Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3)

by Heron Carvic

  “And,” he concluded, “with a killing to account for, they’ll all’ve taken to their brooms. So all right”—he glowered in frustration—“why brooms, for God’s sake?”

  Delphick grinned. “They didn’t—I told you you should check your facts, Chris. Witches mostly rode on sticks with a phallic symbol at one end. The twig skirt to hide the stick’s indecency was thought up as camouflage during witch hunt times. But I don’t think we’ll find any of them have flown far. My guess is they’ve all gone to ground—literally. And I still maintain Nuscience and the witches are connected.”

  “You’ve nothing that says so except your girl friend’s doodling.”

  “That and fact that we know Mrs. Paynel was at a Nuscience meeting, wore a witch’s garter and later admitted to being with the witches at the church. And although Foxon can’t swear to his attacker, the black plastic ring on the body brings in Nuscience again.”

  Brinton humphed. “What’d they stand to gain by it all?”

  “At least a quarter of a million cash, I should say.” Brinton sat up, incredulous. “Think it out, Chris. We’ve the best part of a couple of hundred people to account for. They’ll have all their portable valuables with them and even if we put it at its lowest, say a thousand pounds a head, a couple of hundred thousand’s a nice stake and it’s more likely four times that. No, I’ll swear they’re around here somewhere.” He leaned forward to pore once again over the maps they had spread upon the desk; maps old and new. With a sigh Brinton returned to comparing distances, calculating, estimating; getting nowhere. “Surely, Chris,” Delphick protested, “there must still be people who know at least where some of the old smugglers’ routes ran.”

  “Don’t doubt it,” returned Brinton. “But the owlers kept their secrets well. Still do, for that. You forget, Oracle, owling was big business round these parts and Romney Marsh the center of it. If the lads couldn’t’ve kept their traps shut there’d’ve been an end to it.”

  “And there hasn’t been?”

  The other shrugged. “All right—from what I hear it still goes on, though half the time these days with human cargo. So what? It’s not my pigeon; let Customary Excuses cope with it.”

  Delphick frowned. It was a thought. He reached for the telephone. It took him nearly an hour to set it up. Customs and Excise finally agreed to have a launch with two Water Guards on day and night patrol to cover the short stretch of coast which Delphick read off from the map. The official reason for their involvement: a tip-off from the police that there was to be an attempt to smuggle currency and jewelry across the Channel. Fortunately there was a small headland where the Guards could lie up by day. By night they would drift in close to keep their watch. Could the superintendent pinpoint the cave he spoke of any nearer? Delphick couldn’t. He explained the circumstances. Could the men on the detail have a talk with this Miss Seeton? Delphick objected: he didn’t want any activity showing in the district; if his birds caught wind of it they might desert the nest. No need, Customs pointed out, to walk the lady over the ground again. If she couldn’t find it, she couldn’t find it. But the boys knew the terrain pretty well and a chat with the lady about where she’d been and what she’d been doing when she fell through on the Downs and came out on the shore might clue them in: the shape of a rock; what kind of scrub was growing; the outline of the dunes when she climbed back. Never knew your luck. Didn’t do to miss a trick. Delphick was forced to agree. It would take Customs a little while to get things organized. High tide was twenty-two, twenty-five. Did the superintendent know Judy’s Gap? He didn’t. Go to Rye, he was told, turn left on the road to Camber, straight on and pull up on the verge a mile beyond Camber. If he’d flash a light signal—one long, two short, one long—with the tide the launch could come right in and the lady would only have a small strip of beach to walk across. It was an isolated spot and they’d be able to keep watch on the coast at the same time. Delphick undertook to produce Miss Seeton there at ten-thirty, he’d get over to Plummergen at once and arrange it; though privately he felt that any little chat with MissEss about her doings to somebody unused to her idiom would only clue them in to Colney Hatch. He rang off and got to his feet. He’d get over to Plummergen at once … Chris might moan about manpower but at least there was this advantage in having put a guard on her: for once he knew exactly where she was and she couldn’t go gallivanting off on her own, getting into mischief.

