by Heron Carvic
She was a doll.
The September sun sparkled on the glass of the window where she sat, immobile, remote; shone upon her hair, which fell to her shoulders in one slow wave of blended gold. Her eyes, glints of blue from a mountain lake in summer, were veiled by half-closed lids and the heavy sweep of eyelashes, while the subtle flush of a ripening nectarine found rival in her complexion. Her nose was small and straight, her mouth a long-drawn coral bow with the deep indentation of the upper above the full sensuous curve of the lower lip. Molded by an expert, her chin showed the suspicion of a cleft. Her figure was concealed by the leaf green of the dress and the turquoise velvet of the cloak tied with a golden cord about her neck. Secret and still, she held attention though she paid none. She was delicious. She was delight itself, irradiant and irresistible. She was a doll.
Miss Seeton entered the shop.
“Eric,” hissed Mrs. Blaine, “did you see that?”
“See what?” Erica Nuttel turned from the post office grid at which she was buying stamps and looked around the shop.
“That Seeton woman,” said Norah Blaine in an appalled tone. “She bought pins.”
“Something slipped?” suggested Miss Nuttel.
“No, not safety pins. Ordinary pins. It’s too peculiar.”
“Why, Bunny?”
“But, Eric, didn’t you see?” Her friend Mrs. Blaine was impatient. “She bought that doll in the window. Well, naturally I wondered. What could she possibly want a thing like that for? After all, it isn’t as if she’s got any relations—or anyway”—her lips pursed in disapproval—“none that we’ve ever heard of. Except of course old Mrs. Bannet, who was only distant, and a great pity, to my mind, that she ever left her the cottage, godmother or no.” She looked accusingly round the post office and Plummergen’s main general store. “I can’t think why Mr. Stillman wanted to stock that kind of doll in the first place. Much too sophisticated for a small village like this. Too unsuitable. And,” she added, “much too expensive. I thought it was peculiar, but”—her voice dropped, vibrant with outrage—“the pins explain it. It’s too dreadful.”
“Don’t follow.”
“But, Eric, don’t you remember? The other week in Anyone’s.” At the summit of her tall, angular frame Miss Nuttel’s equine head nodded as the implication struck her. It also struck elsewhere: Anyone’s was widely read in the village. Mrs. Flax paused in the middle of an argument with Mrs. Stillman as to whether bananas should be served in, or with, curry. Even an animated discussion at the cheese counter on the new Bulman baby and the fact that he did not look like Jack Bulman but was the image of they-knew-who died away. Norah Blaine’s plump figure trembled with agitation. “That dreadful article on witchcraft and devil worship. It said there that there were places where you can buy dolls with packets of pins all ready to stick in them. And I ask you: for someone like that to buy a doll like that—well, what other explanation could there be?”
In the present climate of public concern the explanation was reasonable; reasonable for two ladies whose main preoccupation was other people’s business and who were untiring in their efforts to explain everybody’s actions to everyone else, the criterion of the explanation being the interest it could excite rather than the truth it might contain. A spate of disquieting articles had been appearing in the newspapers advising the public of a serious increase in black magic and witchcraft. Demonology, they informed their readers, was Gaining Ground. The Black Art, aggravated by drugs, was Becoming a Menace. More and more people were sinking below the surface of conformity to Explore the Depths. The trend, they asserted, was worldwide. UNESCO was anxious about the situation in Germany. Australia was apprehensive about Sydney. In New York the authorities were disturbed to find that the tentacles of Obeha were reaching out from the Negro and Spanish-speaking quarters down through York and First avenues toward Sutton Place. This Terrible Cult, the newspapers warned, was Spreading in Britain. Remote country districts, city centers, suburbs and rural villages, they insisted—none could count on complete immunity from the infection. Even in Plummergen the villagers felt that they were under threat. Only a few miles away a congregation had recently been discovered at a Black Mass and routed at Malebury church in Sussex. There were rumors, although nothing had yet been proved, that there was at least one coven in Kent. But rumors, to spread, must have their mongerers, a duty generously undertaken by Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine. Sharing a house, opposite the garage and in the center of Plummergen’s only street, through the modern plate-glass windows of which they keep an untiring and speculative watch on the local scene, they publish their own interpretations of such trafficking as they espy. Knowing themselves to be faultless, they make it their mission to detect the myriad faults in others, against which they wage incessant tongue. Strict vegetarians, their meatless condition brings them closer in their own estimation to spiritual matters; to the occult. They had seized upon the present witch scare as a challenge to their powers and had begun a spirited spiritual opposition with table rapping, planchette, teacup reading, palmistry and cards. The craze was sweeping through the village, and tables bounced in many cottages. Among the Mastery books in the post office Master Metaphysics in 30 Minutes was a best seller.
