“Mel, I’m sorry, but the MacSporran business isn’t one of our cases, and even if it were we couldn’t—”
“Why isn’t it?” demanded Mel. “Banner tells me”—there was a wealth of scornful envy in her voice—“that the nanny was bashed over the head and left for dead in the park. You don’t call grievous bodily harm a serious crime?”
“Of course I do. Everybody does—which should hardly need saying, Miss Forby, as you well know. But, strange as it may appear. I’m not the only chief superintendent at the Yard”—she muttered something he thought it wiser not to hear—“and it just so happens that someone else is handling this case. The first I heard about it must have been around the same time you did, so I hardly think—”
“Yes, from Banner, of all people! Mel Forby, the Daily Negative’s white hope, and that louse strolls into the flat with one of those crummy World Wide rags under his arm, and tells me to take a look at the front page! Me, with what I thought was a hot line to high places . . .”
“Be fair, Mel. Just because we’ve known one another for some time doesn’t mean Bob and I feel obliged to leak every item of news to you first—even if we know about it, which in this instance, I repeat, we did not. Policemen have a professional code as well as pressmen, Miss Forby.”
“And presswomen,” she retorted, though not as sharply as he might have expected. She sighed. “Sorry, Oracle, and Bob too, if he’s still hanging in there. Guess I lost my temper. It isn’t really fair for me to pick on the pair of you because Banner beat me to it. To be honest, it’s this damned broken ankle of mine I should be blaming, not that it’s broken any longer, of course, but it still isn’t what it was—which is entirely Banner’s fault, and you’d think he’d realise he owes me”—Mel didn’t know whether to curse or giggle at the memory of what she and Thrudd had been doing when she tumbled out of their king-sized bed—“but just catch him admitting it. And the doctor keeps telling me to rest when I can. So who was obeying doctor’s orders like a good little girl when the first hint of the MacSporran story was breaking? Amelita Forby, that’s who!”
“I’m very sorry, Mel,” said Delphick, after a pause. It seemed a most inadequate response, but for once he was at a loss. He scowled at Bob, who was stifling a chuckle.
“I heard that snigger, Bob Ranger,” came Mel’s voice in the sergeant’s ear. “You ought to feel sorry for me, being scooped like that—after all, the three of us go back quite a long way. I’d always kind of regarded you two as people who’d be glad to keep me up-to-date with what was going on.” Her tone perceptibly altered. “To keep me, as you might say, in the picture . . .”
There was a long, thoughtful silence. Mel said, “Pardon me, Oracle, but aren’t you forgetting something when you say you’ve got no possible connection with the MacSporran case? Or maybe I should say—someone?”
The silence this time was even more thoughtful. Bob was sure he could hear the Oracle’s brain whirling—and he knew he could hear Mel’s gleeful giggle at the other end of the line. Delphick drew a deep breath.
“If you’re planning to involve Miss Seeton in all this, Miss Forby, I feel I ought to warn you—”
“Miss Seeton? Why, Oracle, the idea never even entered my head! Miss S. must be about the last person in the world to muddle herself up in anything so sordid as kidnapping. No, it was the Finchingfield business I was referring to—surely you realised that?”
Delphick uttered a curse—two curses—one for himself, for having forgotten the Finchingfield case, and another for Mel, who had trapped him so neatly. He’d go down fighting, of course, but he saw no ultimate escape from the inevitable—Amelita Forby was noted in Fleet Street for much more than just her pretty face.
“Finchingfield?” he said, trying to sound casual about it. “Of course, Bernard Finchingfield.” As if there could be two people he’d met with such a memorable surname. “Well yes, Mel, but that was a long time ago. I haven’t had any dealings with bigamy for ages—you can’t wonder that I’d forgotten about it.”
“There aren’t too many families called MacSporran,” Mel said in a dry tone, and waited. The Oracle was right; it had been years back—she’d had to dig it out of the Negative’s morgue after numerous cross-references. She couldn’t really blame him for forgetting, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook by telling him so. After all, Bernard had been the most celebrated lady-killer of his day. Delphick, with the girl’s parents, had arrived in the nick of time to stop him tying the knot with that madcap whisky heiress . . .
