Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3)

by Heron Carvic

  To the congregation who had come up from the crypt and quietly taken their places on either side of the nave, the effect of Duke’s innovation was truly magical. They sat in their pews under the wavering flare of four tall black candles and stared in fascination as a dim phosphorescence appeared in the sanctuary, while from the center of it the Devil their master grew slowly from the floor. Bewitched by their own credulity, many of them fell forward on their knees in reverence. They watched the phosphorescence die and saw the shadowy presence of their deity turn and mount the altar steps. A flame was kindled and the light from a black candle on the altar threw his figure into silhouette. Tall, dark, the menace of the curved horns towering above the shaggy head, he moved across in majesty.

  Miss Seeton sensed a definite movement on her left. A faint click, a flash of flame and more light grew behind her. She tried to turn her head against the confining hood. With one eye she saw … Good gracious. A gentleman in fancy dress lighting a candle on the altar.

  Opposite the center of the altar, before the brass glitter of the inverted cross, His Satanic Majesty threw up his hands and jerked backward.

  The Ashford Division were chronically short of staff. Foxon had been on late duty three nights in succession. Huddled in his overcoat on his three-and-a-propped-legged stool, his spirit was willing but the flesh had betrayed him. He awoke to find the scene before him changed. Where there had been darkness there was candlelight. Where Miss Seeton had been settled on a stool, a hooded pixie now sat cushioned on the air, while beyond the gnome a goat in a black nightdress appeared to see the elf and to throw up human hands. Was this a dream? The Nuscience meeting and the church combined? Where was he? Above all, where was she? He must protect … His duty lay … He started to his feet. He only started. The propped leg of the stool was unprepared for sudden action and fell forward; so did he and, throwing out his hands to save himself, he clutched the tapestry.

  At his entrance onto the sanctuary stage, the demon king in a dawdling pantomime, Evelyn could feel the grip, knew that he held his audience in a spell. With perfect timing he moved to the high altar, a kingly hand outstretched. A candle blazed, illumining his performance as he crossed to the center—illuminating a parody of human sacrifice. Upon the altar, in miniature, lay the body of a girl: the turquoise cloak widespread, the leaf-green dress slashed down the middle and thrown back to reveal the corpse, marked with an inverted cross in red, the gashed throat allowing the head to loll in an aureole of red-gold hair. The royal progress halted, the goat’s head reared up with a strangled bleat and for the first time on any stage Hilary Evelyn played a scene unscripted, unrehearsed. Hands thrust before him to avert the omen—Macbeth before Banquo’s ghost—he backed in terror down the sanctuary steps, when a sighing sound as old dust-laden material collapsed made him raise shocked eyes. Above him in a golden dust-specked haze floated a cross-legged figure in a pointed hood. His superstitious drink-sodden brain confused his recent researches into mythology and comparative religions with his earlier professional study of the Bard. Pan—Puck? Puck—Pan? They both began with P and both in their different days had broken the sound barrier for speed.

  “Pan,” he cried through the enveloping goat’s mask. “Pan—the great god Pan.” Abject, he bowed his head and struck it on the steps, which made a deep depression in the mask.

  “Pan.” “It’s Pan.” “The god.” “It’s Pan himself.” “It’s Pan.” The congregation took up the cry, some falling forward in obeisance, others, more frightened, starting back.

  Foxon knew from the sounds that they were heavily outnumbered and, horrified at what he had done in leaving Miss Seeton to sit revealed, cudgeled his brains for a way out of their predicament. She had ’em awestruck for the moment—so he stayed behind the pillar. But once they rumbled her there’d be a lynching party; they wouldn’t dare let her escape. He was prepared to sell his life in her defense, but could one man save her against the odds? Frighten them more, he pleaded silently. Say something—anything—magical, he prayed. Anything to get them on the run. His prayer was answered. The hood lifted.

