“Oh, my goodness, I am so very sorry, Miss Nuttel!” she cried. “How dreadfully thoughtless of me! Do please allow me to offer you a dry towel—Miss Nuttel, do come back . . .” She stood leaning out the window for another few seconds before turning back with a look of puzzled concern to Mel, who had temporarily collapsed into a fit of giggling. “She’s, well . . . running away, Mel. Her hair quite drenched. How awful. What must she think of me?”
Mel wiped her eyes. “You soused Erica Nuttel? Terrific! Don’t worry, we already know what the Nuts think of you, Miss S. I’ll bet you anything you like she spotted me on my way here. Followed me and hung about outside to snoop. Poetic justice, I call it.”
A towel wound round her head in the shape of a turban, and somewhat fortified by the cup of strong, sweet tea that Norah Blaine had distractedly made for her, Miss Nuttel sat and brooded.
“Microphones,” she said eventually.
“Microphones?”
“Of course. That house must be wired for sound. Or be surrounded by one of those, what do you call them, infrared beams. The Seeton woman could not possibly have known I was outside the window unless some kind of silent alarm had alerted her. The two of them were having a violent argument, you see.”
“What about?”
“How on earth should I know? I arrived just as they were screaming vulgar insults at each other—cow, frog, and so on. Then I must have triggered off the alarm, because all at once they lowered their voices, and then, a second later . . .”
“How awful for you, Eric! Are you quite sure you oughtn’t to have a hot bath? You might catch a chill otherwise.”
“Do be quiet and let me think. I have no intention of allowing myself to be outmaneuvered by those women. They are clearly plotting some new outrage, and as public-spirited citizens we must do whatever we can to frustrate them.”
Chief Superintendent Delphick had a lot to think about on the way back to Scotland Yard from the stately Kensington house in which Sir Wilfred Thumper resided with his wife Lavinia (who was one of the Bockleton family of Shropshire, and therefore possessed of a large independent fortune) and their daughter Patricia. Following his conversation with the assistant commissioner he had been on the point of telephoning to make an appointment with the judge, only to be beaten to it. Mr. Justice Thumper had not bothered with preliminary courtesies. “Is that Delphick? Wilfred Thumper. I want to see you immediately. I shall expect you at my house in half an hour.”
Delphick was a man blessed with an equable temperament who seldom allowed himself to be put out, but he had nevertheless been in an extremely frosty mood by the time he had arrived at the house. One look at the man who had summoned him was enough to make him forget that he was offended; quite apart from the fact that the judge’s opening words were “Thank God you’re here.” Thumper was clearly near the end of his tether, and the letter he had received by the second post that morning and thrust into Delphick’s hands as soon as they were closeted in his study made it unnecessary to speculate about the reasons.
The postmark on the cheap brown envelope indicated that it had been mailed in London, SW6, in time to catch the last collection the previous evening. It and the single sheet of lined paper it contained resembled the ones now under scrutiny by the forensic experts, but the message was the bleakest yet, and short enough for Delphick to have memorized it:
THUMPER YOU BASTARD. ENJOY WATCHING HER LOSE? THE LOOK ON YOUR FACE WAS A TREAT AND I ONLY GAVE HER GUTS-ACHE THIS TIME. WAIT TILL I GET GOING.
Trish Thumper had, it seemed, insisted after the match that her sudden indisposition must have been due to something she had eaten, that it was rotten luck it had hit her at such a crucial moment, but that it was just a spot of tummy trouble and that she’d be as right as rain after a good night’s sleep. She had indeed on getting up that morning, claimed that she felt much better, if still a bit queasy, and was resting in her room.
After reading the letter her father had wanted to pack her off at once to the London Clinic for medical tests, but Trish was a strong-minded young woman who firmly refused, and of course Thumper couldn’t explain why he was so agitated, so there the matter rested for the moment. Well, Delphick thought to himself, at least it had made the old curmudgeon more than receptive to his idea that she should if possible be consigned to the care of the Colvedens at Rytham Hall for the time being, and Thumper had agreed with almost pathetic eagerness to try to arrange it through his old friend Sir George.
