Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3)

by Heron Carvic

  Mrs. Trenthorne looked about her. No Majordomes were present to comfort, to organize, advise. They must be attending on the Master, occupied in prayer, and of course, as a Trumpeter, Basil would be with them. A Serene too should be at the Master’s side now that crisis was upon them. Since she alone of all this gathering was a Serene, her title—and the payment of five thousand pounds—entitled her, she felt, to pray in company with the hierarchy.

  She moved to the far end of the chamber, wavered momentarily before invading the forbidden territory; then, rallying herself, determined, she turned the handle of the door.

  The second chamber was empty. Where was the Master? Where the Majordomes? And where was Basil? At the far end a part of the stone wall was swung back, revealing a dark opening. She advanced upon it. Unfastening her handbag, she took out the flashlight they had all been advised to carry in case the lamps should fail. The beam showed her a narrow tunnel sloping downward. There was no question—none—no, none whatever, that the Master had deserted them. No. It was simply that she had misunderstood exactly where the Master’s private quarters were. They must be farther down this passage. This second chamber would be only for the Majordomes—a kind of officers’ mess—and quite unfit for the Master’s meditations. Naturally they would be with him in his sanctum. Basil too. She would join them there. A mother’s place should be at her son’s side. She would join her prayers with theirs and assure the Master of her complete belief in his omniscience. And reassure herself.

  In her progress down the passage Mrs. Trenthorne noted that the air was growing colder. She stopped when she came to the right-hand turn that led to the Downs, unsure which way to go, then … she switched off her flashlight. She’d been right. Straight on, ahead of her, faintly, a light was showing. She listened. There was an echo of movement, more felt than heard. She switched on the flashlight again. Now that she was certain of her route she hurried. The light in front was brighter; soon she could see two men, each carrying a flashlight in one hand, with the other gripping by its handles, and straining under the weight, a … a coffin? No. Now she recognized it. It was the box of valuables from the cave. Her money and her jewels were in that box. Appalled, she shouted:

  “Stop.” Furiously she repeated, “Stop, thieves.” The rear man dropped the box and swung about. For an instant she saw his face—a stranger. She ran forward, screaming, “Thieves. Stop, thieves.”

  The beam from his flashlight was on her face, blinding her. There was an explosion. She halted in surprise, took a hesitant step, then pitched forward at his feet.

  “You fool,” flared N. “That’ll be heard as far as the cave. They’ll probably come after her, investigating.”

  “I had to crease her,” snapped Duke. “She’d seen our faces.”

  “Why a gun? Just bash her brains in.”

  “We’re nearly there. We’ll be well clear before anybody’d get here. It doesn’t matter.”

  But it did. Intent on argument and deafened by the report in a confined space, neither man had heard the pattering as earth and stones began to fall. The tunnel had not been built to withstand gun blast; moreover, it was old, in ill repair. The pattering crescendoed; the ceiling of the tunnel shuddered, cracked, the cracks widening and lengthening until a whole section of the roof smashed down on them.

