Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  He said, “You’re cutting them off? Good thinking!” It was as near to an apology as there was time for.

  “Hope so. Just us, and no chance of reinforcements, we can’t afford to do the charge-right-up-to-the-beggars bit, we’ve got to box clever.”

  “How about the siren?”

  “Nobody else to hear it on this patch.” He turned another corner. “Unless the others came on duty early, which they won’t have done till we’ve reported in ... Ah!”

  “There they are!”

  Indeed they were. Outside the antiques shop, reversed up from the road to the pavement, was a large car which gave every appearance of having just pulled forward from the window smashed by its tail-end attack. Moonlight and streetlamp glow glittered on slivers of glass, on dented metal, on scarred, shining paint.

  The lid of the boot was open. Hurrying figures moved to and fro between the window and the car, with strange shapes in their arms. Torch-beams stabbed the shadowed interior of the shop, and staggered their way to the front as people carried more strange shapes outside.

  A cry went up at the panda’s first approach. Torches danced and darted as those carrying them dropped what else they carried and fled back to the car. The boot was thumped shut as people passed—the driver slammed the door—the car, with a roar, leaped forward.

  “Blimey!” PC Hatfield’s training had prepared him for maniacs who might drive straight at, rather than round, him—but theory and practice were, he now discovered, very different. “Hold tight!”

  A swerve, a skid, a screech of brakes. The stolen car—could anyone in their right mind use their own vehicle to carry out a Ram Raid?—hurtled past with an inch, at most, to spare, and headed down the high street at full speed.

  “Hang on!” A twist of the wheel, a lurching turn, and PC Hatfield was off in hot pursuit ...

  In Plummergen, a gloved hand slipped through the broken pane of Miss Seeton’s French window and groped for a key. There was none. The hand moved to the handle and turned it very, very slowly.

  A sigh of relief. The window swung open; the intruder entered, and pulled it shut again. A listening pause ...

  Miss Seeton slumbered on, unmoving. Peaceful.

  A click, as a pocket torch was switched on: no moonlight beams could reach so far indoors. A cautious step across the little room—and another. And another ...

  “He’s a good driver,” observed PC Heath, as the fugitive car in front continued to elude the pursuing panda. “Almost as good as you—and with a few hundred yards’ start, as well.”

  “If what you’re saying is we won’t catch him,” retorted Hatfield, “you’re wrong. We will—in the end.”

  “Did I say we wouldn’t?” Heath braced himself as the panda took a corner on half a wheel, brakes squealing. “You keep after him the way you’re doing now, and we’ll get him, all right. No question.”

  The Ram Raiders ignored a “No Entry” sign. PC Hatfield ignored it, too. PC Heath said:

  “They’re heading out of town. Once they’re on the open road, you can really let her rip. What’ll we do, get in front and block ’em?”

  “There were four of ’em in that car, if my eyes didn’t deceive me. I’m not one for heroics, even if you are—we just keep on until they lose their nerve, that’s what we do. And we hope,” said PC Hatfield, “they lose it soon ...”

  The door handle slipped in the gloved, nervous grasp; the latch rattled, and the door bumped against its frame. The intruder stood still, listening.

  Upstairs, Miss Seeton stirred, sighed, and turned over, still asleep. The movement made a floorboard creak beneath the bed, and Miss Seeton sighed again.

  Downstairs, in front of the closed door—impossible to set the deadly trap with the draught from the broken window blowing through the house—the head of the muffled figure turned from side to side, searching, following the thin beam of the torch as it probed to and fro in the almost silent darkness. Which way now?

  May as well try that door ...

  “I’ll catch him,” muttered PC Hatfield, “if it’s the last ruddy thing I do!”

  A sigh of relief: right first time. Into the kitchen crept the muffled figure, the torch its only guide. One step—two—three.

  A gasp—a shudder—a clatter, as the torch fell to the floor from startled fingers. That awful, looming shape—the huge blackness of its bat wings! The witch’s familiar? They’d said she might have sinister powers! And—heart thumping, mouth dry, the figure could not move—had the noise of sudden terror roused the sleeper overhead?

  Miss Seeton, in her cosy nest, stirred, and stretched. She turned, stretching again. Slowly, her eyes opened.

