Miss Seeton brightened. “You’re coming with me?”
“Of course I am. Did you think we’d let you out of our sight now we’d got you safely up to Town? Anyway, I can’t think when I last took tea at the Ritz. Your visit is the perfect excuse for me to indulge myself at the same time as treating you—and,” with a twinkling look for Bob, “to give your long-suffering nephew an uninterrupted hour or so for tackling this office’s tame mountain of paperwork, which seems to grow ever higher each time we return to our desks.”
Bob forced a grin—for himself, he’d never taken tea at the Ritz, but then Anne had been making remarks about his waistline recently, so perhaps it was as well he hadn’t been asked to join the party—and agreed with his chief. Miss Seeton, who, like her adopted nephew, knew nothing of the pleasures of a Piccadilly tea—apart from the occasional treat in Fortnum’s, farther down the road—in due course allowed herself to be convinced. A few minutes later, the expedition set out for wildest Mayfair.
The traffic was surprisingly heavy, and it was hard to find a convenient place to pull in. At last, however, the unmarked police car set them down on the north side of Piccadilly, and vanished, with a cheerful tootle on the horn, in the direction of Eros. Miss Seeton, smothering a sigh, resolutely turned her eyes from the tempting gateway of the Royal Academy, and wondered for a brief moment whether the superintendent might suggest they begin their little stroll along the Burlington Arcade—not that she could afford to buy anything, but it was always agreeable to look, and so peaceful, with the prohibitions on whistling, hurrying, and unseemly behaviour—before sternly reminding herself that the disgracefully destructive tactics used by the thieves hardly lent themselves to a covered row of Regency shop-fronts barely one car’s length apart.
“Certainly no room to build up speed,” she murmured, as Delphick, her escort, moved politely to the outside of the pavement. “Especially going backwards ...”
Delphick had intended heading for Sackville Street to give Miss Seeton time to attune herself again to London: while she might have lived and worked there for most of her life, she’d been a country-dweller for some years now, and wasn’t growing any younger. He caught her final words and stopped. “Back? You’d rather go the other way? I’d planned to come round to Bond Street from Burlington Gardens, but if you’d prefer going straight there ...”
Miss Seeton, not realising she’d spoken so loudly, and now supposing this to be the chief superintendent’s own preference, politely agreed that she would. Together they turned back, passing the Royal Academy again, past—Miss Seeton sighed once more—the Burlington Arcade, and headed for the corner of Old Bond Street, most exclusive, most expensive of London’s shopping thoroughfares.
Delphick blinked in disbelief, snatched a quick look at Miss Seeton walking quietly beside him, stared ahead, and blinked again. Déjà vu? A small, slight, grey-haired woman in a light tweed coat, an enormous handbag over one arm, an umbrella in her hand, was trotting towards him down the middle of the pavement ... with—Delphick almost rubbed his eyes, but stopped himself in time—a crocodile of twenty or so small children, wearing grey-and-maroon uniforms, in her wake. As the apparition approached, the voice of the handbagged one could clearly be heard above the mighty roar of London’s traffic:
“... remind you once more that you are not allowed to eat sweets in the galleries, and there is to be no giggling, no raised voices, no horseplay of any kind. If there is sufficient time once our tour of the exhibition is over, you may be allowed ...”
The head of the crocodile, intent on its harangue, seemed not to notice that it had forced a passage between the still-startled Delphick and Miss Seeton. Meekly following its head came the crocodile’s forty pattering feet, brought up at the tail by a bored-looking younger woman with spectacles and straight, fringed brown hair.
Delphick, who had paused politely to let the little procession pass, stole a look at Miss Seeton as she emerged from behind the body of the crocodile. She turned, with a smile, to watch its retreat. She shook her head—
“Oof!”
“Oh! Oh, dear, I’m so sorry ...” Miss Seeton bent to pick up her umbrella from the paving stone on which it had fallen after jabbing the waistcoat now being rubbed so tenderly by the man inside it.
