Miss Seeton Draws the Line (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 2)

by Heron Carvic

  Delphick was apologetic. “That’s the trouble, Chris. I can’t be certain yet, but I think there’s a faint possibility she did. She’s got a ring here that might be the one that’s missing.”

  “What’s she say about it?”

  “That’s just it. She can’t. I’ll ask her in the morning.”

  “The morning?” demanded Brinton. “Why not now?”

  “I can’t, Chris. She’s asleep.”

  “All right, so she’s asleep; so all right, wake her up. Do we all have to stop for tea because the lady’s having a kip?”

  Delphick began to appreciate Miss Seeton’s occasional difficulty in explaining things. “It’s not quite as easy as that, Chris. You see she’s er—well, drunk.”

  “She’s what?” barked Brinton.

  “Yes,” added Delphick hurriedly. “I’ve called the doctor.”

  “All right, all right, she’s drunk; and so all right, you’ve called the doctor. I’ll tell my old woman, next time I’ve had a drop, to quit narking and call the vet.” A gusty sigh came down the telephone. “I’ll ride along, Oracle, and get on to Brettenden and tell them to hold things over till the morning. And for the Lord’s sake, when your lady comes back from her holiday, let’s have it penny-plain, not tuppence-colored.” He rang off.

  The sergeant was popeyed. “You mean Miss Seeton’s squiffed, sir? She couldn’t be. I mean she wouldn’t be. I mean . . .”

  Delphick sounded tired. “I get your meaning, Bob, but it doesn’t alter facts. She’s blotto.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t touch it, sir. And anyway, where would she get hold of it?”

  “That’s just the point, Bob. If we knew that, we’d know a great deal more than we do.”

  Delphick was reaching for the telephone again when Dr. Knight arrived. Before following him upstairs he instructed Bob to get on to Brettenden and find out if Hosigg had any whiskey on him or any in the lorry, then to have a look at Miss Seeton’s clothes in the kitchen and to smell the rinsed tumbler on the drainboard to see if there was any trace of whiskey there.

  Dr. Knight wasted little time in the bedroom and came downstairs in high good humor. The police, he suggested, might be well advised to take elementary courses in nursing. Nothing difficult; just beginners’ stuff. Then possibly they might be able to recognize such very simple facts as when a lady had quite obviously been to a dentist and had a tooth out, had been given a sedative—one of the barbiturates, he should say—then gone and taken it with spirits, which had knocked her out. Then, instead of mauling her about and trying to indulge in chatty conversation, they might have wit enough to leave her alone and let her sleep it off. “And don’t,” he added at the front door, “try waking her with early-morning tea at eight o’clock. If you do, you’ll have her half doped all day and with a splitting headache. Wait till she wakes on her own—about midday probably from the look of it.” He glanced at his watch. “Good morning to you.” He nodded and departed.

  Bob reported that Brettenden said there was a half-empty flask of whiskey in Hosigg’s overcoat pocket. Delphick expressed satisfaction and the two officers went up to the bedroom for a final look at Miss Seeton and a detailed examination of the sad little array of objects on the towel. They knelt down and sorted through the things carefully, but nothing appeared unusual except the ring—and the fact that everything was wet.

  “Playing crap, boys?” inquired Mel from the doorway. “Mind if I sit in and have a throw?”

  Bob was embarrassed, Delphick wild. He got up slowly. In deference to Miss Seeton he kept his voice quiet.

  “And so we have the press. Charming. Trespass, breaking and entering, obstructing the police in the execution of their duties . . .”

  “Obstructing nothing,” flashed Mel. “If you two clowns want to shoot crap in a lady’s bedroom at two A.M., that’s all right by me, I’ll not stop you. I’ve not broken a thing and as for trespass,” she turned to the bed, “well, I guess you could call me a friend of the corpse. What gives?”

  Without answering, Delphick crossed to the door, ushered Mel out and down the stairs. Bob switched off the light, closed the door and followed them.

  In the sitting room, Mel sat relaxed, Delphick stood, Bob hovered.

  “Perhaps you’d be kind enough,” suggested the superintendent, “to explain this intrusion even if you can’t excuse the impertinence.”

