Wendy was still producing occasional lurching sobs when Miss Seeton joined her on the sofa, but managed a timid smile even so.
“I ’spect you think I’m bonkers, too, like Nige does.”
“Good gracious, no! My dear girl, I’ve been concerned about you ever since I saw you at the gallery in London. Now do tell me, why should the thought of your Uncle George upset you so much?”
“He’s not really her uncle at all, you see, Mr. Ranger. And nor is the other man, whose name is Alfie, any kind of cousin, it seems. They may or may not be related to the telephone man, but I’m not entirely clear about that.”
Bob Ranger removed the receiver from his ear and gazed at it for a moment uncomprehendingly before replacing it. “The telephone man, Miss Seeton?”
“Yes. Or possibly the Slicer.”
“The Slicer. What sort of slicer would that be? A bacon slicer?”
“No, not that kind of slicer; a person. A friend of the telephone man. He was very disappointed in his wife, and with good reason, I gather. But not, of course, enough to justify his disgraceful behavior.”
Bob Ranger was sitting in the study of Dr. Wright’s large house, to which the doctor’s private nursing home and clinic were annexed. Since becoming engaged to Anne, he was always warmly welcomed by all three Wrights as an overnight guest, most of all by his fiancée. Anne was indeed at that moment perched on Bob’s lap, but had tactfully stopped nibbling at his right earlobe when she realized who was on the other end of the line.
“I see. That is, I’m afraid I don’t understand. I think I’d better pop along to your house, Miss Seeton.” He looked at his watch: it was just after eleven-fifteen. “Unless it’s too late for you?”
“A very kind thought, but I’m afraid if you were to come now, it would upset Miss Naseby all over again, just when she’s settled down nicely. She would assume you were the Slicer, you see.”
“Ah. Well, I wouldn’t want her to think that.”
“Dear me, no. I ventured to telephone simply to let you know she’s here with me, and quite safe, but I do think it would be helpful if you could possibly spare a few minutes in the morning. Poor child, when it all began to come out it was so like the story of Susanna and the Elders, just as I had imagined. I’m sure that by breakfast time I shall have persuaded her to tell you all about it. And if necessary I shall speak to Mr. Benbow myself. Quite firmly. There must be no nonsense about his engaging the services of a different model.”
“Absolutely not, Miss Seeton,” said Bob, utterly lost.
“I’m afraid that before I persuaded him to leave us together, Nigel Colveden confused the issue a great deal, trying to convince her it was Mr. Treeves who had frightened her.”
“The vicar? Why on earth should he want to frighten Marigold Naseby?”
“I really couldn’t say. He’s very well-meaning and of course hopelessly infatuated with her.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Seeton, but I find that very hard to believe. He’s certainly well-meaning—one more or less takes that for granted in a vicar—but—”
“Not the vicar, Mr. Ranger, Nigel.” A lengthy silence followed before Bob came to a decision and spoke again.
“I see. Yes. Well, it’s extremely good of you to report all this, Miss Seeton, and I’ll be glad to drop in first thing in the morning to have a word with the young lady, if that’ll suit you. Eight o’clock too early? Fine. Good night, then.”
As he put the receiver down, Anne gazed up at him. “I love you when you go all cross-eyed like that,” she said, and then busied herself with his ear again.
Just over three hours later, some thirty miles away in Sussex Sir Sebastian Prothero slithered noiselessly out of the kitchen window at Melbury Manor and gestured airily toward the darkened house, slipped the knapsack off his shoulders, and swung it casually in his hand as he made his way back to his car.
It had been a doddle, and to think he’d nearly decided to let it go, to save himself for the Rytham Hall job! No, there’s a tide in the affairs of men, he vaguely remembered somebody or other pointing out in one of his school textbooks, and when you realize it’s coming your way the thing is to get out the old water wings, lie back, and enjoy it. A gift from the gods, pure and simple—old Carfax the property tycoon coming into the Club Mondial that evening with his glamorous new wife.
