Those who remained—tea ladies, older or more cautious spectators, assorted pedestrians—were divided in what to do next. Lady Colveden, after some discussion, led the Domestic Detachment back to the pavilion to find out what on earth had been going on in the changing-room; others hurried to that side of the cricket ground bordering the road, or crowded towards the gate, to see what they could of the chase once Crabbe’s coach was out of the way. It was unlikely, some said, that the foremost car, having made—it seemed—a successful escape, would turn round and come back north again rather than lead its pursuers a merry dance around the southern marsh byways: but the unlikely, others pointed out, in Plummergen could not be called unknown.
And then it seemed, from all the noise, the hooting of horns and the screaming of tyres, that the unknown might be about to occur yet again . . .
The Street is wide, more or less straight, and well over half a mile long. If a fugitive car speeds south to warn accomplices still in the area, and passes these accomplices heading north in search of their missing friends, it is not impossible that neatly spun steering wheels will produce convenient U-turns, if sufficiently emphatic warning is hooted as the paths of said vehicles cross.
Which is what happened. The car from the cricket pavilion—a Hillman—speeding to raise the alarm, spotted its complementary Commer van coming the other way, braked, skidded in one of the tightest circles The Street had ever seen, and prepared to follow-the-leader north. The Commer, which had not been expecting anything of the sort to occur, found itself stalled as, responding to the Hillman’s hooted warning, it attempted the same manoeuvre in reverse. The Hillman squeaked past the Commer with no more than half an inch between, hesitated, then carried on northwards as the cars from the cricket ground drew closer.
The Commer’s engine, with a splutter, started, and the van was wrenched the rest of the way round to the south with seconds to spare. The first wave of cricketing cars was now upon it—was braking, and pulling on steering wheels, and trying to get out of the way—was (in part) safely past. But other cars, in the slower second wave, failed to pass in safety. Even as Foxon and Bob, driving in the more cautious third wave, arrived at the scene, a concertina of cars collided one after the other with the Commer, all with their bonnets facing south, to the shock and dismay of those cars which had continued to the south and, hearing the series of crashes from behind, had turned and were heading back north again towards the giant metallic sandwich which had suddenly spread itself all down the eastern side of Plummergen’s Street.
And then the Hillman reappeared from the north, making again for the south because Very Young Crabbe, struggling to complete the turn out of the narrow gateway, had blocked The Street’s northern end . . .
Before Bob and Foxon had finished discharging their top-brass passengers in an attempt to control the chaos, the Hillman was upon them—was braking, pulling on the steering wheel, trying to get out of the way—was about to make it—was panicked by the sudden sight of the cars returning from the south, and swerved noisily into the side of the Commer van at the head of the concertina, though there should have been ample room for it to pass in safety. For Plummergen’s Street, it must be recalled, is unusually wide . . .
Wide enough for Crabbe’s red-and-green coach to lumber safely past the crunch and scream and petrol-smell of mangled metal, because Very Young Crabbe—holding to his overtaking right of way, since the crash was contained to only one side of the road—was slow to take notice of the warnings of his son; and equally slow to apply the brakes, or to pull on the steering wheel. It was not until the coach had gone well past that Jack succeeded in persuading his father to brake, and to turn, and to stop and see what on earth was going on back there, and did they ought to let their passengers disembark to join in . . .
It was a good fight, while it lasted.
chapter
∼ 24 ∼
WHEN THE DUST had settled, Murreystone and Plummergen found themselves, for the first time in over three hundred years, united. To everyone’s astonishment and surprise, they stood intermingled in a menacing circle about the battle-scarred occupants of the Hillman car and the Commer van, with their only feeling towards one another mutual congratulation.
It had been the buckling of the Commer’s rear doors when the Hillman hit it which made Plummergen lose its collective temper. After the series of crashes, once the Hill-men and the Commers were seen to have suffered no serious damage—the speed with which they scrambled from their vehicles and tried to flee was taken as proof positive—attention was directed towards the said vehicles, in case there should be risk of fire or explosion.
