by Heron Carvic
“Look,” she said, “you don’t understand me, and I’d certainly got you wrong. But, please, try to believe me when I tell you you’re in danger. I know what I’m talking about.” She laughed shortly. “For that matter I’d be in danger myself if they knew that I was here trying to warn you.”
Danger? Miss Seeton began to worry. Though ridiculous, of course, when referring to oneself, other people did get into difficulties—and even, sometimes, into danger; that one knew. “But do you mean that these people would seriously try to kill you? It seems so—forgive me—so very extreme.”
“Nothing’s extreme where money’s involved. They’d try.” She looked down at the empty hands that lay upturned in her lap and shivered. “I’d never’ve thought I’d mind. I believed that I’d died four years ago in hospital.”
Miss Seeton sighed. One did wish that people wouldn’t talk in riddles. She moved to take one of the girl’s cold hands. “Please, Mrs. Paynel, if it’s as you say, wouldn’t it be wiser to speak to Superintendent Delphick? You’ll find him such an understanding man and I know that he’ll do everything he can to help.”
Merilee looked around the room. This place, this funny little character, Sir George and Lady C… . Nigel. Unconsciously she spoke the last word aloud. She stood. “What odds?” She picked up her cloak and put it on. “As you failed to say: you can’t go back.”
Miss Seeton rose quickly. “Oh, but—I didn’t mean … Or, rather, that is to say, if I had, I wouldn’t have. I suppose, what I really feel is that it wouldn’t help, because then one would only be back where one was before. But not in that sense. In the sense of going back, that is to say. One has to—or so I should imagine—always go forward. And anything that has happened in the past: wouldn’t that—I don’t know—give one a better sense of values and help one, perhaps, make it easier, in some ways, to manage one’s life, to understand the future? Like history. Only, of course, that never does, because people don’t. Understand, I mean.” Miss Seeton, who had never in her life learned from experience and never would, and whose history was bespattered with incidents the majority of which were due to just such a failure in understanding of the past, was understandably doubtful whether she had made herself clear. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I’m talking far too much. And not very helpful, I’m afraid.”
Merilee looked at her with affection. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ll talk to your superintendent in the morning. And as to the other—I’m having lunch with Nigel. Who knows? We’ll see.” She walked to the passage. “Now come along and bolt the front door behind me.”
Miss Seeton returned to the sitting room, sat down at the desk and tilted the lampshade to study the painting. It was, as she had half known it would be, a seated portrait of sorrow. It looked, she was forced to acknowledge, so very like Mrs. Paynel when she had sat on the arm of the chair, her hands lying in her lap. But why, she wondered, had she got the colors wrong? Mrs. Paynel’s dress was of misted grays and pink and the cloak was a golden velvet. Here the dress was green and the cloak turquoise. There was something curiously familiar about it but she couldn’t place it. Was it some painting of a Madonna, some pietà that she had seen at some time and copied quite unconsciously? No such picture came to mind. And yet the familiarity still nagged her. The red-gold hair, the green dress, the turquoise cloak … No. She couldn’t place it.
Still smiling from her encounter with Miss Seeton, Merilee Paynel shut the front garden gate behind her with a squeak and turned right to cross to the George and Dragon. From the shadow of a bush which overgrew the fence two men stepped forward to confront her.
“Keeping strange company, aren’t you?” suggested Duke.
chapter
~15~
Nigel Colveden was engaged in a heated if one-sided argument: she couldn’t, she wouldn’t have stood him up; and anyway she’d said she never broke engagements. The landlord of the George and Dragon countered with caution. Young ladies in these days were just as apt to stay out all night as young gentlemen; and that Mrs. Paynel hadn’t returned last night was none of his business. Her things were still in her room and she wouldn’t thank him for letting the cat out of the bag that she’d spent a night on the tiles. He’d have helped young Mr. Nigel if he could, but he wasn’t going to let himself in for libel, defamation or any of that.
