“Sorry, but do keep still. I can see what I’m doing—you can’t. Have you out in a jiffy.”
It occurred to Miss Seeton that some explanation might naturally be expected by her rescuer. One did not every day encounter the rear view of a gentlewoman trapped halfway inside a hawthorn hedge; and in her embarrassment she had almost forgotten the cause of her unfortunate situation. “The cat,” she said as Miss Hawke began to ease her out of the hedge. “A magpie—a broken wing, I think . . .”
“I was watching,” said Miss Hawke. “A grand job—well done. Glad to see other people showing an interest.”
“Indeed, yes,” fluttered Miss Seeton as she began to see clear daylight once more, instead of leaves. “We are so fortunate in this area—drat—so rich in wildlife, particularly birds—ouch—ah, thank you!” And as she once more stood safely on the pavement, she dusted herself down with a sigh of relief. She bent to retrieve her umbrella, bumping heads with Miss Hawke, who’d evidently had the same idea. They both said ouch simultaneously, then straightened, met each other’s gaze, and smiled.
“It’s your property,” said Miss Hawke, gesturing to the umbrella. “But”—with a look at the hedge, and politely trying not to look at Miss Seeton’s tattered state—“might be safer if I got it for you.”
“It’s the poor magpie I’m more worried about,” said Miss Seeton. “Can’t we do something for it? If we leave it here, the cat may come back and catch it again.”
“You hold the branches,” commanded Miss Hawke, groping in the depths of the hedge for the umbrella, “with this”—she handed Miss Seeton’s lost property back to her—“while I fetch out the bird. Fair shares.” She slipped the heavy bag from her shoulder to the ground, then plunged back into the hedge on her hands and knees while Miss Seeton strove to hook the handle of her brolly over the most obstreperous of the hawthorn stems, out of Miss Hawke’s hair.
“Damfool townie notions,” came a voice, gravelled by age and tobacco, from behind the little tableau, and there was a sound of spitting. “Should’ve left it to the cat, grant the blasted creature its uses—interfering with nature, that’s what you clever folk from the town’re doing.”
Miss Hawke wriggled out of the hedge a great deal faster than she had wriggled in, paying no attention to snags on her clothes or scratches on her hands. With the light of battle in her eyes, she turned to face the newcomer: a wizened old person of immeasurable age, clad in the countryman’s heavy string-tied boots, faded corduroy trousers, and thick open-necked shirt. The waistcoat he wore, however, of dark grey-brown fur, was not of a type often seen nowadays. Miss Hawke glared at it, and at the man who wore it.
“None of your business,” she informed him, resuming the normal brusque manner which in her exchange with Miss Seeton she had almost abandoned. “Not your bird, is it?”
“Vermin’s what it is,” the ancient informed her, without removing the blackened clay pipe from his mouth. “You’m all alike, you blasted townies,” he said, investing the final word with a scorn that surprised both his hearers. “Vermin—but do you heed that it sucks t’other birds’ eggs and kills their chicks?” He contrived to spit once more, still keeping the pipe in his mouth. His audience was so amazed by this feat that neither of them could speak. “Garn!” he continued, and the bowl of the pipe jigged between his teeth. “Magpies! Evil birds, they are—bad luck, a bird that flies widdershins—but you lot, one look at its feathers—oh, such a pretty bird,” he mimicked grotesquely, “and you’re putting out food for the pesky things. Vermin, I say! Ask any keeper and you’ll hear the same.”
“Keeper, are you?” challenged Miss Hawke.
“Mole catcher.” Jacob Chickney seized his pipe by the bowl and jabbed its stem in Miss Hawke’s direction. “Moles is vermin, too, so they are. Kill the lot on ’em, say I, and none of your business iffen I do.”
“Oh, but Mr. Chickney,” began Miss Seeton, who had never spoken to the old man before but had heard much about him from Martha, Stan, and other villagers. Jacob rounded on her at once, stabbing his pipe again.