Meantime, it looked as if they’d have to pull all the stops out and hurry to identify this joker. Manifestly, he’d been present at the exhibition match at the Hurlingham Club the previous afternoon, witnessed the debacle, and posted his letter in the vicinity immediately afterwards. What’s more, he claimed to have been responsible for Trish’s unexpected and disastrous loss of form in the crucial game.
Now that wasn’t necessarily so: he might have had nothing to do with it. Anybody could suddenly get a bad case of the collywobbles while involved in strenuous physical activity on a warm summer afternoon. The mystery man might simply have noticed that after playing very well Trish suddenly found herself in trouble, twigged what was happening, and cleverly seen it as a chance to put additional heat on Thumper by claiming the credit for it, as it were. On the other hand, he might genuinely have contrived somehow to slip the girl some sort of mickey.
Whatever the true explanation, it seemed pretty clear that they were up against somebody more formidable than it had been tempting to suppose. Somebody who was very strongly motivated indeed, and who knew a bit about how to pile on the pressure.
Lady Colveden put down her trowel and sat back on her heels, kneeling comfortably on the old bit of carpet she used when gardening. Whenever her husband drifted alongside like that and started aimlessly whistling and jingling the keys in his pocket, she knew there was something on his mind. “What is it, George? Have you broken a plate or something?”
“Plate? What plate? Why on earth should you suddenly accuse me of breaking a plate? Anybody would think I make a habit of smashing crockery. Why, I haven’t broken anything since—”
“The day before yesterday. Very well, I apologize. All the same, you look as if you’ve got a guilty conscience.”
Meg Colveden looked up affectionately at the elderly gentleman in tweeds who was shuffling about beside her. He might be—indeed undoubtedly was—not only a retired major general and holder of a DSO, but also a baronet, a knight commander of the Order of the Bath, and a justice of the peace: he still looked slightly ashamed of himself and she knew from experience that he was about to tell her a fib.
“Not at all, m’dear, not at all. Just had young Thumper on the phone, as a matter of fact. Chatted about this and that, you know. Always good to hear from him.”
“Considering the three of them were here only last week, you couldn’t have had all that much news to catch up on. I wonder what he’d say if he knew you call him ‘young Thumper’? He can’t be far off sixty, after all. And he hasn’t improved with age, in my purely personal opinion.”
“Four years younger than I am, Meg. Big difference when you’re boys. Lot of people don’t care for him, I know. Bit of a tartar in court, they say, but I found him a good enough lad, if a bit slow on the uptake. Had to whack him a few times to get him to grasp that the jam has to be spread right up to the edges of a piece of toast, but after that no trouble at all. And for some odd reason he still seems to look up to me, you know. Can’t think why, but there you are.”
“Look up to you! He hero-worships you, George. If I didn’t know you better, I might . . . well, anyway, what did he want?”
“Want? Oh, nothing in particular. Got some tickets for that highbrow opera place over in Sussex. Wanted to know if we’d care to go.”
“Glyndebourne? How splendid! We’d love to go, George.”
“Would we? Oh. I may have rather put him off, but I’ve promised to ring him back, anyway.” Sir George shuffled his feet and cleared his thr
oat. “Fact is, I was wondering how you’d feel about inviting Patricia to stay here for a few days.” Once he had finally got it out, he felt much better.
“Why?”
“Why not? Charmin’ girl, I thought when they all came to tea. And if I’m not much mistaken, Nigel took a definite shine to her.”
Lady Colveden stood up and brushed herself down. “Dear George, Nigel takes a definite shine to any and every presentable young woman who comes within half a mile of him. And this is the first time you’ve shown any inclination to play matchmaker. Now Patricia is a nice enough girl if a bit hearty, and I haven’t the slightest objection to inviting her here if she’d like to come. But you’ll have to do a bit better than those for reasons.”