In the wider world of commerce, enterprising businessmen had realized the possibilities of the situation. Voodoo supplies, dragon’s blood, bat’s blood, graveyard dust, levitation ointment and wax dolls had become a six-figure industry. It was true, as had been reported in the papers, that at certain shops the dolls could be bought complete with a packet of pins. The doll had to be dressed to resemble the offender and the pins inserted. The operator could then sit back with sublime faith in the happy prospect of the victim suffering pain per pin or even, were the practitioner sufficiently capable, death.
At certain shops? Witchcraft in Kent? No village exempt? The article in Anyone’s and the press warnings flickered through Miss Nuttel’s mind.
“See what you mean, Bunny, but …” A real witch in a tiny village like Plummergen? The evil eye, Satanic rites, orgies. She was impressed. “Bit awful.” She was intrigued. “But when you think …” She thought. “All that happens when that Seeton’s about—murders, burglaries and whatnot …”
“And nothing ever happens to her,” threw in Mrs. Blaine.
“Quite.”
Mrs. Blaine’s enthusiasm mounted. “And then think how she’s got the police bewitched.”
“Don’t like to have to say this, Bunny …” By now most of the shoppers in the post office who had gathered around the two ladies to miss nothing of the stop-press from this latest edition of the Plummergen scandal sheet held their breath as Miss Nuttel prepared to pronounce judgment. “… wouldn’t say it to anybody but you—but you could be right. Explains a lot.”
“And to think,” wailed Norah Blaine, “of its happening here of all places. It’s too dreadful. Somebody ought to do something.”
Mrs. Flax, still holding a banana, waved it in emphasis. “You’re right, dearie, they did an’ all.” This support was not free from bias. Mrs. Flax lays out for the village and the fact that she ministers to a mind deceased gives her a certain status; she is held in some awe. A knowledge of herbal lore and remedies adds to the reputation she enjoys and she has come to be looked upon as the local wise woman, to be consulted first as well as last, with the doctor only as an intermediary. For this foreign newcomer to set herself up for a witch was a right bit o’ cheek and not to be put up with; putting down was what she needed. “I”—she looked at the company slyly—“could tell you a thing or two about things—things better not to mention. What happened to Ted Mulcker’s cow? Broke its back falling in t’ dike yester morning, so they say. Likely tale. And if it broke its back why were it slit up and gutted, with blood all over?” A cow? Yesterday? This was particular; immediate. Interest quickened. And Mother Flax would know. Her son worked for Ted Mulcker. “Aye,” relished Mrs. Flax, “slit up alive and blood all soaking in the ground. That’s
sacrifice, that is, and don’t let none tell you different.” They plied her with questions. Belatedly Mrs. Flax remembered that she was sworn to secrecy. Her son would do her dead to rights if he learned she’d gabbed. She looked virtuous. “There’s nought I can say, I’m sworn. But this I will say. If she—naming no names—done that, there’s no bounds what she might do next. We’re not safe, not none of us. I doubt we could all wake up murdered in our beds and none the wiser.” Her hearers shivered in querulous sympathy. “When all’s said, she’s nought but foreign—from Lunnon or such.”
“Exactly,” denounced Mrs. Blaine. “She’d never have come here in the first place if she hadn’t inherited that cottage. And we don’t know what sort of life she lived in London; in fact we know very little about her, which means there must be something wrong.”
“I don’t see how you can say that,” protested Mrs. Stillman from behind the counter. “I think Miss Seeton’s been wonderful. Look how she’s helped the police—and all of us, for that matter—when there’s been trouble.” The group turned, surprised. Some wavered. Mrs. Stillman’s place was to serve, not to obstruct. Scandal thrives on encouragement, not on opposition.
