“Girl gone missing,” said Brinton glumly, and dropped into his chair. “From Brettenden.”
Foxon stared. “But—but nobody’s said anything to me, sir.” He sounded like a young James Forsyte. “You, er, do mean a . . . a grown woman, sir . . . not a schoolkid?”
“Young woman, yes. Name of Myrtle Poppy Juniper Felsted.” Brinton, who disapproved of flights of fancy, uttered the rolling floral syllables without comment. “Age, twenty next month.” He scowled into Foxon’s questioning face. “Blonde,” he added heavily.
There was a long pause. Foxon said: “How long’s she been missing, sir?”
“Since last night, it seems—no,” as Foxon began to say something, “don’t. It’s not necessarily a crime for a sane and honest adult to do a disappearing act, I know—and it isn’t even twenty-four hours, but—”
“But I wasn’t going to say that, sir.” Foxon seldom interrupted his chief, but on rare occasions would risk it. “What I was going to ask was why nobody notified us before. In the circumstances, I mean.”
Brinton’s scowl grew even deeper. “How many other people besides us have thought about what happened a year ago? Not even the press, and you know what they’re usually like about anniversaries of unsolved crimes—not that it is the anniversary, not to the exact day. But—don’t tell me this sounds crazy, because I know, but—it’s Harvest Moon time, Foxon. Same as twelve months ago . . .”
“Oh.” Foxon nodded. “Well then, sir—who reported her gone? And when?”
Brinton grunted. “Boyfriend,” he said, as Foxon dragged a fresh sheet of paper towards him and flipped the top off his trusty ballpoint. “He’s an Ashford lad—Darren Bannister—two arrs, ee not eye, two enns in Bannister. Seems they had a row a couple of nights ago, so he wasn’t surprised not to meet her after work yesterday. They’ve both got jobs in Brettenden, on the industrial estate. He expected to catch up with her for the big reconciliation scene at lunch-time today, when a whole gang of ’em regularly get together in the pub after they’ve been paid, to spend their wages on drinks and crisps instead of a decent meat-and-two-veg—” Brinton broke off, remembering that he had more important things to worry about than the eating habits of the younger generation.
“The Arkwright’s Arms lot, d’you mean, sir? I know the Brettenden blokes sometimes have to call us in when they’ve turned a little lively, but by and large they’re not a bad crowd. Young,” said Foxon, from his lofty late-twenties pinnacle, “and a bit daft, but not like our old friends the Choppers, are they?”
“No, they’re not—and this Bannister lad seems a decent sort. Though you can’t judge by appearances, of course.” Something of the superintendent’s normal self gleamed briefly in his eyes. “Anyone looking at you, for example, would think you were a rainbow run riot—and I can’t say having your hair pruned a few inches improved your looks . . .” But his heart wasn’t in it.
Foxon, too, was not in the mood for repartee. A missing blonde was more important than the pique he customarily affected whenever the superintendent passed comment on his appearance. He said: “So how did Bannister find out she’d done a vanishing act—because she wasn’t in the pub?”
“Asked her pals if she was still avoiding him, and they said she hadn’t been in to work this morning. Hadn’t phoned in sick, either—not that she usually did, being given to what they used to call female complaint in my young day—heaven knows what they call it now—and you don’t need a sick note for forty-eight hours, so they just assumed she’d be in on Monday and thought nothing of it. But Darren—the lad’s a bit on the slow side—said she’d be wanting her pay packet, and he’d take it round to her lodgings. Some bleak bedsitter place this side of Brettenden, just off the Ashford road. Catches a bus to work whenever she’s rowing with Darren—he usually picks her up on his motorbike on the way in—and they squabble most of the time, from what I gather. Modern courtship rituals. I dare say, though you’d know more about that than me.”
Foxon had found that lopping his shoulder-length locks to a more conventional length—he’d wondered vaguely about taking his sergeant’s exam, and wanted to know how it felt to be sedate and responsible—hadn’t ruined his chances with the opposite sex. He smirked; then recalled why they were discussing such matters, and became grave at once. “Go on, sir. So Darren went round to her lodgings?”
