“You’ve told Mr. Brinton in Ashford all this, presumably?”
“Yes, sir, before I rang you. Hope that was the right thing.”
“Of course. You’re down there to help him, not me. I imagine he isn’t too pleased that so many people know about all this.”
“The main problem, sir, is that so many people know about all this,” Chief Inspector Brinton said to his chief constable. “Apart from us and Scotland Yard, I mean.”
“Who does, precisely?”
“Precisely? Rather hard to say, sir. The young woman, of course, though she’s been spared having the implications spelled out to her. The mess she could have found herself in if she’d kept it to herself, I mean. Then there’s Miss Seeton, who persuaded her to open up. Cedric Benbow, and Major General Colveden.”
“Oh, Lord. George Colveden isn’t a man to keep a secret.”
“I’d have to agree with you there, sir. But he’s out of harm’s way at least until tomorrow, when with a bit of luck we shall have chummy in the bag. He and Lady Colveden, plus Miss Seeton, incidentally, are all at the Queen’s garden party this afternoon. Won’t be back until after Benbow’s finished his photography for the day. Miss Seeton will keep mum, I’m sure. And even if she were to let something slip by accident, knowing her, I doubt if anybody would have the vaguest idea what she was talking about.”
“If you say so, Brinton. I may give George Colveden a ring myself this evening, warn him to keep his trap shut. This photographer chap, Benbow. He’s sound, you say?”
“I haven’t spoken to him myself yet, sir, but he seems to have impressed Sergeant Ranger, and I set a lot of store by Ranger’s judgment. He says Benbow’s clear-thinking, decisive, and practical. It seems he sorted the girl out in no time by making it clear that come what may, he has no intention of ditching her from this Lalique job. Ranger’s sure he won’t give the game away.”
“Fair enough. Sounds a decent sort of chap. Now I know you think I’m an interfering old buffer, Brinton—”
“Not at all, sir—”
“Oh, yes, you do, but if you’re going to deny it try a bit harder to sound convincing, would you? Anyway, be that as it may, what I was about to say was this: I can’t believe that covers everybody. Surely there must be all sorts of gossip flying around by now? You know what those village people are like.”
“Gossip, certainly, but most of it well off the mark. Let me give you an example. A Miss Nuttel—you probably won’t know of her, sir, but she and the woman she shares a house with, Mrs. Blaine, been thorns in our side for years, the pair of ’em. Wicked tongues and wild imaginations they have. Well, this Miss Nuttel rang the village copper, P. C. Potter, to report that Nigel Colveden had abducted a young woman and handed her over in a terrible state to Miss Seeton, who is, among a lot of other things according to her, almost certainly a white-slaver who plans to ship the girl off to Buenos Aires.”
“Buenos Aires? What on earth for? There are plenty of white-slave outlets in London. In Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells, too, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Quite, sir. Figure of speech, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“No doubt. Young Colveden must be involved somehow, though. You mentioned him earlier. So presumably he must be another one who’s got to be shut up.”
“Not really necessary, sir. He doesn’t know anything about the pinup photos or the blackmail. He seems to be under the impression that the girl is terrified of her uncle and a cousin or something. He claims she saw the vicar of Plummergen and the headmaster of the village school coming out of the George and Dragon, where she was staying, and mistook them for her relatives. Jumped to the conclusion that they were after her and got into such a state that young Colveden thought he’d better take her to Miss Seeton’s place.”
“Extraordinary sort of mistake to make, surely?”
“In fairness to her it does appear that the blackmailer—who has only ever been in touch with her by phone—did also threaten to hire thugs to beat her up if she didn’t play ball. Nigel Colveden’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick entirely, though.”
“Ha! Not unlike his father. Though I must admit Colveden senior’s a pretty wily old bird when all’s said and done. Well, what do you propose to do about all this, Brinton?”