Fancy blithering on like that! About having planned to go down to Sussex but having to stay in town for the rest of the week because the resident housekeeper who took care of Melbury Manor had been in dock having her varicose veins sorted out. And now she and her husband, the butler/handyman, were off in Runcorn, or some such ghastly place, staying with their married daughter. And obviously Sandra could hardly be expected to . . . well, old Carfax was right about that at least. The new Mrs. Carfax was obviously good at things not associated with housework, and judging by the way she’d been giving him sidelong glances, wouldn’t, within a few months, mind demonstrating her skills to Sir Sebastian.
Be that as it may, there were the Carfaxes tucked up in Claridges Hotel in London and their resident Sussex servitors ditto in Runcorn. While he, Sebastian Prothero, was tooling back to London with his knapsack. This now contained not only his surgical rubber gloves, the white cotton ones he wore over them, and the simple kit of tools experience had led him to put together, but also a pair of rather nice miniatures in ornate silver frames, an elegant little ormolu clock, and a very nice diamond bracelet Sandra had foolishly left in the drawer of her bedside table. If the clock had been just a shade bigger, Prothero would have left it behind, for portability was one of his main criteria of selection. It was a pretty thing, though, and he might even take the risk of hanging on to it for himself.
Ah, good, there was a twenty-four-hour Esso station just ahead. Setting off on the spur of the moment full of adrenaline like that, he hadn’t thought to check the gas gauge until after the job was over. As he was getting back into the car after filling the tank and paying, it occurred to him that there wasn’t much point in returning to London anyway. He was still much too elated to sleep. It was already Wednesday and he’d always intended to go down to Kent then, to have a last-minute look around before the big effort. Why not go straight across country, enjoy the dawning of another fine summer day? Why not?
When Prothero drove out of the filling station, he headed not for London but more or less due east, on a course that would take him through Tunbridge Wells and then in the direction of Canterbury. He thought Canterbury would be a good place to put up: in the general vicinity of Plummergen but far enough away to avoid the likelihood of accidental encounters with anybody involved in the Cedric Benbow circus. Full of tourists at this time of the year, too: excellent cover. He always kept an overnight bag in his car—and had often been glad of it while greeting the morning in a succession of new lady friends’ bathrooms—and a selection of clean clothes, so that would be no problem.
Sir Sebastian never claimed to be musical, but he hummed a snatch of “This Is My Lucky Day” to himself. A spot of ultra-early breakfast first to settle his stomach, at some all-night transport café where his unshaven face, dark sweater, slacks, and rubber-soled canvas shoes would arouse no curiosity: that would be the thing. Then find a lay-by in a quiet country road and stretch out in the car for a bit of ziz before running his battery-powered shaver over his face.
After that, change out of his working clothes and into something suitable for Canterbury and off we go. Via Plummergen, maybe! What a marvelous piece of cheek it would be to find a public telephone box on the outskirts of the village itself from which to ring Marigold Naseby at the George and Dragon! A morning call, just to make sure she was still properly cowed and ready to do her bit on Thursday as instructed. Yes, that would be an elegantly audacious thing to do.
Meantime, it might be wise to put some more miles between him and Melbury Manor. The adrenaline still coursing through his body, Prothero slipped from third into top gear, and twiddled the dial of the car radi
o to see if he could find some music to match his elated mood.
chapter
~12~
WHEN BOB Ranger arrived at Sweetbriars punctually at eight the following morning, it was to find a council of war already in session round the kitchen table, with Martha Bloomer in the capacity of supplies officer refilling coffee cups and urging more toast on the participants. These comprised not only Miss Seeton and a Marigold Naseby who looked simultaneously bewildered and relieved, but also Cedric Benbow, natty in white linen trousers and a garment resembling a sailor’s blouse except that it was pale blue. The ensemble gave him a delicately nautical air. At the head of the table was Sir George Colveden, the picture of ruddy good humor.
“Ah, there you are, Ranger! Well done; take a pew,” Sir George said genially. There was no possible doubt who was in charge. “Introductions in order, what? Miss Seeton’s already explained who you are, of course. Miss Naseby, allow me to present Detective Sergeant Ranger of Scotland Yard. Miss Marigold Naseby. Benbow old boy, this is Bob Ranger. Mr. Cedric Benbow, the distinguished photographer. He’s very sportingly offered to show me round his studio sometime.” He lowered his voice. “My son, Nigel, was here, but the boy was dithering. Embarrassing Miss Naseby and getting in everybody’s way. Sent him over to the George and Dragon to tell the others they don’t need to get up to the Hall before o-nine thirty hours after all. Spot of coffee? I’m sure the good Mrs. Bloomer here . . .” He went even redder in the face and subsided, belatedly remembering where he was. Bob nodded greeting to Benbow and Wendy, and Miss Seeton was enabled to get a word in.
