Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6)

by Hampton Charles

  “Run into Miss Seeton recently?”

  “Anne and I met her in the street just last Sunday, as a matter of fact. She’d been to church. We chatted for a few minutes.” Bob looked embarrassed. “Sorry, sir, I forgot to tell you she sent her regards.”

  “How kind. While Chief Inspector Brinton’s sitting there in Ashford having kittens about her. Had you any idea that Rytham Hall boasts a couple of the finest William Morris rooms in England?”

  “Can’t say I had.” Bob Ranger had learned to live with The Oracle’s habit of changing the subject without warning.

  “Well, we both know now, don’t we? It seems that Vogue or some similar glossy magazine—no, actually it was Mode he mentioned—is preparing a very elaborate feature involving some fancy new collection of clothes. They’ve hired old Benbow at vast expense to do the photography and he’s turning the whole thing into a terrific production, to be shot inside and outside Rytham Hall. By kind permission of Sir George and Lady Colveden, and no doubt by special arrangement with money.”

  “Sorry to be dim, sir, but why should that bother Mr. Brinton?”

  “Several reasons. Item: a collection of Lalique jewelry said to be worth millions is being put together with the collaboration of museums in Lisbon and Paris, and brought over on loan to make the frocks look even posher. One of the most reputable private security companies in the country has been hired to keep an eye on these baubles, but Sir George thought there’d be no harm in giving the chief constable a ring to put him in the picture.” Delphick paused, scratched his head, and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling before going on.

  “Item: at Benbow’s instigation what amounts to a national beauty contest was staged to find a model with what he deemed to be the right face—and figure, presumably—to go with the clothes and the Lalique trinkets. The lucky girl is the hitherto unknown Marigold Naseby, now famous to readers of the tabloid press even though she hasn’t done anything yet, and destined—for a few months until the next Face of the Century appears on the scene—to command astronomical fees. Thus, it seems an enormous amount of publicity has been generated. The fact that Rytham Hall is to be the setting for Benbow’s pics has not been announced, but following his chat with Sir George it has occurred to Mr. Brinton’s chief constable that anybody who has the least interest in finding out could do so easily. It has further struck him that the better class of jewel thief might see the project as a challenge.”

  “I can see how he might, sir.”

  “Great minds indeed think alike. So although responsibility for safekeeping of the goodies rests with the Securicor people or whomever, I’m sure you’ll understand why the CC’s meditations have given Mr. Brinton pause for thought, too. And why Mr. Brinton’s unease is heightened by the fact that all this hoopla is due to be staged in the near future within easy walking distance of Miss Emily D. Seeton’s modest residence.”

  “He’s afraid she’ll get involved somehow.”

  “You catch on fast, Bob.” Delphick’s smile de-barbed the remark. “He’s not only afraid she will; he’s jolly sure she will. And who are we to make light of his premonitions?”

  Miss Seeton was simultaneously the subject of conversation in another larger and more opulently furnished office in Scotland Yard: that occupied by Sir Hubert Everleigh, the assistant commissioner (Crime). With him was dapper Roland Fenn, deputy assistant commissioner in charge of Special Branch, with whom Sir Hubert was sporadically at war and was currently arguing, but on this occasion comparatively mildly. “I still can’t for the life of me imagine why you’re so insistent on keeping Delphick in the dark over this. If Miss Seeton has a line manager in this place, he’s it.”

  Fenn laid a finger alongside his nose. “The need to know, Hubert, the need to know. I keep pointing this out to you. Besides, it’s absurd to use the expression ‘line manager’ in connection with Miss Seeton. She gets an annual retainer as an occasional, what, consultant, I suppose.”

  “Artist. That’s what she thinks her job is, and that’s how she should be referred to.”

  “All right, then, artist. And admittedly Delphick more or less recruited her.”

  “He did indeed. And I might point out that you more than once expressed the view that he was off his head, until you found out for yourself how useful she can be.”

  “Granted. But nevertheless, she’s not a member of Delphick’s staff, and I repeat, he doesn’t know. That’s the whole point. And come to think of it, I’m not altogether convinced you need to know.”