“Oh, I’m so very sorry—I’m afraid I was a little distracted, you see, and—oh. Good gracious.” Miss Seeton, straightening, had raised her eyes from the topmost button of the waistcoat to the face above the ashes-of-roses silk cravat around the plump, self-satisfied neck. “Mr. Szabo!”
“Mr.—Szabo, good afternoon.” Delphick, recovering from his surprise, hailed the newcomer with only the slight hesitation of one who has interviewed a murder suspect under his legal name, yet knows him to be professionally recognised under another. Writers—especially married female writers—could cause similar confusion, the chief superintendent reflected as the two men shook hands; but if Taylor-Szabo wasn’t on his own professional territory here, within two or three stones’ throw of his gallery, then where, if anywhere, was he?
Ferencz Szabo bowed to Miss Seeton, who had finished readjusting her umbrella over her arm and had settled her hat and handbag to their former stations. She had been busily apologising the entire time she did so, but Ferencz knew her of old, and contrived to smile his understanding, acknowledge Delphick’s greeting, and register Miss Seeton’s murmurs for the babble they undoubtedly were without losing his composure for an instant.
“This is indeed a delightful encounter, Miss Seeton,” he managed to slip in at last, as she ran out of steam and her blushes began to subside. His quick gaze fastened thoughtfully on the little spinster’s tall, distinguished escort; Delphick gazed calmly back; and Ferencz Szabo, forgetting the cultivated dignity of his public persona, winked.
“I take it,” he remarked, in a meaningful tone, “that your visit to Town is not entirely for pleasure. Miss Seeton.” Absently, he rubbed his midriff: then, as she started to blush again, and spoke of meeting old friends, he swiftly changed the gesture to a hand-on-waistcoat bow, in his most florid continental manner. Delphick could almost hear him wondering whether or not to kiss Miss Seeton’s hand: or was such a salute only warranted by people actually on the premises buying something?
“And in view of the lamentable occurrence only this morning at the establishment of one of my colleagues,” continued the Bond Street dealer, with another wink, “may I venture to presume that—unless, of course, your steps have already taken you that way—you will shortly be heading in his direction?”
Miss Seeton looked doubtfully at Delphick. The matter to which Mr. Szabo referred could only, she supposed, be the Ram Raid—which was both foolish and ridiculous, giving so melodramatic a name to an obviously illegal activity, which surely only served to encourage them—that raid the chief superintendent had already discussed with her. And the unfortunate person whose property had been stolen was, so Mr. Szabo said, a colleague, which must mean that he himself was in a privileged position, especially since he seemed to have guessed that one was not—Miss Seeton sighed—in the district for pleasure, but on official business; and the raids had been—Miss Seeton sighed again—written about in the newspapers. But ...
Delphick came to the rescue. “An apt turn of phrase, Mr. Szabo—a lamentable occurrence, indeed. And may I say at once that the presence of an expert such as yourself, on our stroll along Bond Street, would be more than welcome, should you care to join us?”
Ferencz pursed his lips and creased his forehead in an artistic frown. His plump hand slipped once more to his midriff, although this time for the purposes of retrieval rather than massage as he made great play of consulting the gold half-hunter watch in his waistcoat pocket. He smiled, and bowed. “I should be charmed,” he said, and courteously offered Miss Seeton his arm.
“... a Bilbao looking-glass, among other things,” he said, as the little party approached the gallery. “A real tragedy—although,” twinkling, “we might ask ourselve
s whose is the greater tragedy. My poor friend, for having lost such a wonderful piece—the carving! Such delicacy and ornamentation, even in marble!” He contrived to kiss the tips of his fingers in an expansive gesture which did not, for some reason, nauseate the amused chief superintendent. “The original oak frame as well, I believe—but never mind, it’s gone, alas, though I’m sure your, ah, colleagues, Mr. Delphick, will do all they can ...”
He turned to wink at Delphick before addressing himself earnestly to the lady on his arm. “But we must ask ourselves, Miss Seeton—if breaking a mirror can lead to seven years’ bad luck, how much worse could the luck be for one who has dared to steal such an exquisite item?”
Miss Seeton echoed Delphick’s quiet chuckle, and said she really had no idea.