“Have you breakfasted, Mr. Ranger?”
“Thank you, yes. A cup of coffee would be very welcome, though. Thanks, Mrs. Bloomer. No, no toast, thanks.”
“I fear that events have somewhat overtaken us, Mr. Ranger.”
“My fault, Sergeant,” Benbow put in. “I was up and about very early and decided to try to catch the light. Rang the pub to get people up to the house right away. Ten minutes later my chap rang back to say they couldn’t find Marigold. Nigel Colveden took the call.”
Sir George had recovered his self-possession. “Blithering idiot didn’t know what to do for the best. I was up and about by then, giving the dogs their Chummy Chunks, you know—they prefer me to do it. Experienced interrogator, soon got it out of the lad that the gel, I beg your pardon, m’dear, Miss Naseby, was here at Miss Seeton’s—”
“And Mr. Benbow telephoned me,” Miss Seeton gently but firmly interjected. “He and I are very old acquaintances, you see, and in view of what Miss Naseby had told me last night I was very pleased to have an opportunity for a private word with him. It would have been difficult to fit it in later, because Lady Colveden is very kindly coming for me at nine-thirty, so that we can both have our hair done in Brettenden. For the garden party, you know. At Buckingham Palace.”
“Confoundedly awkward it’s today, Ranger. Needed here really, but there you are. Hire car coming to fetch the three of us at noon. Got to allow a good couple of hours to get there, plus time for the mems to pop into that hotel at Victoria Station to titivate themselves.”
Bob felt himself going down for the third time and realized that stern measures were called for. He cleared his throat noisily and then took a deep breath, which had the effect of making him look even more huge and reduced everybody momentarily to silence. He then smiled encouragingly at Wendy. “And what, Miss Naseby, did you tell Miss Seeton last night?”
The tapping on the car window was gentle but insistent, and it annoyed Prothero as he struggled up through the mists of sleep. Then, still only half-awake, he remembered where he was. On the edge of Plummergen, in a lane that seemed to lead nowhere in particular and had, in the small hours, struck him as an ideal place to park for the snooze he very definitely needed after the huge fry-up he had eaten in the all-night transport café. The realization jolted him into full consciousness and made him sit bolt upright in the seat he had tipped back for greater comfort.
For a moment he thought he must still be asleep and dreaming, then devoutly wished he was. For the tapping at the window was the work of the mad old bat who had assaulted him near Rytham Hall and who had very nearly caught his eye outside the Szabo Gallery. Now she was nodding and beaming at him in the friendliest way, and miming the action of drinking a cup of tea. Briefly tempted to start the engine and make an unceremonious getaway, Prothero thought better of it. That would more than likely do more harm than good. Better try to bluff his way out of trouble again. With a sinking feeling he wound the window down.
“I expect you dropped off after listening to the dawn chorus,” Miss Seeton said. “I do hope I’m not disturbing you, but I saw your car from my bedroom window, you see, and recognized it. So since it’s nearly nine o’clock, I thought I’d come and ask you if you would care for a cup of tea or coffee. The others have all just gone off to Rytham Hall, and there’s lots left. Of coffee, that is, though it would be no trouble to make you some tea if you would prefer it. I know you won’t mind if I go on getting ready, but Lady Colveden is very kindly coming for me in half an hour. She insists that we must look our best for Buckingham Palace, you see.”
Prothero thought quickly. Crazy she undoubtedly was, going on about Buckingham Palace, but nevertheless her references to Rytham Hall and Lady Colveden were worrying. And she had been at the gallery, after all. Better go along with her and find out just what the connection was. Ought not to be difficult, the way she went on about herself. With an effort he turned on the charm and got out of the car.
“How very kind of you. I do apologize for my appearance. My clothes, I mean, and not having shaved.”