  “Pan ho megas tethnéke,” remarked Miss Seeton. Really, what an extraordinary thing to say. Where had she …? Puzzled, she repeated to herself aloud: “Pan ho megas tethnéke.” Oh, of course. She remembered now. The voice from the East in Pilate’s wife’s dream. So like those word association games one sometimes played in class. She could not now be sure quite what the words meant—Roman, she supposed, or Hebrew—but she did remember that that was what the voice had said. And Pontius Pilate’s wife was most upset by it.

  So were the members of the cult. The godhead, caparisoned on the air, admitted to his name and spoke in a strange tongue.

  Miss Seeton peered into the dimly lit church. A lot of ladies wearing masks. And all the gentlemen in fancy dress—like animals. So this was what they had been waiting for. No, no, Mr. Foxon hadn’t made it clear. Surely it was hardly suitable, and one’s impression, to be quite frank, was that the whole thing seemed—in a church—well, just a little rude. And, of course, sitting here in front of them like this—so embarrassing. Preparatory to standing up, Miss Seeton began to push her feet down off her thighs, which made the coat bulge in small upheavals.

  Behind the assembly a distant rhythm pulsed, vibrating on the senses. The rhythm grew, defined itself as voices singing to a martial beat. Before them the dark vesture of the godhead shifted and ballooned as he made ready to swoop down on them. A woman screamed and ran for the church doors. Great Pan had been invoked and in spite of Miss Seeton’s repeated assurance, in poorly pronounced Greek, “Great Pan is dead,” the ancient god had roused himself in answer to the call and panic now ensued. The woman who had screamed reached the doors, dragged them wide and ran into the dark. The rhythmic chanting became distinct; the words were clear, were coming nearer.

  “… Christian so-oljer-ers,

  Marching as to-o war …”

  Caught between the older tenets and the new, the devil worshipers broke and flight became a rout. They plunged through the doors and headed for the wood. Basil Trenthorne’s trick of sacrificing the doll to keep the Master on his toes had been successful. Holding his black robe well above his knees, his trousered legs high-stepping and all majestic dignity forgotten, His Goathead bounded after his late idolizers.

  “… going on before …”

  The vicar led, Miss Treeves kept pace with him, and behind them Mr. Welsted the draper, acting choirmaster, was followed by the choir in cassocks and surplices. After them straggled clusters of villagers, while Mrs. Blaine, Miss Nuttel and their deputation, now that it came to the point, were prudently backing the vicar from the rear. All mouths were open, voices raised in song; most eyes were lowered to the ground for fear of tripping. Not yet having reached the bend in the path which had floored Foxon, they were approaching the church from the side. A row of windows faced them. The windows …

  “Joe—look, Joe—them’s lights, isn’t they?”

  The whisper ran around. The marchers wavered to a stop; the singing faltered. Thrilled to find the Iverhurst ghosts in residence and feeling that numbers were on their side, the choir sang louder and their elders, finding comfort in the noise, followed their lead.

  “ ‘At the sign of triumph,’ ” they shouted, “ ‘Satan’s legions flee …’ ”

  “Flippin’ heck, look—they flickin’ well do too.”

  The choirboy’s high-pitched excitement silenced them and the villagers stared agape as in the yellow shimmer by the church steps … people? … things? … were visible, moving, running toward the trees, and for one vivid instant they saw a goat, tall, black and in human form, go leaping down the steps in hot pursuit. Some of the bolder spirits made to follow.

  “Halt!” barked Sir George. Couldn’t have untrained troops followin’ the enemy into unknown territory.

  The bolder spirits fell back abashed and not unthankful. Not so the dogs. To the canine mind anything that ran meant games. As
one, the village dogs broke ranks. Those with leashes slipped them or trailed them and, led by old Mother Dawkin’s peke, amid pleas of “Dozey, come back,” and “Down, sir—sit,” in full yap and cry they streamed into the wood.

