“I do see, of course, that one cannot blame them.” Miss Seeton’s voice was almost steady, though it sounded little above a whisper. “The—the unexpectedness, you see, of the noise, and Her Royal Highness ...” She faltered, blinking rapidly several times. “They hardly do her justice, you know, when one sees her in real life. Such a—a joyful young woman, and bringing so much pleasure to so many ... The police, that is, although Miss Laver was most kind, but one has, naturally, one’s duty to perform, and I can quite understand ...” She sniffed, very discreetly, and her hands ceased in their aimless dancing to search for something more definite. “My bag,” she murmured, sniffing again, her eyes downcast. “Oh, dear ...”
“Here, Miss Seeton.” WPc Laver had argued loud and long with Security before they’d let her take the bag in the same car as its owner: nor had they let it go without giving it a very thorough check. It was emptied out on a table in front of Miss Seeton’s startled, but obedient, gaze; a list was made of its contents; the power station staff were asked where there might be a convenient X-ray machine, to save ripping out the shot-silk lining. At this last, even Miss Seeton made a faint protest: but there had, fortunately, been no need to pursue the threat. While a detachment of MI5 operatives scrutinised for hidden horrors Miss Seeton’s little purse, the modest sum it contained, the comb, lace-edged handkerchief, and mirror, her diary, address book, and sketchpad, the pencils, pens, and similar useful items, another group bore the bag itself away for the most rigorous of radiographic examinations. Neither party, despite the most detailed investigation, could find anything amiss. The contents were duly restored to the handbag, and the whole committed—albeit with reluctance—to Maggie Laver’s care.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “not to have remembered before, Miss Seeton. And I’m even sorrier about—well, I’m sorry, but I did the best I could ...” She mimed helplessness, and Miss Seeton forced an understanding smile, though it was very shaky. Despite every argument Maggie Laver could put forward, Security had insisted on retaining, as hostages for Miss Seeton’s subsequent good behaviour, her necklace of yellow glass beads ... and her gold-handled umbrella.
“Thank you.” Miss Seeton’s whisper was barely audible, and to Delphick’s keen ear it sounded as if there was more than a hint of emotion in her voice. When she took out her handkerchief and blew her nose, he was sure of it: he didn’t know when he’d ever seen her so upset.
“Miss Seeton, perhaps you’d like a cup of tea before we talk about what’s happened? Chris, I think we could all do with some, to be honest.”
Miss Seeton’s slender frame quivered. “That would be most kind, Mr. Brinton, but please don’t go to any trouble. I feel quite dreadfully to blame for—for everything ...”
With the fingers of one hand, she crumpled her handkerchief into a damp, nervous ball, while with the other she opened and closed the metal clasp of her bag with quick, repeated snaps. Miss Seeton, it was only too obvious, was more than a little disturbed.
“I’m really sorry to press you, Miss Seeton,” Delphick began, as Foxon slipped out with WPc Laver to organise tea and biscuits. “But I’m sure you appreciate the gravity of the situation. Everyone is doing all they can to help find the princess, and you, with your special talents, are bound to be of more help than most. You were, after all, an eyewitness—I’m sorry,” as she flinched, and blushed again, and murmured of dear Cousin Flora, and how very dreadful it must seem, but she’d had no idea ...
“Of course you hadn’t.” Delphick’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “As far as I can gather, your necklace is something rather out of the ordinary. You couldn’t be expected to know that it had such ... remarkable properties.”
“No,” said Miss Seeton, mouse-quiet. “I—I suppose not—except,” she added, more firmly, “that dear Cousin Flora—that I had always noticed the beads, even as a child, and ought perhaps to have realised—the eye of an artist, you see ... and she would sometimes allow me to wear them for—for fun, because they had so distinctive an appearance ...” Reminiscence was helping her to relax. “Unique, indeed,” she added, even more firmly. “Or at least, so I imagine.”
“Indeed, yes, as far as we can tell. As, Miss Seeton, are you.” Delphick smiled again. “Not merely as an eyewitness of—of recent events; not merely as an eyewitness who has been trained to use her eyes more than most. But as a trained eyewitness who has been retained by Scotland Yard as a consultant ...”
