by Heron Carvic
“Good.” Brinton sighed. “That leaves Plummergen all quiet and happy. Now—” He leaned forward and looked at the latest drawing lying on his desk. “You know, Oracle, with Miss Seeton’s present output there’s nothing between my office and the Tate. I could open it to the public and charge admission. But as to this,” he flicked the sketch, “I can’t agree with you. I know you explained it all to me in Greek, with para-this and psycho-that—we’ve got an inspector here who’s just your glass of beer; natters about psycho stuff for hours, and all in the original Chinese—but me, I speak only two languages, English and basic. This picture says one thing to me: it says that one more stiff is coming up. I’m sending over our two pantywaists to keep an eye on the little perisher until we’ve nailed it down. And if they muck it like they did the Goffer kid, I’ll fry ’em both for supper.”
“Fair enough.” Delphick stood. “That should cover things no matter which of us is right. You get your potatoes in tomorrow—and pray they don’t get blight. And I’ll get back to Plummergen and let’s hope it all keeps fine. We’ll sort things out on Monday.”
The shed doors were open. Dick Quint was tinkering with his van. Doris had joined him: it seemed it wouldn’t start; they both got in to try again. The engine caught. They shot through the gates, turned left toward the village, and were gone.
Bob fumed. They’d fooled him. Where were the men from Ashford who were supposed to be keeping watch? He used his walkie-talkie and reported the Quints’ van was on the road, to be stopped on sight. Easing himself out from behind the bushes where he’d been lurking, he prepared to walk back to the George and Dragon. Quick footsteps behind him. Bob turned and shone his torch. A young man in a leather coat, a purple shirt, and a pink tie ran up to him; identified himself as D. C. Foxon, Ashford Division. Had the sergeant seen the Quints’ kid brother? He’d been detailed to keep an eye on him but hadn’t been able to raise him yet. Bob told him he didn’t know; hadn’t seen him; didn’t think he was in the house, and was pretty sure he wasn’t in the van.
“Then where’ll I pick him up?” cried Foxon. “I got over here double quick but haven’t set eyes on him. The chief’ll have my hide if I slip up on this.”
Bob suggested to ask Potter, the local constable. He might know. They left the common and walked down together.
Several cars and motorcycles lined the Street. Music was blaring from the village hall, set back on waste ground opposite the garage. A crowd of youths was milling round the entrance. Bob left his companion at the police station and continued on his way. Looked like Plummergen was going to make a night of it. At the George and Dragon, Delphick had just got in; Bob gave him his report. The superintendent went straight to the telephone, caught Brinton as he was leaving his office, and let him know the Quints were on the loose and patrol cars had been alerted. Also it seemed that the young brother had ducked from sight before one of the men detailed to watch him had arrived. Brinton blasphemed and said all right, so he’d stay on and wait developments; to keep him posted.
The vegetables were ready. Lady Colveden took a dish from the warming drawer. They could be dished up and left in there to keep warm. The chicken was almost done and with aluminum foil over it, that could wait. Miss Seeton was due any moment and they’d have time for a drink before dinner.
The kitchen door burst open and two masked black figures in cycling gear rushed in. Lady Colveden uttered a cry and dropped the dish.
“Enough from you.” The taller of the figures put a pistol to her head.
“What’s up, Meg? Did you . . .?” Sir George, in the doorway, stopped, stood rigid. Behind him Nigel gasped.
“One peep out of either of you and she gets it, see.”
Pushing Lady Colveden in front of him, the man with the pistol forced them out of the kitchen into the hall. The second black figure followed, tried two doors, left the second open, took the key from the lock and gestured. The Colvedens were crowded in; the door was slammed and locked.