“And found she wasn’t there—and hadn’t been in since the day before, according to the harridan who owns the house and lives on the ground floor keeping an eye on what everyone else does. Ma Coggeshall thought Myrtle had decided to spend the night in Ashford with the boyfriend, so she wasn’t surprised the girl didn’t come home—disapproved, mind, but not surprised. Not until Darren turned up asking for her. And then he started thinking—I told you he wasn’t all that quick in the uptake—and he realised Myrtle’d got no good reason to be off sick—that’s modern for you again, laddie, and it makes my hair curl to think of it—but there you are. What with not collecting her pay packet, and no message, and not been seen since the day before, he thought he’d better come along and report it to us.
“And he did.” Brinton stared blindly at Foxon, still scribbling the last few notes, his head bent over the paper. “He talked to Mutford on the desk. Mutford got a full description, including the fact she was—is, dammit—blonde. And Mutford told him the usual bit about how she was of age, and most likely keeping out of his way after the quarrel, and if he waited she’d come waltzing along to make it up . . . And I suppose he could always be right, at that.
“But I doubt it, Foxon. I very much doubt it.” And the superintendent, with a deep sigh, opened his desk drawer and retrieved last year’s Unsolved file for the Blonde in the Bag case—and opened his pocket diary—and brooded.
chapter
~ 7 ~
“I STILL DON’T see,” said Lady Colveden crossly, “why you can’t decorate your own umbrella, Nigel—I mean, Miss Seeton’s. And it was very kind of her to lend it to you, though thank goodness it isn’t her best, because I wouldn’t have a minute’s peace until you’d returned it safely—”
“Oh, I say, be fair, Mother. I never had any intention of asking for the gold one—I told her so, right from the start.” Miss Seeton’s gold umbrella was renowned throughout the village. Not, as the proud owner was always quick to point out, solid gold: that would have been unacceptably heavy, as well as expensive; but not plated, either. It was proper, hallmarked gold—hollow—with a crook handle, and a black silk covering; and it had been the gift of the then Detective Superintendent Delphick of Scotland Yard, a thank-you—even if she could never quite understand why—for what he’d insisted had been her invaluable assistance in the solving of one of his cases, although as far as she was concerned she’d done nothing more than her duty . . .
“Of course I wouldn’t want to borrow the gold one,” said Nigel, shaking his head for his mother’s folly in even thinking such a thing. “But she was jolly decent about letting me choose which one to take, and said she was in no particular hurry to have it back—”
“While you,” interposed his mother, “seem to be in a very particular hurry to have the thing decorated. Really, Nigel, sometimes I wonder if you have any sense at all. How long do you suppose it’s going to take? Do you suppose it would take,” she amended hastily, “if I did it, and I really don’t see how I can. For one thing, why on earth didn’t you tell me about it yesterday, instead of—oh.”
Nigel grinned. “If you will spend all your time in committee meetings, Mother darling, neglecting your only son in a positively scandalous fashion . . .”
“There’s nothing scandalous about the Christmas pantomime,” protested his mother. “Besides, if you can go out for the evening, why can’t I? And any reasonable person would say that your father neglects you—neglects both of us, if it comes to that—far more than I ever do.” She raised her voice in the direction of The Times, which Sir George was devouring between slices of breakfast toast. “And I shoul
d think it dreadfully unfair of them to call it neglect when all I’m saying is that I don’t see how there’s time for me to decorate Miss Seeton’s umbrella for you by tomorrow. Well, how can there be?”
The Times jerked in Sir George’s hands as the baronet emitted a strangled snort of mirth. “Fire screen,” he managed to gasp, and The Times danced a jig. Nigel began to choke. Lady Colveden turned wide, wondering eyes upon what she could see of her irreverent male companions . . .
And then had the grace to smile. “I always said that was very naughty of you,” she told her son. “Once I realised you’d only given it to me for a joke, I mean. But when I think of the hours—days—I must have spent, trying to embroider that wretched thing, I could stab you with a tapestry needle, Nigel, I honestly could.”
“Weeks, don’t you mean?” Nigel appeared untroubled by her threat. “And why tapestry? I thought it was plain old ordinary sewing—the sort you’ll need to decorate the umbrella. Easy as falling off a log!”
“A tapestry needle’s longer—I think,” she added, “but don’t try to bamboozle me, Nigel. I haven’t said I’ll do it yet—and I still don’t see why I should.”
