But he hadn’t learned as much about running a club as he thought he had. He began to lose money: he began to blink a Nelsonian eye when made-up young women arrived at the door with elderly gentlemen by their sides. The private rooms were hired out to parties who conformed less and less to the respectable ideal he had sought—yet still he lost money, and at a faster rate. There was a limit to the extent he could increase his prices and keep his clientele: he went over that limit, and now he was really worried.
He wanted to keep his manor house and what he thought was his position in the community; he couldn’t find anyone to buy the Half Seas Over when he put the quiet word around, and he dared not advertise for fear of bringing creditors down upon him. He resolved to have the place destroyed by fire, one night when it would be closed for redecoration—a workman’s carelessly stubbed cigarette, a spillage of paint stripper—and there was no risk to anyone’s life. He would arrange a foolproof alibi for the period during which a professional Torch from London did what had to be done, and the insurance settlement would solve all his problems.
The best people to help him, he decided, would be those same old friends who had trusted him to help them, in former times: and help him they did. He was advised to burn down a few unimportant items before the Torch arrived, establishing rumours of a fire raiser at a time when he himself would be utterly above suspicion. He duly obliged by destroying a couple of haystacks and, with resentful memories of his days at school, Brettenden Secondary Modern—at night, when he could be sure there was nobody inside. He did not wish to have anyone’s death on his conscience and was worried when a spate of copycat fires broke out, although he suspected that some, at least, were started by business owners with similar problems to his own. He told London that he wanted to go for the big one as soon as possible . . .
And the Torch, when he arrived, turned out to be Notley Black: sent by a school friend with a warped sense of humour to burn down a nightclub for a client whose true identity he was not told. The two former partners, when they recognised each other, quarrelled, and fought, and in the fight Notley, utterly by accident, was killed. Pommy panicked and tried to make Notley’s death look like an arson attack that had gone disastrously wrong—but was as bad a planner as he had ever been. Police suspicions were aroused almost at once, and so, very soon afterwards, were suspicions in London. It was put to Pommy, with some force, that by his actions he had rendered his friends short one Torch, thereby losing the consultancy fees to which they felt entitled. Business, he was told, was business, and contracts—with emphasis—were to be honoured.
The unspoken threat of a contract on his life made Pommy agree at once to do as he was told and take over Notley’s list of unfinished appointments. Approaches had been made to the late Mr. Black’s employers by several persons in the Brettenden area, and Pommy must oblige them all, without exception, without excuse. Only when his debt was deemed to have been paid would this pressure be withdrawn, and the peaceful life he wished to lead be permitted to continue.
Pommy Sampford, as Norman Thaxted, was by day an upright citizen of Murreystone, by night creeping out to fulfil his arsonical obligations. It was a tiring, nerve-racking time, but he did not dare to let his cover slip. When it became clear that Plummergen planned something remarkable in the Best Kept Village Competition stakes, the would-be squire of Plummergen’s rival was one of those deputed to learn what they could of these plans, by visiting the exhibition which was so very clearly marked as welcoming all . . .
Lack of sleep and a twitchy conscience sharpened Pommy’s ears, but dulled his judgement. Miss Seeton’s wondering words on the subject of divine proportions passed him by, but her (to his mind) persistent harping on fire, while (he felt sure) looking straight at him—and the way she had hit him so pointedly with her umbrella—led him to believe that she had discovered his guilty secret. He would lose everything he had laboured to build up, after his shaky start in life: and he could not bear it.
He resolved to rid himself of the threat, and the world of Miss Seeton . . .
“There’s an outside chance it could be a coincidence,” said Delphick, “but I very much doubt it, Chris. My money’s with yours, on Thaxted.”
“You mean Sampford,” snarled Brinton. “The time we’ve wasted because of him! When I get my hands on him—leading us up the garden path like that!”
“In the circumstances, you can hardly blame him. Once we knew of his change of name, we could hardly fail to make the connection with Notley Black—which you did make, after all. No wonder he’s disappeared for a while. He’s worried, I’ve no doubt, and thinking up a cover story. I look forward to hearing it once he’s been found.”