It was very kind of Sir George and Lady Colveden to invite her to dinner; the kinder in that one suspected that Lady Colveden feared one might be brooding. Which, of course, was ridiculous. This morning’s affair had been all very distressing, naturally. But it was not, after all, as if one had known the man; nor, from the little one had seen of him, would one have wished to. That length of head—in conjunction, of course, with the eyefold—did not, in her experience, she was afraid, denote the best of characters. The police had taken it for granted that he was the bank cashier which, she supposed, might well be true. In fact they had proved it to their satisfaction by taking his fingerprints and removing his contact lenses. Such a clever invention—from Germany, she understood; though they had them in England too. And his mustache, a false one, had come off, they said, which proved their point. They—the police, that was—had also taken it for granted that she knew too; and had known all along. Which seemed a little strange. How should she have? Indeed how could she have? But, in view of their conviction and the fact that they were very busy at the time and had appeared to be so worried about one’s being on the roof, one hadn’t liked to insist upon it, but actually, of course, the man had said he was the other’s brother. It was all very complicated and frankly not a thing to dwell on. The Colveden family were always so very thoughtful, so kind and generous, that one would like to feel that there was something one could do in return. Though really, when one considered, it was a little difficult to imagine what. Filled with kind thoughts and good intentions Miss Seeton set out.
How odd. The porch light wasn’t on. At Rytham Hall the porch light was always on, she understood, until they went to bed. But tonight it wasn’t. In fact there were no lights showing anywhere. Miss Seeton groped her way forward. So very careless to have forgotten to remember to put a new flashlight battery on one’s shopping list this morning. Perhaps they were out; though it seemed unlike them and a little strange. At all events perhaps one had better ring the bell. It was one of those handle things, she recollected, that pulled. Somewhere on the right, wasn’t it? Or was it on the left? Miss Seeton felt about and failed to find it. She did, however, find the door open. The front door open? On a cold night like this? Now surely that was wrong. One didn’t like to intrude in people’s houses. But, on the other hand . . . Perhaps if one just switched on a light to make sure that all was well. She stroked the wall. No light switch came to hand. Miss Seeton smelled the dinner cooking. This reassured her. Perhaps if one found one’s way to the kitchen? Now that, she recalled, was down the passage, on the right, just past the stairs. Pointing her umbrella before her as a feeler, she tiptoed forward. A moment later the umbrella point sank into something soft which gasped.
“Oh,” said Miss Seeton, “I do beg your pardon.”
There was a banshee wail of terror, a swirl of movement, and someone shot past her and through the open doorway; there was the sound of running footsteps on the drive. Above her, a clatter as something fell and junkled down the stairs. Feet pounded down in hot pursuit, went thudding past her in the darkness, receding as they followed their companion. The noise of two engines starting up; they roared; then dwindled in the distance.
Somewhere there was banging; there were cries. Really, thought Miss Seeton, so like the post office. There must, she was certain now, be something very wrong. If only she could see. Her umbrella touched a table. She put out her hand to pat the surface. She patted several objects. There might be . . . there was—a table lamp. She switched it on. The banging, Miss Seeton located, came from behind a door on her right, just near the kitchen. She tried the handle. It was locked. She turned the key. Out surged Sir George and Nigel followed by Lady Colveden.
“I’m so sorry,” apologized Miss Seeton, “if I’ve been a little long. I couldn’t find a light.”
“I’ve always said,” said Lady Colveden, “that keys are old-fashioned. It should have a bolt—on the inside. Safer and more practical.” She put the key back into place and closed the door.
&nb
sp; “More to the point,” observed her son, “to call the plumber in and make it a three-seater.”
They dispensed with the formalities and had their dinner by the drawing-room fire on trays. Sir George rang the police to let them know of the attempted burglary. No, nothing taken. Miss Seeton had had the whole affair in hand, sorted the thieves out, and sent ’em packing. The silver and stuff was in a sack at the bottom of the stairs. Only damage he could see was one dish: vegetable—smashed; and one mirror: hand, in silver—cracked. Should bring bad luck to whoever’d tried it on.
It had. The Quints had been caught, he was informed. A farmer who was helping to deliver a sick cow in calf had noticed a strange van parked behind some outbuildings and reported it. The police had identified it as Quint’s, found tire marks and oil drips on the floor and two spare pairs of black overalls hanging on some pegs. They had laid an ambush and when the Quints had returned on motorcycles, they’d been arrested. Their alibi for the P.O. job was bust. The Quint woman seemed in a bad way; babbling about hoodoo or voodoo or some such; but the cow and calf were doing well. The deaf-and-dumb brother was missing; they were looking for him.
