She floundered to a halt. Brinton said, very gently: “I’m sure you did the right thing, Miss Seeton, if what the hospital says is anything to go by. You probably saved his life by your prompt actions—but I still need to know what happened. Just how did this young man bump his head, Miss Seeton? And, er, how did your umbrella come into it?”
She blushed, and lowered her eyes. Her fingers danced on the folded fabric of the second-best umbrella, and he studied them for a few moments.
“Miss Seeton! You never upped and bashed him with your brolly, did you? That’s not like you!”
“Indeed it is not, Superintendent.” She sat upright and met his gaze squarely for the first time, in some indignation; then she saw the twinkle in his eyes, and responded with a faint twinkle of her own. Mr. Brinton, like dear Mr. Delphick, had a certain wry sense of humour which one had to be quick to appreciate fully. And, after a sleepless night and little to eat—Miss Seeton put up a ladylike hand to stifle a yawn—one’s wits were rather more sluggish than one would have liked.
She relaxed, and sighed. “It was an accident, I assure you, Mr. Brinton—for which I hold myself almost entirely to blame, although he was in a . . . a certain state of mental perturbation, poor thing, which did not, perhaps, lend itself to observing as closely as one would have wished exactly how and where he placed his feet. It was nighttime, you see, after the moon had set, so it was dark. There are no street lamps, of course, on Shirley Moor, and—”
“Moor! What on earth were you doing wandering around in the middle of the night on Shirley Moor, Miss Seeton?”
“He said he needed to talk to someone.” She blushed yet again. “A . . . a sympathetic listener, he said, and although I explained that I had been retired from teaching for several years now, and consequently understood far less of the problems of today’s youth than someone younger would do, he was so insistent . . . indeed, one could have described his speech almost as incoherent. I wondered at first if he might not be . . . be intoxicated, even though he drove the car with what seemed to be considerable skill . . .”
She favoured Brinton with an appealing glance. “I know I am no expert, Superintendent, but I smelled nothing on his breath, and we didn’t hit anything. It would, to my mind, be most regrettable if he were to be awarded a . . . a ticket, which I believe is the term.”
Brinton felt hysteria bubbling up inside him. If his instinct was right, MissEss had spent the last twelve hours jaunting about the countryside with a double killer, and the only thing bothering her was whether he’d end up with an endorsement on his licence! An endorsement—when the bloke’d most likely been getting ready to drown her in Brettenden Sewer, or bash her on the head and leave her to die of exposure . . . Brinton wanted to bellow with laughter, to tear his hair. To keep his hands occupied, he started the engine and engaged first gear, glancing in the mirror to see if Mel Forby was still behind him. She was.
“We’ll bear your testimony in mind, Miss Seeton—all of it. Shall I tell you what I think the rest will be? This ch—er, chap unburdened his soul and talked you ragged half the night, then said he wanted to stretch his legs and suggested you went with him, and somewhere along the line he tripped over your brolly and bumped his head on a tree root, or something.”
“Good gracious, Superintendent. How did you know?”
“Call it a mixture of long acquaintance and lucky guesswork, Miss Seeton.” He found himself chuckling. “And you spent the rest of the night trying to bring him round, then hunting for a phone—which can’t have been easy, in a bleak place like that. And how did you manage to find him again when the ambulance came?”
Miss Seeton looked at him in some surprise. “My umbrella, of course. One may know little, Mr. Brinton, of emergency care for head injuries, but adequate shelter is always important. And on so very level an area it made an admirable landmark, as well, of course, as the car, which was—is—only a matter of half a mile or so distant.”
Brinton’s hand jerked on the steering wheel. Behind him came a reproachful hoot, and in the mirror he saw Mel shake her head. “Sorry, Miss Seeton. I’m trying to drive and to kick myself at the same time, and the two can’t be done in safety. I ought to have remembered earlier the car’s bound to be standing about waiting for someone to tow it away. And once we’ve checked out the number, we’ll know who your mysterious one-night-stand acquaintance is . . .”