“Well, to put it at its simplest, set an ambush and nab him, sir. Preferably red-handed. We’re convinced he’s the mystery man Miss Seeton saw snooping around near Rytham Hall some while ago. And thanks to a remarkable likeness she produced—and to some good thinking on the part of P. C. Potter—we’re pretty sure the same chap managed to con his way into the house last week and have a good look round.”
“But you don’t know who he is.”
“Not a clue I’m afraid, sir. Drawn a blank there. Soon find out after we catch him, though.”
Sir Sebastian Prothero registered at the White Swan in Canterbury under the name of his useful acquaintance the gossip columnist. It wasn’t much after eleven-thirty, but he gazed soulfully at the receptionist and she, recognizing the name, decided on the spot that he could have the use of his room at once rather than having to wait until check-in time at two.
The loot from Melbury Manor he’d left locked in the trunk of his car. Both the Automobile Association and the Royal Automobile Club judged the White Swan to be worthy of three stars, though its parking lot was small. So much the better from Prothero’s point of view, because it meant that it was strictly reserved for registered guests only, and jealously watched over by an attendant, whose day Prothero made by giving him a pound.
The stuff would as a result be perfectly safe where it was, particularly since the lock on the trunk was not that originally provided by the manufacturers of the car but an ingenious and expensive replacement claimed by its makers to be burglar-proof. Prothero was a great believer in doing everything possible to protect his possessions, though pleased of course that so few people seemed to be as careful as he.
The bathwater was hot, and he soaked himself in it for a long time, going over and over every aspect of the situation, not wanting to face the fact that he was going to have to do something about Miss Seeton. It was an important part of Prothero’s job to read the popular papers, and it had come as a very nasty shock when she introduced herself to realize that he was tangling with the famous Battling Brolly in person. It had been a hell of an effort to sit there in her cottage, drink her coffee, and make polite conversation with the knowledge that she was well in with the police, no matter how dotty she came across.
It had not been until afterward, on the way to Canterbury, that the possibility of murdering her had occurred to him, to be dismissed at once as being out of the question. He was a master criminal, certainly, but no murderer. A soldier of fortune, a stylish burglar, not a killer. But the insidious idea kept coming back, in subtly different ways. Not a killer? Think again. The former Captain Prothero of the Guards was, like most professional soldiers, a trained killer. And we all have to die sometime. Miss Seeton was elderly. Not at all that many years to go in any case. Above all, she was dangerous, because if she was as smart as the papers claimed, and Scotland Yard thought so much of her, she might have been capable of setting up that little chat on purpose.
Above all, and whether or not she was already on to him, she was in a position to identify him as having been in the vicinity of Rytham Hall in suspicious circumstances the previous week. Just when everything had been going so well, confound it, and he had been in complete command of the situation, with a perfect set-up!
That stupid little Naseby trollop was in a state of gibbering terror and positively eager to follow his instructions to the letter the next day. While Benbow’s people would all be dancing attendance on the ridiculous old queen, needless to say. He could therefore take his time over getting into position in the excellent cover provided by the shrubbery no more than a few yards away, and by the time any sort of hue and cry was raised he, Sir Sebastian Prothero, would be elsewhere. And in any case they would
n’t be looking for him. In time they might be looking for a voice on the phone, perhaps, and the best of British luck to them.
If, and only if, he first disposed of the Seeton woman.
He hauled himself up out of the water and reached for the bath towel. It would have to be done that night.
chapter
~13~
DEPUTY ASSISTANT Commissioner Roland Fenn had not originally planned to go personally to the Queen’s garden party, but in the end simple curiosity got the better of him. As head of the Special Branch he needed no invitation, but it was necessary for him to fit in a quick visit to Moss Bros, in Covent Garden and rent the appropriate clothes; and he had done this during the previous afternoon.