Miss Seeton winced, nodded, and slowly sat up straight. Any appeal to her sense of professional duty was bound—as Delphick didn’t need to be an oracle to know—to urge her out of any mood she might be in; though he couldn’t honestly blame her, on this particular occasion, for not being her normal happy, innocent, untroubled self.
“I will,” said Miss Seeton, “do the very best I can, of course, Chief Superintendent, but ...” Her fingers danced and writhed again, fiddling with the clasp of her handbag, pleating her handkerchief, stroking the light tweed of her skirt in a quick, repetitive motion.
“But I can’t—” said Miss Seeton—“I’m so sorry, but I simply can’t seem to see anything, Mr. Delphick ...”
“And she couldn’t.” Delphick sighed at Miss Seeton’s would-be rescuers, who had arrived half an hour after her departure. “She did her best, as she always does, but she’d been too upset by everything to see clearly, I think.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, that’s hardly surprising.” Nigel Colveden was giving his best-ever performance as Sir Galahad. “The way everyone jumped on her—those Intelligence brutes with their beastly bullet heads and revolting slitty eyes—”
“Of course it isn’t.” Lady Colveden was every whit as indignant as her son, but was old enough to know how to temper indignation with guile; she also had no wish to be sued for slander by the security forces. “Poor Miss Seeton!” She brandished the gold-handled umbrella under Delphick’s nose. “Without this, naturally she was ... disorientated.” The word pleased her, if the circumstances did not. “She wasn’t just worried about the princess—though, goodness knows, nobody in their right minds would dream of harming Georgina because they’d never live to tell the tale—but you gave her this, Chief Superintendent, and she was worried it might be ... well, damaged—or lost—or something—”
“Whereas,” supplied Delphick, as she drew breath for a further protest, “it was Miss Seeton herself, as you so rightly point out, who was, ah, lost. Without her umbrella—any umbrella ...” He fixed her ladyship with a curious eye. “Incidentally, the last Superintendent Brinton and I heard from Woman Police Constable Laver, the MI contingent had—had received that into protective custody, and seemed highly unlikely to let it out again. How did you manage to effect its release?”
“We didn’t post bail for the blessed thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It was Nigel who answered: Lady Colveden was still being discreetly indignant. “We called in the cavalry. Brought in the heavy guns, as it were.”
“Sir George,” said Delphick at once, observing the look on her ladyship’s face. “I’m not surprised—or rather, I am. That the major-general allowed things to go as far as they did before he, ah, responded, I mean—”
“George wasn’t there.” Indignation forgot courtesy, and interrupted briskly. “As soon as he heard, of course, he came across at once. Oh, there were interviews and things going on all over the place, and people giving statements, but he said he knew the moment he saw the umbrella that Miss Seeton must be in it somewhere—”
“And he was pretty peeved,” Nigel broke in, “to find out she wasn’t, any more. In it, I mean—the power station, with all the rest of us, because she’d already gone. It was only when he heard she’d be coming here, and guessed it’d be Mr. Brinton, at least, and most likely you as well, who’d be dealing with her, that he calmed down enough to start organising everyone Martin Jessyp hadn’t already organised.” Nigel grinned. “The village back on the bus, the schoolkids on their bus, the Crabbes keeping an eye on bot
h lots, and Miss Maynard keeping an eye on young Sally and her mother ... you can’t say we didn’t leave Plummergen in good hands, with Dad and Martin C. in charge.”
“I would never dream of such a thing. But,” Delphick enquired, “why did you? Leave, I mean. One hesitates, of course, to suggest that it was desertion in the face of the enemy. May I assume that it was more in the nature of obedience to command?”
“Got it in one.” Nigel chuckled. “Dad said she’d be completely lost without her brolly, and to bring it along pronto, so we did, once he’d had a quiet word or two with the MI blokes.” Nigel had no more idea than his mother what Sir George had said to influence the fate of the umbrella: but “MI” stood for Military Intelligence, and Sir George’s wartime career had not been without distinction. “We’d no idea you’d, um, got rid of her quite so quickly.”
