Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15)

by Hamilton Crane

  Only the buzzing of a puzzled fly, blown indoors by the breeze, disturbed the hush of the kitchen as the three men—trained police officers—moved away to quarter every inch of Crown House Farm. The kitchen’s inner door, which stood open, led to a short passageway which turned into a narrow hall running the length of the lower floor. Doors opened on either side of passageway and hall; Brinton left his subordinates to open them and search, while he headed for the bottom of the stairs.

  As he reached the newel post, he uttered a silent curse. Too late—and too noisy—to do anything about it now, but why had he let Foxon and Potter take the downstairs detail? Neither of them had as much bulk or as many years as he had. Every board would probably groan loud enough to wake the—

  He shut off that uncomfortable thought, and set his foot firmly on the first tread. It did not creak. Warily, he stepped up, sniffing. A strange smell, one he didn’t recognise immediately, though he knew what it was, all right . . . Still no creak—no groan—no squeak. All he could hear was the stealthy movements of Potter and Foxon and the buzzing of that infernal fly, more rhythmic now—the thing must be zooming up and down the hall trying to find the way out. And it was growing louder, as he ascended—it was sounding less and less like a fly, and more like . . .

  Like someone snoring.

  Brinton, in common with all police officers, had not only taken a basic course in first aid, but had picked up a considerable smattering of medical jargon during his many years on the force. His thoughts ran riot. That smell—chloroform—stertorous breathing—head injury . . .

  It did not occur to him that the snores might come from the kidnapper, soundly asleep while Miss Seeton lay captive, waiting for rescue. He forgot all caution, and thundered up the remaining few stairs, flinging open the nearest door and sweeping the room with a swift, side-to-side, all-seeing gaze. Nothing. The next room—nothing.

  Foxon and Potter, hearing the commotion, rushed to join him as he opened the third door. . .

  The three men stood and stared in horror at the bed, on which lay a rumpled bundle, wrapped in rags and bound with string—a bundle of human form, life-sized—a bundle from which those stertorous snores were all too clearly coming.

  chapter

  ~ 24 ~

  THE TWO CARS cars drove back to Plummergen in a swift, tense silence. Even Foxon did not dare say anything to the brooding man by his side. Brinton, his jaw set, stared fixedly at the road ahead, counting the minutes until they reached Sweetbriars again.

  Before the ignitions were switched off, the front door of Miss Seeton’s cottage was flung open, and Martha Bloomer came running down the short paved path to greet them.

  “Mr. Brinton! Mr. Brinton—Miss Emily—”

  “Martha, we didn’t find her.” Brinton had wondered all the way back how best to break the news, deciding that the quickest words were the kindest. Martha stared, and seemed about to say something. Brinton, darting one of his most speaking looks towards Mel Forby, hurried on:

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bloomer. All we found was one of the gentlemen of the road—Potter says he’s a regular round these parts at this time of year. Name of Woodham, Walter Woodham. You know how these tramps take advantage—he’d heard the house was empty, and just broke in, meaning to stay there a few days—all bundled up in rags, stretched out on one of the beds, drunk as a lord on methylated spirits. I—we thought it might be Miss Seeton, but—”

  “But of course it wasn’t Miss Seeton! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Superintendent.” Martha beamed as Brinton looked gloomier than ever. “She rang me, not half an hour since, from the hospital—”

  “Hospital? You mean the Knights’ nursing home? What’s wrong? Is she all right? What did she say?”

  Martha reeled back as the questions ripped like bullets from five anxious throats, and blinked twice before saying: “Not the nursing home, no—Brettenden General. But she’s all right, she says, and I’m sure she’d never say she was when she wasn’t, not even on account of not wishing to worry me—which is like Miss Emily, bless her, though she did just mention she was a bit hungry, with not having eaten proper since yesterday—but she was more worried about him, poor man, because concussion can be such a nasty thing—”

  “Him? Concussion? Who?”