Ferencz sighed. “An ever greater tragedy, to my mind, is the theft of the golden statue. A rare—a unique—figure of the Egyptian cat-goddess Pasht, or Bast—Bubastis, if you prefer the Greek.” With a little bow, he implied that Miss Seeton was fluent in several ancient languages and could take her pick. “Solid gold, flawlessly modelled—one only hopes, Miss Seeton, that the rogues do not melt her down. That would be the greatest crime of all ...”
And Miss Seeton, her aesthetic sense outraged by the very idea, had to agree that it would.
Miss Seeton had so clearly enjoyed the company of Ferencz Szabo, who put her entirely at her ease during their stroll, regaling her with selected titbits of gossip about various dealers of his acquaintance as each individual establishment was passed, that Delphick invited the other to join the Ritz party when the time duly came. Mr. Szabo professed himself, as ever, charmed. The little group settled themselves at a discreet table, where Miss Seeton could peep out at the many tea-taking celebrities, and could admire the golden statuary in the centre of the pink-and-white room, with no fear of herself being recognised or even noticed. It was also, reflected Delphick, the ideal place for her to whip out her sketchbook from her bag without even the haughtiest of waiters raising an eyebrow in surprise ...
The tiny sandwiches, shorn of their crusts: the dainty cakes, brought round on their enormous silver platter; the elegant stand, laden with pastries; the delicate porcelain, the snow-white napkins, the fragrant tea—not too strong, the milk rich and creamy ... all combined to make Miss Seeton feel shockingly spoiled, and more than a little guilty. Delphick once again reminded her that this was the Yard’s treat, and she was to consider it, if it worried her, as the best they could legally do by way of a bribe. Szabo, with a twinkle, said that everyone was surely allowed some luxury in their lives. It wasn’t as if she’d been whisked about the London streets in a Bentley, was it? She had walked on her own two feet, and deserved a cup of tea, at the very least ...
He and Delphick chatted quietly together as Miss Seeton, delving into her bag for her pencils and small sketchpad, finally began to frown over the task for which Scotland Yard had summoned her to Town. Neither man wished to embarrass her by paying any attention to what she was doing: nothing must be allowed to interrupt her. When a hovering waiter caught Delphick’s eye, and made questioning table-clearing gestures, he was glared away.
“Ahem.” It was a quiet cough, barely audible above the elegant clatter and chink of silver-plated cutlery against bone china. Miss Seeton had waited politely for a convenient pause in the conversation before venturing to intervene. She now blushed as her companions turned towards her. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Chief Superintendent. I’m not at all sure that this can possibly be what you want, but I’m afraid ...”
With another blush, she handed her sketchpad to the tall man sitting beside her, then murmured of powdered noses, and slipped discreetly away. Delphick and Szabo resumed their seats, the Hungarian trying hard not to show his curiosity as the detective turned back the cover to gaze at the doodle on the top page.
“Ah. Mm, yes. I see what she means ...” He flipped over two or three more sheets, in case—as sometimes happened when Miss Seeton was unhappy with her preliminary effort—she had scribbled something on another page.
She had not. He turned back to the first drawing and stared at it again. Szabo, with a chuckle, after a few curious moments held out a plump hand. “May I?”
Delphick shrugged. “Why not?” It was unlikely that the dealer was the brains behind the Ram Raids: he might just have an insight into what was going on ...
“Oh, dear.” Damn. He hadn’t.
“Now I’m the one,” said Szabo, “who should apologise, Chief Superintendent. If I hadn’t wished myself upon you both, and chattered away in such a fashion, you might have thought the whole expedition worthwhile—but now ...”
Miss Seeton had, with evidently loving care, drawn a looking-glass. A Bilbao looking-glass? The frame was certainly most ornate. The glass, still in place on the wall, showed the room—its walls picture-hung—reflected in its distant depths. In close-up, the sleek and noble form of a watching cat watched itself as it perched on the shelf beneath, with, ranged either side of the watcher, a selection of porcelain vases and ornaments.