  The Customs officers, using night glasses, had picked up a boat stationed near the beach. They came in to inspect it. It proved to be a small motor launch with a shallow draft, and with the tide now on the ebb the depth of the water where it was anchored was little more than knee high. It was, they decided, a charter job, though what brought them to this conclusion Bob Ranger was unable to fathom. They tied alongside, boarded the launch and, as a precautionary measure, immobilized the engine. While they were thus engaged the sergeant waded ashore and was sitting on a boulder putting on his socks and shoes when faintly he heard cries followed by a muffled explosion. A few moments later there was a rumbling, then a thud, of which he could feel the vibration. By this time the Customs men had joined him. The three of them listened for any further indication, trying to gauge the point from which the noises had come. They judged that the last sounds that they had heard had been caused by an earth subsidence. The Water Guards clambered close in to the rock face underneath the overhanging scrub, stood back to back and held their flashlight beams steady in either direction, telling Bob to keep a lookout for dust. They waited; their patience was rewarded. A small, then a larger, cloud of dust billowed from among the rocks. They had found the entrance to the cave. Owing to the dust, breathing inside the cave was difficult, sight almost impossible, so a reconnaissance from above was determined upon until the air should clear. One officer stood guard at the cave’s mouth, the other, with Bob, clambered straight up, forcing a way through the stunted bushes until they reached the top. They trekked inland, sweeping their lights in a wide swath until they came to the wound in the earth where the tunnel roof had collapsed. They started cautious excavations and almost immediately uncovered Duke’s body. The man was dead: both back and neck were broken; a pistol was still clenched in a rigid hand. A voice appealed for help. They clawed at the ground and unearthed the end of a box; its gilt handle glittered in the flashlight beams. The box was heavy, long, like the plastic coffin of a child, and it took them time to pull it clear. Behind it N. moved. Bob lay down and caught him under the armpits to lift him free. N. screamed. One arm hung useless and some ribs were broken where the box had been driven into his side. Widening the gap, they gently eased him out and laid him by his dead companion. They were about to inspect his injuries when a sound between a snort and a moan arrested them. It came from a little farther on, beyond where the ground had fallen. Bob climbed down and saw the tunnel in front of him, only the bottom of it blocked by debris. He excavated, hand-shoveling the loose earth behind him until the way was clear. In the passage lay a woman. Despite the dust he recognized her: the one the Colveden family called Aunt Bray. At first sight she appeared to be unharmed, until he saw the hole in her coat above the left breast through which a trickle of blood was seeping. He knelt down to examine her. Revived by the light, she sat up suddenly, staring at him. In full voice she rasped:

  “Thief. Thieves, all of you. My money … my jewels—”

  She hiccuped; stopped, surprised. Surprise and indignation remained frozen on her face as she went limp. Bob felt for a pulse: there was none. Aunt Bray had brayed her last.

  chapter

  ~20~

  The fire was beating the beaters. The line had straggled as in twos and threes they were forced back across the churchyard. Foxon, with Sir George belaboring on one side and the Reverend Mr. Treeves patting his ineffectual best on the other, still held his place. They were helped by the fact that in front of them there was a break in the undergrowth as though a path had been cut into the wood, which prevented the fire from outflanking and surrounding them in their immediate vicinity. Looking up from his labors, Foxon stopped, incredulous. He blinked his watering, heat-seared eyes. Had there been …? No, just a trick of the … Nothing; no one could … There was—dear God, there was—movement ahead. He leaped around.

  “Water,” he yelled. “Water here, quick.”

  The nearest fireman caught the appeal, passed the word, misdirected his hose to where the detective constable was pointing, hit Foxon in the back and sent him sprawling, then raised his aim, and the only three other hoses left still spouting water joined with him to allow a steady curtain of rain to fall around the spot where the path from the wood emerged.

  An infection of excitement rippled through the spectators. What were on? What did Sid Noakes want to go knocking that feller down with his hose for? This weren’t no time for skylarking. What did they all want to put their water over there for? Little enough they’d got as ’t was. T’ old church she’d burn down now for sure. Something were up. Everyone, even the begrimed men slaving to control the fire’s advance, paused to watch and wonder at this new development. The church
roof, as though jealous of this sudden diversion of attention, ceased smoldering and began to blaze in earnest. To the enthrallment of the beholders, through the dripping veil which fell from the firemen’s triumphal arch, indistinct, then clearcut in the orange glare, appeared Miss Seeton and her cavorting crew. The church roof, admitting defeat, dramatically enhanced its rival’s entrance by collapsing in thunder and a shower of sparks.

  The soaked Foxon scrambled to his feet. For a second he stared, still disbelieving: this was his charge, a charge on which he’d fallen down—asleep; this was the one that he’d been ordered to protect, the one who, gamely trying, had ended by protecting—saving—both herself and him; this was the one … A surge of relief, exultancy, carried him forward. He gathered her up.

  “You—” He could find no more words. “You, you—” he burbled.