  In Miss Seeton’s sitting room, after a series of telephone calls around the district, Delphick replaced the receiver. Typical. If you wanted anything kept quiet in this village you’d find even the dogs discussing it at every tree that lined the Street. But need to know something important and nobody knew a thing. Someone must’ve seen the car which called for her. He’d guarantee had Miss Nuttel or Mrs. Blaine been about they’d’ve had the make of the car, its number and the driver’s life history; it’d all be wrong but at least it would be a starting point. Whereas this oaf … He looked at the constable who had been on duty at Sweetbriars.

  “But you saw the car. You saw the driver. He spoke to you. You saw him go up to the door and speak to Miss Seeton. You saw him come back with her and get into the car. You saw them drive off. Surely to God having seen all that you must remember something.”

  The constable shuffled his feet. “Well, sir, I remembers it like, but come to that I didn’t notice overmuch. He were in uniform and said as he were from H.Q. to fetch her. The bloke were youngish like and the car were dark—black ’twould be likely—so I says to meself, all right, while she were gone like, I’d get meself a cuppa.”

  “But you said they went south over the canal. Didn’t even that strike you? It’s not even in the right direction.”

  “Well, sir, like it is and it isn’t. I doubt but you can get t’ Ashford that road—bit long o’ course.”

  Delphick gave it up. Chris had said he’d have to invent the men for this detail. This particular specimen was evidently the product of a tired mind.

  A report came through from Ashford: Potter, Plummergen’s P.C., on his rounds, had wirelessed to headquarters regarding a black Humber driving at a very fast speed on the road across the Downs. He had turned and followed long enough to get the number, a London registration, before being outdistanced. Told of the hunt for a false police car, he thought it a possible. Had taken it to be chauffeur driven, but the police cap would look the same from a distance. Also had the impression of a passenger in the rear. A message had been circulated to all vehicles on patrol, but no news so far. Delphick planned quickly. If they failed to find Miss Seeton in time, could a car be sent to take Sergeant Ranger to Judy’s Gap so that he could explain the situation to the Water Guards? Delphick himself elected to remain in Plummergen. Since the alert for the black Humber had followed immediately on Potter’s message and there was no further advice on the car, it was likely in his view that it had been driven off the road somewhere in the vicinity. Could Potter be ordered back to Plummergen so there’d be somebody on standby with a grain of sense? And if they were shorthanded their end they could have Miss Seeton’s ex-guard back and welcome. Delphick rang off and unfolded a map. The road across the Downs led past the church and through Iverhurst to join in London-Hastings road. Iverhurst? They no longer had a man on duty at the church but with all the publicity it had received it was highly improbable … The car might’ve got through and it seemed logical they’d aim to get her out of the district fast—if she was still alive. Pacing, restless, he came to a halt before the fireplace; found himself staring at the picture above the mantel. A watercolor of a wind-swept moor, a bleak impression of heather and racing clouds. A gray day. Bob, in a flash of inspiration, had once told him that it was Miss Seeton’s portrait of him. The strained lines of Delphick’s mouth relaxed for a moment. Could be Bob’d been right: could be she was right. He felt bleak enough. Gray enough. He blamed himself for ever allowing her to become involved in police work; reproached himself for failing to provide adequate security. Inno
cence didn’t belong in this game and well he knew it. He’d guessed this crew would be ruthless and the killing of Mrs. Paynel had shown they wasted no time. If the Humber was to be found, the patrols were the best bet. Nothing was to be gained by his running round in futile circles. So the superintendent settled himself with what patience he could muster to wait for news. It’d been a clever trick to send a decoy police car to fetch her. Even someone less trusting than Miss Seeton would never have thought to question it.