Risk of fire, no. But of explosion, more than risk, as Plummergen observed in the back of the van an assortment of household valuables, varying in size, but all portable, and certainly identifiable in the open light of day. The sight did more than suggest that previous suspicion of the unknown vehicles had been justified. Wrathful Plummergen, recognising its own property, fell upon the thieves—and Murreystone, rejoicing in the chance to work off some of its bottled-up spleen, waded in as well.
The strangers were hopelessly outnumbered, though theirs was no quick surrender. The doughty Men of Kent hailed the support of their de-coached colleagues as fists flew and the battle surged up and down The Street. Delphick, Brinton, and the others recognised that, realistically, they could do nothing until tempers had cooled a little, and the strangers had yielded.
Yield, in the end, of course they did. Odds of more than three to one may sound glamorous in regimental memoirs, but in real life means almost certain, bloody defeat. Major-General Sir George knew to an instant when the time had come to call a halt: and called it.
Chief Superintendent Delphick of the Metropolitan Police looked towards Superintendent Brinton of the Kent constabulary. Brinton had his eyes closed and was muttering to himself: Delphick listened to the low-pitched rhythmic outburst and supposed it to be a string of oaths.
“Handcuffs, Potter, and fast,” said Delphick, when it became clear that official etiquette was the least of his friend’s concerns. “And you’d better call an ambulance or two while you’re about it.”
As Potter nodded and hurried off to the police house, Brinton opened his eyes and gazed about him with a disbelieving air. He shook his head and groaned. “Traffic’ll have kittens when they see this little lot . . .” A throat was cleared pointedly at his side. He jumped.
“Want me,” enquired Jack Crabbe, “to slip along for our tow truck, Mr. Brinton? Not that we’re exactly touting for business, me and Dad, but, well, the garage isn’t more than a step up The Street, and . . .”
Brinton took another long look at the crumpled cars and the battered van, at the broken glass and smears of burned rubber on the road, and emitted a faint moan. He closed his eyes again and resumed his muttering. Sir George, who had been conferring quietly with the admiral, sized up the situation at once and hurried over as Delphick was starting to think that the mutters, repeated over and over in a monotone, resembled a mantra rather than an outlet for Brinton’s undoubtedly strong emotion. The chief superintendent felt a chill finger suddenly caress his spine. Of what—of whom—did the word mantra remind him?
“Carry on, Jack—Crabbe.” Sir George included father and son in a quick and knowing glance as he observed Delphick’s attention focus on something other than the immediate problem. “Leave the pair of you to use your judgement—can’t have the place left looking like a scrap metal yard, can we? Sort out the paperwork later,” with a nod in Brinton’s direction. “More important now to clear Her Majesty’s highway—freedom of the road, and so forth.”
Jack nodded, much gratified, then headed north on foot to fetch the tow truck. His father, eyeing the glass and twisted metal on the road, looked back at his waiting coach, and hesitated, brooding on his tyres.
Delphick, having scanned the scene around him and failed to find what—(or rather whom)—he sought, now moved closer to Brinton, ready to utter words
of encouragement.
Potter appeared, and with the aid of Bob and Foxon began handcuffing the six prisoners, to an accompanying chorus of jeers and catcalls from the circle of onlookers. Brinton opened his eyes again and watched as the last lock was snapped shut. His lips still moved in anguished muttering. Delphick strained his ears to make out what he was saying.
He nudged his friend in the ribs to bring him out of his trance. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he told him sternly. “And I fail to see how you can possibly blame all this on—well, on the person you’re obviously blaming—because she isn’t anywhere around, is she? Just take a good look!” For Brinton, as Delphick had suspected, had been chanting “Miss Seeton, where the hell’s Miss Seeton?” as if everything that had just happened was entirely her fault.
Brinton sighed, raising his eyes to heaven. “Why bother looking? I believe you! She isn’t anywhere around—but you know as well as I do she doesn’t need to be. She just sets the ball rolling—prancing about by the sight-screen, scaring the pants off those chummies in the pavilion—then off she skips, all innocence and surprise, waving that damned umbrella.” At this, Delphick tried to speak, but was ignored. “We don’t,” continued the superintendent glumly, “have to know where she’s skipped off to, because it doesn’t matter—the damage is already done . . .”