“Oh,” said Miss Seeton, as they passed the sign welcoming visitors to Plummergen. A few minutes more, and she would be home! “Oh, but Mr. Brinton—I know who he is already. I would hardly be so rash, or so . . . so forward,” with another blush, “as to accept an invitation to drive out in the company of a complete stranger. Most certainly not. Of course I knew him!”
Brinton held his breath, concentrating on negotiating the half-mile length of The Street without running into anyone or anything. It was not until they were sweeping round to pull up outside Sweetbriars that he dared to ask the all-important question.
“Who is he, Miss Seeton? Not . . . not Nigel Colveden?”
“Nigel? Oh no, Mr. Brinton. Nigel,” said Miss Seeton, with a twinkle in her eye, “would never let anything—not even a bump on the head—persuade him to leave his motor in the middle of nowhere, now would he?”
She had seized the handle of the car door, but Brinton was too bewildered—and relieved—to think of reaching across as a gentleman should. He could bear the suspense no longer. “Then who is he, Miss Seeton, if he isn’t Nigel?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her knees halted halfway round in their swing, the door open. “That is”—as an exasperated groan broke from Brinton’s lips—“I don’t know his full name—or rather, I have foolishly allowed it to slip my mind since he introduced himself when we first met. But his first name seemed enough, with an acquaintance in common, when he was so agitated, poor thing—”
“Miss Seeton!” Brinton gripped the steering wheel, his head bowed to touch his hands. He looked up, breathed in deeply, and steadied his voice to ask: “What is his name?”
Miss Seeton slipped nimbly from the car, bending to shut the door, conscious as ever of a gentlewoman’s obligations. “I am most grateful to you for having brought me home, Mr. Brinton, when I know how busy you are. But if you can spare the time, would you—and dear Mel,” as the second car, having parked on the paved square before the George and Dragon opposite, disgorged its passengers, “and Mr. Banner, naturally, care to come in for a cup of tea? His name,” she added, as Brinton managed a wild-eyed nod of acceptance, “is—not Mr. Banner, that is, but Nigel’s friend—is Clive . . .”
Mrs. Bloomer had boiled the kettle at the first sound of an engine, and tea was ready almost before Miss Seeton could blink. Martha allowed that she did really ought to have been up at the Hall, but she wasn’t budging an inch until she’d heard from Miss Emily’s own lips just what she’d been doing, and where she’d been doing it—and who with.
Brinton, struggling to sort out the facts for his imminent report, with Miss Seeton’s permission—she was yawning all the more now, although the tea and toast and fruitcake were helping to revive her—favoured the little group seated at Miss Seeton’s table with the story as he saw it, judiciously modified. Where he made grave errors of judgement or inference, Miss Seeton, with a ladylike cough, ventured to correct him. Mel Forby’s eyes warned that she expected to be given the unexpurgated version as soon as the heroine of the hour was out of earshot. Martha observed the quick exchange of glances, and left the young reporter to help herself to a second cup. Miss Seeton stifled another yawn.
“But of course I would not have supposed that I should come to any harm,” she said, surprised. “After so many years—though I am far from being advanced, particularly in the mental areas—but the book says most clearly that fasting can be of positive benefit to those who practice yoga.” She buttered another slice of toast, and hoped she would be able to eat it before it grew cold. One understood, naturally, that one’s friend
s deserved some explanation for one’s having caused them, without meaning to, some evident concern—but surely dear Mr. Brinton’s explanation had been enough?
It seemed not. The questions continued to come. Miss Seeton set down her toast, and raised her teacup instead. If one was going to speak at any length, a dry throat would cause more problems than an admittedly less-empty-than-it-had-been inside . . .
“I knew him for a friend of Nigel’s as soon as I saw him—the bones, you see, although the Union Jack—I mean Flag—was cleverly done, and altered his superficial appearance quite remarkably. But not the bones, of course—and I had heard dear Lady Colveden mention him by name when we saw him on television—one of Nigel’s Young Farmers. So many ticket stubs, or programme stamps—Nigel was kind enough to explain when he borrowed my umbrella, but I fear the details have escaped me—so that everyone could attend, even though he has been in New Zealand for the past year. Down Under,” said Miss Seeton, with a smile. “Culture shock—is that the term? To have everything so very different—the other way round from that to which one has been accustomed . . .”