“Just acause you lives here—”
“Mole catcher?” Miss Hawke’s eyes glittered. “I feared as much. How barbaric—disgraceful! God’s creatures—”
“Vermin!” roared the old man, drowning her out. “Damned fanciful townie notions—trying to take away a man’s very job. Paid well for it, I am, and what right have you got to come prancing round with your blasted pernickety ways? It’d serve you right iffen I got rid of you same way’s I sort out they other vermin—poison you right gladly, I would, wring your neck and no questions asked, you interfering besom!”
“Mr. Chickney!” protested Miss Seeton, much distressed by his hostile attitude to one who was, after all, a visitor to Plummergen. Miss Hawke had perhaps been a little . . . blunt in her, well, attack, but there was no excuse to meet bluntness with, well, rudeness, although one must be thankful to have been spared any of what dear Martha had warned of the old man’s . . . language, thought Miss Seeton, blushing.
“Mr. Chickney,” echoed Jacob, mimicking Miss Seeton’s genteel pipe. “And what’s Mr. Chickney done to warrant being nagged at by the likes of you? I keeps myself to myself and mind my own business—aye, paid for it, too, I am, though’s nowhere near sufficing—but it’s an honest day’s work, and I’ll have no blasted townie peeking down her hoity-toity nose at me telling me how to go about it!” Whereupon he spat nastily once more, glared, turned on his heel, and stumped off down The Street, ejaculating Vermin! at intervals until he was out of earshot.
“Good gracious,” gasped Miss Seeton as her startled breath returned. “Miss Hawke, I’m so very sorry—”
“Not your fault,” said Miss Hawke, staring thoughtfully at the old man’s disappearing form. “I’ll catch up with him later—mole catcher, indeed. Fascinating little mammals, they are—bite the heads off worms and eat them backwards, like toothpaste. Squeeze the earth out—intelligent creatures. But never mind that for now. Operation rescue time!” And she dived once more into the hedge.
In Superintendent Brinton’s office Ashford police division was in conference with Scotland Yard. Chief Superintendent Delphick and Detective Sergeant Ranger had examined every arson report in the files; Brinton had studied all the notes the two Yard men had brought from London concerning Notley Black, the nightclub corpse.
“Well, Oracle, I can’t honestly say he sounds much of a loss,” Brinton said, tapping the file which contained the photocopied notes of the late Notley’s criminal career. “He seems to have been a jack-of-all-trades and master of none—I like a crook to specialise, myself. They take a pride in their work, and you know where you are with ’em—but him! Con artist, stolen cars with clocked mileage, bank robber, not very successful—did that jeweller’s and left his mate to carry the can—spot of blackmail, dirty pics—you must be glad to be rid of him.”
“Certainly, he seems to have been inefficient, judging by the record, but remember that it’s all we have to go by, and it’s remarkably quiet for the last year or two. Since I find it hard to conceive of his having gone straight, maybe we should consider that at last he found something at which he could succeed—arson, for instance.”
“People don’t usually bump off a successful Torch—they come in too handy,” objected Brinton.
“Perhaps he grew greedy and wanted more than his bosses thought was his fair share—you said there was probably an insurance motive with several of these cases, didn’t you?”
Brinton nodded. “It’s likely enough, given the circumstances. Some of the financially insecure’d be fools to pass up the chance to try sorting themselves out, and if a Torch from Town was all it took, they’d jump at it. And we had a whisper of London number-plates on a car seen prowling round Ashford Forest the night before he was done in—not that there’s anything to insure in there, even if trees’ll burn as well as paper this dry weather, I imagine—but if the report’s right, it could be a link. Sussing the place out fo
r escape routes, or somewhere to hide, I suppose. It was a member of the public rang in, a woman, in a bit of a state—didn’t remember the full number, just recognised it as from London by the letters—bothered by lights in there, moving around, then spotted the car driving away.”
“Interesting,” remarked Delphick, “if not a direct link; but a possible theory, none the less. The London men drive down to Kent, quarrel, and Notley Black’s disposed of in the middle of their latest contract . . . but if that’s what it’s all about, Chris, then who burned down the furniture warehouse in Brettenden last night, if Notley Black was already dead and his friends gone back to London?”
chapter
~14~
“ALL RIGHT, ALL right,” growled Brinton, “but it’s a theory, isn’t it? We have to start somewhere.”