  The woman’s scream had alerted those in the cave below and the sounds that followed presaged trouble. Leaving the other young man by the winch, James and Ted hurried up through the crypt. They peered cautiously. The body of the church was empty, with four black candles still alight. Edging forward, they saw in the sanctuary, outlined by the flame of a single candle on the altar, an ebon figure in a monk’s cowl. Ted’s scalp prickled. He’d known it: Other Powers. James shone his flashlight. The cowl lifted and Miss Seeton smiled, embarrassed and uncertain. It couldn’t be—he’d bopped her. A ghost. Ted’s stomach had severed its connections and was fluttering free. James, less superstitious and more practical, was listening. The retreating sounds as the village pack went hunting, the voices of the Christian soldiers debating their next move, turned his attention to the open doors. He ran and barred them. He returned, pulled Ted around and shook him.

  “Get her,” he whispered. “Quick. People outside. I’ll wind the platform down and close the crypt. Get back soon as you can.”

  Ted rallied. There’d been some mistake. He slipped the thong of his sap over his wrist. There’d be no mistake this time. Flexing the sap in his hand, he spun about. From the altar still shone the single candle. The dark-cowled figure was gone.

  Foxon, thankful for the enemy’s flight and reassured by the singing outside, had decided it was time to leave when the two figures, creeping from the shadows at the far end near the entrance, gave him pause. The shining of the flashlight upon Miss Seeton and the closing of the doors made up his mind. He grabbed her arm and whisked her through the door in the wall behind him. Using her little flashlight, he looked for a way out. There was none. A small, square stone tower. Before him a huge bell squatted on the floor, another, smaller bell beside it, like mother and child in some grotesquery. Near the smaller bell a ladder stood. He aimed the light upward: the ladder disappeared into a gloom the thin beam could not penetrate. The bell tower. The floor space almost covered by the bells, no room to maneuver, no hiding place. Where could he …? He urged Miss Seeton toward the ladder.

  “Can you get up there?” he breathed.

  To sit in the dark in drafts. Then all those very old people in fancy costumes. And now to climb? “But why, Mr. Foxon?” she asked reasonably. “Surely we’ve seen enough.”

  “Too much,” he answered grimly. “We’d an idea something like this might be going on, but never thought they’d be back. That’s why we wanted you here, in case you got a reaction that’d give us a line to go on.”

  “A reaction?” Miss Seeton was bewildered. “I? But how could I …?”

  “I’ll explain later—there’s no time. Those two in the church’re bound to find us here—and they won’t let us get away with it; they daren’t, they don’t know how much we know. Of all the infernal luck, they pick tonight. The people who were singing outside—” He hurried on as she was about to speak. “I don’t know who they are but it must be a rival lot since it was hymns. They may bust in but we can’t bank on it, and it’s no good our yelling, they won’t hear.” He put his hand on the ladder. “If you could get up there to the top there’ll be a maintenance platform where the bells used to hang and louvers in each wall for the sound. You could lean out and attract attention—it’s the only chance I can see. I’ll stay here and deal with those two but I can’t risk a fight till you’re out of reach.”

  “I don’t know.” Miss Seeton pushed the coat hood back and tried to readjust her hat. “I can’t remember ever being on a ladder.” She hung her handbag upon one arm, her umbrella upon the other, and stepped onto the first rung. She stepped off it, freed her foot from the coat, collected up the material as best she could and tried again.

  Foxon grasped her arm. “Good girl,” he whispered. “And good luck. ’Fraid it’ll have to be in the dark or they’ll see what we’re up to.” He moved away swiftly, switched off the flashlight, dropped it in his pocket and crouched beside the door.

