Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12)

by Crane,Hamilton

  So the squabble about the biscuit factory sculpture was still unresolved. Everyone noted this for future discussion once The Nuts had done their shopping and departed; but, for now, there were more important matters to discuss. How to lead up to them was the question. Emmy and Mrs. Spice hadn’t done too badly, but neither of The Nuts had taken the bait.

  Yet. Mrs. Blaine said: “I won’t bother with much sugar, Emmy, I still have some at home. This marmalade is supposed to be sour—unlike some I could mention.”

  She dropped the bitter citrus into her shopping bag and began fumbling for her purse. Emmy asked: “That everything, then, is it?”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Blaine, “yes.”

  “No,” said Miss Nuttel. She abandoned the book stand and strode across to the counter. “Missed the bus—nothing in the house. Packet of plain biscuits, please.”

  “Talking of the bus”—Mrs. Spice, as Mrs. Blaine let out a little squeak of horror at this libel on her culinary skills, decided to try again—“and strangers . . .”

  She paused invitingly. Could either of them resist?

  “Tall man in tweeds,” said Miss Nuttel promptly. They’d been watching, after all. Plummergen heaved a collective sigh of relief: it wouldn’t seem right if The Nuts weren’t there at the windows of Lilikot, peeking out to see what was going on.

  “He looked,” Mrs. Blaine remarked, “as if he didn’t know what he was talking about—I mean,” with another scowl in Miss Nuttel’s direction, “as if he didn’t know where he was going. Too impulsive. Didn’t he come in here?”

  Which was sufficient encouragement for everyone to join in. Before long, The Nuts knew as much about the stranger as anyone in Plummergen. The comfortable casualness of his attire was analysed in depth. Miss Nuttel opined that someone so scruffy could be an artist of sorts, especially since he intended to visit Miss Seeton; Mrs. Blaine thought he had looked too peculiar, and was less likely to be an artist than a sculptor, concerning which class of person she would never be surprised.

  Mrs. Spice hurriedly spoke of the gun, or rather the lack of one; Mrs. Skinner voiced her gamekeeper theory; Mrs. Henderson insisted that the man had sounded far too posh to be anything of the sort. Looks were exchanged, and theories furiously sought.

  And it was Miss Nuttel who, having thought most furiously of all, announced that the man’s identity must be obvious to anyone. Whereupon it was Mrs. Blaine (for old habits die hard) who exclaimed eagerly, urging Eric to elucidate.

  “Perfectly clear,” said Miss Nuttel, tossing her head. “Well-spoken—says he’s been here before yet asks for Miss Seeton—must be an actor, trying out a part. From the BBC, with a voice like that. Going to be,” concluded Miss Nuttel enviously, “on television . . .”

  chapter

  ~7~

  SIR WORMELOW, LIKE most members of the establishment, had a high regard for the British Broadcasting Corporation without necessarily wishing to be thought of its number. News and views in Plummergen travel fast. Even as he lunched at the George and Dragon with Miss Seeton and her gold-handled umbrella, he was vaguely aware that the waitress was paying him far more attention than he was accustomed to. Young Maureen had heard rumours that a man from the telly was in town, and hoped that by fluttering her eyelashes, pouting her lips, and thrusting her bosom forward in provocative poses her path to instant stardom would be assured.

  It was, of course, the very last way to attract Tump’s interest, and it was not until she saw the size of the tip that Maureen, disappointed, realised she’d been wasting her efforts. She flounced back to the kitchen, and dreamed of meeting a millionaire. Even that Croesus she’d read about in the papers would be better than sticking in this boring dump for the rest of her life . . .

  “So very kind of dear Mel to send me the article, don’t you agree, Sir Wormelow?” Miss Seeton nodded and smiled at the guest on the other side of her sitting-room hearthrug: something had suggested that his purpose in calling on her was too important for the garden, although what a gentleman of Sir Wormelow’s stature and position could want with her, an ordinary, retired teacher of art with limited talent, she had been unable to guess. Over lunch, however, she had listened attentively as he talked, and gleaned a few ideas.