  “Why, sure,” said Mel ironically. “Just a friendly call. You know, human interest stuff.”

  “Quite. For human interest I suggest we read muckraking. Has it never occurred to you the damage you can do by hounding people to get a story? Prying into their lives to get a story? Twisting facts and making suggestions just this side of libel, and all to get a story? Oh, no—nothing’s sacred in the name of news and everything’s excused, to get a story.”

  “My, my,” said Mel in admiration. “Sir Galahad himself.” She sat forward in her chair. Her expression hardened. “You’d like it then,” she snapped, “that I should make it front-page stuff? Police Orgy in Battling Brolly’s Bedroom. Miss Seeton missing half the night. Big police hunt. Three burglaries reported. Miss Seeton’s whereabouts still unknown. Is she involved? Two police officers found in Miss Seeton’s bedroom after 2 A.M. with Miss Seeton asleep in bed and a strong smell of whiskey.

  Delphick looked grim. “You’ll find, Miss Forby, that the police have means of making things difficult for reporters when they wish; so difficult that in the long run editors sometimes find it more expedient to employ someone else, if they want to get their facts without undue delay.”

  “Threats yet, or I’m a Dutchwoman. And has it occurred to you,” asked Mel, “you half-baked crusader, that I know about you fetching Miss S to the Lewisham morgue to draw a stiff? All in the name of chivalry, I guess. What’s more, I’ve seen the drawing of this Goffer child.” Delphick’s head jerked up. “That shakes you, huh? Know, near enough, what brings you here, and near enough what gives in all directions. And have I spilled it? No, I’ve played along. Miss S is news—I can’t help that—but have I said so? No, I’ve plugged the Brolly angle so they’ll forget the name. Sure, I’m following a story—on orders. Sure, I hope to make a scoop. But not at her expense, you dope. What d’you think I am? A scandal sheet?”

  Delphick spread his hands, then sat down. “Miss Forby, I apologize . . .” he began.

  “If you mean that, make it Mel.”

  “Right. I’m sorry, Mel.”

  “So, let’s start over. I’ll send in nothing without you oversee it and we all protect little old Innocence upstairs. You know,” Mel shook her head in wonder, “somehow she gets me.”

  Their differences resolved and a firm foundation established, Delphick made it clear that, although it would be a disciplinary offense for him to give any information whatever to the press, in view of the fact that Mel was a friend of Miss Seeton’s, he had no authority to throw her out of the house. If she chose to sit there while he discussed with his sergeant what they knew of the night’s events he was powerless to prevent her.

  Finally, Mel took cushions and seats from the chairs, found a rug and made a bed for Bob on the floor, the sofa being far too short. They had agreed that under no circumstances should Miss Seeton be left alone in the cottage. Delphick would have to go over to Ashford early and pacify the chief inspector. Mel would look in at Sweetbriars during the morning and, when Miss Seeton woke, would ask her if she minded going to Ashford to make a statement. They wrote a brief note to Martha Bloomer to acquaint her with the situation so that she wouldn’t worry or disturb Miss Seeton.

  Mel Forby and the superintendent, huddled amicably under her inadequate umbrella, set off to drop the note and return to the George and Dragon.

  Bob settled down philosophically to a few hours of wakeful discomfort.

  Miss Seeton slept.

  chapter

  ~7~

  MISS SEETON WOKE. She felt relaxed and comfortable; disinclined for movement. Gently the happening
s of the night returned to her. Really, Mr. Geldson was very clever. No trouble with her mouth at all. . . . Come, this wouldn’t do. She mustn’t lie about.

  She got up, had a bath, went back to the bedroom, and laid out fresh clothes. She wondered for a moment where her wet things were. Well, time enough for that. She made the bed. How very odd. The mattress wasn’t hers. She looked around. The cushion on the easy chair was different. Where had they come from? Perhaps Martha had started a spring clean; they must be hers, lent while her own were being seen to. She’d ask her. She began to dress—stopped, restless. Last night . . . Her hands began to flutter. She opened a dressing-table drawer, took a drawing block and pencils. Last night . . . Yes, that was it, she’d put it down. She’d set down everything that happened while it was clear in her mind. Happily she squatted and plunged into work.