  Avidly the villagers drank in the scene. Well, they’d always said, and now ’t were proved, ’t were witch’s work. No one but ’er could do a thing like that, come walkin’ through a fire with all ’er friends. And what’d they been up to in the first place all naked and shameless and prancing about? Just like t’ Bible ’t were or a fillum, poppin’ in and out of fiery furnaces cool as cucumbers and no ’arm done. As Mrs. Flax pronounced, couldn’t be nought but devil’s work. Under the titillation of horrified disapproval they began to feel an upgrowth of civic pride. No other village, no, nor town for that, had got one’d do the things she did. She’d got ’em all bamboozled right enough, police an’ all. Look at that Foxon over t’ Ashford huggin’ ’er an’ throwin’ ’er about. Whatever next?

  Despite Miss Seeton’s protests, Foxon, responsible once again for safe deliverance, carried her with pride to meet his advancing superiors. He set her down in front of Delphick and Brinton and stood back panting and beaming like a puppy which had retrieved its first bird. Delphick’s feelings were mixed. How she had the gall to get him worked into such a lather, until in common sense he’d had to write her off. And then to saunter calmly out of the middle of her own cremation at the head of a gaggle of performing apes. A good hiding was what she needed. Speechless, he compromised with a tight grip on both her hands and, unobservant for once, failed to notice that she winced.

  “Oh, Superintendent”—Miss Seeton was grieved—“and Mr. Brinton too, I am so truly sorry about that young policeman. I’m afraid he was killed. Quite dreadful. And I—I wasn’t very helpful, I’m afraid. It was all so quick. But really there was nothing one could do. I think he got carried away with all the dressing up and playacting. And he would wave that lighted torch about—so dangerous—and set himself alight. If only,” she regretted, “he’d warned me, I would have been firm.”

  “What young policeman?” asked Delphick.

  “The one Mr. Brinton sent to fetch me for the identification. Though”—she eyed the chief inspector with severity—“I think you should have realized that one cannot identify people wearing masks.”

  “He wasn’t a policeman,” exploded Brinton, “and I didn’t send him.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed he was,” Miss Seeton contradicted. “He said so. And he said you had. And besides, he was in uniform. And if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have been.” Unexpectedly she sat down on the grass. Concerned, Delphick dropped to his knees beside her. She looked at him in bewilderment. “I’m so sorry, Superintendent. I think … I think, perhaps, I’m just a little tired.”

  Dr. Knight, kneeling on her other side, examined the blisters on her hands, applied ointment, gauze and bandages.

  “Glad to hear you admit it for once.” He eased off her wet shoes and stockings and treated burns on her legs and feet. He scanned her face. “No trouble there. You were luckier than you deserve.”

  “Oh, no,” explained Miss Seeton, “that was the young man. He wrapped his coat round my arm to protect my face.” She turned to Delphick. “He was most helpful. He’s not really one of these strange people who wear masks. He belongs to that other odd religion.” She looked up at Brinton. “The Maidstone one, I mean. And was only there tonight because—well, not, I fear, from quite the best of motives.” She put a bandaged hand on Delphick’s sleeve. “But he said he’d no idea about a murder. That would be poor Mrs. Paynel, I suppose; he assured me that he wouldn’t stand for it. And without him I really don’t know what we should have done. I could never have managed on my own. Nor did I know the path: he showed it to me.” For a moment she was back in the clearing with the wood ablaze all around her. Her mind blurred. Yes, now she came to think of it, she really must admit that she was tired. And the young man had been brave, because there was no denying he’d been frightened. He could have run away. Her eyes focused on Delphick in appeal. “But he didn’t, you see. When he could have. I think, after all, we should remember that.”

  The set of Delphick’s mouth relented. He grasped her purpose if not the meaning of her words. “We’ll remember,” he promised her.

  Brinton took a mental inventory. Replace: one umbrella, missing; one hat, charred; one coat, one suit—replace the whole caboodle. But worth it. Irregular she might be, but somehow she always seemed to bring it off. He glanced across to where Sir George clung to Miss Seeton’s leading rein, which he had grabbed when her troupe, deprived of their leader, had promptly headed back toward the fire. He stood there dogged and determined while his adopted team gyrated round him and Miss Seeton’s late assistant, with Foxon, tried to sort them out in vain. Brinton eyed the dancers’ exposed and kippered flesh. All right, so she did bring home the bacon—home cured, at that.