Now, resplendent in morning suit, gray waistcoat, and silvery necktie, a topper perched jauntily on his well groomed head, he strolled down Buckingham Gate in the direction of the Palace, basking in what he took for granted to be the admiring glances of passersby in ordinary clothes. It was, after all, no more than five minutes walk from New Scotland Yard. Each guest invited to a large-scale event such as a garden party was, he knew, provided with a card indicating which of several entrances to the Palace grounds he or she should use. Carrying the sort of credentials he did, Fenn could perfectly well have gone in through the main gates, but prompted by a desire to slip into the action as unobtrusively as possible, he turned into Buckingham Palace Road, crossed it, and made his way along the high boundary wall beyond the Royal Mews to the Grosvenor Place entrance.
There half a dozen or so obvious garden party guests were waiting patiently enough to hand over their admission cards to one of the two uniformed policemen who were scrutinizing each one, while an immensely tall, red-jacketed Coldstream guardsman loftily surveyed the scene from beneath his bearskin.
It was a pleasant sight, Fenn thought to himself. Once more Her Majesty’s soothsayers had managed to arrange marvelous weather: or perhaps they had deliberately recommended a day during Wimbledon fortnight, which was invariably fine. The white-gloved ladies looked very charming in their summery silk dresses. So agreeable to see them all wearing hats, as well, in these all-too-informal times. And all the men, save one, morning-suited like himself. The exception was a very large black bishop in a splendid cassock. Of a hue closer to shocking pink than episcopal purple, it nevertheless suited him admirably, Fenn thought, and then became aware that a problem seemed to have arisen at the gate.
No doubt suitably awed by the occasion, those waiting to get in were much too polite to say anything; but a certain amount of foot-shuffling and a number of disapproving glances accompanied Fenn as he sidled round the group. This was becoming larger as newcomers joined it, while, it appeared, nobody was being admitted. Once he could properly see what was going on inside the gate, the reason for the disturbance was revealed to him in the form of a choleric gentleman accompanied by a lady who was evidently his wife, because she looked both cross and embarrassed and was tugging at his sleeve. The gentleman was for some reason berating one of the policemen on behalf of—yes, it had to be, it could only be Miss Seeton, who was standing meekly by.
There was no time to be lost. Fenn pushed his way through, ignoring the guardsman who took a menacing step forward, and after whispering into the ear of the second policeman, drew him aside. His back to the crowd outside the gate, Fenn quickly showed him his deputy assistant commissioner’s warrant card. The policeman gulped and stiffened to attention. “What the devil’s going on, Constable?” Fenn demanded.
“The gent and his wife are okay, sir. Lady with them, the one with the umbrella, she’s supposed to go in a different gate. Got the wrong card for this one. Gent’s objecting.”
“So I should damn well think. They’re together. I know who the lady is, and I’ll personally vouch for her. Now tell your partner to stop messing about and let the three of them in at once.”
Fenn didn’t want to be identified as their savior by the couple he now knew to be the Colvedens, nor for that matter by Miss Seeton. He recognized her because he had been present in the background in Delphick’s office during one of the occasional visits to Scotland Yard the Oracle asked her to make when he wanted to pump her. They hadn’t been introduced, though, and he thought it most unlikely she would remember him, especially dressed as he was now. He therefore went straight through to the gardens and put a number of other people behind him before glancing back to make sure his instructions had been obeyed.
They had. Sir George, Lady Colveden, and Miss Seeton were in plain view. Sir George still looked a little heated and was gesticulating vigorously to Miss Seeton, but Lady Colveden must already have spotted an acquaintance. She was in conversation with an aged lady the hem of whose dress had become partially detached and whose hat had a distinctly prewar look to it. Splendid. As Fenn watched, Lady Colveden turned and was obviously summoning her husband to heel, while Miss Seeton was equally clearly seizing the opportunity to detach herself from her protector and champion.
Once free she looked about her with what even from a distance Fenn could see was an expression of mild relief. Then she set off along a minor pathway, pausing from time to time to stoop and inspect the herbaceous border. After a suitable interval Fenn wandered in her wake, only too pleased to have an opportunity to study her behavior at leisure. He was also interested to see how long it would take the Special Branch inspector detailed to engineer her meeting with Wormelow Tump to locate and identify her.