  “I think we’re gaining on him!” If PC Heath had been a few years younger, he would have been bouncing in his seat from excitement.

  “So does he.” PC Hatfield could only spare half an eye for the car in front: the other one-and-a-half were on the road. “He’s up to something—”

  “Oy!” Instinctively, Heath ducked as a dark shape came hurtling from the open passenger door of the car in front, scattering sparks as it hit the road, its myriad shattered pieces flying in all directions. Above the throb of the panda’s engine, the scream of agonised metal was suddenly heard, and a series of ominous clunks.

  “If that’s buggered our brakes—!”

  “Something else coming!” And PC Heath gritted his teeth as the panda barrelled on through the dark, with PC Hatfield wrenching the wheel to avoid the barrage of unknown objects from the fugitives ahead.

  In Sweetbriars, silence. Miss Seeton lay gazing drowsily at the ceiling, wondering what had woken her. She was normally an excellent sleeper: she couldn’t remember the last occasion when she hadn’t enjoyed her full eight hours. Perhaps—she frowned—it had been the cry of a mouse, or some other small creature, caught by a passing owl, a stoat, a fox. In the country, one became, sadly, accustomed to such sounds. Or even—she sighed—Tibs. Tibs ...

  Miss Seeton yawned, and sighed again. No doubt the cat—so foolish for anyone to believe she could ever turn into a tiger—was still annoyed at having been thwarted of her prey earlier on. One could hardly suppose her to be hungry: little Amelia Potter doted on her pet, and was rumoured to give her top-of-the-milk at tea time while she and her parents had the skimmings. Tea ...

  Miss Seeton closed her eyes, pulling the covers up snug about her shoulders. Such a pleasant afternoon with dear Miss Wicks, being shown more of her treasures, with nobody—with no reporters—to intrude ...

  Miss Seeton drifted off into a doze.

  Downstairs, the fallen torch was seized in a tremulous hand; the tinkle of broken glass was a pealing alarm to the intruder’s ears. A desperate thumb on the button—nothing. Nothing ... And then eyes grown accustomed to silvery darkness brightened by an invisible moon saw the huge bat still lurking—still, and lurking—beside the kitchen sink, with faint upcast glimmers from the metal draining-board showing every rib of its hideous, hovering wings ...

  Bats can see in the dark. They hate the light. No time to waste! Before it swoops to the attack—a frantic fumble in the coat pocket—a matchbox snatched—a match struck—and snapped, falling lightless to the floor ...

  Another match. Outside, a hooting owl. The match falls on the floor—a muffled curse.

  At the third attempt, a flickering flame.

  An umbrella! Open, drying after rain. Why not upright in the sink—in a rack? Why that hideous hellfire, pale as death, crawling like gold about the handle and the shaft?

  An icy finger stroking a shuddering spine as, step by almost hypnotised step—shake out the match, drop it on the floor, nobody will ever know—the intruder approached the umbrella. It had to be moved ... couldn’t stay there ... hellfire and bat wings and—and ...

  A deep breath, an outstretched hand. Fingerprints on metal? No fear of leaving traces! After the explosion, there would be no identifiable remains ... Shaking hands closed on the cold gold of the umbrella, cold turning bur
ning hot with guilt. Move it quickly, out of reach—out of sight, out of mind—waste no time in furling, fold and prop in a corner and forget, while the business of the night goes on.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  The open door, another hurtling object—sparks, a crash—and sudden blackness on one side as the night roared in.

  “Bloody headlight’s gone ...”

  * * *

  Safely back to the sink, the umbrella in its corner. Hands fumble for the plug—into the hole—pressed firm. Then, in the pocket, the container, cylinder-shaped—out of the pocket, the lid prised off—the contents emptied in a pile in one corner of the sink, some spilling on the draining board as hands shake still more—

  A clatter, as the empty container slips and falls to the tiled floor.

  Freeze! Freeze! Has anyone heard?

  Miss Seeton, half-waking from her doze, blinked—blinked again—saw silver star-patterns and pewter moonlight filling the cloudless sky, and wondered what had woken her. Another owl, perhaps? Perhaps not. Sleepy memories vaguely recalled a faint pattering from the kitchen: once more she thought of mice. Poor things—although one should not, of course, encourage them—but, with winter approaching, one could well understand why they should wish to take shelter indoors ...