“Artemis MacSporran,” said Mel, when it became clear the Oracle wasn’t going to say anything himself. Sergeant Ranger, who knew his chief to be surprisingly modest about past achievements—and one of the least reminiscing men on the force—sat up at her words, and requested full details.
“Later, Bob.” Mel and Delphick spoke together. Delphick then went on:
“A very distant cousin, Miss Forby. No immediate reason for me to connect the two cases. And I hardly think they’d thank you for dredging all that up again now, when they’ve a far more serious matter on their minds—”
“And no real clues, as yet,” Mel broke in. “Say, Oracle, you’ve given me an idea.” Delphick groaned. He’d seen it coming. Bob grinned: so had he. “Talking of not having any clues . . . I never even thought of it until you mentioned her first, but—well, I can’t help wondering, somehow, whether anyone’s thought of asking Miss S. what she thinks about all this. I know kidnapping’s a pretty sordid crime, and she’s bound to be kind of shocked and disapproving about everything, but you know what she’s like, she’d probably consider it was worth the upset, if she was able to help. Just make an appeal to her sense of duty, and . . .”
Delphick said nothing. There was nothing to say. “We, I mean you,” Mel continued, as if inspired, “could just try asking her, couldn’t we? It might not upset her too much—and besides, she always bounces back, does our Miss S. And think how much she knows about kids, with having taught ’em art for so long . . .”
“Schoolchildren,” pointed out Delphick, drawn into the argument against his better judgement, “are hardly the same as infants in arms. I doubt if Miss Seeton knows one end of a baby from—Well,” as Mel and Bob exploded with mirth, “perhaps not quite that, but you know perfectly well what I mean. And, even if she did, it’s not for me to propose that the investigating officer avails himself of her services. For some reason, MissEss is regarded with a degree of, well, of caution by many of my colleagues, and I can hardly force them to . . . Mel, stop laughing. And if you don’t wipe that grin off your face, Sergeant Ranger, you’ll be back on the beat by lunchtime. Traffic control around Marble Arch would be the most apt placement, I fancy . . .”
“So the boys in blue are scared of Miss S.,” remarked Mel brightly. “I’d never have guessed it. And you’re not going to jeopardise your working relationship with the rest of the Yard by insisting. But you could always suggest it . . .”
“I could indeed, though I have a fair suspicion of what the response might be.” Despite himself, Delphick chuckled. “However, Miss Forby, you should not jump to conclusions and assume the Oracle is losing his touch: for your information, I was thinking along the same lines as you not ten minutes before you called. Devoting, I may add, rather too much time to the matter for someone who has a mound of paperwork to process, and an assistant commissioner demanding results—when it isn’t, I repeat, my case . . .”
Mel dismissed Sir Hubert with an airy phrase, and then added, “So does that mean you’ll be going down to Plummergen to see her? Will there be another Battling Brolly success in the news before long?”
“Unfortunately, I think not yet. You know as well as I do the, er, unique working methods employed by Miss Seeton; and I’m sure you remember that, in order for her instinct to take over and switch her to automatic pilot, or whatever you care to call it, she requires at the very least a witness statement before she can produce any drawing that may be of help in a po
lice enquiry. But, as you yourself pointed out, the nanny is still unconscious. The hospital expects she’ll remain unconscious for some time . . .”
“So as soon as she comes round,” said Mel, “you’ll be on your way to Plummergen, I take it—but not before. I see.”
“You see more than is good for you at times,” Delphick told her, trying to sound stern but not succeeding. He had a decidedly soft spot for Amelita Forby, whose determination to be a Fleet Street star, coupled with her ruthless honesty and her insistence on playing fair—with everyone except, of course, Thrudd Banner—had won his admiration. She’d have earned her success, when (not if) it came. She never seemed to stop working for it . . .
“You’re scheming, Mel—I recognise the signs. What’s more, you sound rather too cheerful for my liking. I hate to cast a damper on your enthusiasm, of course, but you know the sort of thing that can happen when Miss Seeton becomes embroiled—or is embroiled by an outside party—in a case, don’t you? Be warned by a wiser man—”
“Like your pals at the Yard? They sound a pretty feeble bunch,” sniffed Mel. “Tough-guy cops running like rabbits from one sweet, harmless little old lady . . .”