“For the honour and glory of the Colvedens in general,” with a wink towards the listening Times, “and you in particular,” replied Nigel at once. His mother blinked. He nodded. “Imagine how proud you’ll be when the television cameras zoom in on your handiwork and it’s shown to the whole nation—to the whole world, for all I know. I’ll be jolly lucky not to have you charge me for the opportunity for fame and possible fortune—but you won’t, will you?”
There was a moment’s silence, during which Lady Colveden thought long and hard. At last, she turned to her son with a seraphic smile upon her face. “If I do it—and I haven’t said yet I will—then I feel I deserve something by way of a reward. If you can persuade your father to replace the television he and the admiral had such fun demolishing the other evening with a colour set, instead of just another black and white . . .”
“Done,” said Nigel, who’d dropped the odd hint himself as the cost of colour television came down while its popularity went up. Sir George, conservative to the core, and thrifty as only a farmer can be, had always retreated behind whichever newspaper he happened to be reading at the time, saying nothing beyond the odd rhetorical question about the need for change when there wasn’t any need, especially when they hardly ever watched the bally thing anyway.
“Done,” said Nigel, thinking of next year’s Test Match, while his mother thought of Wimbledon. “First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll take you into Brettenden and buy the best set in town—oh, no, of course, I can’t come. I’ll be heading for the Royal Albert Hall as soon as I’m awake. It’ll be the two of you on your own, then. I hope Dad manages to keep you away from the hat shop without me there to jog his memory.”
The Times rustled, but Sir George said nothing: he, too, was thinking of cricket. His wife and son regarded each other with knowing smiles.
“Well, it seems that’s settled.” Lady Colveden sighed; she was no needlewoman, as her nearest and dearest knew—but, as Nigel had almost said, she was the best they’d got. And the Last Night of the Proms was an occasion into the spirit of which everyone had to enter—couldn’t help but enter, as decades of tradition caught even the most hardened in their toils. “But I thought you were going up to Town tonight, not tomorrow morning. What happened to sleeping on the pavement to be sure of your place in the queue? Goodness knows, you’ve made enough fuss about thermos flasks and air mattresses recently.”
“Common sense prevailed.” Nigel grinned. “I wondered whether my spine could really stand the strain, and after considerable reflection decided it probably couldn’t, with being so long out of training. It’s years since I was at boarding school, remember—I’m not as young as I was. If I’d thought about it in time, I suppose I should have asked Miss Seeton if I could borrow her yoga book as well as the brolly, but . . .”
“And the Admiral’s flag,” interposed his father, putting down his newspaper at last. “And my hunting horn—asked me how to blow Cookhouse, as I recall.” He tapped his empty pudding plate with a spoon in the well-known “Come to the cookhouse door, boys” rhythm. “Didn’t you mention asking the Buzzard about Sunset, too?”
“No time to learn Sunset,” said Nigel. “And the flag’s for starting the Lawn Mower Race, not the Proms. What with the brolly and the hunting horn I don’t believe I could manage anything else, knowing how crowded it always is—and on further reflection I’ve decided it doesn’t matter if I can’t blow proper calls. The odd few tootles as the mood takes me, I think, will suffice—unless, that is, I, er, lend the horn to anyone else who might want to borrow it.” Nigel blushed. “Which would really be much more sensible, because then I could take extra care of Miss Seeton’s brolly. I’d hate to drop it in all the scrum and have it trodden on when it’s—” wide eyes gazed at his mother—“so beautifully adorned. I rather thought I’d open it for twirling in the set pieces—Rule, Britannia and so on—and conduct with it closed the rest of the time. As for the sleeping, Heather’s organised it so that between the whole crowd of us we’ve acquired enough ticket stubs for Clive to be able to come, too, if he insists, so if any of the others want to spend the, er, last night before the Last Night on the streets of London, they’re welcome, but I won’t be joining them.”
Suddenly, he was serious. “I know things have been a bit pushed around the place these last few weeks, Dad, what with you and your bench-sitting and me dashing off to concerts every five minutes. I feel I should be here as often as I can, to make the most of the daylight—and especially with the Admiral’s gin party this evening. I mean, someone has to be in charge while you carouse—but once Saturday’s over,” as his father huffed a halfhearted protest, “things will be back to normal, I promise. It’s just that when Heather suggested the Proms right at the start of the season, and it all sounded such a lark, well . . .”