  When she had finished she laid the block aside, her mind and hands at peace. Really, she must get dressed. She felt lethargic and, as she began to get to her feet, perhaps a little stiff. She’d probably be wise to—what was it the games mistress always called it? Ah, yes, of course—to give herself a workout. Before making herself some toast and tea she’d do her exercises.

  Mel Forby opened the front door quietly, crept upstairs, carefully lifted the latch of the bedroom door and looked in. On the floor, in stockings, bloomers, and a jumper knelt Miss Seeton. Knees together, feet apart, she sat between them: overarm and underarm her hands were clasped behind her back. Her eyes were closed, her breath was held, her lips moved as she counted. Mel gaped.

  “Well, fry me for supper,” she exclaimed. “Miss S, what are you doing?”

  Miss Seeton’s eyes opened. She turned her head slightly. Four . . . Five . . . How very awkward. One mustn’t let go one’s breath or lose one’s count. But then, again, one must, of course, reply. From counting, breath control, and strain, her voice came strangled.

  “Cow-Face,” said Miss Seeton.

  Well, ask a personal question, and—wow!—did you get a personal answer. Softly Mel closed the door, and went downstairs. In the kitchen she gathered up Miss Seeton’s still damp outer clothes and tied them in a bundle for the cleaners. She put the kettle on, cut the bread, took butter from the fridge, found marmalade, and laid for breakfast. She went through to the sitting room. The sergeant, who had returned to the inn when daylight came, had left it neat and tidy. She rang him. Miss Seeton was awake, she told him, but not yet fully dressed or fed. Give them, say, half an hour. She put the receiver back. The telephone bell rang: the Colvedens. The telephone bell rang: Miss Treeves. The telephone bell rang: Anne Knight. The telephone bell rang: the Oracle. Mel coped with all. From the little table in the passage she collected the post and put it on Miss Seeton’s plate. She couldn’t fail to notice and to be intrigued by an official-looking envelope inscribed: MissEss, Sweetbriars, Plummergen, Kent.

  Mel let Miss Seeton have her meal in peace, contained her curiosity, and forebore to question her about the previous night. The meal finished, she cleared the table and washed up, refusing Miss Seeton’s help. She warned her of Bob’s imminent arrival and the impending jaunt to Ashford. Miss Seeton was resigned. She deplored, but acknowledged, the necessity. At least she could hand over that ring which worried her. And then the whole affair could be forgotten. She tackled her post. She looked at the official envelope a moment, puzzled. Then her expression lightened, she smiled and opened it. It contained a check and a note, Mel observed from her position at the sink. Miss Seeton read the note, frowned, and shook her head. She looked at the check, looked closer, and gave a small “Oh” of dismay. The note was most kind, but quite undeserved. In it Delphick explained that he felt, and Sir Hubert Everleigh agreed, that the Effie Goffer drawing formed a part of their case and so, with her permission, they were keeping it and had made the check for double the amount to include both sketches. But the check . . . Oh dear. Apart from its generosity . . . She looked at it again. Yes, she’d been right. It was signed on behalf of the Reciever for the Metropolitan Police District. Really, how dreadful. One knew, of course, that things were bad. And one had read that the police were underpaid. But to have the receiver in . . . One had had no idea that things were as bad as that. One would not, of course, cash the check; but should she, she wondered, send a small donation? Miss Seeton was distressed.

  “What’s biting you, honey?” inquired Mel.

  Oh. Now that was very difficult. Should one mention it? Perhaps the police preferred to keep it quiet. But then, again, one understood that the press knew everything and was always very careful what it said. Certainly she couldn’t ask the superintendent—so embarrassing—and that nice sergeant, she felt, might not quite understand. Whereas Miss Forby—well, Mel . . . She looked at her. Began to study her. The eye makeup: so very much improved. Those hard, flat planes, the generous mouth, the high and wide-set cheekbones—so interesting—leading to slight hollows which threw into relief the broad brow; all softened, brought together by those quite, quite lovely eyes. Now—where was she? Ah, yes. Mel could probably advise her. She showed the check to her; described her problem. Mel tried, tried hard, to play it straight and then collapsed.