The overmantel cat was by no means the only form of animal life in the sketch. On the floor, stately and shining, stood a Rolls-Royce; and its bonnet decoration was not the silver Spirit of Ecstasy known around the world, but a large, proud-shouldered ram with curled, heavy horns held high, their points towards the looking-glass. And as a passenger in the Royce rode an unmistakeable Ferencz Szabo, his mouth open in a stentorian bellow—in much the same manner as Ferencz, in Frank Taylor mode, had bellowed at the Lalique jewellery thief ...
Delphick had been an amused observer of that earlier episode in Miss Seeton’s history, and had to suppress a chuckle at the sight. He heard another. He looked up. Ferencz Szabo was laughing aloud.
Delphick joined in the laughter, then sighed. “Oh, well. She’s done her best, of course—she always does. But I haven’t the least idea what it all means ... so we’ll simply have to wait and see. The way,” he added, with another sigh, “we so often have to do ...”
chapter
~ 9 ~
IN ASHFORD POLICE station, in the county of Kent, the telephone rang on the desk of Superintendent Chris Brinton.
Brinton was out of his office, but the call did not go unanswered. His sidekick, Detective Constable Foxon of the flamboyant wardrobe and earlobe-length hair—which Brinton suspected almost as much as Foxon’s previous shoulder-skimming locks—picked up the extension to a torrent of gloomy tidings from Police Constable Buckland.
“The minute His Nibs gets back,” Foxon promised his unhappy friend, in the first available pause. Frowning, he studied his notes. “From the way it sounds, I’d say he’ll want to be in on this one, so it’s no use me charging over there on my own, because I’ll only have to turn round again to fetch him.” He paused. “Of course, whatever it’s all about, she’s on her way to hospital, isn’t she?”
The telephone squawked indignantly in his ear. Foxon was quick to apologise, but added that it was bound to be one of the first things Old Brimstone’d want to know when he came in. “He’s been expecting ’em to start taking a few risks, sooner or later,” he reminded the telephone grimly. “Just a matter of time before they turn nasty, he’s kept saying, though I must admit I thought—well,” as the telephone squawked again, “let’s say I hoped. Still, looks as if Brimmers was right all along, and they’re starting to play rough—it would be on our patch, of course, but there isn’t much we can do about it ... We’ll be with you as soon as we can—just carry on as usual till we get there.”
Foxon had hardly rung off when there came a clatter at the door, and Brinton appeared, carrying a small tin tray with two cups of canteen coffee on it, and with a lugubrious expression in his eyes.
“I should never have said I needed the change of scene,” he grumbled, before Foxon could speak. “I should’ve pulled rank—I worked hard enough for it. Lord knows—and sent you instead, as anyone else would’ve done. I should’ve just opened the window and taken a few g
ood deep breaths of fresh air and saved myself a blasted lecture on the evils of artificial stimulants from that Bible-thumping idiot on the front desk who—Foxon. What is it?”
The superintendent forgot his own woes as his subordinate, who had given up trying to break into the flow of lamentation, had risen from his desk and was shrugging himself into his leather jacket. Brinton at once dumped the tray on his desk and demanded: “Business?”
Even as Foxon nodded, his chief was patting his own jacket pockets, automatically checking the presence of routine investigative paraphernalia while he waited for the younger man’s explanation.
“Sounds as if you were right after all, sir—it’s the Swipers again, or at least it looks remarkably like them, from what Buckland just phoned in—and this time they’ve got physical.” Foxon paused to allow his chief’s explosive I knew it! to scorch his eardrums, then went on: “You did keep saying it wouldn’t be long before they turned to the rough stuff, sir—and I admit I thought you were being, er, unduly pessimistic in saying it would be on our patch—but you weren’t, I’m sorry to say.” Foxon grimaced. “If it’s them—and there’s certainly a sideboard missing, along with a load of smaller sitting-room stuff, then this time they’ve hit an old lady over the head, and she’s on her way to hospital with a suspected fractured skull. Just this side of Brettenden,” he added. “Not that it really matters, sir, does it? Who or where, I mean, because they still bashed and robbed her, poor old girl—she’s the one whose sister died recently of some unpronounceable illness, and she’s setting up a charity in her memory. I told Buckland we’d be there as soon as we could—”
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 7