“He shouldn’t need to be found! How the hell could he know we were looking for him? Potter was on his way there almost as soon as we knew about Notley Black. Somebody’s tipped him the wink, and whoever it is I’ll give him the thrashing of his life when I catch him.” Brinton breathed in deeply, then out, and the papers on his desk fluttered in a frantic dance. He closed his eyes and groaned. “I might have known,” he lamented, clutching at his hair. “Last seen in the Plummergen area—it only needed that. You know damn well who lives in Plummergen—she’s bound to get involved, don’t tell me she won’t, and the Lord only knows what the end of it all will be.”
“I don’t see,” came Delphick’s mild objection, “why Miss Seeton should become involved in this affair at all. By now he’s probably halfway across London, or on his way to Dover and a new life abroad—he’s unlikely to stay so close to home, where people will recognise him, now that he knows the game is up.”
“Potter’s going to keep patrolling,” Brinton said, “and he’s told Sir George’s Village Watch to stay on their toes tonight, just in case.” He sighed again, and once more the papers danced on his desk. “We can’t be too careful.”
“Belt and braces,” murmured Delphick, adding, “I suppose it won’t do any harm. But Customs and Emigration are on the lookout as well, so wherever he is, he probably won’t get far—though, with the start he seems to have had, he must be quite a way from Plummergen by now. I suggest that this time we may forget about Miss Seeton’s likely involvement.”
“She drew that picture, didn’t she? She’s already got herself involved, whether we like it or not.”
Delphick shook his head to clear it. The resolution of the Russian enigma, and the identification by Jacob Chickney of certain parties who paid him to take him on that badger-baiting foray into Ashford Forest, had made him forget that Miss Seeton had drawn another sketch besides the Wind in the Willows scene. “The nightclub, of course,” he said, and Bob Ranger exclaimed at his side.
“I’ve been a fool,” Delphick said. “It was all there on paper in front of us, if only we’d been able to recognise it—the rivalry over a woman, the robbery and the jewels—the pearls didn’t just indicate Notley Black, they told us about the heist that went wrong—even the nightclub connection. She could hardly have made it plainer.”
Brinton grunted. “Oh, it’s the same old story: once you know what you’re looking at, you can understand what she’s on about. But somehow they always seem to happen in the wrong order. I’ve said it before—you need an interpreter when you’re dealing with Miss Seeton. And, mark my words, we haven’t seen the last of her in this case just yet . . .”
Thaxted might have lived in Murreystone for only a few years, but he had come to know the surrounding countryside, for a newcomer, reasonably well. He wanted to be accepted by the locals and to understand what they were talking about when they referred to “the earthworks” or “ruined All Saints” or “the Rhee Wall.” Which understanding, once acquired, meant that he felt confident of being able to conceal himself in safety for the remainder of the day, until night fell and he could make his attack upon the Plummergen cottage where he had learned that Miss Seeton lived.
He disliked the idea of killing her, but reasoned that, having killed once, he had nothing to lose. He regr
etted the necessity, but an elderly spinster would be even less missed than Notley Black, in the prime of life, had been. And this time he would not be rushed into carelessness. He had filled his car with petrol almost to overflowing, and Jack Crabbe, manning the pumps, had sold him what he thought was only a spare can for emergencies. (If this wasn’t an emergency, Thaxted didn’t know what was.) He’d bought matches from Mr. Stillman, and cigarettes which he chain-smoked in his hideaway as he waited. He was hungry, but had been too anxious to think of food until it was too late: he did not dare go home for supplies, not even for the clothes, dark blue and secretive, he wore when he was doing Notley Black’s work for him. He would have to take the risk and hope that nobody would spot him making his way to Sweetbriars and, well, doing what he planned to do: he could not bring himself to say, or even to think, the word for what he planned. He lit another cigarette from the previous stub and looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. When would the sun set? When would the day grow dark—when would it all be over?
chapter
~26~
MEL FORBY HAD not been her usual ebullient self that day. Her notes for the Rural Revival series were going well, and when she rang the editor of the Daily Negative, he had told her to stay there and keep up the good work. She had every intention of doing so, but life was rather, well, flat here in Plummergen just at present. Although Delphick and Bob Ranger were also staying at the George and Dragon, and she saw them almost every day, no front-page story seemed about to break: she was starting to suffer from withdrawal symptoms, she decided. She thrived on Fleet Street pressures, on deadlines, on headlines: Delphick had promised her the scoop when it came, but it was a long time coming.