“Trouble,” echoed Mrs. Blaine. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. And who’s at the bottom of it? Ever since she came here there’s been nothing but trouble—just one thing after another. And,” she concluded, “you notice none of it’s affected her. How do you explain that if there isn’t something odd?” She gave a triumphant glance about her, then her eyes widened and she stared: all turned to follow her regard. Mrs. Blaine’s too busy imagination was rapidly carrying her and her audience from the tingle of fancy into the tangle of fantasy. Before their frightened gaze, at the bottom of the shop’s center display, a smiling group of painted garden gnomes began to leer. Above the gnomes hung a coil of rope. Witches trussed with rope—for ducking; trussed for burning; witches were hanged with rope. The next shelf held a row of pet food: Pussyfoot, The Kitty’s Joy, in tins, each wrapper with its emblem, a black cat. Black cats—the witch’s symbol. A bundle of besoms in a corner caught her eye, caught everyone’s. She held her breath, so did they all, as the twiggy brooms took on a new and evil aspect, their humble duties now recast to sweep, instead of leaves, the sky. Dolls? Pins? Black cats and witches’ brooms? All the paraphernalia of sorcery in their village post office? Had they been misled? Were they, all unsuspecting, at the center of a web? Were vicious practices rehearsed behind closed doors? Did seemingly innocent neighbors only seem so? “We should have guessed before,” Mrs. Blaine declared, “with all that’s been in the papers. Don’t you see? It means there’s a witch—a real one, I mean—living right here amongst us.” The shop seemed colder. A tremor ran through them all. “And it’s no good going to the police; that Seeton woman would only fool them as she always does. What can we do?” She appealed to her hearers.
“Tell ’er to go,” was one suggestion.
“Ask the vicar,” was another.
Miss Nuttel sniffed. “What’s the good of that?”
“We all know she’s got old Arthur Treeves in her pocket,” said Mrs. Blaine. “And his sister’s just as bad. No, we must manage for ourselves.” She had an inspiration. “I know. That man at the Nuscience meeting in Tonbridge the other week—a splendid speaker. He’d be the right person. He was talking about the Devil and made it all too clear. He said we must fight evil wherever we can find it, but to fight it properly we must understand. I remember he said we must rise above ourselves and fight on other planes.”
“Other planets, Bunny,” corrected Miss Nuttel.
Her friend was put out. “Well, I don’t see any difference; it comes to the same thing. But he’s so impressive and good-looking and I think he’s right. He even mentioned witchcraft. It was just after that business at Malebury church—how it was like a bog sucking people down to damnation and was just another symptom of the end of the world. He’s exactly the sort of person who could help us. It’s a lot of money but I feel it would be worth it. I think,” declared Mrs. Blaine, “it’s safer to be safe. Yes, I really think, Eric, we should join.”
Old Miss Wicks was shocked. She had listened in distress to what was being said about that nice Miss Seeton but had been unable to tear herself away, owing to the fascination of the subject. The newspapers made witchcraft seem so real, such a menace, that for the first time she found that she was nervous of being alone in her little house at night. But Nuscience … That was some sort of new fancy religion. What would the vicar say? Indignation made her unfortunate front teeth appear to protrude even more than usual, producing an even more unfortunate effect than usual of sibilance in her speech. Miss Wicks was scandalized.
“Scandalous,” whistled Miss Wicks.
Mrs. Blaine waved this aside. “There’s another Nuscience meeting at Maidstone soon; we must go, Eric.” She addressed everyone. “I think we all should. We—we ought to stand together. Otherwise anything could happen—things like orgies.” Breathless, she turned to the postmaster. “I think I’ll take an extra tin of that tomato, raisin and nut soup.”
Following her leader’s courageous example, Mrs. Flax advanced upon Mrs. Stillman. She slapped her banana on the counter, bursting its skin. “You can keep that. Curry,” she huffed. “Heathenish stuff. I’ll have no truck with it. Give me two Oxo cubes and a couple of packets o’ frozen veg and a tin o’ carrots an’ I’ll make a stew. Healthier”—she looked accusingly at the postmistress, who had stuck up for that foreign witch—“an’ safer.”
Fear of the supernatural would appear to have stimulated the appetite. Having frightened themselves beyond intention, everyone began to order more than her usual quota of groceries, in the hope perhaps that an excess of normality would of itself induce the norm.