Delphick came in for lunch and Nigel appealed to him: Mrs. Paynel was missing, would the police …? The superintendent too felt that Mrs. Paynel’s cutting of a lunch date was hardly his affair. On the other hand, her whereabouts, in view of his suspicions of her, were. He questioned the proprietor. Faced with authority, the landlord was cooperative. No, Mrs. Paynel hadn’t returned last night and her bed hadn’t been slept in. No, she’d said nothing about being away, in fact her car was still in the garage. Mrs. Paynel certainly wasn’t in when he’d locked up and gone to bed at midnight, but she had a key and was free to come in any time.
Nigel protested: but she’d been back well before twelve. She’d had a headache and they’d come back early and he’d dropped her at the door. She must, he insisted, have gone into the pub. Delphick pondered. It seemed odd. Where would she have gone at night without a car? To the best of his knowledge she knew no one in the village. He asked Nigel. No, he didn’t think she’d met anybody except himself and his parents—and of course Miss Seeton. Miss Seeton? Nigel explained that Miss Seeton had been at the Hall the previous evening before they set out for the dance. Miss Seeton? Delphick reflected. It was Mrs. Paynel who’d seen the first drawing of the church. Had she reported it to someone in Nuscience? He glanced across at Sweetbriars. He could see no reason … It seemed unlikely. Better check. He crossed the Street. Nigel followed.
Miss Seeton, interrupted at lunch, did her best after her own fashion to be helpful. Why, yes, Mrs. Paynel had called on her last night. Had Mrs. Paynel spoken of the church? Miss Seeton glanced at Nigel in embarrassment and then admitted: yes, actually she had. In fact she had said that she had been at the meeting there, which seemed, Miss Seeton added hurriedly, so very unlike her somehow. Had Mrs. Paynel given a reason for her visit?
“Danger,” replied Miss Seeton.
Delphick was sharp. “Danger to whom?”
“Well, she did speak of some danger to me, which, as I pointed out, was nonsense. But she did also speak of danger to herself.” Miss Seeton stopped, astonished. “But, Superintendent, haven’t you seen her yet? She was going to tell you all about it.”
“About what?”
“Well, she did mention that she would be in some danger herself if she warned me.”
“Of what?” persisted Delphick.
But here Miss Seeton could not help him, since of what she had been warned she was not sure.
“What else did she say?”
Miss Seeton temporized. She was uncertain how much of what had been said Mrs. Paynel would prefer kept confidential. She remembered the question “If you’ve been all kinds of a fool can you go back?” Which implied, one imagined, that at some time Mrs. Paynel had, perhaps, behaved a little foolishly and had since regretted it. In any case, in front of Nigel, it would be dreadfully wrong to repeat anything that might cause misunderstanding. “Well,” she said at last, “Mrs. Paynel spoke of money being involved. Which was why, she said, it would be dangerous.”
Nigel’s mounting temper could no longer be restrained. This was rubbish. She must have misunderstood completely. To suggest that Merilee was a witch and would have gone to that crazy service …
Delphick cut him short. “Be quiet, Mr. Colveden. We need the truth, whether you like it or not, if we’re to get anywhere. Go on,” he encouraged her.
Miss Seeton looked hunted. Her glance strayed round the room seeking inspiration, lingered on her desk, then shifted guiltily as she remembered last night’s painting. She couldn’t—definitely she couldn’t. And certainly not with Nigel there. It would be most unfair. “It really would be better if Mrs. Paynel spoke to you herself.”
Delphick’s mouth was set. “I think we’ll have to take it that she can’t.” How was it that this funny little cuss always seemed to be a jump ahead of everybody without even trying? She was stalling. Why? Because the boy was here? And that conscious-stricken look at her desk meant another sketch, of that he was certain. Maybe that could explain things if she wouldn’t. “Come along,” he admonished her, “you’re hiding something. Which could indeed be dangerous, both for you and for Mrs. Paynel. And any drawing”—he regarded her accusingly—“is now police property.” He smiled. “Remember, you’re under contract.”
With reluctance Miss Seeton rose, moved to the desk, collected the watercolor and handed it to Delphick. “I don’t think it can help you, Superintendent; it’s so—so different from what I had intended.”
Nigel joined them. “But that’s the doll,” he exclaimed. He stopped. It was also Merilee. A Merilee he hadn’t known. But her. Memory pictured the doll as he had last seen it on the altar and the sick feeling he had experienced then returned.