  Once more, Martha stared. “Well now, I—I don’t know, now you come to mention it. She didn’t say. She just said the hospital wanted to give her a checkup before they sent her home, and she didn’t like them having to go to the bother of an ambulance when she felt as fit as a fiddle, just a bit tired—which with being awake all night I’m not surprised if she was, poor dear, at her age, too—and would I ring Crabbe’s Garage and ask Jack to pick her up in the taxi, because she couldn’t remember the number. So I did, and his grandad told me Jack’s out on a job but he’ll tell him as soon as he gets back—”

  “Oh no he won’t!” Relief and exasperation mingled in Brinton’s voice as he interrupted the flow . “If anyone collects Miss Seeton from Brettenden General, it’ll be the police, not Jack Crabbe. Our nerves can cope with whatever she might get up to on the way home—his may never be the same again. Although why,” he apostrophised the heavens, “should we be the only ones to suffer?”

  “You’re sure she was all right, Martha?” enquired Foxon, while Mel, recovering her spirits, was heard to murmur that it might be a hoax of some sort. Thrudd kicked her on the ankle, and she subsided as Brinton shot her another furious look.

  “Nobody in their right minds, Miss Forby, is going to play a stupid trick like that for the sake of gaining half an hour or so’s grace—not unless there’s always been some sort of time element in the case, which there hasn’t—in the short term,” he added, remembering the calendar, and the September dates, and Harvest Moon madness which had resulted in two similar deaths a year apart. And hadn’t he just now said nobody in their right mind? This Blonde in the Bag killer could never be considered sane . . .

  While he’d been brooding, he’d missed most of the subsequent to-and-fro of talk while Martha explained as much as she could, and repeated what she’d already told them, and insisted Miss Seeton had said there was nothing to worry about. Brinton wished he could believe this, though for the life of him he couldn’t see what could go wrong, once Miss Seeton was safely home . . . Safely being the operative word, of course. The sooner they got to Brettenden and District General Hospital, and collected their passenger from—from Casualty, or wherever she was, the better.

  PC Potter could find no valid cause to make the hospital trip, and announced, to his superior’s approving nods, that he would stay in Plummergen and return to his normal duties. Mel and Thrudd, sensing that the story—whatever it might be—was about to break, nobly offered to fetch Miss Seeton in Mel’s car, thus releasing a further two trained police officers for more pressing duties. Brinton, in belligerent mood, said that if they wanted to save him the bother, they could call in on their way up The Street and tell Very Young Crabbe his grandson’s services would not, after all, be required. Mel smiled sweetly at Martha, and said that surely a telephone message would be just as good. Brinton said he supposed he couldn’t stop her driving her car to Brettenden any more than he’d been able to stop her driving it to (with a scowl) Murreystone, but that heaven alone must help her if she was involved in a motoring offence, because the book he would be duty bound to throw at her was very heavy indeed. Mel again smiled sweetly, marched off to the car with her nose in the air, and then ruined the effect by having to turn back to ask Potter whereabouts in Brettenden she would find the General Hospital.

  Once more two cars set off from outside Sweetbriars, but this time headed north. Foxon, driving the first, remarked:

  “Miss Seeton certainly seems to bounce back every time, doesn’t she? Thank goodness!”

  Brinton said nothing. And Foxon, in silence, drove on.

  They found Miss Seeton drinking tea in the Casualty Department, and having (in her opinion) the worst experience of
the entire adventure: except that she would hardly have seen it as in the least adventurous to have been abducted by a crazed serial killer and driven round the countryside in his car the entire night while he plucked up the courage to kill her, too. However, Miss Seeton, in her innocence, had no idea that this was what had happened; and she would, had anyone subsequently attempted to explain, never have believed them. Why (she would have wondered) could anyone possibly have wished to kill her? There must have been some mistake . . .

  The strong, sugary nature of the tea brought her on Casualty Sister’s orders was certainly a mistake. One was, of course, grateful for the kindness; it would be churlish to complain; but one looked forward to the arrival of kind Jack Crabbe and a speedy arrival at one’s own dear cottage, with one’s kettle ready filled and a caddy of one’s favourite tea waiting in the larder.