A telephone call from Miss Treeves, to say that a lot of boys from Ashford had come over and started a disturbance at the dance. They were fighting in the Street. Arthur was out; she was a little worried. Nigel set off at once to see what he could do. Sir George told her that as a local justice he wouldn’t like to interfere unless they asked him, in case the village might resent it; but if things started to look serious . . . Would she keep in touch? She would. Miss Treeves rang off, relieved.
Miss Seeton rose to leave. She and her hosts parted with mutual expressions of gratitude and good will. Lady Colveden lent her a flashlight and persuaded her to take the footpath opposite, which led down to the towpath alongside the canal. That would bring her home the back way through her garden. Although there was nothing to worry about now that the burglars had been caught, if there was trouble in the Street it might be wiser, she explained.
The trouble in the Street was rampant. The Ashford Choppers, true to their arrangement with Dick Quint, had arrived in joyous form and fettle. They had spent a few minutes dancing in the village hall to show their peaceable intent; but this unnatural behavior had lasted only so long as it took to pick a local girl, barge into her roughly, quite by accident and, when her swain protested, to stamp upon his feet. The ensuing fight developed quickly into a free-for-all, surged from the hall onto the Street, which was the Choppers’ element, and now fists were thudding, staves were thwacking, stones were flying, there was the glint of knives.
The vicar stopped on his way home to watch the foray with indulgence. Youth was the time for spirits. He remembered how, as a young divine, he’d dropped an earwig down a lady’s neck at a church outing; so boisterous he had been. He viewed the battlefield again; Saturday night, and youth was at the helm; no harm, of course; just braggadocio, providing they did not keep it up too late disturbing people’s sleep. With a tolerant smile he turned to go. Near him Stan Bloomer was brought to knee, blood running from his cheek.
“Stan,” cried the vicar, “what are you doing here? You’re too old for this.”
“Them Ashford lot,” gasped Stan, “ ’m’s breaking up t’village.”
The vicar looked again. True. Strangers. Benevolence faded from his face as anger rose. Stan was right; this was no horseplay, this was serious. This was veritable war. All his vexation against the recent happenings boiled up, boiled over. This he’d stop; he’d stop it personally. He strode into their midst.
“Stop this,” he thundered. No one heard. “All of you, stop this at once, I say.” No one took heed. A stave cracked on his ankle, a stone removed his hat. Armed warfare. They were armed. Then so would he be. He trotted to the vicarage, entered his armory, and reviewed his weapons. A scythe? A billhook? No, too dangerous. A hoe? He grasped its handle, felt the sharpened end. It might cause damage. Ah, this—the perfect antidote. He seized his new yard broom, red plastic bristles in spiked array. He’d lost his hat. Upon a beam hung by its chinstrap, mushroom-shaped, his wartime warden’s helmet, crown drilled for drainage. It held geranium plants. He tipped them out and clamped it on his head. His face earthstreaked and cobwebby he left the potting shed. Stones. They were throwing stones. He’d need a shield. He snatched the dustbin lid as he went by. Returning to the Street thus awesomely caparisoned he galloped to the fray.
Brinton had kept Delphick posted and had advised him of the Quints’ arrest. Seeing the commotion brewing on the Street, with the village forces hopelessly outnumbered, Delphick had called for reinforcements. Meanwhile he had gone with Bob to lend his authority in quelling the disturbance. In such a melee, where the invaders had uprooted staves from the fence around the village hall to use for distance work, keeping their own armory of wrenches, chains, and knives for infighting, authority was at a discount and Delphick found himself reduced in rank to soldier of the line.
Mel watching from her bedroom window at the inn sized up the situation. Wow—so this was country life. She put on low-heeled shoes, grabbed a long-strapped totebag and ran downstairs. In the hall a brass doorstop attracted her. The ideal thing. She dropped it in the handbag and swung it experimentally. That should do. Well slung, that should settle somebody. She joined the combatants.
A tin helmet bobbed amidst the tumult. It vanished. The vicar was down. Was up again, his shield held high. He waved his broom in triumph; another Ashford rough had bitten bristle. Beside him Len Hosigg with a captured stave belabored bravely.