“Pom, pom, pom,” Miss Seeton murmured happily to herself. Then, a little later, “Tiddle pom.” She cocked her head to catch more distinctly the sound of the band in the distance. The Yeomen of the Guard, perhaps? Or was it H.M.S. Pinafore? One could so easily become muddled about which Savoy opera was which. It was so agreeable to be on one’s own for a short time, though one mustn’t stray too far. Sir George had been very insistent on that point, and in any case it would be hardly polite to desert one’s hosts for long. Well, hosts only in a manner of speaking, that is. One was in fact the guest of Her Majesty, even if, as Lady Colveden had stressed, it was most unlikely one would catch more than a glimpse of her.
Nevertheless, the Colvedens were so kind and generous. It had perhaps not been necessary for Sir George to speak quite so loudly at the entrance, but army officers did need to make themselves heard on parade of course, and no doubt found it difficult to reduce the volume after retirement. One would have been perfectly happy to go to the proper entrance alone; the one the police officer had pointed out so clearly on the little map provided with the admission cards. So very clearly, and repeatedly. Yet somehow Sir George had prevailed, and when the policemen—who after all had their instructions—had eventually changed their minds and let them all in together, how very quickly it had all happened! And clearly it was quite in order to carry an umbrella, which no doubt counted as a parasol.
So now one was actually walking in the Queen’s garden! Such a privilege, and such very beautiful flowers everywhere! The lawns alone were a picture, and there was the lake, and over there an enormous open-sided marquee, and the back of the Palace itself, peacefully dominating the scene. And an exquisitely beautiful butterfly down there among the flowers. Miss Seeton stopped abruptly, tucked her umbrella under her arm, and bent down for a closer look. Then, hearing a stifled yelp behind her, she looked up over her shoulder to see a young gentleman in morning dress gazing at her with an expression of agonized reproach while clutching at the front of his trousers.
“Oh, dear! I do beg your pardon. How very clumsy of me.”
Inspector Adrian Harlow closed his watering eyes briefly, swaying on his feet, and then with a huge effort of will managed to pull himself together and adopt a more seemly posture.
“Perfectly all right, madam.” To his alarm he heard a strangled squawk instead of the normally mellow baritone speaking voice on which he prided himself, cleared his throat, and tried again. “No damage done, I assure you.” Better, thank heavens, but it had been a near thing. What he had heard was true
, then: the old girl was a terror with that confounded brolly of hers. Think positively, Harlow. Try to look on the bright side. At least he’d identified her; as usual there were some pretty dotty-looking old trout doddering about the grounds, but surely there couldn’t be another who matched so perfectly the description and photograph he’d been given. Better make sure, all the same.
“No problem at all. Perhaps I should introduce myself, though. Harlow, Adrian Harlow.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harlow. My name is Emily Seeton. Miss. I am greatly relieved. It was nevertheless extremely thoughtless of me. It was the butterfly that caught my eye, you see, that and trying to decide between The Yeomen of the Guard and H.M.S. Pinafore. Or could it be The Gondoliers? That the band are playing?”
“I think it’s something from South Pacific, actually, Miss Seeton.” The pain had almost gone, and it was possible to think more or less clearly. “Have you been to one of these garden parties before?”
“Dear me, no. Indeed I am still at a loss to imagine why I should have been so honored.”
“I’m sure you do yourself an injustice. I envy you: I should explain that I’m not actually a guest myself; I’m a member of the Palace staff. Um, sort of public relations, you might say. Introducing people, that sort of thing. If it would interest you, I’d be happy to point out one or two of the well-known people here today.”
“How very kind of you, Mr. Harl . . .” Miss Seeton paused in embarrassment, it having all at once occurred to her that she was in the company of some sort of courtier who might easily have a title. “That is to say, I do hope I am correct in addressing you as mister?”
Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6) Page 11