“Ah. Hm. Yes, well, it seems she’s a bit under the weather. Lot of strain, Wimbledon coming up, you know. Bit of country air might put the roses back in her cheeks, eh? And it’s not all that far from here to Hastings, Thumper says. She’s got to go in for some contest or other at Hastings, it seems. And come to think of it, neither is this Glyndebourne place you seem so keen on, and Nigel could always—”
“George, you are waffling. Stop it. You and Wilfred Thumper are clearly up to something, but if you’re not disposed to tell me, I shall work it out for myself. Now go and tell him we shall be happy to welcome Patricia here for as long as she’d like to stay, and yes, we would most certainly love to go to Glyndebourne. I expect I shall need a new dress to go in, by the way.”
chapter
~5~
WILLIAM PARSONS drove the ambulance into the garage at the small Cranhurst Ambulance Station, performed his going-off-duty checks, and locked up. Then he changed out of his uniform in the cramped little locker room and glanced at his watch before signing himself out on the duty time sheet. Thursday evening, just after six and he wasn’t due on again until Monday morning.
Cranhurst was a market town, too small to have a proper emergency ambulance service manned round the clock. That part of Sussex was served in that respect from East Grinstead; and Parsons and the other permanent driver based at Cranhurst mostly spent their days ferrying old people between hospitals, day-care centers, and nursing homes, or taking patients to and from the hospital for routine therapy. Sometimes a nurse went along, but usually the drivers worked alone, which suited Parsons very well. He liked the old folk, even the cranky ones, remembered the names and complaints of his regulars, and listened patiently when they rambled on.
He knew he had been lucky, to get the job six months ago when he’d been released. It wasn’t easy for ex-cons to find secure, respectable work, even educated ones whose offenses had not involved violence. Having taken the trouble to look into his background, the probation officer had been sympathetic and done well by him. Not that it had been all that difficult to fix him up in the Sussex County Ambulance Service, because apart from the fact that he’d done time, he was well qualified.
There couldn’t be all that many applicants for ambulance driver posts who’d passed the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade’s advanced first-aid examinations with distinction and indeed served as a volunteer instructor. If only Audrey hadn’t divorced him, things might have turned out very differently. But then if he hadn’t been sent to prison, she probably wouldn’t have. And he wouldn’t have met and shared a cell for a long time with Norman Proctor, who if he knew him would have arrived at the Goat and Compasses bang on opening time, and whose help was essential if his long-cherished plan was to succeed.
“Lost twelve’n’ ’alf minutes o’ valuable drinkin’ time, you ’ave, mate,” Norm said. “Drag up a bollard an’ meet ’Arvey. ’Arve, this is Bill.”
“Lovely,” said Harvey, extending a limp hand which Parsons shook as briefly as possible. Norm had said he’d be bringing a friend along, but not that the person in question would be wearing mascara and an earring, have dyed blond hair with more than a hint of pink in it, or be dressed in a frilled shirt open almost to the waist and tight velvet trousers flared at the ankles.
“Get the man a beer, ’Arve,” Norm commanded, and Harvey rose at once and made for the bar, bestowing a melting smile and flutter of the eyelashes on Parsons as he edged sinuously past him. “Cheer up, Bill,” Norm went on when Harvey was out of earshot. “I know ’e looks a right nelly, but ’e knows ’is stuff, does ’Arvey. I met ’is Mum once. Quite a surprise, it was.” He winked at Parsons. “If I’m any judge, she must’ve bin a right little goer in ’er day.”
“I hope you haven’t told him any of my business, Norm.”
“Nah. No need yet awhile. Wait ’n see, once you get to know ’im you’ll trust ’im. An’ you never know, if what I over’eard at that posh tennis club’s kosher, a fancy-lookin’ poofter like young ’Arvey might come in ’andy later on. Ah, there you are, took your time, din’t yer?”
Harvey set a brimming pint glass of beer down delicately before Parsons and then insinuated himself back into his own chair and addressed him earnestly. “Now, dear, I’m sure Norman’s been saying the most awful things about me. He’s as common as dirt, you know, but we couldn’t do without each other businesswise. And I’m sure you and I are going to get on just deliciously. It’s so exciting to know you’re going to drive for us in this part of the world. The creature we had in the Midlands was quite sweet in his way, but utterly disastrous behind the wheel.”