Delphick was down: towering, Bob straddled him. Three Choppers, hung round the broad back and shoulders, were bringing him slowly to his knees. Detective Foxon leaping to his assistance accounted for one of them. Bob gripped another by the leg and with a heave flung him to P. C. Potter who received him, twisted him round and handcuffed him. The third assailant Bob hauled off his shoulder, threw him on the ground and stood on him. As Delphick got to his feet Bob turned to thank his helper but the leather coat, slashed open down the back, the pink tie awry, was threshing its way toward the vicar, intent on rescue work.
“All right, sir?”
“Yes,” said Delphick. An ugly bruise was swelling round the ragged gash on his temple from a piece of wrench work. “Try and form up in line with Potter. See if we can sweep ’em back.”
The noise had brought Miss Wicks out to her garden. Strangers? Scrapping? Scandalous. She’d sort them, she decided. She titupped to her toolshed and came back trailing coils of hose, connected one end to the outside tap and, with the nozzle pointed like a gun, advanced to her front gate. Mel was worming her way to where Nigel, losing ground, was engaged with a lout wearing a bicycle chain round his fist as knuckleduster. The lout braced for a well-placed kick and was joined by an ally brandishing a knife. Carefully Miss Wicks took aim; she turned the nozzle tap. Nigel received the impact in his ear. Tst, tst—she’d not allowed for wind. While Nigel was bemused, knife raised, his opponent whooped and jumped. Miss Wicks resighted, raised the nozzle, and got him in full whoop and open-mouthed. He choked, erupted water like a whale, and Nigel floored him; bent to retrieve the knife. Meanwhile his friend, recovered from the kick, brought his mailed fist down for a rabbit punch on Nigel’s exposed neck. Mel reached them, swung her weighted bag, and landed it full in the lout’s face. That was the end of him.
Miss Treeves’s second telephone call to Rytham Hall was in the nature of a trumpet call, an urgent call to arms. Sir George hurried down the passage to the gun room, picked his weapon, and collected ammunition. He drove the big station wagon from the garage, then stopped it in the drive as Lady Colveden ran up to him.
He shook his head. “No, Meg. Not a show for women.”
“Don’t be silly, George.” She climbed in and slammed the door. “If you think I’m going to stay here on my own to be locked up in the lavatory again . . . Besides, Nigel says I rattle—so I will. You know when you used to go to football matches
. I thought—it’s sure to be in the attic, and it was.” She settled back in triumph as Sir George engaged the gear.
• • •
Miss Seeton locked the door in the wall behind her. So good of Lady Colveden to lend the flashlight. Although one knew exactly where the bushes were and, naturally, the beds, somehow in the dark they shifted round a bit and took one by surprise. She crossed the lawn toward the kitchen door. Behind her something moved. She turned quickly and the beam showed a boyish face, a guileless smile, a small slight figure. The light glinted on wire which dangled in his hand: he swung it slowly to and fro. Miss Seeton stepped back; he forward. It would be silly to pretend one wasn’t frightened because, of course, one was. Very. It would be no good speaking, trying to reason with him. And, in any case, he couldn’t hear. She moved again: so did he; savoring. Her heel hit something, stopping her. There shouldn’t be . . . Oh, yes. The garden roller. She took a step sideways to avoid it. He sidestepped, keeping her in line . . . She staggered and nearly fell, with her umbrella’s ferrule wedged behind the chock. The chock shifted, then flipped free. She stumbled clear. Released from its impediment the roller inclined its handle gracefully. It crunched the gravel as it trundled forward, lumbered majestically across the path to reach the lawn and, handle waving, gathered speed. Miss Seeton watched aghast. Oh dear, there’d be an accident. The youth, his attention only fixed on her, crouched and sprang. She hooked her umbrella in the roller’s frame and pulled. The roller took no notice: took the umbrella which, flung sideways as it slipped from her grasp, caught the youth’s legs as he jumped for her and brought him down. Seeing his danger, trying to save him, Miss Seeton dropped the flashlight and grabbed the flailing handle, pulled with all her strength. The roller swerved: there was a noise like a branch snapping, a babbling, an obstructed scream. Then all was quiet as, mission accomplished, the roller came to rest upon its victim. Miss Seeton rescued the flashlight and looked at the small, unconscious form—one leg distorted, trapped beneath the weight. She looked at the roller, tugged. She couldn’t shift it.