“Indeed we do.” Delphick regarded his friend pensively. “But you’re hedging a bit, Chris, and not thinking entirely straight. We have to take into account the—shall we call it the Seeton connection?” Brinton closed his eyes, and his lips formed the soundless syllables of a curse. The Oracle smiled his most oracular smile.
“I’m sorry, Chris, but we can’t escape it. You were the one who called my attention to it, in the first place—and you know how we’ve often speculated that Miss Seeton might be psychic, in some small way. You tell me she’s babbled of flames and drawn pictures of smoke—and last night when the furniture warehouse went up, don’t tell me it was mere coincidence that Brettenden fire brigade were coping with another barn fire, right at the limit of their area—in Murreystone—which just happens to be a few miles from Plummergen, their historic rivals. Tenuous the link may be,” concluded Delphick, “but, though of course the London connection must be checked, my instincts tell me that Miss Seeton and her friends are going to be involved in this arson business before too long.”
Brinton nodded, sighing. “You can’t fight fate, not if Miss Seeton’s anywhere around. Especially when there are a few more coincidences than you’ve heard about yet—give you three guesses who lives in Murreystone, for one.”
Delphick cocked an enquiring eyebrow at Ranger, who had been listening to every word and wondering if he and Anne might try suggesting to Miss Seeton that she should emigrate—or become a hermit. They’d miss her if she went, thought Bob, but at least everybody could get their blood pressure back to something like normal. Old Brimstone, for one, always seemed to turn a strange shade of puce whenever people mentioned Plummergen, or Aunt Em . . .
“Bob,” Delphick’s voice broke into his sergeant’s train of thought, “as our recognised Seeton expert with the local connections, tell me who lives in Murreystone.”
“Er,” said Bob, racking his brains to remember what Anne had told him. “About three hundred and fifty people, sir, and all of ’em at daggers drawn with the Plummergen crowd.”
“Yes, Sergeant Ranger, we knew that already. But out of these three hundred and fifty, is there not one . . . ?”
“Ah, oh, yes, sir. Thaxted, sir—bloke who owns the Half Seas Over, formerly the Singing Swan.” He tapped one of the cardboard folders on Superintendent Brinton’s desk. “Post-incident interview with him in here, sir, but I take it you want the grass roots gossip.” He looked towards the superintendent, but Brinton seemed willing to let him talk. “P. C. Potter could probably give you the real gen, sir, but to judge by what Anne’s told me, Thaxted’s almost a pillar of the Murreystone community—not exactly squire, though he’d like it well enough, but I don’t think even Sir George over in Plummergen thinks of himself in those terms. Thaxted’s got the money behind him, though, and he’s trying hard—and Murreystone’s not slow to take advantage.”
“Rustic cunning,” agreed Delphick with a nod. “They sneer at him behind his back, but hold the parish fete on the lawn of his house every year, and let him draw the prize ticket for the yearly Church Roof Raffle to make him think he’s starting to fit in. Am I right?”
Brinton stirred. “That’s the way of it, according to Potter, and it’s pretty good cover, for whatever he wants to get up to—if he does, that is. We haven’t been able to catch him out on anything yet. He seems clean—not that we’ve looked into his affairs too closely, before now. There wasn’t much need—but of course, we’re going into everything pretty thoroughly after this fire business, and the murder. There’ve been rumours that the club wasn’t doing too well, but he claims it was more of a tax fiddle to run it almost at a loss—don’t ask me how that would work, I’m getting the Fraud boys on the job.”
“I expect anguished communications at any moment from Inspector Borden and Commander Conway,” Delphick assured him, with a faint smile. “They retain vivid memories of their last two encounters with Miss Seeton—”
“Don’t!”yelped Brinton. “Stop saying that name! Just forget I ever mentioned her. Please . . .”
“You called us in, Chris. Do you want us to go back to London? Just say the word—but I warn you, once she does get properly going, you may not be able to call us away from Town again. Commander Gosslin, not to mention Sir Hubert Everleigh, could take exception to their officers rushing up and down the motorway to Kent every time Miss Seeton waves her umbrella and sends you scurrying for cover . . .”
Brinton rolled his eyes. “It’s a fair cop, guv. You’re in on this for the duration—which is what you wanted right from the start, and don’t even try to pretend otherwise.” Delphick chuckled.