  Sir Hubert bristled. “Now look here, I’m well aware that you Special Branch fellows seem to think you can do as you like and go about hugging secrets to your bosoms, but remember who pays your salary, Mister Fenn. And bear in mind that there are a few of us in this building who happen to be senior to you. And have at least as many well-placed cronies in the Home Office as you do.”

  The AC knew it was not in Fenn’s nature to apologize, but the way the younger man was scrutinizing his beautifully manicured fingernails suggested a certain discomfiture, so he harrumphed briefly and then adopted a more friendly manner. “Right, yes. Must get on. She’s accepted the invitation, then. Good.”

  “Yes. Practically everybody who gets one does, of course; thrilled to bits, but I was glad when I heard. On the other hand one mustn’t expect too much of the good lady. One of my chaps can easily enough steer her in Wormelow Tump’s direction and get a conversation going. Even, with a bit of luck, contrive some sort of an incident to ensure that Tump makes more of an impression on her than the other strangers she’ll meet. But it’s a bit much to hope he’ll trigger off one of her extraordinary psychological insights in the space of a few minutes at most.”

  Sir Hubert nodded soberly enough. “Yes. And on reflection I realize you’re right that she mustn’t be told a thing, not even that we want to know what she makes of his state of mind.” He sighed. “Your friends in Curzon Street do seem to make things unnecessarily complicated, I must say. If MI5 have their doubts about this fellow’s loyalties and think somebody might be putting the squeeze on him, why not do the obvious thing and have a quiet word with him themselves? Get him to resign. Once he does that, no problem, eh?”

  Fenn closed his eyes briefly and put on the long-suffering expression he was so good at. Then, remembering how close he had come to outright insubordination a little earlier, he cleared his throat and relied on blandness instead, throwing in a rare “sir” for good measure.

  “Let me try to make myself clearer, sir. As you know, I have regular liaison meetings with senior staff at MI5, and this problem has been aired several times over the past few months. There’s one chap there—better be nameless, I suppose, but he’s a great one for seeing Reds under every bed. Has a bee in his bonnet about Harold Wilson, too. Funny chap all round, actually; talks about retiring to Tanzania, or is it Tasmania?”

  “What the devil does it matter where the blighter retires to? Do get on.”

  “Sorry. Well, he’s convinced that friend Tump was got at before the war when he was up at Cambridge, like all those others, and that he’s been beavering away for the other side ever since.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard all that before. But doing what, for goodness sake? Telling the Russians there’s woodworm in the coronation chair? Bugging Her Majesty’s Fabergé paperweight? Damn it all, the fellow’s only some sort of glorified warehouseman at Buck House, isn’t he? Takes care of all the useless loot that gets showered on the royals everywhere they go, as I understand it. Ceremonial elephant’s foot umbrella holders, models of the Taj Mahal made of spent matches, that kind of thing. Pity it can’t all go straight to Oxfam, in my opinion.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but it’s not quite like that, Sir Hubert. You mentioned a Fabergé paperweight yourself, and for all we know HM may very well use one. The Royal Collection of Objets de Vertu is literally priceless, although I agree it probably does include some pretty odd bits and pieces. As its custodian, Sir Wormelow Tump is a senio
r courtier in frequent personal contact with members of the royal family. He is also one of the greatest living experts on lacquer, or enamel or something. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if he were to be exposed as, well, not perhaps exactly as a traitor, because I’m sure you’re right in thinking it’s unlikely he could ever have been of any political use to the other side. But splashed all over the papers as the Queen’s spy-in-waiting! The headline writers would have a field day.”

  “That’s precisely the point I’ve been laboring, my dear man! They should simply get rid of the chap right away. Damage limitation. Might still cause a bit of a hoo-hah if he gets found out later on, but not nearly so bad as if he’s still in the job.”

  “Quite so, but only if this particular MI5 man’s right. He’s persuaded one or two other senior people to take his part, but there are others equally sure it’s a lot of nonsense. Heads would most certainly roll if Tump let it be known he was being pressurized to resign and was refusing because he’s innocent. Even interrogating him might upset the applecart. He’s on the touchy side, I gather.”

