by Heron Carvic
“You’re dead on. Has been, and will be again. A violent tyke. English born, French parents. In trouble on and off since a kid.”
“They’ve got mug shots, sir,” the sergeant broke in. “Do you want to speak?”
“Yes.” He took the phone. “Harry? . . . Good. Run some prints and to save me time get them to put out an all-stations for him, would you? . . . No, not the ‘Help with inquiries’ lark. ‘Wanted in connection with the murder of Mrs. Hickson; born Marie Prévost’ and see the Press get it . . . I know, but I want to give the impression the case is sewn up . . . No, no dabs, not a damn thing except one eye-witness ident . . . Exactly, that’s the danger. I want Lebel and his lot to think there’s more. That we’ve got him cold . . . Thanks. Be seeing you.” He cradled the receiver and turned back. “Now, Miss Seeton, can you bear with us a little longer, or would you rather we finished this in the morning?”
“I think now would be best. That is if you don’t mind and if it won’t keep you too late. You see,” she apologised, “I have to set out early in the morning for the country. Also I don’t think they’ve found my bag yet. They promised to let me know because without my latchkey I can’t get in. My spare key is in my desk.”
“Your handbag, yes.” He regarded her seriously. “I wanted to talk to you about that. It’s not at the scene of the crime and, I should say, almost certainly stolen.”
“Stolen? But there was no one there. Only that nice Mr. Walters, so kind and helpful. He would never . . .”
“No, not Mr. Walters. Young César.”
“But—but he hadn’t time.”
“Not when you were on the ground?”
Miss Seeton gave it thought. “Well—yes, I suppose it is just possible.”
“Probable, I’m afraid. That is the main reason you were asked to stay on here. From your description of the contents,” he referred to the papers, “some silver in purse, two pound notes . . .”
“Just for emergencies,” she explained. “I don’t keep more in my bag than I need because you never know, do you? And then, of course, at school—such a temptation. So unfair I always think.”
“Very sensible,” he agreed. “Now, let’s see—handkerchief, comb, mirror, key to flat . . . ah, yes, here we are, diary containing name and address. The local police have been contacted and a watch is being kept on the house.”
“A watch? But I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you realise you could be in danger yourself? Lebel might very well make an attempt to kill you.”
“Me?” Miss Seeton expostulated. “But that’s ridiculous. I don’t even know him.”
“I doubt he’s a stickler for the social conventions,” the superintendent remarked. “If he thinks you’re the only witness that can identify him, his best bet is to eliminate you. I’d like to suggest we arrange accommodation for you at an hotel for the night.”
She became flustered. “I’m sorry, that would really be rather inconvenient. I—I’ve nothing with me. And then I still have some packing to do.”
“Very well. In that case, with your permission, we’ll have a policewoman spend the rest of the night with you. She can see you off in the morning. Meanwhile may we clear up one or two points in your statement. You say ‘He had his back to me. Then he hit the girl. I spoke to him. Then he turned round and jumped and we both fell down.’ I can’t think why he jumped you—why didn’t he just make a run for it? If he hadn’t turned round you would never have seen his face at all.”
“That was my fault, I’m afraid. I interrupted him and that rather took him aback, I think.”
In defiance of control the superintendent’s lip twitched. “I can see it would,” he acknowledged.
“Actually—” Oh, dear, this was most embarrasing. It sounded so—so aggressive. But she must be exact. “Actually I was a little angry—at his rudeness, you know—so I poked him in the back with my umbrella. It was that that made him jump.”
Holy cow! The sergeant’s pen clattered on the floor. Only rigid training stopped him throwing his notebook after it. Go on, give her the George Medal and be done with it. Give her the bar as well. Give her the commissioner’s job and let ’em all go home. Strong men thought twice about tackling young Caesar in a temper. But not this little hen. Oh, no. Stick him in the back with a brolly, right in the middle of a murder and tell him to stop it at once. A few more like her and crime would be all washed up and they could concentrate on traffic offences like the public thought they did.
“When you’re ready, Sergeant.”
The young man, red-faced under the stem gaze of his superior, retrieved his pen and straightened. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” How did The Oracle remain cool as a cold-blooded cucumber? Even a bit grim. Though, come to think of it, pinker than usual and sort of quivering at the edges.