Unaware of the whirlpool she had stirred, Miss Seeton was on her way home. Once outside the post office, she could see her cottage at the end of the Street. It gave her, as it always did, a surge of pleasure and of gratitude; pleasure in the unlooked-for ownership of a charming home, gratitude to the memory of her godmother, who had bequeathed it to her. The cottage, although it stands alone in its own small front garden, is neighbored on either side by the short row of houses which faces down the Street, lending to Plummergen the immediate impression of a cul-de-sac. In fact there are two exits: one a narrow lane running beside the brick wall which bounds Miss Seeton’s garden; the other, Marsh Road, is a right-angled turn, invisible at any distance owing to the trees in the bakery garden. Marsh Road leads back north around the marsh to the town of Brettenden and its signpost, labeled RYE, would appear to have been placed there for the sole purpose of fooling the unwary. Marsh Road is a road: it is sufficiently wide for two cars to pass if they are driven with care. The lane is a lane: it is narrow enough to induce care in any lorry driver who wishes to pass through it without a scrape. It is, however, the lane which is the thoroughfare; a small vessel connecting two main arteries; the link between London and Maidstone, through Brettenden and, once it has debouched onto the bridge over the Royal Military Canal, one of the principal routes to Lydd airport and the coast.
The large garden at the back of her cottage would have proved an encumbrance to Miss Seeton had she not inherited, along with the property, her godmother’s arrangement with a local farmhand and his London-born wife. Stan Bloomer looks after the garden in his spare time, grows vegetables and fruit for Miss Seeton, for his family and for sale; he also cares for the chickens in the two hen houses at the bottom of the garden on the same principle. His wife, Martha, comes in two mornings a week to clean, cook and do anything else she deems necessary, for a nominal salary. One thing Miss Seeton had not inherited was the wherewithal to maintain this property. Old Mrs. Bannet had left her all she had, but when death duties and the rising cost of living had taken their toll, the resultant tiny income, even when added to her pension, left Miss Seeton in a precarious financial position.
Miss Seeton had been fortunate—or unfortunate,
according to the point of view—in that her arrival to take up her inheritance and stock of her position had been attended by a blaze of publicity. It has never been determined whether her history of involvement with untoward events is her fate or her fault. To witness a murder in London was a happening for which she could hardly be blamed, but to poke the murderer in the back with her umbrella during his performance in a praiseworthy attempt to correct his manners was an act which laid her open to criticism. It was an act which had brought her to the notice of Scotland Yard. Her experience as a drawing mistress had enabled her to sketch a recognizable portrait of the killer. Superintendent Delphick had found further of her sketches useful since Miss Seeton sometimes and without intention put down on paper her intuitive feelings about a character as well as, or instead of, a likeness. Later the superintendent, with the permission of the assistant commissioner, had employed her on another case. The experiment had proved successful. Miss Seeton did not know, would never understand, the real reason why the police found her to be of use. She knew that artists were often employed when photographs were unobtainable or impracticable. She therefore thought of herself, when she thought of it at all, as an occasional Identi-Kit drawer, not realizing that for an Identi-Kit an artist was not employed. The checks that the police had paid her for sundry drawings had temporarily eased her circumstances and she had felt justified in indulging the extravagance of buying the doll.
Major General Sir George Colveden, Bart., K.C.B., D.S.O., J.P., owing to his unremitting interest and help in all village affairs, had found himself landed involuntarily with the outmoded role of local squire. He and his wife had taken Miss Seeton under their wing during the difficulties that had attended her arrival in Plummergen, since the consequences of the murder in London had followed her to Kent and had succeeded in involving almost the entire village before the case was finally solved.
Miss Seeton, sensible of Sir George’s and Lady Colveden’s kindness, had for some time felt distressed that there was nothing that she had been able to do in return. Only a few days previously she had been invited to tea and had met their married daughter and her little girl. Miss Seeton had found them both charming and had been very touched the next morning when the child, Janie, had called at the cottage with a bunch of flowers that she had picked “for your pictures.” The mother and daughter were returning to London this afternoon after a short visit and a parting present of the doll could hardly be refused and would, Miss Seeton hoped, give pleasure. She shifted the gift-wrapped box under her other arm for comfort.