  “It has saved so much time now, however, has it not,” she went on, “although of course it is a great pity, poor thing. Her broken ankle, I mean, even if without it she might not have thought of sending me dear Mr. Banner’s piece, as I believe it is called, although anything less peaceful,” Miss Seeton added, with another smile for her little joke, “than the criminal activities of these Croesus people is not easy to envisage, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sir Wormelow nodded; hesitated; and spilled the beans. All that he knew, all that he feared—all except the letter from his friend: he told her what had happened, but couldn’t bring himself to go into details. Miss Seeton heard him out attentively, interjecting little exclamations of dismay and shock, pitying the anguish on his face.

  When he had finished, she shook her head. “It is indeed a very distressing affair, Sir Wormelow—not just the death of your poor friend, but the wicked loss of so many works of art for a mere whim, as one must suppose it to be, from what Mr. Banner has said. Although it is possible he may be mistaken,” she added: with regret, for she was fond of Thrudd. “The press—sometimes, I fear, not entirely accurate . . .”

  “I don’t think so in this case, Miss Seeton, if you’ll excuse me.” Tump reached into his jacket pocket and drew out the photocopy of Inspector Terling’s report. “Judging by the list at the back of this, Banner’s spot-on in what he says—that most of the crimes we know about are the work of one man, or at least they are carried out at his instigation—and the chap’s not bothered whether it’s good art or bad. He simply acquires it, like a . . . a jackdaw, or a magpie.”

  “Such attractive birds, but sometimes so vicious,” Miss Seeton murmured, as she flicked absently through the pages of the report. “I’m afraid, Sir Wormelow, I really don’t know what you want me to do with this . . .”

  “Just read it,” he begged. “I myself have tried to make some sense of it all, but there is little I can see that may be regarded as being of any use—my views, you understand, tend to be on the orthodox side.” He smiled faintly, before continuing: “The police, too, are hampered by the . . . the limitations of the official mind, if I may so express it. But you, Miss Seeton, with your knowledge of art—your keen eye and unique imagination . . .”

  Miss Seeton blushed, and uttered a modest disclaimer of the importance attributed to her little efforts at sketching IdentiKit cartoons for the police. The chief superintendent and his colleagues were kind enough to say that her drawings had been of use in some of their more, well, unusual cases—indeed, as Sir Wormelow might know, she was paid an annual retainer for her services—but she felt sure this was mere coincidence. That they had been useful, she meant, because they were all so hardworking, so professional—the police, that was to say—while she was no expert and certainly (she blushed again) no professional, as anyone must know. They would no doubt have been just as successful without her, well, amateur interference . . .

  Sir Wormelow, smiling, ignored all this, and again urged her to read Inspector Terling’s report. The Scotland Yard heading informed Miss Seeton that it merited due attention, whether she felt she would understand it or not; if Scotland Yard, to whose generosity she owed so much, thought it her duty to read this report, then read it she would.

  As she did so, Tump leaned back in his chair, more weary than he had expected to be. Emotional exhaustion had taken its toll: he had relived the loss of his dear friend twice in twenty-four hours, and Miss Seeton was his final hope of laying the ghost of bereavement and—yes, it must be said—cowardice. He should have gone to the police just as soon as the letter came: one life would have been lost in any case, but perhaps he could have prevented the grave risk to another. The night watchman was still on the critical list. Sufficient warning
might have spared him . . .

  Sir Wormelow’s eyes drifted about the room as he brooded on his own shortcomings, and fastened at last upon a watercolour over the mantel. It showed a stark black branch in the foreground, with a few desperate leaves still clinging, the sky behind it a looming mass of cloud, grey and stormy above the yielding heather of the moorland beneath. It was a bleak, cheerless scene. Sir Wormelow shivered.

  “Oh dear,” said Miss Seeton, looking up from the last page. “Such a warm day, too. I do hope you have not caught a chill, Sir Wormelow. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  “Perhaps later, Miss Seeton, thank you. At the moment, I am more interested in your views on that report.”

  Miss Seeton frowned. Her views? Would it not be rather an impertinence for her to voice an opinion when the experts—to judge by what the inspector had written—admitted they knew nothing? Dear Mr. Banner’s article had made, or so she thought she recalled, the same point. That nobody seemed to know anything at all about what was going on, except that it was clear there was someone, somewhere, arranging to have other people steal things for him. Paying them to do so, in fact. Urging them into crime when perhaps, without his urging, they would never have been, well, corrupted . . .