“Thank you, Miss Seeton.” The superintendent’s voice was grave. “I have a very clear picture of events now.” He had, too. Took him aback! He betted it had. Took him right back to his cradle, he shouldn’t wonder. It was a delightful thought—but, no, not for now. For reflection later—preferably when he was alone. He set his jaw and conjured up serious thoughts. Car smashes. Murders—no, not murders—not just at the moment. Fire, famine and flood. “There is one other thing,” he continued, “it’s in Mr. Walters’s statement. With reference to Lebel, Mr. Walters quotes you as having said: ‘He had to do it’—and something about it’s being his last act, but not necessary. Can you remember what you meant by that?”
The sergeant shied. Oh, no, not again.
“But that was nothing to do with him,” she pointed out, “that was the other one.”
“Other one?” Delphick was sharp. Both detectives stiffened like pointers.
“Don José, in the last act,” she explained.
“Ah,” the superintendent relaxed. He leafed through the papers. “The beginning of your statement reads ‘I was proceeding along Long Acre . . .’ You had, in fact, come from Covent Garden. From Carmen?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Of course,” he agreed, “and I’m bound to admit I’m with you about his stabbing her—quite unnecessary. If he had to behave so stupidly in the first place, he’d have done far better at the end to mind his own business and stab himself. More sensible but less dramatic.”
Sergeant Ranger re-read his last notes. He had an uncomfortable feeling of weightlessness. Cloud-cuckoo-land? Or Outer Space.
The superintendent pulled forward a memo-pad. “May I have your address in the country, in case I need to get in touch with you before the inquest?”
“The inquest?” For a moment she was at a loss. “I hadn’t realised . . . I suppose I have to attend that.”
“Unavoidable, I’m afraid. At least it should be short and straightforward. Did you intend to be away long?”
“About three weeks. I’ve got a little cottage in the country. The address is ‘Sweetbriars, Plummergen, Kent’.”
“There was no note of this address in your handbag, by any chance, was there?” Delphick asked quickly.
“No, I hadn’t put it in my diary yet. It would have been so final, somehow. You see, I hardly feel it belongs to me. Or rather it does, of course—but only just. My godmother, who was a cousin of my mother’s, died recently and left it to me—she’d lived there most of her life. Also a little money, which makes it possible. I’ve been down once or twice to arrange things, but not to stay. I’d been thinking of retiring next year—though it’s always so difficult to know what to do for the best and, then again, whether one can manage. It was like an answer, really. As my holidays started today, I thought I’d spend the time there, to see how I get on. With the idea of living there permanently, eventually. If it works, that is.”
“Are you on the phone there?”
“Yes, Plummergen 35. Luckily my godmother had had it installed—though latterly she used it very little, I think. She was ninety-eight when she died and rather deaf.”
He stood up. “Wel
l, thank you, Miss Seeton. I mean that sincerely. You’ve given us more help than I could have believed possible. Certainly a great deal more than we had any right to expect.” She rose and began to pull on her gloves. “I’ll see that you’re notified about the inquest and we shall meet there. I hope, for your sake, that we don’t have to disturb you before. Though if we’re lucky enough to lay our hands on Lebel, we might have to call on you for identification. It would depend what sort of story he cooked up. Meanwhile I hope you can put the whole unpleasant experience out of your mind and enjoy the Vale of Kent.” He shook hands with her. “The sergeant will take you down and arrange for a policewoman to accompany you. The car’s already waiting.”
Miss Seeton moved hesitantly to the door; she appeared abstracted. Sergeant Ranger collected her umbrella, towered over her and bowed. “Your small arms, ma’am.”
She thanked him with a vague smile and looked past him to the superintendent. “You’ve been very kind. I’m sorry to seem insistent, but it’s my key . . .”
“Not to worry.” He grinned at her. “I think you’ll find that, one way or another, the police will discover a means of opening your door. Though I’d feel happier if, before you leave in the morning, you’d arrange to have your lock changed.”