  She smiled drowsily at the cloudless sky. At least it had stopped raining. The mouse would no doubt be safely gone by morning ... The vision of a small rodent wearing mackintosh and rain-hat, carrying an umbrella, floated across her inward eye as her lids began to droop. A whimsical idea, of course, but no more so than the trilby-hatted Tibs she’d sketched after her little tea party with Miss Wicks. Tibs—and, wearing a policeman’s helmet, a tiger ... Not that she believed such stories for a moment, of course, though one could not deny that the cat had a strong personality, if one could say such a thing of a domestic pet ... Safely gone by morning. She would not—Miss Seeton yawned—have to set the trap, which always made her feel a little guilty ... though there could be no doubt that one quick snap of a heavy spring across the spine could despatch a mouse faster, and with more kindness ... Tibs always played with the poor creatures first ... if killing anything could be regarded as kind ...

  Miss Seeton closed her eyes, and drifted back to sleep. Her last conscious thought was that the mouse would be glad of its mackintosh, now that the rain had started again.

  The muffled figure stepped warily back from the sink as the thin, sinister crystal of the slow-running tap—not the sound of rain, but the tank above Miss Seeton’s bed filling with water—began its deadly work. Back ... back ... turn, walk on, leave this door open—along the hall to the front of the house, too risky to pull the bolt of the kitchen door ... eyes darting, on the watch for unexpected furniture—feet shuffling, groping for rucks in the carpet, for uneven tiles—a fall now would be fatal ...

  The hall stand—a table with a telephone. A sigh of triumph—so far, so good. Ignore knocking knees, shivering limbs—out of the pocket again for matches, for candle. A final, long-held breath. Above a thumping heart, can anyone—any movement from upstairs—be heard?

  Nothing. Miss Seeton sleeps on ...

  Strike—strike—strike—and, at last, flame. Flame to wick, the stinging smell of fire, the candle alight. A dollop of hot wax tipped on the tabletop, the base of the burning candle pressed down, left standing, burning ...

  Dynamite—or near enough.

  “That was a near thing!” From the fugitive car to the road—from the road, with a lucky—unlucky?—leaping bounce to the bonnet of the panda, yet—thankfully—not up to the windscreen, but across at an angle, and back to the road. “If we don’t get him soon, he’ll bloody kill us ...”

  No time, now, to linger. Turn the key in the door, open, and slip through—deep, welcome breaths of the outside air ... a backward glance at the candle, still burning. Rubber arms reach to pull the door shut. As the latch clicks, the candle gutters in the draught.

  Jelly legs can carry the intruder as far as the gate, but no farther. Look back at the hall window ...

  Indoors, the candle burns more brightly still.

  And still Miss Seeton slumbers ...

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “Must be halfway to the coast—well, somewhere in Kent, anyway. If you ask me, they’re trying to take the stuff across the Channel ...”

  * * *

  All is quiet in Plummergen; all is calm. Nothing—nobody moves. Jelly legs have finally collapsed, in the fortunate shadow of the high brick wall; overwrought nerves have given way at last. The pounding heartbeat thunders in the brain, and the whole world spins.

  Down The Street, side by side, silent in the moonlight, came the Nuts. In crêpe-soled shoes, dark pullovers, and even darker slacks, their pockets crammed with talismanic herbs, they were determined to show, once and for all, that—urged on by the television man, but none the less culpable for that—Miss Seeton and her cronies (whose identity, suspected but not proved, would now be revealed) practised diabolical rites in indescribable ceremonies. What mattered it that the candles bought had been, not ritual black, but ordinary white? The fires of hell need little encouragement to burst into earthly flame ...

  “Eric!” Mrs. Blaine’s recovery from her faint had been followed by a lengthy bout of hysterics and an even more devastating headache. Not until this late hour had she felt well enough to venture forth in pursuit of the dreadful truth. And now ...

  “Eric!” She gripped Miss Nuttel’s arm. Miss Nuttel did no more than wince, though the grip was pincer-tight. “Oh, Eric, look! Through the hall window—I’m sure it’s—it’s too dreadful! It looks just like ...”