  “No one but you-hoo-hoo,” she hooted, “could think they’d got the bums in at the Yard.” She whooped again in glee.

  Miss Seeton smiled, uncertain. When Mel had made it plain that the receiver was not the official one, but an august personage in control of all financial dealings for the London force, Miss Seeton was relieved.

  “Why the MissEss?” asked Mel.

  “But, surely, they have to. They all do nowadays. Officially, that is.”

  “Do what?” Mel queried.

  “Address each other by initials. At one time there was only C.O.D.; or C.P. if you wanted something moved. But now there are so many, it’s become involved. H.P., which is a way of buying things—so very rash—or then, again, you buy it as a sauce. People, too,” Miss Seeton pointed out, “with P.M.’s, M.P.’s, G.P.’s and J.P.’s. You see it everywhere. Naturally one understands that in my case the initial wouldn’t do. M.S., you see, might stand for manuscript and lead to muddles. Evidently they compromised; so very wise.”

  A knock at the front door. That would be Bob. Mel went to see. It was a girl. Could she see the lady? Mel led her to the kitchen. The girl ran to Miss Seeton, knelt; words spilled from her.

  “Please, please, miss, they took him, won’t you help, Len never did it, no, never, you know that, but he’ll not say anything, I know he won’t, he can’t, you see, because of me.”

  Miss Seeton took her hands. The shy boy’s wife. She smiled at the tear-stained face. “Come now, we mustn’t cry. Who’s taken—Len, you said?—and why?”

  “The cops, because they say he’s pinched them things last night, but he wouldn’t, you know that.”

  Miss Seeton was indignant. “Of course he wouldn’t. Quite ridiculous. What makes them think he did? Why won’t he say? And why because of you?”

  “I’m under age, you see. We’d not a right to marry. That’s why we came here. Len’s still on appro, you see, because of a bit of bother at my home.”

  “Bother? I see.” Miss Seeton nodded. “I think perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what did happen at your home.”

  “Well, it’s my stepdad really, mum’s silly, you see, and him he tried it on with Rosie, that’s my sister, and like a fool I told Len, and then he tried it on with me and Len he was that wild he bashed him one and knocked him down the stairs. Bust three ribs. They brought it in assault, that’s why Len’s still on appro. Len he said I weren’t to stay so we got a license and we quit but of course we haven’t got the right, not in the law, not without mum’s say-so me being a minor. Well, so’s Len for that, that’s why he got this driving job and we come down here to sort of hide, you see. But nothing wrong.”

  “Of course not,” Miss Seeton said. “Len was right. Quite right. It was your stepfather who should have been charged. His behavior was quite dreadful. They should have
realized that.”

  The girl looked hopeless. “They didn’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Len wouldn’t have it. I wanted to speak up but he said no. There’s mum, you see, and Rosie, then the neighbors, you know what people are, he wouldn’t have me mixed up with things like that with people speaking ill. Unprovoked, they called it, but Len’s got a good character and never did a thing before so they put him on appro.” The girl gave a wan smile. “I suppose he was lucky really.”

  Miss Seeton patted her hands. “Now, now, stop worrying. This is all nonsense. Len was with me last night and very, very kind.”

  Mel was entranced. A new Miss S. The schoolmarm bolstering a kid in trouble. And last night’s story spilling or she missed her guess.

  “I know,” answered the girl simply. “He popped in late and got some whiskey, said he was afraid you’d catch your death. Wet as a herring he said you was.”

  The sergeant, who had been waiting in the car, finally knocked. Receiving no answer and hearing voices, he’d come to the kitchen and was standing unnoticed in the doorway, spellbound.

  “I was,” agreed Miss Seeton. “He got me out of the canal and got the sack on the road. The kindest boy. And thoughtful.” Her hands moved, traced the air. “I put it all down on paper this morning when I woke, while it was still fresh. We’d settled he was to take it to the police. The sack I mean. I’m afraid I was a bit tired,” she apologized. “He took me home and . . .” She stopped nonplused. “I’m not very clear what happened after that.”