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

by Heron Carvic

  At the bank Miss Seeton dumped her shopping on the counter and began to fill in a slip. So fortunate that there were only three people before her. Sometimes one had to wait quite a while. The man at the head of the queue spoke to the cashier. Miss Seeton looked up. Now that was very interesting. Or, rather, it was interesting because it wasn’t, so to speak. Though slightly unusual to meet an epicanthic fold to the eye in a rather longish head—a cephalic index of less than seventy-five, she should judge—when taken with the straight dark hair, the dark eyes, and the flattened cheekbones it became, though rather foreign, normal. Almost dull. Dull by comparison, that was. Quite different, naturally, to that other man—the head cashier who’d died—with his piercing light-blue eyes and fair wavy hair. But, of course, an identical formation. What a complete difference coloring could make. Without question a most interesting comparison. Unconsciously she reversed the filled-in slip and started making the comparison upon the back.

  His business completed, the man at the front turned his head. Caught staring, Miss Seeton smiled uncertainly. The man’s dark eyes narrowed; after a moment the lips below the thin black mustache stretched in answer and he came toward her.

  “Miss Seeton, isn’t it?” Surprised Miss Seeton nodded. “What luck,” said the man. “I hope you won’t think it rude, my speaking to you like this. You don’t know me, but I’ve been awfully anxious to meet you.”

  Miss Seeton, who could think of no reply to this, said, “Oh?”

  As the two people in front of her dispatched their business, the man stood to one side. Miss Seeton’s turn came and she handed her slip and check to Mr. Jestin, who took them and said, “Thank you. Good morning, Miss Seeton. Warmer, isn’t it?”

  Miss Seeton countered this with “Good morning, Mr. Jestin, thank you. Yes, such a change.” She turned.

  “Allow me.” The dark-eyed man picked up her shopping bag. Was she going to make a scene here in the bank or was she going to try being canny? She seemed to have a fancy for playing a lone hand—gave her more kudos, he supposed. He moved to the door. No question the old cow had rumbled him—her and her knowing smirk. His speaking first had thrown her. She hadn’t expected that; could only look halfwitted and say, “Oh?” He held the door for her and waited. Probably meant to ask Jestin his name and address as soon as he was gone; but he wasn’t going—not till she did. So she’d either have to come out into the open or start playing it his way. Miss Seeton passed him with a murmured “Thank you.” He followed her out. If he could fool her into believing he hadn’t twigged she was on to him she might play along—she seemed to think herself so clever—and he’d win out yet. She wanted his address. Well, give her a chance to find that out for a kickoff.

  “So kind.” Miss Seeton held her hand out for her shopping. He retained it.

  “I wonder,” he asked diffidently, “if you can spare the time, will you help me with a problem?”

  “A problem?” Miss Seeton echoed in surprise.

  Sarcasm, huh? Good. Going to play it solo, was she? Couldn’t resist Lone Woman Detective Captures Wanted Man.

  His mind, the cashier congratulated himself, was working brilliantly, meeting this emergency as it had met the previous one when Miss Seeton’s presentation of her check had made him flee the bank and for a brief time had had him on the run. What the cashier did not realize was that his conscience had misinterpreted the evidence; had forced him to run when there was no immediate need to do so; had made him put his plan into operation while he was off balance; had been largely responsible for his committing two murders instead of the one for which he had allowed. Since his original plan had now been accomplished, his conscience appeared to feel itself quit of further obligation in the matter; or possibly in view of the result of its previous intervention it had quit while the going was good. Panic was now his only mentor. For a petty crook with a facile brain, an ill-founded conceit in his own acumen, and a serious lack of judgment when it came to long-term planning Panic is a dangerous companion. It can produce quick solutions to immediate crises, living from moment to moment without counting cost or consequence.

  “I know it’s cheek,” he hurried on confidently, “but my car’s here and I live fairly close, just on the outskirts of Brettenden up Les Marys’ way. You see, it’s not a matter I can talk about in the street or over coffee where people could listen. It’s to do as you must’ve guessed with Superintendent Delphick. So if you would come back with me just for a short while I’d be awfully grateful. Of course, I’d drive you home.”

