Picture Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 1)

by Heron Carvic

  He looked at her. He turned his back on Bob’s beaming face as the sergeant settled into the driving seat of the converted van to take over the tow. He looked at her. All his distressed concern of the last hour—all that worry—and there she’d been, skittering round the countryside, getting herself into danger, getting herself out of it, breaking all the laws of probability, blowing bubbles down the petrol tank, roping her man and bringing him in—and all she could say was, ‘How very fortunate, Superintendent. I was so hoping we’d meet.’ So hoping . . . So help him. Delphick held the passenger door of the police car open. He looked at the battered hat, the dishevelled little figure, mastering in his relief a strong desire to put her over his knee and smack her.

  chapter

  ~8~

  DURING THE WEEK that followed Miss Seeton’s abduction adventure, Superintendent Delphick and Sergeant Ranger remained in Plummergen. The actual grind of collecting information, much of it useless and the remainder to be sifted and collated in the hope that it might one day be of value in the building of a case, was a slow, laborious process unimagined by the majority of the Press and public, alike impatient for finality.

  On Mrs. Venning, the information so far gathered seemed innocuous except for one significant gap. She had been married at twenty-three to a rising executive in an engineering firm. The young couple, comfortably off and with an assured future, had lived a social life to the limit of their income, so that when the husband was killed in a motor accident he left his widow and two-year-old daughter with an expensive flat and no visible means of support. In neither case were the parents wealthy and, so far as could be checked, no financial help had been given to his widow. After a suitable interval, Mrs. Venning had resumed her social life, dressed well and had engaged her old nurse, a Mrs. Fratters, to help look after the child and run the flat. Sonia Venning had paid her bills, had not been in debt, but her means of support for the next three years remained a mystery. Then she had set down in book form the stories she used to invent as bed-time entertainment for her little girl. A publisher had been interested and the book had proved a success. After the publication of her second book she had sold the lease of her flat and moved to Plummergen. From then on all was plain sailing. Highly strung, gay and gregarious, she was conspicuous in all local affairs until about a year ago when she stopped all her social activities and became in effect a recluse. Her books continued to appear at regular intervals but that was all now that was known of her. Her abrupt and mysterious retirement from the life of the community had provoked, still evoked, much speculation. The police too speculated. It could be no more than the evident trouble with her daughter, but it was tempting to take the two unaccountable chapters in her life and to deliberate possible cause and effect. There appeared to have been no man other than her husband; although it would have been an obvious and easy solution to account for her solvency in the early days of her widowhood, no trace of such a man could be found. Again a love affair would have been a simple answer to her recent seclusion but in all the talk about her there was no hint of this and it was difficult to believe that the village gossips would not have seized upon the idea had there been any grounds. Indeed, with impulsive generosity, they would have provided her with not one man but a score.

  In the case of Mr. Trefold Morton research was hampered by the need for delicacy. As a solicitor he could, and no doubt would, make things awkward if he got wind of their investigation. There was nothing against him. The police had no excuse for curiosity. Report made him more prominent than popular or, as one fellow councillor put it in the course of conversation, “A gas bag with influence.” There was nothing tangible but the superintendent decided that there was a ‘feeling’. Mr. Trefold Morton felt wrong. He was obviously well-to-do. It could, though at this stage there could be no means of proving it, that he was better-to-do than might have been expected. The only facts which emerged and which Delphick filed as of possible interest were that in four cases clients whose affairs were completely in their solicitor’s hands had come to unfortunate ends: or more accurately, in three cases; in the fourth, though the present was unfortunate, the end was still to come.

  A Mrs. Cummingdale, an elderly widow presumed to be rich, had died in a fire, supposedly caused by smoking in bed. Her nephew from Scotland had been loud in his surprise when she cut up for a little over six hundred pounds. The superintendent learned from people living around that she had been behaving oddly for some time before she died.

  Ernest Foremason, a bachelor in his fifties, had driven his car into a wall: the wall survived. The police opinion was “Drunk in charge”. Mr. Foremason had died intestate and having no relations his estate of a few hundred pounds and a mortgage on his house had gone to the Crown. Mr. Foremason, too had been thought to be wealthy.

  A Miss Worlingham, a maiden lady of sixty-three, had committed suicide. She had left a will written in her own handwriting on the morning of the day that she had died, witnessed by the milk roundsman and her daily help. The document was valueless, however, as her personalty failed to cover her debts. This caused no surprise, though she had been thought to be moneyed, since during the last years of her life her behaviour had been noted as strange.

  Miss Hant, another maiden lady of uncertain years, was in a private nursing-home being treated for drug addiction and was regarded as incurable. No one visited her there except her solicitor. So far as was known she was without relatives or friends. She appeared to have had money though it was now rumored that Mr. Trefold Morton was helping with her expenses out of kindness.