“In your own words, Chris, it’s a fair cop. I find that I’m looking forward to Miss Seeton’s involvement in the case—and her assistance in finally solving it—with the most eager anticipation. I think,” he added to Bob Ranger, “that we must take up your dear Aunt Em on her invitation, and pop along to Plummergen before too long, to find out what they’re all doing . . .”
“Nigel,” said Lady Colveden to her son, who was passing his father’s laden plate around the upheld pages of The Farmer’s Gazette, “it’s silly, but I have to ask you—do you know anything about the missing gnome?”
“Gnome on the range?” enquired Nigel, accepting his own plate with a grin of thanks. “Gnome sweet gnome?”
“Nigel!”
“Sorry, Mother, couldn’t resist it. You’ve, er, always gnome what a ghastly sense of humour I have—sorry again,” he said as she took up the carving knife and waved it at him. “I didn’t even know one was missing—but surely you don’t mean that monstrosity belonging to The Nuts? Has someone pinched it?”
“It seems someone has. And since you say you don’t know anything about it—”
“I don’t.” Nigel spoke firmly, but there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Top marks to whoever did it, though—perhaps they’ll hold it to ransom, for charity, or save it up until Bonfire Night and use it instead of a guy.”
“I didn’t really suppose you did,” said his mother, “but your Young Farmers do sometimes have their more frivolous moments, and, well, I thought I’d just mention it. Everyone is very upset about it in the village.”
There came an astonished rustling as her husband lowered his journal. “Upset about that garden gnome? Must all be mad—seen it myself. Hideous thing.”
“Yes, George, I know you’ve seen it—you took a photograph and made it leer dreadfully, which was rather naughty of you, though I can’t say,” his wife confessed, “that I blame you, on the whole. But it isn’t just the gnome that’s disappeared—all sorts of things have gone. Ornamental things, lots of them from Dan Eggleden—lamp brackets and flower stands and, well, nice things. Stolen. Which is why people are upset. It’s bad enough having an arsonist on the loose, without other people—if it is other people, and of course nobody will know until they’re caught—prowling about in the middle of the night. They’ll start imagining,” concluded Lady Colveden, carefully not looking at her spouse, “that they’re not safe in their beds. Until whoever it is has been caught, of course.”
“Police job to catch ’em,” said Sir George, but Nigel, who was closely watching
him, could see the light beginning to gleam in the old war-horse’s eyes. “Can’t have private individuals setting up as vigilantes—irresponsible.”
“Not if they’re organised by someone who isn’t irresponsible. Someone, well, with military training—who could make sure everyone behaved themselves . . . Another helping?” And without waiting for his reply, she nodded to Nigel, who handed her his father’s plate with an admiring smile and winked at her. She frowned slightly and shook her head.
There was a thoughtful silence.
Lady Colveden remarked; “This outbreak of arson is very worrying, isn’t it? Especially with the weather so dry.”
“I’ve been hearing that Murreystone think it’s our fault their village hall went up in smoke the other night,” Nigel contributed, with one eye on his father. “And with being so very close, you can’t really blame them, can you?”
His mother favoured him with an appreciative smile. “So close it’s rather uncomfortable. How long does it take in a car? Pop a can of petrol in the boot, and away you go. We could try asking the vicar to pray for rain, I suppose.”
This was too much for her husband. “Pray for rain?” He lowered his newspaper to reveal a bristling moustache. “All very well praying—does no harm—but the Lord helps those that help themselves. Can’t call the padre a practical man—needs a combined effort.” Lady Colveden held her breath. Silently she dared Nigel to utter one word.
“Young Hosigg’s a reliable chap,” mused Sir George, referring to his youthful farm foreman. “Nigel could head up a second party—Stan Bloomer, another—Jack Crabbe and his father from the garage—Mr. Jessyp, of course, he’ll make a good two-eye-see . . .”
Now that he’d gone so far as to decide who was to be his second-in-command, Lady Colveden could relax. “I think he’s a splendid choice, George. How sensible of you. How soon will you be able to start?”
It was late afternoon, and Miss Seeton was entertaining one of her staunchest allies to tea in the back garden.
Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10) Page 11