  “Well, really,” said Miss Seeton, “I don’t think I . . .” He went to his car and opened the door. “Please, Miss Seeton. If it wasn’t so important to me I wouldn’t ask.”

  She hesitated. “Well . . . I . . .” What a strange man. One didn’t, of course, like to appear rude. Or, again, unwilling to help. If, as he seemed to think, one could. Though in what way could one be of service to a complete stranger? On the other hand, they both used the same bank, which was, in a way, she supposed, an introduction. And then, again, Mr. Jestin had seemed to know him, so he must be all right. But one did wonder—although it was a little difficult to ask him since he’d said, perfectly understandably, that it was not a matter for discussion in public; which, of course, if it concerned Superintendent Delphick, one could see—quite how he thought one could help him. “Quite how,” asked Miss Seeton, “do you think I can help you?”

  Tongue like an adder. She could help him all right—by falling under the nearest bus, and well she knew it. Still holding the door invitingly he looked contrite: “I’m sorry, I know it’s asking a lot of a stranger, but when you’re in a state you lose the north a bit.” This at least was true. The cashier had not only lost the north, but under Panic’s guidance unwittingly had thrown away the compass. “Since you know the superintendent,” he continued, “and with your knowledge of police work . . .”

  “My . . .?” repeated Miss Seeton blankly. “I assure you I . . .”

  “Please,” he interrupted. “I’d been thinking I ought to get on to Delphick about things—was actually going to ring up and make an appointment. Then meeting you at the bank seemed like the answer. You could tell me what I ought to do before I make more of an ass of myself than I have.”

  Somewhat to her surprise and without realizing quite how she came to be there, Miss Seeton found herself in the car and the door slammed, while this very insistent man ran round to jump into the driver’s seat.

  “Sir, sir . . .”

  The bank manager looked up. “It’s usual to knock, Jestin, before bursting in.”

  “But, sir, we must get on to the police at once.”

  “The police?” The manager shuddered. “We’ve had quite enough of the police. Headquarters isn’t pleased.”

  “But, sir,” young Jestin practically danced in his excitement. His chance had come, as he had known it would. Placed by his father in the bank, a steady livelihood, secure and safe, the boy had eked out his romanticism in dreams. He worked conscientiously and well but, had this been the sum, frustration must have warped his nature. In compensation for a routine job young Jestin had aimed at self-education: he had read. He read all the books on which he could lay his hands to improve his knowledge of the banking world as he saw it and to prepare himself for those exigencies and demands that his role as cashier would one day make upon him. From his position behind the grill when he cashed a check—two pounds for Mrs. Furbelow—or corrected a paying-in slip—over three figures, Miss Enden who runs the Cosie Tea Rooms loses count—he knew full well the danger in which he stood. One day inevitably he would be held at gunpoint: all his reading told him so. In spite of top directives to hand over money and to take no risks, when that day came young Jestin was going to show them, show what and to whom was still uncertain, but show them he would. Convinced that his call to high endeavor must come, he continued with his studies and his readings: Crime, in hard covers from the lending library, in paperbacks from Smith & Son down the street.
His time had now arrived. He knew the form, knew exactly what to do, and was exasperated that fuddyduddies like the manager, ill-read and worse-prepared, should be obstructing him.

  “It’s MissEss, sir,” he explained, clinging to patience. “She tipped me the wink. It’s him, she said so. Dead artful she was—he must’ve been holding a gun on her and I never saw. She never batted an eyelash, just said ‘Such a change,’ smooth as could be pretending she was talking of the weather, and handed me the drawing cool as you please on the back of her slip, knowing I’d cotton on. She’s dead clever. And then went out with him just as they do on films and knowing he’ll kill her and leaving it up to me.” He swelled with pride. “She trusted me, you see. You must admit, sir, she’s wonderful.”—

  The manager slapped his desk. “What, Jestin, are you talking about?”