Bob Ranger, who’d been listening to every word, couldn’t help spluttering at that. Delphick cleared his throat, and rolled his eyes in despair. It was a free country. If one of Miss Seeton’s friends took it into her head to make a day trip to Kent, there was nothing he could do to prevent her. And he’d known Mel long enough to be certain that she’d had it in mind right from the start—that there was no way he could deter her from whatever she’d intended to do, because once Amelita Forby’s course was set, set it duly stayed.
He just hoped it wasn’t likely to lead her, and Miss Seeton, over the edge of a precipice.
Mel Forby considered herself, after all these years, an old Plummergen hand. By now, she knew the bus timetable almost as well as the locals. Having caught her train from Charing Cross and arrived safely at Brettenden, she knew there was no need to risk the aged and asthmatic car driven by equally aged Mr. Baxter, plying for hire outside Brettenden station. She’d worked it out neatly: the bus was due in ten minutes, and it was almost always, she knew, reliable.
As it proved today. Without too much recourse to the elegant walking stick she’d bought herself—better safe than sorry—Mel disembarked from the bus at the stop outside Crabbe’s Garage, paused to pull a face in the direction of Lilikot’s windows in case either of the Nuts happened to be watching, then limped into the post office. Here, she selected a not-too-heavy box of chocolates, asked Mr Stillman if he’d be kind enough to help by popping it in a carrier bag, and made her way carefully southwards down The Street in the direction of Sweetbriars.
“Mel! I say, Mel—hello!” The greeting came just as she was passing the George and Dragon, preparing to cross at an angle to Miss Seeton’s front gate. There was a tootle on a car horn, and she recognised Nigel Colveden’s little MG.
“Need a lift anywhere?” he enquired, gesturing towards the walking stick. Mel thanked him, but said she didn’t. Nigel nodded. “Are you staying—or merely passing through? And where,” he added, “is Thrudd?”
Mel’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t breathe that name near me, Nigel, if you want us to stay friends. Right now, Banner and I aren’t exactly speaking to each other—or rather,” as Nigel looked decidedly startled by this information, “it’s me who’s not speaking to him, the louse.”
Nigel had known the Forby/Banner partnership for some years. He grinned. “Beaten you to a story, has he? Oh!” His gaze flickered from her remarkably fine eyes, which even in moments like this couldn’t help dancing at the thought of Thrudd, to the cottage across the road. “You’ve come to ask Miss Seeton for her advice about something,” deduced Nigel, feeling pleased with himself. “I won’t ask what—I’m all for a quiet life, you know. We busy farmers . . .”
And, after a few more pleasantries, he was gone.
Mel waved after the little red car as it turned right into Marsh Road and chuntered off towards Rytham Hall, emitting discreet puffs of dark blue smoke as it went; then once more she prepared to cross the road to Sweetbriars.
And once more she was accosted by a voice she knew.
“Why, good gracious, surely—Mel dear, that is you, is it not?” The well-known accents came from behind her, and Mel spun round in some surprise. Talk about telepathy, or second sight or whatever—there she was, the very woman Amelita Forby had come to Plummergen to see.
She was making her way down the steps of the George and Dragon and, like Mel, carried a parcel, though hers was wrapped in brown paper, and instead of a walking stick she had, of course, an umbrella. As she drew nearer, Mel observed that Miss Seeton’s parcel did not remind her of her own conventional box of chocolates: it was irregular in shape, for one thing. A shape Mel thought she recognised—and it gurgled—and Miss Seeton had just come out of the pub . . .
chapter
~4~
MEL WAS QUICK to brush off Miss Seeton’s anxious enquiries over her walking stick, saying that it was more by way of insurance than a necessity. Besides, she felt it lent her a stylish air which would do her budding reputation as a Fleet Street original no harm at all.
She made no comment on the purchase her old friend had obviously just made. Very little surprised a world-weary hack like Amelita Forby, but the idea that Miss S., of all people, had turned into a secret tippler was one of the very few things she was simply not prepared to believe.