Lesser women rushed out and bought themselves glamorous hats when in the doldrums: Mel had never been this conventional. She wondered, however, what it would be like to follow yet another old country custom, and resolved that, once she had visited the Before and After exhibition and added a couple of paragraphs to her notes, she would take the bus into Brettenden and see how the other half lived. If nothing else, it would give her another Plummergen Piece for the cartoon strip which had helped to make her name.
“Monica Mary: Milliner” was just the place Mel was looking for: tucked away down a side street, bow-fronted windows, an air of age-old gentility in every flounce of the chintz curtains (tied with bows) and dull gold curlicues of the many, many mirrors along the walls. The carpet was flowered, and thickly piled; the draperies dividing the shop from Miss Brown’s workshop were velvet. Mel was entranced, and her fingers twitched with longing to snatch notebook and pencil from her bag to immortalise Miss Monica Mary Brown, and her establishment, in print.
She restrained herself until she had left the shop, with a frivolous headpiece for which she’d paid a startling price hanging over her arm in a hatbox. A hatbox, for heaven’s sake. When did anyone last see one of those? And the hat—what had come over her? Monica Mary had been a good saleswoman: she’d seemed to understand precisely the restless mood Mel was in, and talked her out of anything serviceable, anything she might conceivably wear around Town when winter came. No, this wicked little concoction of ribbons (primary colours, to match Miss Forby’s personality) and not much else was strictly a luxury item. She doubted whether she’d managed to sneak it in on her expenses—but there was no doubt about it, it was fun.
Mel ate her lunch, wrote her notes, and eventually took the bus back to Plummergen wondering how many weddings she would be invited to in the near future. In her room at the George and Dragon, she tried on the hat again. No doubt of it: she looked different. It suited her. She felt cheered. She wondered what Thrudd would think. This was certainly a new Mel Forby . . .
She remembered the original Mel Forby, transformed after a few words, and a lightning sketch, from Miss Seeton. Miss Seeton should have the chance to see the new Mel Forby—who was, after all, partly her creation. Thoughts of Thrudd had made her feel rather lonely: she’d invite Miss S. across to dinner, and for a bit of girl talk, and to admire the hat, so very different from that ordinary little number that had got a bullet through it when the post office was raided, all those years ago.
Delphick and Ranger were not dining tonight: they were, unknown to Mel, still with their Ashford colleagues on the hunt for Norman Thaxted, alias Pommy Sampford. Mel and Miss Seeton had the dining room almost to themselves.
“Let me treat you to a bottle of something special, Miss S.,” Mel coaxed her guest, who had been quite excited at the thought of her little excursion. Dear Mel had insisted that it was to be her treat, jokingly saying that it would make up for all the slices of Martha’s fruit cake she’d enjoyed recently; the cuisine at the George and Dragon wasn’t noted for being particularly haute, but Miss Seeton knew that she would enjoy herself anyway, in such agreeable company.
Doris brought the wine list across and joined in Mel’s rather one-sided discussion with Miss Seeton about what they would have to drink. Miss Seeton knew nothing about it at all, and Doris only a little more: Mel just loved the taste of the stuff. They settled for a rather nice Beaujolais, which, said Mel, would go with anything.
“A whole bottle, Mel dear? Surely that’s rather, well, extravagant? And,” added Miss Seeton, “I’m really not sure that I ought to—”
“I told you, Miss S., this is a celebration. It’s not as if you’ve got to drive home—or even walk very far.” An affectionate smile lit Mel’s face as she glanced at Miss Seeton’s umbrella, which hung over the arm of her fumed-oak carver chair. It was a warm summer night, and Miss Seeton had not bothered to bring a coat (or even to wear a hat) for her short journey across the road from Sweetbriars; but the umbrella, as always, had come with her. If a thunderstorm of torrential proportions should erupt overhead, in the time it would take Miss Seeton to open the brolly she could have scuttled homewards through the drops almost without wetting her head; but Miss Seeton without an umbrella would be . . .