  Odd behaviour, drunken behaviour, strange behaviour and Miss Hant’s behaviour with her craving for heroin could not be counted as normal. All lonely people without close kin to question the aftermath of their death. All presumed to be rich yet all shown in the event to be poor. All except Miss Hant and even there the hint of poverty was in the offing. Coincidences worth bearing in mind? the superintendent thought so, but on the other hand, how many solicitors could not show a like percentage of unfortunate clients in the course of thirty years’ practice. There was no way that he could see for the police to carry the inquiries further. It would be useless to interview Miss Hant in the nursing-home for although rational enough at times, according to her doctor, like all drug addicts she would give no helpful information to the police and he would have succeeded in advising Mr. Trefold Morton of his interest. It would be a pity to make no effort to see her while she was still alive, her doctor did not give her a long expectation, for once she was dead there would be nothing the police could do without more to go on than they had. In fact, as the superintendent admitted, they had nothing. The germ of an idea to achieve this object had occurred to him but he was still unsure whether to put the idea before his superiors, or to risk acting on his own initiative.

  From the viewpoint of the police, the investigation into Miss Seeton’s abduction which with the facts undisputed and the culprit in jail should have been simple, was proving to be the most difficult. They had so far failed to obtain further information of any kind and the case was verging on the ridiculous. The preliminary inquiry before the magistrate on the morning following the arrest had alerted the newspapers and reporters had flocked to the district. Birds of Press had hovered round the chief actors in the drama, pecking at stories before settling in rows with a flutter of notebooks on the Press Benches in the magistrate’s court at Ashford four days later.

  The case was a blessing. Apart from cheesecake, it had all the ingredients to please a newsman: a colourful heroine, a gallant rescuer who had been wounded in the fray and a mysterious villain.

  The case was a curse. Apart from cheesecake, it had every ingredient to displease a policeman: a colourful heroine, a gallant rescuer who had beaten the police to it by a car’s length, and a mysterious villain. This last was the greatest snag. Miss Seeton and her burly friend had handed over their prisoner to the law neatly tied, but unlabelled. The label was still missing. The prisoner refused to speak—at
all. His fingerprints were not on file which suggested the amateur. He had nothing on him which gave a clue to his identity which argued the professional. The van he had used, an old Buick car converted and with the back of the body too large for the chassis, turned out to have been stolen overnight in Brettenden, the owner remaining unaware of the theft until it was returned to him. Attempts to establish his identity by publishing his photograph produced the usual spate of replies, all useless. Identification parades were held for members of The Singing Swan, for Nigel Colveden and for Angela Venning. The seven suspect members of the club and Angela were over-loudly positive that they had never set eyes on him. This evidence, though it might convince the police to the contrary, with the over-loudness muffled by defence counsel, would have the opposite effect on the Court. Of other members of the club who had been present on the night of the hen-house raid, one was certain and two were fairly sure that the prisoner had been one of a group at a corner table. Two more were definite that he had not been present. The evidence cancelled out. Nigel thought that he was one of the two strangers in the car park but the light had not been good and he could not decide without hearing the voice. Evidence mute and inconclusive.

  The police considered asking for more time but came to the conclusion that if the prisoner succeeded in maintaining his silence, the longer the case was delayed the more farcical it was likely to become. In any event, the gravity of the charges, abduction and unlawful wounding presupposed that the case would be sent to the Assizes at Maidstone and this would automatically gain them time before the trial proper.

  The youth had been granted legal aid and his counsel, not averse to publicity, entered the fray with enthusiasm. Having first pleaded that there was no case to answer since his client was more the victim than the aggressor, thenceforward, unhampered by any instructions from his client, he was free to let an unfettered imagination roam and it became clear at the Ashford court what line the defence would take. The police had kept the prisoner under observation in hospital and the doctor’s written report was that he could find nothing physical or organic amiss nor any overt signs of mental instability. His verbal report was more lucid: “He’s boxing clever!” A doctor called by the defence agreed with the physical and organic soundness but theorised that it was impossible to stipulate what effects shock and bound incarceration in the back of a moving vehicle might have on a highly strung mind; it could well lead to temporary amnesia and loss of speech. The prosecution doctor, recalled, had to concede the point but said he could see no ground for the supposition of a highly strung mind. The defence doctor, recalled, contended that the grounds for such a supposition were the evident results. Thus the medical evidence ended in a draw with a replay booked for the Maidstone Assizes.

  On the question of abduction the defence seized upon Miss Seeton’s assumption of “a prank in revenge for the egg stealing” to minimise the charge and with regard to the unlawful wounding the burly van driver played into their hands by saying that “Young Ginger acted like a nut case”.

  The way things were going, Superintendent Delphick reflected, this wretched little hoodlum was likely to be let loose on probation as a first offender with the sympathy of the Court for his sufferings. The van driver would be fortunate if he were not charged with assault and Miss Seeton could count herself lucky if she escaped with a fine for wantonly immobilising the defendant’s vehicle.

  The superintendent, determined that Mr. Trefold Morton should not escape through lack of assay, resolved on an attempt to put his plan for interviewing Miss Hant into effect.

  chapter

  ~9~

  “ANY LUCK?” asked Delphick.

  “I’m afraid not, Superintendent. I did what you asked me to do. I went and saw that poor Miss Hant. Naturally I know it’s all very tragic and one should feel sorry for persons like that and, of course, I do, in a way, but there are so many people in trouble through no fault of their own and I know it’s very unfeeling of me, but I do find it difficult to sympathise completely with someone who’s gone out of their way to bring trouble upon themselves. I did as you suggested and tried to show an interest and asked what made her start on drugs in the first place, but her replies were very rambling and frankly I doubt if they were strictly true.”