Sir George blew through his moustache. “Pretty girl,” he remarked. “Only young once, m’boy. Even,” with a chuckle, “your spine, eh?”
Nigel blushed; though for what reason, neither of his parents could be sure. He then changed the subject with considerable adroitness. “Talking of the Admiral, Dad—as you’re going to his little Battle of Britain knees-up, d’you think you could ask him about the Union Jack? In the ordinary way I wouldn’t mind asking myself, of course, but you’d save me no end of time if you could. What with the farm and the Proms and the Lawn Mower Race keeping me so busy . . . I’d love to hear his reminiscences, tell him—but on some other occasion.”
A request which Sir George, a realist, knew he could not justifiably refuse.
Friday morning also heralded the excursion of Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine to Ashford Forest. They breakfasted on home-baked bread spread with a scraping of vegetarian margarine (Miss Nuttel spoke again of beechnut butter) and restrained dollops of Bunny’s strawberry jam, washed down with nettle tea; then Mrs. Blaine did the dishes and left them to drain (“Teatowels, Eric—too unhealthy, harbouring germs!”) while Miss Nuttel checked the contents of the haversack she had packed the previous night, and added the picnic she’d just thrown together under Mrs. Blaine’s watchful, washing-up eye.
When the bus left for Brettenden, several of their fellow Plummergenites accompanied the Nuts on the first part of their journey, for it was market day. Surprise was expressed that the Lilikot ladies, in response to routine interrogation, admitted (grudgingly) that for once they were not on the lookout for bargains, then refused to give further details. On arrival in Brettenden, instead of leaving the bus station to make for the market, they were observed warily consulting another timetable, checking their watches, and drifting off to join another queue.
“Now, why,” demanded Mrs. Flax, “couldn’t they just’ve said straight out they were going to Ashford? Summat odd about it all, if you ask me.”
Everyone within earshot nodded. Mrs. Flax, as P
lummergen’s acknowledged Wise Woman, would have been afforded the courtesy (to her face, at any rate, for safety’s sake) of absolute agreement even if she’d suggested something totally outrageous; but there was no need for her audience to prevaricate on this occasion. The behaviour of Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine was, without question, odd. Fishy, others said. Downright queer, now they came to think of it . . .
“What I’d like to know,” someone said, “is what they’d got in that great shoulder bag as Miss Nuttel was carrying.”
Frantic nods, and a chorus of agreement, with Mrs. Flax’s voice above all others. “Heavy,” she said, “before they’d either of ’em set foot in a shop, so it was—and for why, I ask you?” She did not wait for a reply, but pronounced with the full weight of authority. “You mark my words,” said the Wise Woman, “there’s Summat Funny going on . . .”
The more dedicated among the shopping snoops even toyed with the idea of pursuing the Nuts on their Ashford trip—it was a free country, wasn’t it? Anyone could ride on a bus if they’d the money to pay for their ticket!—but it wasn’t market day in Ashford, more’s the pity. It would be really annoying to miss out on the Brettenden bargains for something they’d be bound to hear all about sooner or later, the way those Nuts did love to talk . . .
Talking as they, too, loved to do, the Plummergen crowd moved reluctantly out of the bus station, leaving Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine to board the Ashford bus. Neither Nut had been too happy about rousing the curiosity of their fellows, but what else could they have done? As Miss Nuttel so succinctly put it:
“Not just saving money not running a car, Bunny—saving petrol, too. Lead in the atmosphere—greenhouse effect, as well. No more than our plain duty to take the bus.”
Mrs. Blaine stifled a sigh. Sometimes—very, very seldom, but sometimes—she found herself less fervent an upholder of their organic, whole-food, back-to- nature life-style than Miss Nuttel. Not, of course, that she’d ever dare confess as much to Eric. Strong-minded and high principled, that was Eric—too shaming for Mrs. Blaine even to dream of admitting that the luxury of one’s own transport might occasionally be very welcome. To be whisked (Mrs. Blaine had no intention of sitting behind the wheel herself) directly from A to B . . . no queues, no weather, no enforced inhalation of other people’s secondhand tobacco fumes . . . Humphrey, brooded Mrs. Blaine as the bus bounced along, had been a smoker. One of the many reasons she’d divorced him—too grim and unhealthy, dog-ends and spent matches and ashtrays and nicotine stains on his fingers . . .
Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15) Page 6