“Miss Seeton,” Delphick informed him, “was sent—was driven home in an unmarked police car, with the recommendation that she should make herself a strong cup of tea, and stand on her head for half an hour or so, to relax. After which—”
“After which,” said Lady Colveden, “you’ll expect her to start drawing, poor thing, and goodness knows what you’ll see if she does, if she’s been silly enough to follow your advice, which normally she wouldn’t, because Miss Seeton has a great deal of common sense, in normal circumstances. Only she’s so upset today she probably already has, so it’s too late. With her insides swimming in tea, and then turned upside-down—she’ll have nightmares, at the very least, and I can’t see that they’ll help you at all.” She regarded the chief superintendent shrewdly. “You’ll have been meaning to pop in to see her later on, of course, once you’ve checked into the George.”
Meekly, hiding a smile, Delphick confessed that such had been his intention.
“Well, it’s not very practical.” Lady Colveden patted the umbrella on its gleaming handle, and sighed. “Really, although George has his good points, I sometimes think men, on the whole, are ... still, never mind. There are enough of the Security people around to keep everyone happy for tonight, aren’t there? And the sooner we give this back to Miss Seeton, the better she’ll feel about things in general. Just give her time to calm down, and don’t arrive on her doorstep until after you’ve both had breakfast tomorrow. And then,” said Lady Colveden, “you just see if she doesn’t draw exactly the sort of drawing you want.”
chapter
~ 13 ~
IT WAS NOT Miss Seeton, but Martha Bloomer, who opened the door next morning to the pair from Scotland Yard. Her face, on seeing them, expressed a strong conflict of emotions. In the normal way, Mrs. Bloomer would be more than short in her manner towards anyone who had upset her dear Miss Emily—and there was no denying Miss Emily was still upset, even after a chance to sleep on it, with the wireless news and the papers full of nothing else but the Disappearance from Dungeness; but Martha—as did Miss Seeton herself—felt much admiration for Princess Georgina, and if Delphick and Bob were really going to find that blessed girl, they couldn’t, she supposed, be blamed for coming to badger the poor soul so soon after breakfast ...
“But you’re not to go getting her in a state,” came the sternly-whispered warning from the loyal domestic dragon. “In any more of a state, I mean, the way she’s been already. Hardly touched a bite, then sits with her pencils and paper as miserable as if it really was her fault—which anyone with any sense knows it wasn’t, no matter what she might’ve said yesterday, with the shock of it all being only too easy to take advantage of if it hadn’t been for Sir George, bless him, and her ladyship seeing her right.”
Martha pointed to the umbrella-rack on the wall. Clipped firmly in its usual place was the gold-handled brolly of which its owner was so proud. “Brought that back yesterday evening, and you’d’ve thought it’d cheer her up—which I dare say it did, a bit, but she’s really not herself this morning, and no mistake.”
“We’re very sorry to hear that, Martha.” There was no doubting the sincerity in Delphick’s voice, or the look of compassion in his eye. “But you understand that we do need to see her, even though I imagine she’s had more than her fill of questions from police and security people—they’re off in pursuit of their own theories, and good luck to them. If they find Her Royal Highness before we do, then we’ll be delighted; but something tells me things aren’t going to go as smoothly as that.”
“That blessed lamb!” Martha shook her head. “How anyone could even think of such a thing I can’t imagine, her being one of the sweetest girls you could hope to meet, they say. If only I’d been near enough to—but you want a word with Miss Emily, don’t you? If there’s anyone,” said Mrs. Bloomer proudly, “can help you, then it’s her, and never you mind MI5 and Scotland Yard—begging your pardon, Mr. Delphick.” She didn’t bother apologising to Bob. Since his marriage to a daughter of the village he counted more or less as an intimate, among whom apologies for the obvious were rarely deemed necessary in Plummergen etiquette.
“Come on through,” said Martha briskly; and led the way to the sitting-room.