  Really, wondered Miss Seeton, weren’t they, perhaps, going just a little fast? One had always looked upon the police as such very careful drivers. But then, again, one was inclined to forget that they had to be prepared for emergencies. Which would mean, of course, that they would need to become accustomed. And probably didn’t notice it. Speed, that was. The car careened around a corner and Miss Seeton held on to the strap that hung between the windows beside her to save herself from being thrown across the seat. Certainly the young man did seem to be in a great hurry. Perhaps Mr. Brinton had told him to. Though, of course, to be precise, he had not mentioned the chief inspector by name. He had merely said that he was from police headquarters at Ashford. So that one had presumed … But, in fact, one supposed that he could possibly have been referring to the superintendent. But no—somehow his sudden, unexpected arrival, and the rush, was something that one associated more with Mr. Brinton than with Superintendent Delphick, who was always so very calm and had everything so very well organized. She did wish, she must admit, that he had made it a little more clear quite what it was they wanted her to do. She looked toward the driver; only the shoulders in the uniform jacket and the peaked cap were visible outlined in the faint light from the dashboard. So very young, surely—hardly more than a boy—to be a policeman. Miss Seeton smiled. They always said that as one grew older they always were. He had said that they needed her to identify someone, but he certainly had not explained whom it was they expected her to identify. Or even where. He had mentioned something about a wood. Which seemed, when one thought of it, such a very odd place to choose. But one really didn’t like to ask too many questions. Or, at all events, not at this speed. And on such a winding road. Though, fortunately, there didn’t appear to be much other traffic. Only a policeman in uniform on a sort of motor scooter. Actually he had turned round after them. She had quite thought, for a moment, that he was going to join them. Or, possibly, stop them. But no. He’d only followed them for a moment or two. No doubt he’d recognized the police car.

  The car turned off the road, ran a short distance over uneven ground and pulled up under some trees. The young man jumped out and opened the rear door. By the dome light Miss Seeton saw his face more clearly than she had at the door of her cottage when he called for her. There was something vaguely familiar … But no. She felt sure she’d never seen him before. Unless, of course, she’d noticed him at Ashford police station sometime, without really noticing him, so to speak. How very unfair it was, on consideration, to associate close-set eyes with a shifty or unstable character. People couldn’t help their physical attributes. It was simply prejudice. And, in any case, naturally, he wouldn’t be in the police force if he were.

  The driver touched the peak of his cap.

  “If you’ll follow me, miss,” said Basil Trenthorne.

  chapter

  ~17~

  Miss Seeton followed the light and the blue serge trousers. The young man still appeared to be in a hurry. At least the track was fairly clear, though she was glad of her umbrella to ward off stray brambles that whipped back at her from his passing. It was something of a relief when at length her conductor slowed. Ahead of them a glow showed through the trees: they had come to the edge of a small clearing. He signaled her to stop and switched off his flashlight. Obediently Miss Seeton waited.

  “Hang on where you are for a minute, miss,” he whispered, “while I put on my disguise. Never do to go up there in the uniform.” He sniggered. “Scare the craps out of ’em.” He moved away and was hidden by the dense undergrowth at the side of the track they had followed.

  Up there? Miss Seeton peered round the trunk of a tree. Light was flickering from flambeaux set in rings on stakes driven into the ground. There was a lot of smoke with the wavery flames. Didn’t they use heavy wicks set in tar? Or was it oil? She couldn’t remember. That would account for the smell, which at first she’d taken to be paraffin. But then, of course, paraffin was an oil, in one sense, so, perhaps, that was, after all, what it was. In front of her was a rough square platform. It must be nearly three feet high and at least double that in width, she judged, made of branches which, one supposed, would have been cut from the trees around. She could hear voices and laughter but could see no one, nor could she distinguish words. They must, whoever they were, be on the far side of that sort of platform thing. The whole effect was rather eerie and, if one were fanciful, which, thank heaven, one was not, it would have been easy to imagine a stake rising from the middle of the structure with Joan of Arc lashed to it while the English soldiery caroused.