  When Ted came in he came in with a rush, showing for one instant against the light. Foxon jumped him. Ted, who had scoured the sanctuary and found the only other exit bolted on the inside, was prepared for the attack. He twisted as he fell and they grappled in silence. Ted got a hold on Foxon’s hair, found an eye with his thumb and gouged. A lucky blow on Ted’s bruised nose saved Foxon’s sight. Involuntarily Ted, through pain, relaxed his grip and Foxon sprang clear. The spring was his downfall. The side of the big bell gave no foothold and he landed on his head, half stunned. Groping, Ted found his opponent’s face with one hand, raised his sap with the other and brought it down. He stood and produced his flashlight. He cast around him, then, seeing the ladder, he flicked the beam up and there, some twenty feet above him, climbed Miss Seeton. Ramming the flashlight, bulb upward, into his breast pocket, Ted leaped forward and went after her.

  chapter

  ~12~

  Sergeant Ranger was uneasy. During dinner with his prospective in-laws he had learned of the village’s latest frolic, the exorcism service. Dinner over, he had telephoned the Ashford police. Brinton was at home and the inspector in charge could see no reason to disturb him. Either way, he pointed out, no harm could come to Miss Seeton. Foxon would look after her. With the fuss there’d been with finding traces of fires around the Iverhurst graveyard, whoever’d been mucking about there would keep well clear and if she and Foxon did meet up with the village jamboree, what harm? The sergeant had to admit the logic, but then this inspector didn’t know Miss Seeton. She was quite capable of conjuring a nestful of hornets out of one of her very off hats with a single pass of her umbrella. The whole idea was pretty off anyway. Put Miss Seeton in a church at night—Foxon or no Foxon—and it was a dead cert the whole thing would end up bees-over-titifolah. The Oracle should’ve put his foot down from the start.

  Bob took his reluctant leave of Anne at half past eleven and walked back to the George and Dragon. The village struck him as sinister, without sound or light. Outside Sweetbriars he stopped, still worried. On impulse he pushed the gate and walked up to the cottage. The door was open. He gathered himself, snapped on the passage light and charged, swerving into the sitting room and flicking down the switch. He nearly tripped over the body. Aunt Em. He knelt down, gently turned her—and sighed with relief. It was that funny old girl who hissed—what was her name, Miss Hicks?—something like that. Anyway there was a pulse and she was breathing. He took off his overcoat and tucked it around her, crossed the room, snatched the telephone receiver and got Dr. Knight, who said that he would come at once. Bob then rang Ashford and reported; adding that the drawers of the writing desk had been dumped out and there were papers all over the floor. Ashford promised to send a patrol car immediately and finally agreed to divert another car to Iverhurst, just in case.

  Dr. Knight, on arrival, removed his patient’s head scarf and the daisy hat. He examined the scalp. Not, he judged, serious. He’d run her back to the nursing home. He prodded the pompon on the hat. If it hadn’t been for that, he opined, it’d’ve been to the mortuary. Bob lifted Miss Wicks with care. Her eyes opened and she stared at him hazily.

  “You struck me senseless,” she accused.

  While they were stowing Miss Wicks into the car, P.C. Potter, alerted by radio, puttered up on his Velocette. He would stand guard until the squad car came. Accurately guessing what Bob would want to do, Anne had followed her father in her car and was waiting. With a grin of appreciation Bob climbed in and the two of them set off for Iverhurst.

  The ladder jolted, then swayed. Miss Seeton clung. Surely Mr. Foxon should have waited until she had reached the top. With two people on the ladder it was dangerous. And Mr. Foxon was being so … Oh. That was if it was Mr. Foxon. Surely he would have spoken. She tried to look down but found that she could not see directly bene
ath her: only a light coming up and growing brighter. But at least, now that she could, in fact, see, she realized that she was nearly there: the platform Mr. Foxon had spoken of was only just above her. She attempted to reach the next rung; but failed. Try as she would she could not raise her arms. She had climbed up the inside of Mrs. Potter’s coat. Miss Seeton was cross. Oh, dash the thing—this was really quite impossible. She let go with her left hand and fumbled with the button loops, managed to undo them and pulled her right arm free, dislodging her umbrella.