“I was just about to make myself a cup of tea,” remarked Miss Seeton, the welcoming courtesies having been concluded. “In the garden, you know—such a delightful afternoon—and you’ll join me, won’t you, my dear?”
For one wild moment, Mel was unable to dismiss a vision of herself and Miss Seeton knocking back highballs together on the patio, tea being merely a euphemism covering anything from sherry to illicit hooch. Then common sense prevailed, and she accepted with thanks; much better for Miss Seeton’s vibes, or however she did the trick, to have her sitting relaxed in her own back garden. “Though I regret,” continued Miss Seeton, leading the way, “such a pity, but I cannot extend my invitation to the whole afternoon, as I have oiled it already, and pumped up the tyres, and she is expecting me—my bicycle, that is, although not at any particular time, because she understands that one can never be sure of the state of the traffic. And I have bought myself,” said Miss Seeton with pride, “not only a new bell, but a basket, too.” She brandished her brown paper parcel, which gurgled again. “So much safer than clipping it in a rack, I thought, which was all I had left once my old basket collapsed, and really it was too far gone, Stan assured me, for repairs. He is so very clever at mending things—just as she is, of course—although whether one should call them ‘things’ when they are still attached to the birds—their wings, I mean, and their legs—yet one hesitates to anthropomorphise . . .”
As she chatted, she led the way up the front path and fumbled in her bag for her key; she ushered Mel into the hall, smiling as she set her brown paper–wrapped bottle on the table just inside the door. “So much better, she tells me, than brandy or whisky. For shock—some property of the juniper berries, I understand, which they eat in the wild. The birds, that is. When they are unwell.” She led the way through to the kitchen, and switched on the waiting kettle.
“Mrs. Ongar knows a great deal about them,” Miss Seeton continued, hunting out milk, sugar, and crockery, while Mel, with the privilege of friendship, retrieved a cake tin from its cupboard and set out the contents on a plate. “And she speaks, you know.” Into Mel’s mind flashed, unbidden, the image of Harpo Marx. “To Women’s Institutes, for instance.” Miss Seeton was warming the teapot. “And similar groups of interested people—as I am, as well. Interested, that is. In preserving our birdlife. I have paid several visits to Wounded Wings since we first met, although happily not on my own behalf. Dear Stan takes excellent care of mine—they have been laying so well recently, you
know, that if you cared to take half-a-dozen home with you, I would be happy to let you have some. For how long will you be staying in Plummergen? They should be as fresh as possible, you see.”
“Heading back to Town later today, more’s the pity,” Mel told her. “New-laid eggs are a kind thought, Miss S., but a bit awkward to carry, on a train—especially now. I’d hate to have them scrambled before I even reached home.”
Miss Seeton nodded sympathetically. “And how is dear Mr. Banner?” she enquired, ignoring Mel’s efforts to pick up the tea tray. “What a long time it seems since our last meeting, although . . .”
“Can’t be too long for me, right now,” Mel informed her briskly. “That louse has scooped himself a really big story—so where does that leave me? Asking for your help, that’s where!” The teapot wobbled in Miss Seeton’s pouring hand. Her eyes blinked a question in Mel’s direction. “You’re the tops when it comes to those drawings you do, Miss S. Could you manage to work the trick for Amelita Forby—if I asked you nicely? I’d love to take that Banner down a peg or two, and if I could beat him on his own story . . .”
“But Mel, my dear, I know nothing whatever about—about stories, or scoops, or the life of a newspaper reporter,” came Miss Seeton’s anticipated protest. “I am always glad to be of assistance to a friend, of course, but living such a quiet life as I do . . .”
Mel hid a smile as she allowed the rest of Miss Seeton’s little apology to float past unheeded. Over the years, the Battling Brolly must have encountered more newspaper reporters than she, Amelita Forby, could number, but Miss Seeton herself genuinely seemed not to recall such encounters. Essentially a private person, she regarded herself and her affairs as of no consequence to any other than her immediate circle; and whenever, innocently assisting Scotland Yard, she resolved yet another mystery, she noticed neither that she had done so, nor the immense public interest such resolutions invariably awoke.
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 3