  “MissEss, sir—that is, Miss Seeton, sir. I told you.” And he did: explained what had happened from his point of view; held out Miss Seeton’s slip reverse side up. “There you are, sir, the spitting image. One with dark eyes, dark hair and a mustache—the other as he was. You can’t mistake him. Can’t think why I never saw it. But we must get the police, sir, or she’s a goner. She left it up to me.”

  The manager frowned. Hysteria? And yet . . . Miss Seeton worked for Scotland Yard. Head office’d be furious. But if anything went wrong they’d take it out on him. Couldn’t afford more trouble either way. He washed his hands. “If you choose to get in touch with the police about this scatter-brained idea of yours, you may. But it’s on your own responsibility. If,” he threatened, “you’re stirring up a mare’s nest with hornets in it, Jestin, I warn you I shall put in a report. You must do what you think best.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jestin closed the door, raced to the telephone, and got through to the Brettenden police. “Police?” At least here he’d meet with quick response and understanding. “Code name, MissEss,” he rapped out with professional enthusiasm.

  “Your name?” inquired the phone. “And your address?”

  “MissEss,” repeated Jestin, “she’s in trouble.”

  The phone was patient. “What name did you say, sir? And what’s your address?”

  “Miss Seeton,” wailed Jestin, “her code’s MissEss. She works for Scotland Yard. She got a message through to me. Her life’s in danger.”

  “Miss Seeton, you say? With Scotland Yard? One moment, sir.” The telephone and time stood still. A new voice on the line, calm, imperturbable. “Who’s speaking, please?”

  “It’s Jestin from the bank—about MissEss.”

  “I understood you said Miss Seeton, sir.”

  “I did,” cried Jestin. “Can’t you understand, her life’s in danger, there’s no time to lose.”

  “Her life? In danger?” The telephone was surprised. “I see, sir. Quite. And from whom?”

  “From our head cashier,” yelled Jestin. “The one who’s dead.”

  The telephone endured. “You say he’s dead, sir?”

  “Yes.” Jestin almost screamed in his frustration. “He died the other day after killing all those children. He’s back again and just gone off with her at gunpoint in a car.”

  “If you’d hold the line, sir,” said the telephone. Another endless wait. The phone snapped back to life. “Ashford Police Headquarters. Chief Inspector Brinton speaking. Something about Miss Seeton, is it?”

  Once more poor Jestin, disillusioned now and lost to hope, delivered his explanation: MissEss; the code; her drawings and her trust; how she was forced into a car at gunpoint; and, finally, under questioning, he actually divulged the name and address of his late colleague’s new identity.

  They drove up Virgin’s Lane to Les Marys’ in a silence which Miss Seeton sought to break. It was really very difficult to know quite what to say under the circumstances. He evidently didn’t wish to discuss what troubled him until they reached their destination. On the other hand, to say nothing seemed a little rude. The weather—she looked out the window—was hardly an appropriate subject and—she looked at him—one mustn’t, of course, be personal, but:

  “You know,” she observed, “the length of your head—the cephalic index of less than seventy-five, I mean—is interesting. In conjunction with the exterior epicanthic fold, that is. I can only remember seeing it once before. The cashier who used to be at the bank had it. Possibly you remember him?”

  Possibly he did. Double-talking old witch. His voice was low and husky. “My brother,” he said simply. Oh, how truly dreadful. So very tactless. She should have realized that there might be a connection. “That was the reason,” he added brokenly, “I wanted your advice.” Distressed, Miss Seeton said no more. They drove on, once again in silence.

  On their arrival at the house he showed her the hall, the rooms on either side. Miss Seeton, who did not admire his taste, agreed that they were well appointed. The poor man seemed ill at ease and, considering the trouble his brother must have caused him, really one couldn’t wonder.

  How was he going to work this, now he’d got her here? She must have an accident; and she must have it pretty quick. But how? Panic reminded him the old cow painted didn’t she? Of course. The cashier grasped the lifeline without thought. The roof: you could see for miles from there. She’d called to ask if she could study the view with the idea of painting it from there. He’d said he didn’t mind; showed her the way up and left her to it. If she fell off it wasn’t his lookout.