  “You’re not drinking your tea, dear.” The bright-faced young nurse—such a crisp, practical uniform—was hovering beside her, trying not to frown. The old duck, so Sister’d told her, had had a rough time last night, one way and another, and was still a bit upset about dialling nine-nine-nine, though if it hadn’t been for her, he might have died. But she was no spring chicken, and they couldn’t let her go, even though Doctor had given her the once-over, until they were sure she wouldn’t keel over in a faint or something, and end up back in Brettenden General as an in-patient, not just passing through . . .

  “Shall I bring you a fresh cup? This one’s stewed. And how about a piece of toast, or something?”

  But Miss Seeton had already undergone the Ordeal by Hospital Toast, and was not anxious to repeat it, though the nurse warned of low blood sugar and looked stern. Leathery, that was the word, mused Miss Seeton, as she smiled firmly and shook her head. The toast—so cold—not the nurse, of course, who reminded one of cherry blossom and fresh spring air. And only marmalade to spread on it, when one did (although not wishing to seem ungrateful) prefer jam—and forcing down most of one slice, for the sake of politeness, had taken the edge off her hunger. She would be happy enough to wait for anything else to eat until she was home again. If only Jack Crabbe would come. An ambulance—most embarrassing, as well as so unnecessary, when there were others far less fortunate than oneself . . .

  Miss Seeton sighed, and gazed about her at some of those others. Bumps, cuts and bruises, broken bones and strained muscles, emergencies whisked away to the operating theatre: in her two hours—although it felt like longer—at Brettenden General, she had seen them all. Her fingers twitched on her lap as she began to draw mental sketches—

  “Are you sure you feel all right?” The nurse couldn’t remember offhand what dire medical condition was suggested by a severe attack of the fidgets, but Miss Seeton’s strange behaviour made her wonder whether Doctor might have been a bit hasty in saying that the old lady was tired and a little shocked, nothing more. Perhaps Sister ought to take another look. The nurse began to back away, stealthily, trying not to alert the patient—

  “Oh!” There was a cry, a clatter, and a crash as she caught her foot on something which fell to the ground, followed, after a few arm-waving moments, by herself. Miss Seeton jumped to her feet.

  “Oh, dear! Oh, no—not again! My umbrella . . . !”

  She had forgotten her tea, which teetered in its cup on the low table at her other side, then tumbled to the floor in a sickly tannin downpour. Miss Seeton’s cry of distress was echoed by that of the nurse, whose official grey stripes and dazzling white apron had suddenly been patterned with splodges of brown . . .

  As the nurse, now dripping, struggled to her feet, while Miss Seeton babbled apologies and blotted desperately with a pocket handkerchief—and Sister hurried over in a crackle of starch to say, “Really, Nurse Jones!”—and those waiting patiently to see a doctor—any doctor—ignored the scene with true British phlegm . . . as all this was going on, above the commotion rose a weary, well-known voice.

  “I might have known we’d find you here, Miss Seeton,” said Detective Superintendent Brinton.

  Nurse Jones scuttled away to change her clothes, Mel mopped the floor, Thrudd assisted Miss Seeton to retrieve her umbrella from where it had rolled under the soft red plastic bench, Foxon collected the shards of crockery. Casualty Sister, recognising police officers from Ashford, allowed the more senior of the pair to convince her that, blood sugar high or blood sugar low, Miss Seeton would suffer no lasting harm if she went home now: indeed, Brinton told Sister with a sigh, they had come for that express purpose, as they were, in a manner of speaking (he glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, but Sister had drawn him well out of earshot before starting to voice her complaints) probably as well qualified to cope with Miss Seeton as anyone.

  “I’m not saying,” said Sister quickly, “that she isn’t a dear, because she is. And she’s a marvel, considering what she’s been through—and she as good as saved that young man’s life by calling the ambulance, but . . .”

  Another reference to the mystery man. Brinton, without regret, decided to ignore the chance thus offered to ask Casualty Sister what particular chaos Miss Seeton and her brolly had caused, apart from tipping trainee nurses head over heels, before rescue came; he would instead find out, at last, what on earth had been going on since Miss Seeton had disappeared the previous evening.

  “This young man,” he said. “What’s wrong with him? And where is he?”