“Like I said, Bill, when we ’ad our little chat the other day at the tennis. ’Arve ’n me, we bin sussin’ out churches.” An expression of sorrowful gravity swept over Norm’s pale but lively features, and he wagged his head slowly from side to side. “It’s a shockin’ thing, but there’s a lot more light-fingered people about than what there was, me ol’ mate. Not like the old days when a feller could reckon on nippin’ inside an ’ouse o’ God any ol’ time for a quick shufti an’ away with a nice little candlestick or whatever. Nah, praggly all the ones in towns are locked up all the time now, ’cept for Sunday services. Night an’ day. Wossmore, they stash their good stuff away in the bank. Now I ask you, what sorter way’s that to praise the ’Oliest in the ’Eight? An’ things are startin’ to go the same way even in the country. So ’Arve ’n me, we gotter get our skates on, see?”
“What Norman’s trying to explain in his crude, untutored way, dear, is that the race is to the swift. There’s still a deal of nice silverware just lurking in unlocked churches in little places off the beaten track, and sweet unwordly vicars and churchwardens simply asking to be relieved of it, you see. But nasty, suspicious insurance companies are beginning to badger them to lock up at night and install security systems, so we must make hay while the sun still shines. Poor, ignorant Norman here doesn’t know a chalice from a chafing dish, or what’s fenceable from what would bring the plods down on us like a ton of bricks, so that’s where I come in.”
“Bin to Oxford College, ’e ’as,” Norm said with pride. “Reads books an’ that. An’ where you come in, sunshine, is as night duty driver an’ lookout. We sussed out three beauties not a million miles from ’ere as can only be done after dark, see? All on the same night, no messin’. An’ if you’ll ’elp us out an’ no questions asked, well, there shouldn’t be no problem about that little favor you want doin’.”
Chief Inspector Chris Brinton of the Ashford Division of the Kent County Constabulary was having a bit of a cuddle on the sofa with Mrs. Brinton, who was ten years his junior, when the telephone rang. It was his birthday, after all. They’d had a bottle of wine with their evening meal, and one thing had led to another. It made a nice change for Mrs. Brinton to have a warm-up before they went up to bed, and she pulled a face as she popped her right breast back into the bra cup from which her husband had extricated it, and began to button up her blouse. Then, seeing Chris shake his head at her fiercely as he picked up the receiver, she unbuttoned it again. What the heck. If a girl couldn’t go a bit mad in her own lounge, where could she?
“Brinton.”
“Well, don’t sound so gloomy about it, Chris. We each h
ave our cross to bear. It’s me, Delphick. Sorry to bother you at home.”
“Oh. Hello, Oracle,” Brinton said, averting his eyes from the distracting spectacle of his wife. For crying out loud, what he’d meant was that it’d be nice if she’d just stay like that on the sofa looking a bit pink and impatient, not stand up and sashay about in front of him languorously peeling off her blouse. “Do anything for you?”
Alone in his office at Scotland Yard, Delphick was puzzled by his old friend’s unwontedly terse manner. “Look, if this is an inconvenient moment, say so.”
“No, go . . . go ahead,” Brinton said huskily. Mrs. Brinton had dropped her blouse to the carpet, and her arms were now snaking round her back to unfasten the bra. He closed his eyes, cleared his throat thunderously, and tried to concentrate on the quiet voice at his ear. “Oh. Really? Yeah. What? No, nothing special. Usual run of trouble. Some joker or jokers going the rounds lifting stuff from churches. Nuisance, but hardly a crime wave.” He opened one eye and then closed it again hurriedly. Oh Gawd. The bra was draped over the arm of the sofa, the skirt was on the floor beside the discarded blouse, and Mrs. Brinton was removing her stockings, the glistening tip of her tongue moistening her lips as she did so.
“Yeah. Okay, thanks for telling me. I’ll have a word with old Colveden in the morning and, nngyer . . . oooerhnngmf!”
The thunderous clattering noise the earpiece suddenly emitted was positively painful, and Delphic hastily moved the receiver an inch or so back. “Chris! Are you all right? Chris?” He listened again, hard. Brinton had obviously dropped the phone, but why? Silence at first . . . or was it? Was that the distant sound of a scuffle? Panting? Heavy breathing? Hoarse whispering? A woman’s voice? A distinctly throaty giggle . . . oh, good grief! Smiling faintly, Delphick gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. Who’d ever have thought it of old Chris? And at eight forty-five in the evening.
Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7) Page 4