  “To an artist like you,” he suggested, “it’s the view would be the thing. It’s a bit of a way, but if you could manage to come up on to the roof I could show you.” A good shove—and nobody could prove it wasn’t an accident. “Also,” he continued sadly, “it sounds a bit stupid, I suppose, but I’d find it easier to talk there in the open than here in the house.” He stretched out a hand and gestured. “All this, you see, I’d meant to share with him.”

  Chastened, and determined not to make another gaffe, Miss Seeton followed him up the stairs. On the roof—flat, with a low parapet—Miss Seeton, rather out of breath, tried to admire the view and failed. In honesty she did her best.

  “What a long way you can see,” she said. Which was true, though the sight was dull. He led her to the parapet. She looked down. So very far. It made one giddy. Quickly she looked up again. He put his hand upon her shoulder. Really. A little familiar, thought Miss Seeton, though, of course, one must remember that the poor man was distressed.

  A short burst upon a siren held them stationary, as a police car, blue light flashing, hurtled up the drive. Figures jumped out and ran toward the house, shouting and gesticulating. Practice improves. Miss Seeton undoubtedly was giving the patrol car practice and on this occasion they proved improvement, arriving before instead of after the event. More cars arriving; more men in uniform. Suddenly the grounds seemed full of the police. One aimed a loudspeaker at them and shouted through it with enthusiasm but without technique; the result was raucous, lively, unintelligible. Height and dizziness forgotten, Miss Seeton watched engrossed.

  “Good gracious. There’s Superintendent Delphick!” she exclaimed. “How very fortunate.” She waved back in greeting to a waving hand below. “Such a very understanding man. So sympathetic. I’m sure that if you go down and talk to him you’ll find that he’ll do all he can to help. That is, I mean . . .” She stopped. This strange man wasn’t listening. Just staring before him like someone in a trance.

  He let go of her shoulder. Moved nearer to the parapet. Instinctively Miss Seeton put out her hand. So much too near the edge. So dangerous.

  “You win,” he muttered slowly. “All along the line. So this is the end. Of Maryse. Of everything. Of me.”

  “If you went down . . .?” Miss Seeton urged.

  As in a dream he stepped upon the parapet, another step, a final, helpful nudge from Panic, and down indeed he went.

  The fall deeply shocked the driver of the police car on which the body landed; it dented the car’s roof and broke, among certain other things, the
erstwhile cashier’s neck.

  chapter

  ~11~

  “ALL RIGHT, so she’s ruined Saturday afternoon and my potatoes aren’t in. If she must take over all our cases, decide we’ve got ’em wrong and it’s up to her to put ’em right, why can’t she do it hush-hush on the side? Just give me a jab in the ribs with her brolly and say, ‘You’ve got it all cockeyed, chum.’ No need to go skipping about the rooftops with a man we’ve buried, and then pushing him off and damaging a car.” He caught Delphick’s eye. “All right, so she didn’t. Saw him walk off myself. But she might just as well’ve given him a shove.” Chief Inspector Brinton unbuttoned his tunic and lay back in his chair. “I’ve done enough today for thirteen men. What with the coroner—very biting he was: most impressed that with all our modern scientific what-have-you we got the sexes right; but he’s sick of issuing death certificates wrongly labeled. Wants to know who the charred stiff was. As if we knew—or ever will. Probably some tramp. We’ll dig him up and put him on ice and do our best, but what can you expect? Can’t issue a description of burned meat.” He yawned and stretched. “Your Miss Seeton—can’t you chain her up, Oracle; sit on her head, do anything, but for the love of Pete let’s have the rest of the weekend off.”

  Delphick chuckled. “There’s gratitude. She’s tidied everything up for you, Chris, saved us a trial, and anyway you should be all right this evening—they’ve got a dance on in the village hall which will keep the locals occupied, and Miss Seeton’s having dinner with the Colvedens: they thought it would help to take her mind off this morning’s escapade. Incidentally, Sir George is offering young Hosigg the position of farm foreman under Nigel. Says he’s a good type and reliable; sound mechanic. I hope the boy takes it, it strikes me as far better for him than the night lorry driving job.”