  “Concussion, and a fractured skull—it seems he’s one of the eggshell kind, poor boy—and he’s in Intensive Care. He should thank his lucky stars, and your friend, that it’s not the morgue. She saved his life, at a guess, although I’m not sure she quite understands. When we tried explaining to her, she seemed more bothered about having had to call the ambulance because she didn’t know how to drive the car, and kept saying something about it all being the fault of her umbrella—shock, I suppose, which is why we didn’t want her to go home just yet.”

  Brinton didn’t believe for a moment that Miss Seeton was suffering from shock. The unknown young man, however, could very possibly be suffering from Miss Seeton . . . “So this, er . . .” Perhaps he shouldn’t say victim. Chummie? Probably, but not proved yet. “This eggshell blighter,” he said, with a sigh. “Not going anywhere in a hurry, I take it?”

  “Good heavens, no. He’s got wires and tubes and drips plugged into him left, right, and centre, and the last I knew he hadn’t shown any signs of coming round. It could be two or three days before he even recovers consciousness, never mind leaving the I.C. unit and going to a normal ward.”

  A beatific smile lit Brinton’s face, and his sigh this time was one of deep satisfaction. He turned, and beckoned. “Foxon—hop along with your boots and notebook, laddie, and keep an eye on the Intensive Care unit until I can send a uniformed replacement. And don’t worry about the car,” as Foxon began to raise objections. “I’m driving Miss Seeton home myself—it’s the least I can do, I reckon!”

  With Mel and Thrudd once more following. Brinton’s car took the Plummergen road, with the superintendent driving and his passenger a most reluctant Miss Seeton. She had arranged for dear Jack Crabbe to collect her, she explained. She had no wish to put anyone to any trouble on her behalf . . .

  “No trouble at all, Miss Seeton.” Brinton turned the full power of his personality upon her. “It’s no more than six miles to Plummergen anyway, so you wouldn’t be taking me much out of my way—but the main reason I’d like to give you a lift home is what you might call an official one. Because I need to find out exactly what happened, you see.”

  chapter

  ~ 25 ~

  MISS SEETON, WITH a blush, fell silent. Her fingers ran up and down the now-battered handle of the umbrella across her knees, and she stifled a sigh. So very, very careless—and that poor young man in Intensive Care—and she had been so worried all along about dialling nine-nine-nine under false pretences—one had hoped the emergency might excuse it, but clearly the police did not see it the same way . . .

  �
�The police—oh, dear! His car, Mr. Brinton. I know,” Miss Seeton said, blushing again, “that lost, or rather mislaid, vehicles, although I suppose one should in this case say rather that it was abandoned—except that this makes it sound so deliberate, and I can assure you it was an accident . . . and traffic problems, too, would be of minor importance compared with your own work, Superintendent. But your saying that this was a—an official matter reminded me—and naturally I understand that it should be reported at the earliest possible moment. I can only apologise for my failure to do so earlier, but with my concern over his unfortunate injury, you see—although there may, I suppose, be some slight justification in that I do not myself drive, even if I am as sensitive as others, I hope, to the due and proper care with which the belongings of others should be treated . . . I am of the opinion, although I cannot be certain, that he had no time to lock it before we went for our walk. And after—well, afterwards, of course, he would have been unable to—and even they did not think of it—the ambulance men. And I am not entirely sure who should be officially advised of this. Is something so large as a motor car,” enquired Miss Seeton, “regarded as litter?”

  Brinton applied his brakes. He took a deep breath. “Let’s get this straight, Miss Seeton. That chap in hospital—you went for a ride in his car? And when he . . . met with his accident, you abandoned the car to travel in the ambulance with him?”

  “I thought, in the circumstances, it was the least I could do,” she explained, unhappily. “If it had not been for my carelessness with my umbrella, poor young man . . . and then, you see, it was I who telephoned for them, and though I am by no means qualified except in the most rudimentary first aid—hysterical schoolgirls, and so forth—one could hardly leave him in such a condition without someone he knew to be with him as, well, moral support if not practical. As a . . . a friendly face, you see, except, of course, that this was the first time we had met. It was some years ago now—and one forgets, although a bump on the back of the head is a serious matter no matter what the gender, or indeed age, of the person concerned, which is why I had thought I could be excused for dialling nine-nine-nine . . .”