Delphick had been shown the mutilated doll at police headquarters. The doll? “So different from what I had intended?” And Mrs. Paynel had admitted being at the church. He went to the telephone. Brinton was in and agreed to divert the nearest patrol car to Iverhurst church immediately. Delphick rang Bob: to bring the car at once. Nigel ran from the cottage.
Merilee Paynel lay, as had the doll, upon the altar. The golden cloak hung in shadowed folds: over it trailed, still shimmering in destruction, the ball dress, slit from neck to hem. Incongruously the left leg bore a green snakeskin garter. The gashed throat with its congealed bloodfall, the mutilated body with the inverted cross scored into the flesh across the abdomen and up to the sternum—nothing could take from her an earned serenity, the dignity of lasting peace.
Dr. Knight, standby for the county pathologist, who was on holiday, straightened from his examination and Chief Inspector Brinton, who had beaten an ambulance to the church by a short wheel, made his first comment.
“All right, so it’s ritual stuff again.”
“You think so, Chris? Certainly we’re meant to.” Delphick moved away to leave matters to the scenes-of-crimes officers.
“What else?” asked Brinton.
Dr. Knight closed his bag and with Sergeant Ranger followed Brinton and Delphick down the aisle. Despite their professional immunity, four very angry men. An altercation started up outside. Recognizing Nigel’s voice, Delphick snapped:
“For God’s sake keep that boy out of here.”
Bob sprinted ahead. Nigel was struggling with the two uniformed men from the patrol car which had been first on the scene. Bob ran up to them.
“All right, let him go.”
“Is she …?” gasped Nigel. He gulped and tried again. “Is she …?”
“Please, Mr. Colveden, there’s nothing you can do here. If you’ll just go home, we’ll get in touch as soon as possible.”
“What the hell d’you mean, you’ll get in touch?” Nigel swerved and darted forward. Bob put out a foot and, as Nigel fell, brought the side of his hand down with exact precision behind the boy’s left ear. Gently he laid him on his back. Dr. Knight joined them, knelt and checked the pulse, lifted one eyelid, then opened his bag.
“Coat sleeve,” he ordered. Bob eased off Nigel’s jacket and rolled up a shirt sleeve. The doctor swabbed, inserted the needle of a hypodermic and pressed the plunger home. “That’ll hold him till tomorrow morning. The ambulance can drop him off at his home, since they’re not needed; get him to bed and tell his parents that I’ll be along to explain.”
Above them the superintendent spoke. “You did the best you could, sergeant, but your reactions are getting slow.” Bob looked up in surprise, but the Oracle was looking directly at the patrol officers. “You should’ve been able to catch Mr. Colveden when he stumbled and saved him from hitting his head on that gravestone.”
“Don’t agree,” contradicted Dr. Knight. He too looked straight at the uniformed men. “From what I saw, your sergeant saved him from the worst. He grabbed quickly enough but the boy was twisting as he fell. That’s how he hit the back of his head. Don’t think there’ll be any concussion, but gave him a shot in case of delayed shock.”
The car crew appeared stolid. Finally the driver spoke. “Dangerous places, graveyards. Specially all wooded and overgrown like this. Easy enough to trip. Could’ve been nasty but for the sergeant.”
The ambulance got under way, followed by the doctor. Delphick surveyed Nigel’s little red M.G. He appraised his sergeant. No, it wouldn’t do. Bob could wear it on one foot. He asked one of the mobile unit to return it to Rytham Hall. The Ashford murder squad were left in charge at the church to see what they could find and Brinton, telling his own driver to follow, got in the back with Delphick, leaving Bob to drive.
“Only one garter?” ruminated Brinton. “Could that mean fetish business?”
Delphick was somber. “No, there would only have been the one.”
“How come?”
“You should study your subject, Chris. The snakeskin garter’s the ancient badge of a witch’s rank.”
“Well,” asked Brinton again, “if not ritual, what else?”
“Silence,” replied Delphick. “She was going to talk to me.”
“How d’you know?”
“Miss Seeton.” Brinton flinched. Delphick relayed his conversation with her.
“She know any more?”
The superintendent shrugged. “I don’t think so. She very properly, but unfortunately, told Mrs. Paynel to speak to me.”