  “So MI5 can’t agree on whether to let sleeping dogs lie or feel his collar, and you volunteered Miss Seeton to provide a diagnosis and make up their minds for them.”

  The Special Branch man had the grace to color slightly. “It does sound ridiculous put like that, but, yes, in a way, except that I haven’t told them. And don’t intend to, unless by some miracle she comes up with something brilliant. What happened is that I was asked if I’d picked up any gossip about Tump from the branch men we have in place in the palace all the time. So I had a discreet word with several of them myself. Most of them have never met him. Among those that have, the general view seems to be that at worst he’s inclined to be snooty. Nothing of any possible use to MI5 emerged. Ultimately the director of MI5 will have to decide what to do, no doubt after having a word with the PM. Miss Seeton might just conceivably help to resolve the squabbling at Curzon Street, though. And even if she doesn’t, well, she’ll have enjoyed her tea and cake in the palace grounds and be none the wiser.”

  “If I know our Miss S., she’ll be none the wiser whatever happens. That woman’s a human lightning conductor: the bit that’s left standing when everything else in sight has collapsed. Well, let’s hope she turns up trumps for you. I’m bound to say that inserting Miss Seeton deliberately into any situation always seems to produce results, if not necessarily the ones intended.”

  “May I be assured, then, that you won’t mention any of this to Delphick . . . sir?”

  “Oh, very well. Not beforehand, anyway. You must jolly well keep me posted, though. Agreed?”

  “Naturally. Perhaps you’d excuse me now.”

  Sir Hubert nodded and Fenn got up to go. As he reached the door the assistant commissioner voiced an afterthought. “Satisfy my curiosity over one small matter, would you? How did you organize the invitation?”

  Fenn smiled his private smile. “Simplicity itself. We’re shown the invitation lists for these occasions as a matter of routine, and this isn’t the first time we’ve suggested one or two additions. Why, would you and Lady Everleigh like to go sometime?”

  Sir Hubert’s response was straight from the deep freeze. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Fenn, but my wife and I do not require your assistance. We have been privileged to be Her Majesty’s guests before. On a number of occasions. And don’t push your luck, laddie.”

  chapter

  ~3~

  SIR SEBASTIAN Prothero took a shortcut through Carnaby Street, glancing now and then with tolerant amusement at a youngster in particularly absurd clothes. He actually stopped short to study one young man whose flowing locks were secured by a headband and who was wearing tight pink plush trousers that flared out further down, a fringed sash that looked suspiciously like an old tablecloth, and a brocade waistcoat but no shirt. Prothero’s amusement was, however, soon tinged with regrets evoked by the realization that at thirty-seven he was probably old enough to be the father of most of the people around him. Indeed, on further reflection it occurred to him it was perfectly possible he was the father of one or two of them; that among these teenagers in their union jack underwear and maxiskirts there might be a bearer of the Prothero genes. He shuddered delicately, and turned his mind to other, much less depressing concerns.

  In fact, it was he who cut the oddest figure in Carnaby Street that morning, being turned out in a style much more appropriate to Pall Mall, half a mile to the southeast. He was wearing a Gieves and Hawkes suit, whose makers had also supplied his socks. His gleaming shoes were by Lobb of St. James’s, and the made-to-measure shirt setting off the tie of his former Guards regiment so beautifully had come from Turnbull and Asser. Sir Sebastian had a perfect right to wear the tie. He had not, after all, been cashiered following that unfortunate sequence of events seven or eight years earlier; it had merely been suggested—strongly suggested—that he would be wise to resign his commission.

  At the time he had felt distinctly hard done by. After all, it was hardly his fault that the adjutant’s seventeen-year-old daughter Fiona had fallen for him, had a glass or two of champagne too many at the regimental ball, and made that silly exhibition of herself; just rotten luck that the child knew perfectly well Sebastian was having an enjoyable affair with her mother at the time and passed on the information to the great number of people within fascinated earshot during the time it took the purple-faced adjutant to hustle her off the premises.