  “Candles,” croaked Miss Nuttel, licking dry lips. She glanced across the road towards the vicarage—the church. Would a cry for help bring succour before—dry lips, dust-filled mouth, frozen throat—the powers of evil, made manifest, overwhelmed? And—if help came too late—if stricken throats were powerless to cry—what ghastly form might such manifestations take?

  On quaking legs, supporting one another, the Nuts crept closer. Eyes stared, hypnotised by fear, at the flickering glow behind the closed door. Pulses raced and roared in terror-deafened ears. Was that low, rhythmic thunder the sound of chanting? Was the Beast, summoned from Beyond, about to spring?

  chapter

  ~ 31 ~

  THE CHANTING GREW louder. The snarl of the Beast told of horrors to come: of human sacrifice—of blood. Mrs. Blaine felt her legs give way. Falling, she twisted. She saw ...

  “Eric!”

  Behind her, two huge, glowing eyes—the Beast already present, conjured not from the flame but—uncontainable in its fury—leaping into sacrilegious life in the open air, racing down The Street towards those who had called it into being ...

  A moan. “Eric ...”

  Behind the Beast, another, yet more terrible—one-eyed, the empty socket glowing demonic red—a speeding onslaught, a tortured scream ...

  Mrs. Blaine fainted. Miss Nuttel, seeing, closed her eyes, collapsed, and waited for the end.

  A squeal of brakes as the fugitive car, misjudging in panic the width of the narrowed Street, seeing shapeless forms of unidentifiable nature right in its path, turned on a sixpence to flee along Marsh Road, first flinging the latest missile towards its dogged pursuit.

  “Bloody hell!”

  The spare wheel bounced—clanked against the wing of the panda as PC Hatfield tried to turn—ricocheted, with added momentum—flew, spark-trailed, up and over the fallen huddle of the Nuts in the middle of the road—soared high above the moon-shadowed brick wall ...

  And crashed, with a carillon of broken glass, through the window of Miss Seeton’s bedroom ...

  To land precisely in the centre of her bed.

  Before the tail-lights of the panda had vanished round the first bend of Marsh Road, other lights were coming on along both sides of the southern end of The Street. Curtains were snatched apart, windows opened, heads thrust out to ascertain what on earth was
happening.

  Lights appeared in every occupied room—save one—at the front of the George and Dragon. The exception was that room occupied by demon reporter Mel Forby, whose instincts told her that Miss Seeton—somehow—was At It Again. The first sounds of gunned engines and squealing brakes had her flinging back the blankets; the resonant clank of the spare wheel on the panda’s wing brought a sparkle to her eyes; the smashing of Miss Seeton’s window was the signal for her to spring from her bed in a single bound. She paused just long enough to grab her notebook, and to slip on the casual coat which doubled, when necessary, as a dressing gown; then she was out of her room, running down the stairs, tearing across the hall to the front door, bending to drag at the bolts ...

  The door was unbolted. Mel wasted valuable time turning the key, turning it again as the door, now locked, would not open—finally fighting her way outside, while others—landlord Charley Mountfitchet, henchwoman Doris, assorted guests—galloped after her, demanding to know what on earth was happening ...

  “Good heavens!” Mel and the rest stopped to gape at the figure in the moonlight, staggering—bleating with shock, wringing its hands—across The Street towards the hotel. Golden light from startled windows plainly revealed, despite its muffled wrappings, the identity of the figure—which goggled, bleary-eyed, at the unexpected welcoming committee. Of which Mel was the only member wide awake enough to ask:

  “What on earth are you doing, prowling about the place at this time of night?”

  Before a suitable reply could be framed, there came a babble of frantic cries from a hitherto unnoticed bundle of rags in the middle of The Street, which disassembled itself into two almost separate bundles—one dumpy and short, one tall and thin—clinging together, voices raised in fright. The shapes and the voices were instantly recognised, though the words could not be distinguished: but the sentiments were unmistakeable. Something too terrible had happened ...

  “The Nuts,” gloated Mel, even as she prepared to storm to whatever rescue might be—surely must, for all Miss Seeton’s silence, be—required at Sweetbriars, “have been driven crackers at last!”