He watched as the sergeant led her out and closed the door behind them. Comic little cuss. She’d be all right tonight with a policewoman there and the locals alerted, but he had a nasty feeling that when she’d stuck her brolly into César Lebel, she’d stuck it into a hornet’s nest.
chapter
~2~
MISS SEETON WAVED; the platform at Charing Cross began to move past her, she settled back in her seat. What a charming girl; and the uniform, neat and becoming. How did she manage to look so fresh after sitting in a chair all night? What a tiring life it must be. She’d offered to let down the Put-U-Up, but no, the girl wouldn’t have it; she preferred to sit and read. How clever the police were altogether; and what a lot they seemed to know. She’d been really worried about how to get into the flat, but one of them had just sort of fiddled with the lock and the door had opened straight away. It would happen that that inquisitive Mrs. Perrsons from below—a most unsuitable dressing-gown—should choose just that moment to come up and ask “Are you in trouble, dear?” How could she be in trouble when she was surrounded by police? Well, she hadn’t been surrounded exactly; there were only two of them besides the girl; but it had seemed rather a crowd in a small flat; examining everything and asking her to see if anything was out of place. Thank goodness, nothing was. Except, perhaps, the kitchen window, which wasn’t of course out of place, merely open. Surely she’d not forgotten to shut that? She couldn’t remember forgetting it. Anyhow it had obviously interested them and they had insisted on dusting it for fingerprints, though you could hardly call it dusting when it meant blowing powder over everything and making rather a mess. One of them had even got out on the fire-escape and powdered out there, too. However, apparently there weren’t any fingerprints, not even her own; it was what they called ‘wiped clean’ which sounded most satisfactory; she must have forgotten it after all.
This morning had been dreadful. The bell ringing the whole time, or else the telephone, or both together. So distracting when one was trying to remember if one had packed everything one needed. And that interfering Mrs. Perrsons coming up again, offering to help—when all was said, she hardly knew the woman—and asking endless silly questions. She wondered how she would have managed without that police-girl, calm and efficient, arranging to have the lock changed, ordering a taxi and then getting them into it, with the help of the policeman outside, through that crowd on the pavement—newspaper reporters, apparently—you’d have thought they had more important things to do. Why should they want flashlights for taking photographs in daylight?
Nevertheless they’d got away and here she was. She couldn’t help feeling excited. It was exciting setting out for one’s own place in the country. One’s own. Well, she hoped it would become her own. Home. The country. Miss Seeton looked out of the window at the endless vista of streets and buildings. Not quite yet of course. She picked up The Times. “Prime Minister Flies to New York.” “The Moon Next Year?” “Road Deaths Up Again!” “Murder in Covent Garden.” She opened the paper. Ah, now this was interesting. “How Does Your Garden Grow?” How indeed? That was what she must learn. “A simple, easy way . . . nitrogen . . . mulch . . . phosphates . . .” Oh dear, it sounded extremely complicated. Still, she had bought that book Greenfinger Points the Way and she’d be able to look it all up in that when she arrived.
Tradition makes Brettenden the accepted station for Plummergen. It is also the main shopping centre. Although a little farther than Rye, it is the inevitable choice since it satisfies that basic requirement of all English travellers that the end should resemble, as nearly as possible, the beginning of their journey. Brettenden is, in essence, an enlarged version of Plummergen.
The town of Brettenden consists virtually of one main artery, the High Street, a wide avenue stretching over a mile from East Cross to West Cross, tree-lined for half its length and ranged with shops on either side. There are innumerable lanes and byways, but as these are, for the most part, shopless they are of little interest to visitors. At East Cross the High Street splits, the left fork becoming Virgin’s Lane, which, after two slow curves, turns sharp left round a public house and sweeps up a long hill to the end of the town. Virgin’s Lane, though a wide road and bounded by more shops that houses, is not regarded as part of Brettenden proper and the district is, in fact, subtitled Les Marys.
The right, and residential, fork at East Cross is labelled Plummergen Road—the Plummergen end is labelled Brettenden Road. This, though it leaves some doubt as to the road’s official designation, leaves travellers from either direction in no doubt as to their destination. Despite the fact that it is necessary to visit the emporiums in Brettenden for many essentials, Plummergen itself is not ill-served in respect of shops.