“Not at all. I can well imagine that enthusiastic birdwatchers must be up at all hours. What a coincidence that you should have parked your car so near my cottage.”
“No, I didn’t even begin to make any sense of it all until much later, sir. It was like the Mad Hatter’s tea party there. The girl had obviously reached the point where she was only too ready to spill the beans, but Sir George kept warning her off. Muttering ‘no names, no pack drill, m’dear’ and winking in the direction of Miss Seeton’s cleaning lady. Between them they were sending me up the wall.”
“I can well imagine it,” Delphick said, heaving with suppressed mirth at the other end of the line as he visualized the scene. “But you say you began to make sense of it later. Tell me more.”
“Yes, sir. Well, before I got there it seems Miss Seeton and Cedric Benbow had already persuaded the girl not to quit, and to go to Rytham Hall for the day’s session as planned. So since we obviously weren’t getting anywhere round Miss Seeton’s kitchen table, I suggested we should adjourn. It was quite a cavalcade. Nigel Colveden was very put out when Benbow insisted Marigold Naseby should ride with him in Sir George’s car rather than in Nigel’s MG. Nigel got stuck with me.”
“If it was that little two-seater of his, I’m surprised it wasn’t you who got stuck, Bob.”
“Mm. Was the dickens of a squeeze, I must admit, and it wasn’t as if I got anything useful out of him. He kept raving about the vicar for some reason. Miss S. must have been glad to see the back of us. By the way, sir, did you know she’s at a garden party at Buckingham Palace this afternoon?”
“Miss Seeton? Good heavens. No, I had no idea. Her Majesty’s advisers must be out of their minds.”
“With Sir George and Lady Colveden. Quite frankly, sir, it’s a great relief to have them out of the way for the rest of the day. Miss Seeton went off with Lady C. to have her hair done, but the general was very much in charge at the Hall for another couple of hours until he had to go upstairs and get into his morning suit. Up till then he’d been prowling about with the Securicor man in tow, going on about booby traps and perimeter tripwires. Not much I could do: he’s a JP and it is his house, after all. Sir, I think all the Colvedens are probably mad.”
“No, no. Perfectly normal upper-class behavior, I’d say. Meantime Benbow was snapping away cheerfully
enough, was he?”
“Yes. It’s astonishing, he and Sir George seem to be getting along together famously. And Marigold Naseby had cheered up a lot, so everything was moving along according to plan, except that I was left twiddling my thumbs, still completely in the dark. Until a hire car turned up just before twelve noon and Sir George and Lady Colveden pushed off in it to pick up Miss S. and go to London. The moment they disappeared down the drive, Cedric Benbow sent his assistant to find me, then called a break, and took me for a walk in the grounds. Sorry to take so long explaining all this, sir.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m all ears.”
“So was I. All that flouncing around and darling this and darling that’s just for show, sir. Basically, Benbow’s a very straightforward chap, sharp as a tack. Explained the situation in plain English in about six sentences. The girl’s being blackmailed. Before she made her name by winning the competition she was just a small-time, more or less amateur model. She posed for a set of pin-up pictures that were never used, but the villain’s got hold of them somehow. His price for not selling them to one of the sleazy papers is that she should nick some of the Lalique jewelry for him.”
“How? I thought it was supposed to be under guard night and day.”
“He’s got it all worked out. Marigold’s the only person who could possibly arrange to be alone with any of it, by pretending to be taken short while she’s wearing it, and rushing to the bathroom. There she’s to chuck it out of the window into his waiting hands, and stagger out a few minutes later white-faced with a tale of a masked man lurking inside and relieving her of it at the point of a knife.”
“Good grief, nobody would believe a tale like that for a second, Bob!”
“Of course not, sir. She’d be nabbed on sus right away and eventually done as an accessory, but she doesn’t realize that. The blackmailer does, of course. He’s not a nice man. He’s quite ruthlessly planning to throw her to the wolves. It wouldn’t matter a hoot to him what she said after being arrested, because she hasn’t the faintest idea who he is. I’m looking forward to getting my hands on him,” Bob added thoughtfully, and Delphick involuntarily shuddered.
Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6) Page 10