They found Miss Seeton, as Mrs. Bloomer had predicted, seated at the table, with her drawing equipment spread out in front of her. On hearing the click of the opening door she started, and hastily flipped shut the cover of her sketchpad before turning to greet her visitors.
When she recognised them, she blushed.
“Chief Superintendent,” she murmured, rising from her chair to shake hands. For Bob, she forced a smile: the sergeant and his wife had long ago adopted Miss Seeton as an honorary aunt. This relationship she was more than happy to acknowledge, except that when he was in the presence of his superiors it made choosing the correct form of address a trifle awkward. A smile, Miss Seeton generally felt, was the safest solution; but she didn’t feel much like smiling just now ...
“I hope you’re feeling none the worse for yesterday’s little adventure,” said Delphick, as they took their seats. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve already started work,” with a nod for the sketchpad, pencils, and eraser arranged on the table. He tactfully ignored the even pinker blush which now tinged Miss Seeton’s cheeks: she was always embarrassed at the creation of one of her special Drawings, and her embarrassment no longer caused him any great surprise. One had to coax her, perhaps remind her of her professional obligations if she seemed particularly bothered: he was used to it. “We know,” he said, “that we can rely on you to fulfil your contract, and more than fulfil it: you’ve never let us down, Miss Seeton. May I see the drawing, please?”
As he smiled, and held out his hand, Miss Seeton’s face flamed. Her eyes dropped to the closed cover of her sketchpad, on which her fingers twisted in a tormented knot, as if protecting—withholding—the sketch from Delphick’s sight. She murmured something the chief superintendent didn’t quite catch, and her hands moved suddenly apart as if to wrench and tear the sketchpad in two.
“Miss Seeton!” Delphick glanced at Bob, who shook his head, bewildered. “This isn’t like you, Miss Seeton. You mustn’t even think of destroying your picture, no matter what you think of its—its artistic merits. Scotland Yard owns the copyright, you know.” And once more he held out his hand.
“Oh ...” Miss Seeton, still pink-cheeked, raised her eyes to meet Delphick’s firm but kindly gaze. “So—so very ... disloyal ...” she gulped. “T-treas-treason ...”
“Not,” said Delphick, “if you give it to me now, without further delay. I’m a servant of the Crown, remember, and my duty, quite as much as yours, will be called into question if I fail to follow up every possible clue in this case. No matter how obscure or,” and he smiled, “unusual. Please?”
He reached again for the sketchpad. Reluctantly—as reluctant as they’d ever seen her—Miss Seeton allowed him to take it; then she pushed back her chair and jumped up from the table before he could inspect her work. “I’ll—I’ll just see if Martha is making a cup of tea,” she said; and fled.
Delphick looked again at
Bob. “Entirely natural, of course, that she should be less than her normal happy self, but I can’t help wondering whether the shocks of yesterday haven’t, after all, been too much for her. We’ve grown so used to her bouncing back from her numerous trials and tribulations that we tend to forget she is, alas, not as young as—great heavens!”
As he spoke, Delphick had opened the stiff paper cover of the sketchpad. The exclamation had come the moment his brain had advised him that what his eyes had seen really was what Miss Seeton had drawn. “Great heaven and earth ...”
There was a long, fraught silence. Bob, who had craned his head across to look at the sketch, had frozen in mid-look, too startled even to whistle.
“No wonder,” said Delphick at last, “that she spoke of treason ...”
Miss Seeton had drawn a woodland glade in high summer, surrounded by leafy trees, carpeted with luxuriant grasses. In the middle of the glade, taking their ease on the grass, were three figures: one man, one woman, and one of indeterminate gender, who sprawled, leaning on one elbow, to the right of the little group with the other arm outstretched, the hand holding a bottle. The figure’s face was shaded; the hand and bottle were sharply defined. The middle figure—like the first, decorously clad in jacket and trousers, but with a tie rather than (as the first) a frilled cravat—leaned rather than sprawled away from his companion, as if conversing privately with the third member of the trio.
Miss Seeton Rules (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 18) Page 12