The street, or more properly, The Street—Plummergen has only the one and admits it—is straight, wide and tree-lined, a quarter of a mile long, hedged on both sides by a medley of houses, cottages and shops in a variety of styles ranging over some four hundred years, two public houses, one blacksmith, the police station and a garage. It is not beautiful, but it has charm; it had also, on the last count, five hundred and one inhabitants.
Apart from the tiny, bow-fronted bakery—sweets, tobacco, cakes and bread, the latter no longer home-made since it has become no more than an outpost of Winesart’s empire, which supplies most of Kent and Sussex—and the old building which houses the admirable butcher—meat, eggs and white turkeys any time of year on a few days’ notice—whose hideous clapboard shop front has been giving it an oddly temporary effect for at least two hundred years, there are three shops: the grocer, the draper and the post office. All three sell groceries, green and otherwise, sweets, tobacco, wines and spirits and all have well-stocked deep-freeze compartments. The draper also sells china souvenirs, picture-postcards, clothes, cotton materials and wool. The post office, the largest of them, deals in ironmongery, china, glassware, cosmetics, rubber boots, books and has even, in a rather dim corner at the back behind the bacon, cheese and butter, a small counter with a grid devoted to postal perquisites.
Miss Seeton’s cottage, set back from the road and with a small front garden, stands at one end of the village facing down The Street. The name on the gate, Sweetbriars, serves as a postal address for foreigners. People from abroad, anywhere outside a thirty-mile radius, cannot understand that brevity is the essence of good writing. Attacked by verbal voidance they are not content with “Plummergen, Kent” but give the locals such gratuitous information as that they are ‘near Brettenden’ (6 miles north), or ‘near Rye’ (5½ miles south) which can delay correspondence up to three days while a blue pencil is found, the ‘nearness’ removed and the letter re-addressed ‘Ashford’ (15 miles east), which is ‘nearest’ from the
postal point of view. The cottage’s local name at the present time is ‘Old Mrs. Bannet’s’. Most of the houses and cottages around are known by the name of previous owners; not because of any parochial prejudice against change, but due to practical considerations. Houses are continually bought and sold, occasionally by new-comers to the parish, but more often by the parishioners themselves. As families increase they move into larger accommodation: when the children grow up and the family is scattered, the process is reversed; thus it is not unusual to finish where you started, ending your days in the house where you were born. In Mrs. Bannet’s case, that, latterly, her name should have won house-recognition during her lifetime was something of an accolade. It had been deemed presumably that the old lady, when rising eighty and having lived in the same house for some fifty years, was unlikely to shift again until her final move across the road to the cemetery.
The church, part of the existing fabric built before the Norman Conquest, stands modestly from sight at the southern end of The Street, on the opposite side of the road to Old Mrs. Bannet’s. Next to it is the vicarage with a garden that adjoins the cemetery. It is a Victorian building of which the unpleasing façade is screened from view by evergreens. Its size, designed for a Victorian family and their retinue, has proved excessive in modern times and it has been divided into two homes with separate entrances. Even so the remaining half is over-large for the present incumbent, the Reverend Arthur Treeves, a bachelor whose maiden sister runs the house for him; she does more, she runs him, all church matters and is, in fact, the power behind the vestment. In speech she is as direct and practical as her brother is wind-tossed and unworldly.
Somewhere along the line Arthur Treeves had lost his faith; not lost in the sense of mislaid, but an erosion, a slow whittling away, a dwindling over the years. He was acutely conscious that he lacked the moral courage to leave the Church and take up other work; but it is not easy, late in life and with no independent means, to change your vocation simply because that calling no longer appeals. He was conscientious and active in the discharge of his duties, but had to steel himself to make his visiting rounds, always in dread that some amongst his parishioners, thinking to please him, might wish to discuss theology; a greensward that had turned to bog beneath his feet, wherein, one day, he feared to be engulfed. The tenets and rules that at twenty had looked such positive solutions to all problems had by now become problems in themselves. He could see so many sides to every question in human behaviour and sympathise with all of them, that the question itself had no answer: every question but one: deliberate unkindness.