  Dr. Knight stood up. “Good. That’ll do. Now you’re off to bed.” He signaled to two stretcher bearers. “Anne can ride back with you to the nursing home, get you to bed and give you something to make you sleep.”

  “I—”

  “No argument. You’re doing as you’re told for once. I’ll have a look at you in the morning.”

  “No.” Lady Colveden had joined them. “You’ll have your hands and your nursing home full enough as it is. Miss Seeton’s coming back with us—Anne can help me get her to bed—and she’ll have two large helpings of porridge, brown sugar and cream; sustaining, good for the digestion and better for sleep than all your pills. And don’t make it too early in the morning; let’s hope she sleeps on. The stretcher can go in the back of the estate wagon, and we’ll get off as soon as I can collect Nigel and if you”—she appealed to the police officers—“can rescue George from acting as a maypole in that striptease show.”

  The ambulance men bore Miss Seeton away and the rest of the group went also, to the relief of Sir George.

  “Oh,” exclaimed Lady Colveden on closer view, “poor wretches, they must be in the most dreadful pain.”

  “Not yet,” replied the doctor, “though unless we get them under sedation and treated soon, they will be.”

  “Doped?” queried Delphick.

  “Not necessarily. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d had a mild dose of LSD to start them off. But from the look of it I’d call this a classic example of self-hypnosis or mass-induced hysteria. They worship the Devil and hellfire, so fire attracts them like moths to flame. They’re impervious to pain and can’t even feel it when their wings are singed.” He moved in among them, took the belt from Sir George and handed it to one of the ambulance attendants who had followed them. “Lead them over there,” he ordered. “And you and the others can hold them still while I give them each a shot to quieten them. How many ambulances are there?”

  “Four, doctor.”

  “See if you can call up more. If not, take ’em in relays. The worst cases’d better go to the Ashford General and we’ll see what can be done.”

  Lady Colveden watched them led away; listened to the words they sang as they gamboled with faltering steps after their new keeper.

  “Up the mountain, up the peak.

  Ups-a-daisy, up the creek.

  Up one, down two, three or so—

  Round and round about we go.”

  “But at
least,” she decided, “they’ll have learned their lesson. They won’t be so silly again.”

  “I doubt that, Lady Colveden.” Delphick’s tone was dry. “The wise increase in wisdom, but folly follows its own guise.”

  “They’re just plain off their chumps, sir,” Foxon volunteered. “All that cuckoo they keep singing—plain cuckoo.”

  “Yes?” Delphick lifted an eyebrow. “It’s one of the traditional chants. Try substituting the original possessive pronouns for the definite and indefinite articles and you may get the gist of it.”

  Foxon frowned and started muttering. Then his face cleared and he laughed. “Oh—I get it, sir,” he enthused. “Pretty filthy, isn’t it. It’s …” He remembered Lady Colveden’s presence. “That’s to say … I mean … yes …” His voice trailed off.

  Delphick sized up Miss Seeton’s helper. “You, I gather, are one of the Nuscience lot?”

  “Er—yes, a Trumpeter.” He wilted at Delphick’s expression and answered the unspoken question. “We’re sort of public relations, arrange all the ads, things like that. Get the foo—the people interested and explain things. Or explain ’em away,” he admitted.

  “Good. Then you should be able to explain a few things to us. Such as exactly what happened in the wood.”

  The young man looked scared. “Honestly, sir, there wasn’t anything to be done. Trenthorne dressed himself up as the Devil, climbed onto the platform followed by the old lady and then his clothes caught fire and it was all over in a second. I don’t know how she got out of it herself.”

  “I see.” Delphick thought. “I do see. It sounds as if our Basil intended Miss Seeton to be the Virgin Sacrifice and the trick backfired on him.”