  “Which is hardly to be encouraged,” said Miss Seeton, in her best schoolteacher’s tone. “Corruption, that is to say—most reprehensible, to take advantage of the weaknesses of others. If you will excuse me for a moment, Sir Wormelow, I should like . . .”

  Tump, looking flustered, nevertheless rose to his feet as Miss Seeton hurried from the room. When she returned two minutes later with Mel’s letter in her hand, he sat down again with a relieved sigh. Miss Seeton handed him Thrudd’s article, remarking that she supposed he, too, did not often read Anyone’s and thus might have missed it.

  “But it is interesting, as I think you will agree—that is, if I have remembered correctly, which I feel sure I have—the coincidence. One could not help noticing, having read what Mr. Terling has to say . . . or rather the lack of it, at first sight—between the two lists, I mean. Mr. Banner’s, and that of the police. They do seem, from what I recall, rather inconsistent as to the identities of all the various pieces stolen on behalf of this man Croesus—understandably so, for one can hardly suppose that his, er, gang leave any calling card behind so that one may be sure. Which makes it impossible for there to be absolute agreement over whether they have been. Stolen, that is. Because,” explained Miss Seeton earnestly, “while the lists clearly overlap, and some items appear on both, there is considerable discrepancy as well. From what I have been given to understand, a journalist is always eager to report what he sees as a good story without always, I fear, making sure of his facts—and one must make allowance also, of course, for the natural human wish to make oneself and one’s property, well, more interesting than they otherwise might be. So much more romantic, is it not,” she twinkled at him, “to be able to say that an international gang removed one’s ancestral portrait, rather than an ordinary thief—if one could, that is. Because it seems to me they haven’t. Taken ancestral portraits—or at least, not many. Very few, indeed. And the ones they have taken—not just portraits, but landscapes as well, and even the statue—the ones on the two lists, I mean—there did seem to me,” Miss Seeton concluded in an apologetic tone, “to be an obvious connection—though of course I may be mistaken, and especially if you have noticed nothing. Which I gather must be the case, or you would not have brought it to me, would you? The report . . .”

  And she fluttered the pages under Sir Wormelow’s bemused nose, while he tried desperately to work out what on earth she had been trying to tell him.

  Courtiers and diplomats, trained almost from the cradle to rise to any occasion, can think fast. Sir Wormelow was no exception. If he could understand what a Japanese, or a Greek, or a Russian was trying to tell him, he ought to be able to make sense of Miss Seeton.

  Barely missing a beat, he said: “I would be most interested to hear your opinion of the matter, Miss Seeton: and in detail, if you would be so kind. If you have discovered some link which has escaped the notice of everyone else . . .”

  “So very cold,” Miss Seeton said. His eyes wandered at once back to the painting over the fireplace. “Oh, no,” she said quickly, “or rather, I suppose, yes. A grey day, you see—although, now that I know him so much better, I would hardly care to be so, well, precipitate in my judgement. Not that he has ever complained, you understand, and indeed dear Bob, I mean Sergeant Ranger, thinks that it very much resembles, or at least reminds him of, the chief superintendent. And so many of the others were as well, were they not—cold, I mean. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Your views,” said Sir Wormelow smoothly, “are so much more expert than mine,” and tried not to grit his teeth or to scream. Why didn’t she get to the point? And, when she finally did, would it be worth all the effort?

  “The others,” said Miss Seeton. “The ones Croesus stole or had stolen for him, that is. So many seem to be, well, chilly. The Wynter family’s ancestral portraits—the name, you see, so suggestive—and so many landscapes—one could hardly help noticing. Racing Skaters on the Fens, and The Pleasure Dome—as I recollect, a reference to Coleridge’s ‘caves of ice’ in Kubla Khan—Aspect of Snowdon from the South—such a suggestive title. Pine Trees at Christmas,” Miss Seeton continued with her list, flicking through the pages of Terling’s report and Thrudd’s article, frowning as she cross-checked one against the other. “The Retreat of Napoleon’s Army from Moscow—one remembers one’s history lessons, Sir Wormelow. Being taught that the Russians had the army of winter on their side, as well as an army of men, that is. Not that I know this picture, but one can imagine the scene all too well . . .”

