounted on a moment’s notice. Clearing up at the fête had taken time: five young men were detained on Haley’s identification from Kempton of three “certains” and two “possibles.” Haley, looking strained, was sent with the detainees to Ashford to make a formal charge, told to take a train to London and pursue his interrupted sick leave. Delphick and Bob Ranger finally repaired to Miss Seeton’s cottage, only to find Deirdre’s abandoned car parked by the gate and a P.C. guarding an empty nest from which the birds had flown. Roadblocks were set up, but with little hope since no data was available, and the chief superintendent, having ordered his sergeant to remain in Plummergen, set off for London in a savage mood, unconsoled by Brinton’s solace: “If they’ve pinched MissEss, God help them. Your girl friend’ll finish by shooting it out with ’em, crash the car and turn up fine and dandy. You’ll see.”

  Miss Seeton saw the words emblazoned in fire against the night sky:

  TAKE COURAGE

  they exhorted her.

  Good gracious. She was startled. It was like the answer to a prayer. Except that she hadn’t. Only wondered what on earth one could do to help poor Deirdre. As if the Kenhardings hadn’t enough trouble without this. The car was halted at a set of traffic lights and ahead the clock tower at Lewisham showed the time to be five minutes past ten. Deirdre, whose intermittent protests during the last few hours had been silenced by a curt “Stow it, chick,” gazed at the clock and abandoned hope. Tom’s last words repeated in her mind: “I’ll see you at The 10/20. If not, then it doesn’t matter—never did. We’re through.” Strain is not conducive to rational thought and for Deirdre it had become all important to obey this new imperative to be at the place and at the time appointed and thus atone for her lack of empathy. Somehow she knew that later explanations, even should she ever have the chance and justified though they might be, would be lame; could never have the same impact. Quite simply, she desperately wanted Tom and despite taut self-control an occasional tear ran down her cheek.

  Since the indignity of being thrust to the floor of the car under a rug, Miss Seeton had not uttered a word during the seemingly endless hours. There was nothing helpful that she could say and to argue with the man was, obviously, a waste of time and might, she feared, make Deirdre’s situation worse, so why waste one’s breath? From what the wretched man had said, she knew that their present predicament in no way concerned herself. She was merely there because she was there. There at the time, that was. It was better to wait until they met someone with more authority, when she would, most certainly, speak her mind. Meanwhile, sympathy for the Kenharding family and her distaste for the whole of this quite ridiculous situation had produced in her a state which some of her former pupils might have described as a “slow bum.” Miss Seeton glanced across at Deirdre to give the girl reassurance, saw the telltale glint of tears, and the heat of her feelings rose to simmer.

  When the traffic light changed to green at the clock tower, the car turned to the right and again, high on a building, Miss Seeton was faced with orange neon, which informed her that

  COURAGE IS THE ANSWER

  Of course. How foolish to have experienced a moment of superstitious qualm. This must be, she imagined, some of that modem advertising which the church used nowadays.

  The car accelerated.

  “Left,” shouted the gunman. “Left here, you fool.”

  With little room to spare, the driver swung hard to the left and the car’s right wheels mounted the curb of a central island, throwing its three passengers to one side.

  As they righted themselves, instinctively Miss Seeton tried to straighten her much-abused hat. For a third and final time she was given the signal. Above a public house, partly obscured by buildings in front, coyly peeped the message:

  KE COURAGE

  Without pausing to consider action or reaction, Miss Seeton obeyed the injunction from on high, took courage and a hatpin, and with the former stuck the latter into the gunman’s hand.

  There was a yell of anguish, an explosion, and the bullet, passing through the driver’s neck, starred the windshield. Deirdre grabbed the pistol before their captor could recover, while the car, still on its leftward gambit, careened across the traffic to an accompaniment of brake squeals, horns and imprecations, climbed the pavement amid shrieks from scattering pedestrians, detonated a plate-glass window and came to rest inside a shop.

  • • •

  Among the first to reach the scene of the smash was a policeman on the beat. He pushed his way through the gathering crowd and ignoring for the time being protestations, ejaculations, explanations, he stepped carefully over shards of glass and entered the shop. The lights were blown and the car blocked most of the illumination from the street. At first dim glance the floor space of Chez Charlotte appeared to be strewn with victims of the disaster as if a child had flung down all her dolls in a fit of temper. A man was slumped over the steering wheel of the car; the passenger door hung open; the back seat was empty. The form of a girl lay half under the vehicle and the officer knelt and took a grip under the arms to lift her free. The body was stiff and as he raised it the neck swiveled obscenely, the long pale hair fell off, followed by the head. He jerked upright in surprise and was left holding the arms, while the torso dropped at his feet and bounced. He swore under his breath: to be kidded by a plastic dummy. Taking his personal radio, he called in.

  “Bomb exploded at Cheese Charlotte,” he reported.

  Told to stay on the spot and to do his best for any injured pending the arrival of an ambulance and reinforcements, he pocketed his radio and switched on his torch. The beam picked out a girl and a small elderly woman, both dusty and disheveled, sitting on a man—no, he wasn’t to be fooled again: sitting on a male model. Both women closed their eyes against the glare. He lowered the beam, to find that the elder of the two held a pistol in her lap aimed at his chest. He snapped off the torch, side-stepped, stumbled over unidentified objects, recovered, switched on again and seized the gun from unresisting fingers.

  “Thank you, officer,” said Miss Seeton with relief.

  “Have you got a license for this?” he demanded.

  “Certainly not.” She was indignant. “It’s not mine. It belongs to—” She stopped and she and Deirdre rocked on their perch as the male model heaved beneath them and emitted an inarticulate grunt.

  The policeman was beginning to feel that he had strayed into some wonderland where he must quicken his pace in order to stand still. He took a deep breath. “Why are you sitting on him?”

&
nbsp; “To hold him down,” answered Deirdre reasonably. “What else could we do?”

  She had jumped from the car as it came to a halt; the gunman had leaped after her, tripped and fallen, and with presence of mind she had sat on his head, but unable to control his thrashing, had called to Miss Seeton for help. Their combined weight had kept him pinned to the ground and Deirdre, unused to guns, had thrust the pistol into her companion’s unwilling hand. They dared not move until help should arrive and the reassurance, in silhouette, of a policeman’s helmet advancing toward them had, after the strain of the last few hours, made the girl almost lightheaded.

  “But you could smother him, miss,” he objected.

  “Good,” retorted Deirdre.

  Knowing his grasp of the situation was slipping, the officer clutched at a straw of unalterable fact. “This bomb—was it in the car or the shop?”

  “Bomb?” repeated Deirdre blankly.

  “Bomb?” echoed Miss Seeton.

  The girl began to giggle and Miss Seeton, recognizing incipient hysteria, realized that she must explain—from the beginning. Lucidly.