Mel, remembering the sketch of Dame Lavinia Britannia on her head, spluttered. Brinton dared her to say anything to interrupt Miss Seeton’s flow; Martha glared; Thrudd kicked her on the ankle. Miss Seeton ignored them all as she sipped more tea.
“He seemed so agitated when he arrived—and though I am far, in my opinion, from being the best person to offer advice, he was so insistent that I should go with him to lend a sympathetic ear—and then he talked, I must admit, what seemed to me a great deal of nonsense about knives, and the moon, and black plastic sacks—I confess I did wonder,” and she appealed again to Brinton, “whether it might be drugs as opposed to drink. I don’t, you see, know the symptoms, even though both are equally foolish—but I came to the conclusion that it could be nothing more than nerves, for when I chanced to remark that I had been a teacher he . . .”
She broke off, and murmured of confidences, and privacy, and professional discretion—even when one had retired . . .
Brinton nodded, but was firm. “Evidently you haven’t lost the touch, Miss Seeton, if you managed to calm him down enough to talk to you like a sensible bloke—but you don’t seem to realise that this poor young man you’re so worried about is very likely a—yow!” Thrudd was becoming skilled at giving people surreptitious kicks on the ankle.
And, like Brinton, he was firm. “Miss Seeton—I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we’d be most interested to know your . . . shall I say specialist views on your little adventure. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind showing us your sketchbook?”
chapter
~ 26 ~
“I’LL FETCH IT for you, shall I, dear?” Martha was on her feet in a flash, heading for the sitting room and the cupboard in which Miss Seeton kept most of her artist’s paraphernalia. As she passed by Thrudd Banner, she favoured him with one of the most approving looks she’d ever given either of the two reporters: if that Miss Forby didn’t seem to appreciate how clever Miss Emily was with her pencil, her . . . boyfriend certainly did! Perhaps he’d ask to put one of her pictures in the paper? She wouldn’t much like it, of course—such a quiet little body as she was—but surely she’d be flattered to be asked . . .
Miss Seeton was apologising to Mel for not having been at home on Monday evening when the young reporter called as they’d agreed on Sunday night. She had been, she feared, rather preoccupied elsewhere, and—
“That’s all right, honey,” Mel was quick to break into Miss Seeton’s train of thought. With luck, Little Miss Innocence wouldn’t clue up to the fact that the crazed killer Mel had asked her to sketch, and the mixed-up young friend of Nigel Colveden who’d squired her around all last night, were one and the same. “Don’t give it another thought,” Mel told her, as firm as Brinton or Thrudd. “It’s me who should be apologising to you, for not coming round yesterday when I said I would—but I was delayed,” with a meaningful glance and a blush for Mr. Banner, who rolled his eyes and grinned as he reached for the portfolio and sketchbook Martha was carrying into the dining room.
“Mind if I take a look, MissEss?”
“Miss S. doesn’t play favourites, Banner—you should know that by now.” Mel winked at Miss Seeton as she pulled the sketchbook away from Thrudd, and more into the centre of the table, clearing toast rack, jam dish, and assorted crockery out of the way as she did so. “We’ll all take a look, like you said. The pair of us will just have to go shares in the headlines!”
Miss Seeton, rather drowsy now, smiled fondly on her two young friends as they tried to outstare each other. Such a teasing, affectionate relationship, so pleasant to see—and both so good at their jobs, which made their apparent rivalry all the more amusing to those who knew them . . .
“Official evidence, Miss Forby,” said Brinton, feeling that it was high time he took a hand. “I think you’re forgetting Miss Seeton’s retainer from the Yard—I’ll take a look at those first, I think.”
Mel quirked an eyebrow at him. “Still sore because I couldn’t do an Oracle for you? I did my best, Mr. Brinton, and nobody can do more than that. If you’re desperate for the real interpretation, though, guess with the expert here you could save yourself—and us—a lot of time by asking her straight out.”