“Earth-shattering,” murmured Mel, who had treated herself to a solitary sherry or two before Miss Seeton arrived. “I mean-”—as a politely enquiring look was turned on her—“flattering. How flattering that you should bring your very best umbrella with you, just for my benefit.”
Miss Seeton smiled and blushed. Proudly she stroked the handle of the umbrella which, after their first adventure together, had been given to her by Superintendent (as he was then) Delphick. “It is real gold,” said Miss Seeton, smiling again. “I use it on only the most special occasions—and you said, did you not, that you had something to celebrate? So, naturally, I . . .”
She was too polite to make direct enquiry as to the nature of the celebration. Since Thrudd Banner was nowhere to be seen, she assumed that he had not popped the question, as dear Mel, so modern, would be unlikely to phrase it, but Mel’s eyes—quite beautiful, now that she had modified her makeup, and emphasised by her cheekbones, so unusual—dear Mel’s eyes gleamed with distinct animation, almost mischief.
“You bet I’m celebrating, Miss S. This meal’s on the editor of the Daily Negative, though he doesn’t know it. As a practice run for my hat.” And Mel told of her impulsive purchase, promising to take Miss Seeton up to her room after the meal and, if she was very good, allowing her to try it on. They both giggled together at the thought—Miss Seeton had been sipping her Beaujolais throughout the meal almost without noticing it—Mel proposed a toast to her editor, another to her series on the Rural Revival.
It was a splendid evening, if slightly blurred towards the end, when Mel persuaded Miss Seeton to join her in the very smallest digestif Doris knew how to pour. Making only a token demur, Miss Seeton joined her: the meal, so surprisingly (one had to say, having heard others speak of the George’s cuisine) tasty, had been most enjoyable, if rather filling. And the company, of course, even more so—enjoyable, that was to say. Miss Seeton found her tongue tangling itself over the complimentary phrase and agreed firmly with Doris’s suggestion that they might wish for coffee.
; “We’ll take the cups up to my room, Miss S., then while they got cool enough to drink, you can try on my hat. But mind,” Mel warned her, “you’re not to tell a soul how much I paid.” She placed a finger to her lips and whispered. It sounded unusually loud. “Not a word—promise?”
It was late, Miss Seeton supposed, when she finally trod with great care down the main stairs and out of the door of the George and Dragon. The cool breeze from outside fanned her pinkened cheeks, and she raised both hands to hold her hat firmly down. How silly: she hadn’t worn a hat. on such a warm night. Miss Seeton giggled. “A most striking hat, Mel dear, and thank you for letting me see myself in it. Thank you, too, for a delightful evening.” The words seemed to come out rather louder than usual, though Mel did not appear to notice.
“A pleasure, Miss S. I’ll pass your compliments on to the editor.” And she stood on the top step, leaning against one of the white pillars, waving goodbye and watching as her guest trotted, a little unsteadily, across the road and up the short front path to the door of Sweetbriars.
Wow. Mel blinked and took a deep breath. She steadied herself with one hand and rubbed her face with the other. A touch of fresh air, perhaps, before turning in. Charley Mountfitchet would give her a night key, she supposed, in case he’d locked up by the time she got back. She went in search of the landlord and found him in the kitchen, drinking coffee with Doris. They poured Mel a generous cup, and found her a key: she thanked them, took several more deep breaths, and headed for the summer night.
It must be later than she’d thought. Lights were going out in Plummergen bedrooms, and everywhere downstairs was dark. The absence of street lamps made it seem even darker, though the moon was rising. Mel decided to walk northwards up one side of The Street as far as the turning for Plummergen Common, cross to the other side, and walk back. Which should set her up nicely for the night. She started off.
Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10) Page 20