  Who could they be? And what could they be doing here so late at night? And what had it to do with the police? One did hope that it wasn’t those silly people in masks again. And if it was, how could one possibly be expected to identify anyone? Especially when it was so dim and smoky. No doubt the young man would be back in a moment to explain. One was, of course, naturally, quite sure that, being in the police, he was a most estimable character. But, if one were honest, there was no denying that he did not give one quite the same feeling of confidence as did, for instance, the sergeant. Or even that nice ebullient young Mr. Foxon.

  Basil Trenthorne pulled off his cap and knelt to retrieve the parcel he had concealed beneath a bush earlier that evening. This was it. This was where he’d show them—James and the others, who’d been riding him all afternoon because he wouldn’t chop branches and help to get the stage set up. Little they knew. Who’d tagged the final touches and really set it up after those dumbsters had finished tying the branches in place, fixed the torches and gone back by the Downs entrance to put in an appearance at the cave? The cave. The thought of his mother down there waiting for the end of this world and imagining she’d be at least President of the next made him chuckle. He’d thought once or twice of telling her he knew she was a witch. That’d’ve cut her down to size. Glad he hadn’t. He’d make more out of it this way. He didn’t know how much she’d taken with her to the cellar—she wouldn’t tell him—but he did know she’d drawn plenty from the bank. And all her jewelry. She could kiss that lot good-bye. No more thinking up tricks to get money out of her. Duke and N. had promised him the whole of her cough-in plus a bonus for tonight’s job. He looked at his watch. He’d timed it pretty well but—he lit a cigarette—better give it a few minutes yet. He took a drag. Those who thought smoking pot was off the curve weren’t on the wire; weren’t in view at all. It just put your mind in gear and made you see where you were going. And if that old sock was catching cold waiting for him, let her worry. He’d soon warm her up. Ted’d made a proper rib of putting her off the map. Well, if Ted was burning down there now in hell-fire where she’d sent him, she’d soon be roasting right alongside. He took another pull, blew smoke and laughed. Most of the staff, ’specially old Evelyn, were hopping at being kept hanging about so long. Usually Duke and N. switched the money box, then got out, and the rest scattered three days or so after the gulls were settled in their Secret Nest. But this time, with the busies around testing the church floor and God knows what, they’d been forced to wait. Granted the gang could always slip in and out of the Downs entrance, but Duke’d said not more than two at a time—till today—in case they were noticed. Normally any local bobbies should’ve chucked in before this—even with Duke sticking Merilee on the altar to copy the doll—but a superintendent from the Yard and this wretched old woman were something they hadn’t bargained for. So now Duke insisted on all this witchery in the wood to draw their attention before he’d move. Basil ch
ecked his watch again. ’Bout a minute to go. It was only a mile to the sea through the tunnel but carrying the loot could slow them up a bit. And then they had to get the box on board the boat. Old Evelyn and his lot should be halfway to the Downs exit. Anyway they had to take their timing from him and not start their cars till the fire was showing nicely. It was he who’d have to hurry, which was the only snag about being the one to create the diversion. Once things were properly under way he’d have to run for it, then drive like a bat out of hell to pick up Duke and N. farther down the coast—and pick up his share as well. It had not occurred to Basil Trenthorne that, with his employers’ fondness for money and their propensity for causing accidents, he might be heading, once they were clear, for an accident himself. He threw away his cigarette, shook out a long dark robe from the parcel and slipped it over his head, then picked up the cumbersome goat’s head mask and a flambeau and set off to rejoin Miss Seeton. Hilary Evelyn was taller and broader than Basil: the robe was too long and made him stumble. He hitched it up with the hand that held the torch, unaware that oil was spilling, soaking the cloth.

  Miss Seeton looked at the black-robed figure in surprise. “Good gracious. What …?”

  “I’ll slip the mask on, light the torch and go on up, miss,” he told her quietly. “You follow behind. I’ve put a couple of logs there to act as steps. Then have a good look at the people there and see if you can pick out anyone who was at the church.”