Above his groan, Very Young Crabbe coughed. “You looking for Miss Seeton, Mr. Brinton? She’s most likely still on the coach, I reckon. No place for a female, such a—”
He leaped several inches in the air at Brinton’s bellow of rage, then melted quickly into the crowd as Delphick, seizing his anguished colleague’s arm, shot him a warning look. The Oracle led the superintendent as far from everyone else as he felt it proper for the nominal boss of the operations to go. “Chris, I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice that barely trembled. “I really didn’t think she’d had anything to do with, er, all this, and I can’t understand—”
Brinton cursed him fluently. Delphick smothered a grin.
“I’ve no doubt you’re right. In which case, why don’t we make the best of a bad job, and leave everything in the capable hands of Potter and the rest, and find out exactly what’s happened—and what Miss Seeton’s had to do with it all? If anything, that is. When I last observed her making for the pavilion, she wasn’t carrying her umbrella, as far as I recall, which surely suggests . . . but such speculation is pointless. There’s only one way to satisfy our curiosity, so come on—the walk will do you good.” And he dragged his friend south past the wide ribbon of metallic wreckage, towards Crabbe’s coach.
The coach was empty.
Delphick, startled, called Miss Seeton’s name more than once without an answer. Very Young Crabbe, who had followed the police officers, stared down the aisle with a scowl. “She was here, sure’s the three of us. She was all hot and bothered on account of that business with the sight-screen, poor old duck. Said she’d only just realised why everyone’d started hollering at her, and did I mind if she took a seat for a spell while she got her breath back to apologise properly—only, well, with ’em all suddenly running and shouting like that she could never’ve got off the bus . . .”
Brinton was all set to groan again when Delphick seized him by the arm, his head cocked to one side. “Chris, listen! Would that, by any chance, be an ambulance heading our way? Ten to one MissEss hopped off home to phone for one when she saw what was going on—they’ve arrived much sooner than I’d have expected from Potter’s call. In which case, she’s either still in her cottage, or on her way back here to see if she can help in any way.” Honesty made him add, after a pause: “I hope.” He shot a glance at his quivering, red-faced friend. “But there’s only one way to find out for certain, so come on.”
Brinton, still in his trance, followed the Oracle as he strode in the direction of Sweetbriars. Delphick, who had been thinking, started to share his thoughts out loud. “Bob is a good man, of course—and so’s Potter—and Foxon, too. I’m sure they wouldn’t let him do a bunk, even if he is a pal of Sir George’s . . .”
Brinton woke up, and stopped dead. “You mean you’re expecting the admiral to do a bunk? I don’t believe it! Why, the man as good as saved the match!”
Delphick raised amused eyebrows. “Not cricket for him to be a burglary mastermind, you mean? I’d have said it was the best possible cover. As far as I understand it, once Dan Eggleden was out of action, the man pretty well volunteered himself into the team—and he put on a regular firework display, remember, to ensure every single house in Plummergen was empty for his pals to loot at their leisure. What’s more, if you think about it, the game isn’t over yet. They’ve got three runs more to make . . .”
Brinton was still spluttering at the chief superintendent’s side when, to an accompaniment of ambulance sirens, they reached Sweetbriars, and found the garden gate open: as was the cottage door at the end of the short front path. Delphick, with a look of I told you so for Brinton, rapped with relieved knuckles on the frame, and called:
“Is anybody home? Miss Seeton, are you there?”
A pause, a startled exclamation, a hasty rustling, and Miss Seeton appeared from the sitting room with a worried expression which faded as she first recognised her visitors, then reappeared as she greeted them and said:
“Oh, dear, is anyone badly hurt? I intended, you know, to return once I had telephoned, but then I—well, as they have safely arrived, one must assume they are now in better hands than mine. The ambulance, I mean.” She blushed and dropped her gaze. “And those poor people in the cars.” She tried to sound more definite. “Of course, you know, they faint so very often—girls, that is, at school—and one is naturally accustomed to incidents of that sort—but general first aid is, I fear, rather beyond me, and far better left to those who are more knowledgeable, although one would have wished, of course . . .”