She didn’t wait for him to reply, but opened the sketchbook at Miss Seeton’s drawing of the Taj Mahal reflected in the lake. “Interested in history, Miss S.? Why the turbans and the periwigs, or whatever they are?”
Miss Seeton blinked, shook her head, and dragged her thoughts back from her bedroom and comfortable mattress. It was absently that she glanced at the sketch and murmured:
“After Nigel came the other day and told me about him—and we were talking about the Abdication when he was on television—Clive, that is. Of India, although I am not entirely sure that the costume is . . . historically accurate.” The final words were slurred, and she smothered a yawn. Mel turned to the others in triumph.
“Clive of India! I remember him from history at school—though I can’t for the life of me tell you why. Guess I’m more interested in up-to-date history, or something.”
Brinton was staring at Miss Seeton, a curious mixture of respect and exasperation in his eyes. She’d shown them yet again who the killer was—but, yet again, she’d wrapped it up in so much kerfuffle they hadn’t a hope in hell of working out what it all meant until afterwards. Unfair of him to take it out on Mel Forby for getting it wrong—with Miss Seeton, you had to talk—think—a whole new language. But better late than never, he supposed.
He smiled across the table. “We had our history knocked into us rather more in my day, Mel, than they did in yours,” he said cheerfully. “Robert Clive—Baron Clive, they made him later, for services rendered—he was governor of India some time in the eighteenth century. Didn’t do at all well when he first went out there, and tried to shoot himself two or three times, only the gun never went off. Thought there must be something wrong with it, but he couldn’t see what—and then a friend of his came in. ‘Oblige me, John, by firing this pistol out of the window.’ ” Brinton’s voice took on the rhythm of school recitation. Even in her sleepy state, Miss Seeton smiled.
“ ‘Oblige me, John’—cool as a cucumber, when he’d been trying to blow his brains out not ten seconds earlier! I’ve never forgotten that.” Brinton shook his head. “So this John fired it, and it went off, so Clive decided it was an omen, and he must be destined for great things—so he stuck to it, and he was. Amazing.”
It was also amazing—except that, to those who knew and worked with Miss Seeton, after so long it oughtn’t to be—how she’d muddled India and the Red Indians. Clive of India—and Clive Chelmer, friend of Nigel Colveden, as confirmed by Lady Colveden in a quick telephone call. Clive . . . who lived at Pondicherry Lodge, according to PC Potter. So what was a pond, if not a small lake? And if Pondicherry wasn’t an Indian town, Brinton would eat one of Miss Seeton’s remarka
ble hats . . .
“Not mulberries, Mel, but cherries, eh?” Brinton winked at the young reporter. “From cherry trees planted round a pond by the lad’s grandfather, Potter said. Well, well—it was a pretty good guess, I must say.”
Mel, after her initial surprise, was happy to accept the mellowing of Old Brimstone. “Hatchet buried, Mr. Brinton?” she enquired, with her most dazzling smile.
“For the present, anyway.” Brinton hardly heard her: he had been flicking back through the pages of the sketchbook, and now gazed at the likeness of Barry Panfield as a pop singer. He frowned. “The silly young juggins! Whatever’s he been up to he doesn’t want us to know about?”
Martha peered over his shoulder, and sniffed. “Beryl’s boy,” she said, dismissively.
Brinton grinned. “So you said before. Tell me about him, will you?”
“His mother’s my cousin Beryl. A great trial to her, he’s always been, on account of his daft pop-singer notions and dressing in them horrible leather clothes and his motorbikes—not that he’s a bad boy, mind, just taking a bit too long to grow up, if you ask me. Which is what I always say to Beryl when she will keep worrying about him. ‘It’s just a phase,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll be settling down sooner or later.’ Trouble is, it’s getting later all the time, poor Beryl. Having you arrest him’s most likely going to teach young Barry more of a lesson than he’s had since his poor dad passed away—and I’m sure you wouldn’t never have done it if you didn’t think it was a good idea,” she added, as Brinton began to turn purple.
Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15) Page 22