  Sir Wormelow sat enthralled as Miss Seeton trotted out instance after instance of the Croesus Gang’s apparent obsession with snow, ice, and low temperatures. The Glacier of Mont Blanc at Sunset—The Iceman Cometh (hailed as a modern masterpiece, although Miss Seeton’s expression suggested the artist was still at the apprentice stage)—Battle Between the Rime Giants and the Hosts of Valhalla . . .

  In all, she must have mentioned two dozen works of art—paintings, sculptures, even a stainless steel mobile constructed by one of the Functionist School, entitled Electric Hailstorm—while Sir Wormelow, his head starting to spin, fastened his eyes on the “Grey Day” picture, and felt the glimmerings of an idea beginning to stir.

  “. . . unfortunate catholicity of taste,” Miss Seeton said sternly, “with little, one must suppose, true appreciation of art—acquiring it for the sake of having it, and not for its own sake, I fear. As you so rightly said, Sir Wormelow, rather a jackdaw than a good judge.”

  Sir Wormelow blinked. “Did I say that? I suppose, as it seems you support my views, Miss Seeton, that I must have done. I was in the right without realising exactly why; but now your own views and comments have illuminated matters for me to a remarkable extent. You have indeed been of help, Miss Seeton—as I always knew that you would. And as Chief Superintendent Delphick also knew . . .”

  chapter

  ~8~

  AT SCOTLAND YARD next morning, the telephone rang in the office of Chief Superintendent Delphick. Inspector Terling was on the line.

  “Oracle? Thought you’d like to know the night watchman in that Croesus business just died, poor devil. It isn’t a matter of a few daubed canvases and the odd chunk of marble any longer.” The Art Squad inspector claimed that cultivating a strongly Philistine approach to all matters aesthetic worked wonders for his sense of proportion, and thus his sanity. “It’s murder now, Oracle. Any, er, ideas?”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Delphick told him, knowing perfectly well what he meant. “Someone went down to Kent yesterday to see her”—no need to mention that someone had been an unofficial envoy—“and he’ll be letting me know shortly if she came up with anything . . .”

  “So MissEss is on the case after all,” said Bob, as Delphick hung up the h
andset, with a thoughtful frown in the direction of his blotter. The memory of that umbrella he’d doodled not so long ago was still with him.

  “It would seem,” he said cautiously, “that she may well, before long, receive the summons to action, heaven help us. When we’ve heard from Sir Wormelow we’ll have a better idea of what, if anything, she can—”

  The telephone rang again. Bob looked at his chief, and grinned. Talk about coincidence. Delphick shook his head at such levity, but could not suppress a sigh of amused resignation as he picked up his handset again, indicating that Bob should do likewise. He cleared his throat. “Delphick here . . . Who?”

  It was one of the duty sergeants from the Back Hall, as Scotland Yard’s entrance is traditionally known. Delphick was so sure that he was going to be told of the arrival of Sir Wormelow Tump that he had to ask for the message to be repeated.

  “Faulkbourne? Belton Abbey? Oh, yes—stolen pictures a few years ago, smuggled to Switzerland for exhibition and sale . . .” The Duke of Belton, he reflected, hadn’t been the only person to benefit from MissEss’s unmasking of the over-painted pictures, thus ensuring their safe return. She herself had collected a nice little reward from the insurance people. And well deserved, too.

  “To see me? Does he say why?” Delphick frowned again, his ballpoint pen in his hand. Another confounded brolly was trying to find its way out . . .

  “Confidential? He’s better off seeing a priest than a policeman—no, don’t tell him that, for goodness’ sake. My unfortunate sense of humour, nothing more . . . Insistent, is he?” Delphick glanced at Bob, shrugged, and said: “For ten minutes only, then. My sergeant will pop down for him—and let’s hope,” he added, as he rang off, “that it won’t be too long before we hear from Sir Wormelow. One mystery connected with Miss Seeton I can just about cope with—as for two, words fail me. And stop grinning like that. Go and fetch our unexpected visitor, Sergeant Ranger . . . Faulkbourne,” he murmured, as Bob, still grinning, left the room. “I thought the family name was Bremeridge, but . . .”