“So now,” reflected Brinton, “they’ll go after the Brolly.”
“They’re bound to. They don’t know how much Mrs. Paynel told her. But with the girl dead, Miss Seeton’s report of such a conversation could stand up as evidence. And a sworn statement from Miss Seeton herself wouldn’t help us, because she doesn’t know anything.”
Brinton snorted. “And even if you gave it out she’d made one, it wouldn’t help her, because, as all chummies know, sworn statements have a way of backfiring in court under a good defense. So all right,” he concluded, “I’ll put a guard on her round the clock, though with manpower as it is I’ll have to invent the men. And,” he added bitterly, “we’ll be under pressure from now on. No more hope of keeping things quiet; this killing’ll fairly stir it up. There’ll be a real hoohah.”
chapter
~16~
Important news must not be kept from the nation. Murder is important. An attractive happening had taken place. It had attracted the newspapers, the television crews and the sentimental general public, ever ready to be appalled by horror provided that it is horrible enough. The setting of Mrs. Paynel’s death paraded all the features dear to the public’s sympathetic heart. A beautiful girl, naked, decoratively mutilated, with overtones of rape and undertones of sorcery; with true romance in death suggested by the sacrifice upon the altar of a church. Coach tours had been hastily rerouted. After a duty call at Iverhurst, armed with scissors and with knives to cut or hack mementos from the church, a commercial enterprise unsportingly foiled by the police, these modern pilgrims had converged on Plummergen. They besieged the George and Dragon, where the victim had been staying and where she had last been seen alive. Learning of the dance at Maidstone, they had called to offer their condolences at Rytham Hall, but Sir George and Lady Colveden had kept Nigel incommunicado, had padlocked the gates and were using a side entrance with a key. For two whole days the locals basked in reflected glory. They told their stories—“The Brolly in the Belfry” was popular—they appeared in print, on television screens, they pointed to the constable on duty outside Miss Seeton’s cottage: could it be house arrest? One enterprising photographer had secured a picture of the crown of Miss Seeton’s hat by standing on the roof of his car and shooting over the wall as she knelt weeding in her garden. Then the pressure was relieved by the wife of a well-known Member of Parliament who sued her husband for divorce, citing his nep
hew as correspondent. This true romance in life suggesting the likelihood of a test case in law had proved irresistible and Plummergen was once more left to its own devices. Somehow these devices lacked their usual zest. The villagers did their best, took sides: they vilified Miss Seeton and each other; aspersions were cast on the police, on Nigel Colveden; dark things were hinted. But the casts produced no rise; hints were but hints; the essential leadership was lacking. Where were the Nuts?
Below Iverhurst church some two hundred expectant disciples of Nuscience awaited with complacency the end of the world; the extermination of their relatives and friends. Meanwhile they prepared themselves to sow the seed of a new civilization, either on this planet or on another, according to their whim or their proficiency in breathing and transportation. The vast main cellar had been discreetly curtained into three partitions: female dormitory, male dormitory and communal living space. Here the devotees, for the most part, sat, practiced their breathing and conversed; did crossword puzzles, played games; they read, or they dreamed; enduring discomfort, iron rations and the unsanitary arrangements below the crypt, cushioned by the recognition of their paramount importance in the world to come. The lower cave, which led to the tunnels and the exits, was forbidden territory. It was reserved for the hierarchy. Here, it was understood, the Master, attended by his acolytes, Trumpeters and Majordomes, expended his time in prayer. The Majordomes patrolled the upper cellar in rotation, keeping order, encouraging the fearful, settling squabbles, including a sharp disagreement on a question of protocol among Mrs. Trenthorne, Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine.
After the hoohah that the chief inspector had predicted, Delphick and Brinton in the latter’s office assessed the position. They knew no more in regard to Mrs. Paynel’s murder than they had done at the start. Her parents-in-law had traveled from Gloucester, had formally identified the body and had arranged for her to be buried beside their son. The police inquiries were at a standstill. Everyone closely connected with Nuscience had disappeared and they could get no news of them. In Brinton’s view the Nuscientists had scarpered and the police’d just have to wait till they turned up somewhere else. Anyway there was nothing to say that Nuscience was mixed up in it; more like the witch lot from the look of it.