Her cheeks were pink, and her hands danced in the air as she uttered her disjointed excuses. Delphick eyed her sharply. He said: “You meant to go back, and something distracted you, didn’t it? Something you thought you’d better put down on paper before you forgot it?”
Blushing, guilty, Miss Seeton could not deny it. Delphick said: “I’d like to see what you’ve drawn, if I may.”
Her hands danced all the more. She raised troubled eyes to his. “ . . . not finished . . . dreadful waste of time . . .” murmured Miss Seeton, ashamed. Delphick shook his head.
“Remember, you’re under contract,” he said, and prodded Brinton, a fascinated observer of the scene, with a brisk elbow.
The superintendent yelped, and nodded as Miss Seeton turned her anxious gaze in his direction. “Under contract,” he managed to blurt out, to Delphick’s satisfaction and Miss Seeton’s confusion. She blushed all the more at his words. Had one appeared reluctant to fulfil one’s professional obligation? If, indeed, it was, because there had, after all, been no crime committed, which was when the IdentiKit drawings for which one was retained by the constabulary were required—and therefore no reason to suppose the police would be interested in one’s personal impression—especially when it was so, well, uncomfortable—of one who had, after all, not been long in the village. And, as such, surely deserving of the courtesies normal between host—if one might so consider oneself after seven happy years—and guest.
“Guest,” murmured Miss Seeton, looking more ashamed than ever. Delphick smiled at her, for once misunderstanding.
“Don’t worry about us, Miss Seeton. We can look after ourselves—I’ve no doubt the superintendent here would welcome a cup of tea for his, er, nerves, but I can always fix that for him. If I don’t know by now where everything is in your kitchen . . . We’d both far rather you went back and finished your drawing than bothered yourself with the, er, amenities. Believe me, we won’t feel affronted in the least.”
He nudged Brinton once more, and the superintendent mirrored his colleague’s smile. Miss Seeton, looking startled, found herself smiling back, then dropped her gaze to
her still-dancing hands and blushed again. Conscious of Delphick’s eyes upon her, she blushed even harder; hesitated . . .
And then hurried back to the sitting room.
chapter
∼ 25 ∼
BRINTON WAS ABOUT to follow her, but Delphick caught him by the sleeve. “We’ll make tea, just as I suggested,” he said. “She’ll be glad of a cup if she’s on overdrive, the way it would never surprise me to know she was—didn’t you see how she was all of a twitch? Which means,” said Scotland Yard’s Seeton expert, with authority, “that she’s going to produce something we’ll be very glad to see, once we’ve persuaded her to show it to us . . .”
Brinton, stumping down the little passage to the kitchen in his friend’s wake, rolled his eyes. “She’s already shown us, hasn’t she? Back there, in the road.” He dragged out a chair and collapsed at the table as Delphick tended to kettle and teapot. “A ruddy nightmare, that’s what she’s produced. If you ask me, the only person who’ll be glad of what she’s done’s your garage bloke. Wonders for his business, that’s what she’s done.”
“And—if you insist on blaming Miss Seeton for what’s happened—surely for yours as well, Chris.” Delphick shook his head at the injustice of his friend’s attitude. “Think about it for a moment. Whose recent daily reports, I’d like to know—unless I’ve misunderstood completely—have been full of unsolved burglaries?”
“Umph.” Brinton scowled, rubbing his chin and rereading in his head six weeks’ worth of files. “Yes, well, so that gaggle of chummies Potter’s putting the cuffs on might just be the lot we’ve been looking for—”
“I think I’d bet on it, knowing Miss Seeton.”
“—and then, they might not. In which case, knowing Miss Seeton’s got nothing to do with it. Remember, you’re the one told me back there it wasn’t her fault those cars chased each other’s rear ends up and down the road—”
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14) Page 20