  “I doubt it, too. Drug addicts and alcoholics have this in common; the truth is not in them.”

  “I felt that she resented my intrusion and I must say I really couldn’t blame her. So I fear, after all, I wasn’t of any assistance to you.”

  “No?” An eyebrow quirked. “It was your impression of Miss Hant rather than her version of herself that I was interested in.”

  “My impression?” Miss Seeton looked bewildered. “But I don’t think I—well, I don’t think I have one.”

  Delphick smiled. “Not even a sketch?” He looked from her to her writing-desk: the flap was not quite shut and pieces of paper were protruding.

  She followed his gaze. “That—oh, but that’s quite different. I mean it has nothing to do with Miss Hant. At least not directly.”

  “Direct or not,” argued Delphick, “the mere fact that it’s something that you felt so soon after seeing Miss Hant is enough to make it interesting.”

  She yielded. “But of course you can look if you really want to. But really it has nothing to do with Miss Hant. It’s—it’s rather unkind, in fact, and perhaps—well, a trifle vulgar.”

  On the paper capered an obese and elderly gentleman with a European face, clad only in his dark skin, a grass skirt and a gloating expression. In his left hand he brandished a native spear; in his right hand he clutched aloft four shrunken heads. Or was it five? Four had features roughly pencilled in; the fifth was blank like an egg.

  Miss Seeton was embarrassed. “I—I hadn’t meant anyone to see it. And I’d no reason to . . . After all, Mr. Trefold Morton’s been most kind and considerate. Of course he does boom rather.”

  Delphick replaced the drawing, shut the desk and smiled. “Was it seeing Miss Hant that put Mr. Trefold Morton into your head?”

  “Oh no,” explained Miss Seeton, “he was going into the nursing-home as I was coming out. I met him in the hall.”

  “Damn,” said Delphick.

  . . . “But I tell you this could prove very serious for me. Very serious indeed. You don’t appear to appreciate the gravity of the situation. The extreme gravity. This woman—this wretched woman—appears to be hand-in-glove with the police. Maybe working for them. Employed by them. She may be a professional spy. Something must be done about her. And done at once. . . . But I tell you it is urgent. The woman must have been following me about. Getting in front of me even. This morning, when I went to see Miss Hant, she was there. At the nursing-home. Just leaving. She’d been to see Miss Hant herself. Now what reason could she have for doing that? What possible reason? Dr. Knight had some trumped-up story that he’d thought it’d be a good idea for Miss Hant to have outside visitors. I don’t believe a word of it. Not a word. That woman had put him up to it. Or else the police must have been behind the whole thing. . . . But I tell you it does matter. Of course it matters. And it’s not just my concern. It’s your concern as well. Don’t you understand, I gave this wretched Seeton woman some pills. . . . No, I don’t know whether she took any. I don’t know what she’s done with them. But if the police get hold of them . . . Well, it wasn’t my fault. She seemed a good proposition. A perfectly sound proposition. At the time. It seemed ideal. Not rich, of course. Not really rich. But quite a nice little property. And worth picking up. Well worth it. And when she actually complained of having a headache . . . Yes, of course I realise it may have been a trap. I realise it now. But I couldn’t have known it. I couldn’t possibly have known that then. Can’t you arrange something? Make some arrangements to deal with her? And deal with her effectively? . . . Very well, then. I’ll wait here for a call.”

  Mr. Trefold Morton replaced the receiver, took a crisp, clean handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow.
>
  Two hours later the telephone bell rang. He grabbed the instrument.

  “Trefold Morton here.”

  The telephone spoke.

  Mr. Trefold Morton interrupted. “Instructions? My instructions? But I mustn’t be involved in any way. That would be fatal. Quite fatal. Surely you realise that someone in my position—my position in the community . . .”

  The telephone commented briefly on Mr. Trefold Morton’s position.

  “But if I ‘set her up for it’ as you call it, don’t you realise what that could mean? Great heavens, it would mean that I would become a party to it. An accessory. I couldn’t risk that. It could mean disaster for me. Disaster.”

  The telephone was terse.

  “But—but it’s in your interest, too. After all you’ve had the money. You insisted on a percentage. And a very good percentage of the three estates. Considering that the idea, all the work, and the risk was mine. Entirely mine. And there will be Miss Hant’s to come as well. But if anything were suspected. . . . If any suspicion were to fall on me . . . Oh, great heavens!”—Mr. Trefold Morton’s voice was shaking—“What am I to do?”

  The telephone told him.

  “Very well. I suppose I shall have to. But I can’t ask her to dinner. It would be ridiculous. Quite ridiculous. At such short notice. I hardly know the woman. And in any case, I have a prior engagement. I’ll think of something. Some papers that have to be signed. Some urgent signature. I’ll drop her off at the crossroads at Plummergen Common, as you say, but anything that happens after that is nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. I want to know nothing about it. Nothing. Is that quite clear?”