  Anybody involved in a distracting situation like that could be forgiven for getting his cash-flow arrangements in a bit of a muddle, surely? It was only a few checks that subsequently bounced: but from the way Colonel Henry had gone on during that memorable half hour you’d have thought he’d tried to blow up the Bank of England. Prothero still thought it very stuffy on Henry’s part to have insisted that he should go, but did take his point that the adjutant was an excellent marksman who might well be looking forward to the next time the battalion went out on a field training exercise.

  In the event everything had turned out for the best. His own father, the fifth baronet, had died a few months later after falling off his horse while riding with the North Herefordshire hunt near Bromyard, and that had helped a lot. The old boy left a fair few debts of his own, but what might well have been a bleak outlook for a disgraced ex-Captain Prothero looked very different to the newly-styled Sir Sebastian.

  One or two none-too-scrupulous entrepreneurs were alert to the advantages from a PR point of view of putting the name of a titled “director” on their letterheads and were prepared to pay a couple of thousand a year for the privilege. Then the Mondial Club acquired a gambling license and opened its leather-padded doors to well-heeled gamblers, and Prothero made the acquaintance of Reg Cobb, who was its real owner but shunned the limelight. Reg sized the presentable young baronet up in no time and soon offered him drinks and dinners on the house in return for his mere presence there for a few hours three or four evenings a week.

  For Reg frequently described himself, a trifle floridly and with an engaging disregard for the mixed metaphor, as a rough diamond who had been schooled in the great university of life. In order to obtain the club’s gambling license he had persuaded a few respectable and mostly decrepit old buffers to join the board of directors, but was well aware that he needed a first-rate front man. Within a matter of weeks he recognized that Sir Sebastian Prothero was that man. Prothero had no doubts either, then or later.

  Handsome, suave, and exquisitely turned out, he was witty and affable with the male clientele, charming and courteous with the ladies. He had learned the hard way the importance of discretion, and when one or two of the latter indicated they might not be averse to getting to know him better, he followed up their hints with increasingly elegant savoir faire. The platinum cuff links from Asprey’s which he was wearing that day were an early gift from a grateful American lady, and for the slender Patek Philippe watch on his wrist he was indebted to the no-longer-bored wife
of a racehorse owner who was seldom at home.

  Thanks largely to Prothero—as Reg Cobb was smart enough to acknowledge—the Club Mondial rapidly became much more than a resort for wealthy gamblers: it turned into a nightclub—the place to be seen, and consequently a happy hunting ground for gossip writers. Prothero accepted the substantial salary Reg Cobb now paid him as no more than his due, but it suited him to cultivate his image as a cross between a gigolo and a PR man long after he had acquired a taste for more exacting and interesting activities.

  The traumatic experience of being booted out of the Guards was the making of Sir Sebastian Prothero. He discovered in himself hitherto unsuspected intellectual resources, and the capacity for detached thought. Ensconced in the Club Mondial, he realized that while he could reasonably hope to continue to make a comfortable living from his looks and style until he was well into his forties, the time would inevitably come when this option would no longer be open to him. It was therefore advisable to consider possible alternatives.

  Marriage was one. There were plenty of women about who would fall over themselves for the chance to become Lady Prothero, needless to say. The snag was that the rich ones were usually in that happy state because they had rich husbands, and would cease to be so were they to divorce. And the unmarried ones were largely on the make, like himself. Prothero wouldn’t have minded taking on a daughter of the aristocracy, but unfortunately people in those circles had long memories and knew too much about his past to find him acceptable. He lost no sleep over this: marriage would cramp his style anyway, and hamper his other, confidential career: a career embarked on more or less accidentally but which was now shaping up splendidly.

  It had all started when one of the gossip writers who had begun to frequent the club put it bluntly to Prothero that he was in a position to pay good money for whatever newsworthy tidbits of scandal he might be disposed to pass on. “Your own anonymity absolutely guaranteed, dear boy. We journalists have our code, you know. Protect our sources. Only interested in exclusives, needless to say. Cutthroat business, this is.” Prothero had already come to the conclusion that most of the people he met were stupider than he was, and charitably pointed out that if the hack wanted to work out who was sleeping with whom he had only to use his eyes and ears and a bit of imagination for half an hour on any given evening at the club.