With a roar and a rush, Delphick’s car, with Bob at the wheel, caught up with them and sat on their tail. The hunt for Miss Seeton was, with a vengeance, on ...
For—as Delphick reminded his sergeant, who was too busy concentrating to reply—find Miss Seeton, and they would more than likely find—with her interpretation of those puzzling sketches—the solution not only to the kidnap of Princess Georgina, but to the murders, as well.
chapter
~ 24 ~
ALTHOUGH MANY OF its citizens, with Miss Seeton’s continuing absence, were troubled in spirit, Plummergen contrived to rise above itself for the sake (as some of the more vocal put it) of the kiddies. The Grand Firework Display and Potato Roast had been planned for weeks; the search parties had done all that could reasonably be expected of them, anyone would admit; the police were known to be doing their best—and there was no sense now in spoiling things for everybody else. Besides, wasn’t Miss Seeton herself so fond of the youngsters she sometimes taught? She’d hate to have them disappointed. What’s more, if they cancelled the festivities as one or two had suggested, wouldn’t Murreystone (said those as cunning as they were vocal) choose to see it as Giving In?
It was the final point which clinched the argument. Never mind the truth of the matter: the village knew, only too well, that opportunist Murreystone, gloating, would forever publish it abroad how Plummergen had refused to run the risk of being outdone by a bigger guy, a brighter fire, a more spectacular display from its smaller rival. And no amount of explanation (not that Plummergen would stoop to explain itself to Murreystone, but there were other villages on the marsh who might get the wrong idea) would banish from local legend the Murreystone-inspired accusation of cowardice. Nothing short of a cloudburst, Plummergen realised, could be accepted as an excuse for failing to commemorate the Gunpowder Treason with all due ceremony and celebration; and the committee duly announced that the Plummergen bonfire would be lit, as had originally been planned, at six, sharp.
By five o’clock, the sun had long since set, although in London the sky was never truly dark. There were too many street lamps to cast an upward golden glow against low-lying clouds, too many public buildings with floodlights and with high, uncurtained windows.
From behind the red velvet hangings of her room in Buckingham Palace, Georgina, curled up among cushions on the window-seat, a fleecy blanket draped around her shoulders, gazed without seeing to the shadowed gardens below. There was no question (her cousins had insisted) of her returning to Kensington that night; after all the shocks and disturbance of the past few days, she must have peace, and quiet, and nothing more to worry her. The private wing of Buck House was as peaceful and quiet as anywhere in Town; now that she had done her duty by the security forces, she must retire for a well-earned rest, and have her supper brought to her on a tray just as soon as she felt like it.
Georgina didn’t feel like it just yet. She’d managed, with coaxing, to swallow half a cup of tea on landing, but the helicopter flight had been rather bumpier than she would have wished. Her insides still had some way to go to catch up with the rest of her before she could believe herself safe on terra firma again. The aftermath of the trip from Ashford, coupled with the strain of having dutifully repeated, for the benefit of yet another group of detectives, her story for what must have been the umpteenth time, had left her wanting to do no more than sit in silence for a while, thinking.
Princess Georgina might be young and pretty and golden-haired, but she was no dumb blonde. She took her responsibilities as seriously as any member of the Royal Family; and she couldn’t help but think of Miss Seeton—whom she’d been so pleased to see in her captivity, who had been so kind and encouraging when she’d most needed it—as the greatest responsibility of her life. She wouldn’t, she knew, be able to rest until she’d heard that the old lady had been found ...
Old lady? Georgina found herself smiling at the very idea. One hardly thought of Miss Seeton as old, for all her grey hair and quiet demeanour. She had been so cheerful, so spry, so—so indomitable in the face of what common sense said had been danger: some old ladies might have threatened the vapours at the prospect of who-knew-how-long in durance vile, but not the Battling Brolly. Not, of course, that the battle had been successful, on this particular occasion, but one had to admit that Miss Seeton’s support for the escape attempt had been marvellous, even if at first she’d looked a bit embarrassed about it all. And the brolly! She must be sure to check that the chief superintendent had—as he’d promised—arranged for it to be repaired where her poking and prodding at the bolts of her prison door had damaged it.
Mr. Delphick had given that gold umbrella to Miss Seeton in memory of her earliest adventure—but what other adventures she’d had since then! Not, of course, that she’d seen them as adventures. Georgina smiled again at the memory of how hard it had been to urge her new friend to speak of herself. She guessed that it had only been Miss Seeton’s wish to take her mind off their present situation which had persuaded her to say anything at all ...
And, indeed, even now Georgina’s knowledge of Miss Emily Seeton was based less on what Miss Seeton had said than on what the papers had told her of the Battling Brolly, and on what Chief Superintendent Delphick had tried to explain at the earlier debriefing, in Ashford. It had been so confusing, she feared she hadn’t really taken it in as well as she ought—but now there was something niggling at the back of her mind. Something about when Miss Seeton talks about her drawings, you know she’s on the right track ...
Drawings! Suddenly, Georgina thought of family gossip: of the kidnap of distant cousin Artemis MacSporran, of some crazy plot to overthrow the Crown in Scotland, and of how both had been thwarted through the good offices of—
“The Battling Brolly,” breathed Georgina, sitting up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. “Drawings ... when she talks about drawings, she’s on the right track ...”
Just what was it that Miss Seeton had said?
“Last on the list,” said Brinton, glaring back through the night at the shuttered windows of the empty farmhouse. “And nobody home here, either.” Glumly, he watched Foxon score a pencil across the final address on his clipboard sheets, and winced as a distant flurry of crackling bangs signalled the ignition at some festive bonfire of yet another string of jumping-jacks. It was, in his present humour, far too violent a sound for the superintendent’s liking.
He scowled at his companions, who were as disappointed as himself by the outcome to their search. “So what do we do now—anyone any ideas?”
In the distance, the silver-sparkling trail of a rocket flashed across the Guy Fawkes sky, and exploded against the clouds in a riot of rainbow stars.
“Ask for an update when you check in,” suggested Delphick. “Something may just have come up since we arrived—”
“All of ten minutes ago,” snapped Brinton, then swallowed his intended remarks about watched pots never boiling as Foxon reached into the car for the radio handset, and switched it on. The other three crowded close in an uneasy silence, broken only by the rainbow rocket’s series of explosions, faint but clear across the quiet, level marshland. After a few frantic moments, Ashford Control crackled into life, and gave reluctant tongue in response to Foxon’s quick enquiry ...
“So now what?” Brinton had gone through despair, and beyond. He turned to Delphick, and gestured helplessly. “You’re the Oracle, for heaven’s sake. Say something!”
Delphick’s attention was caught by the flash of another rocket, soaring into the cloudy heavens from the west. There followed a pause, while he pondered; and Bob, shifting from one huge foot to the other, shuffled dry leaves in an agony of frustration. Like Brinton, like Foxon, he longed for action: but there was no sense in going off half-cocked. The Oracle—all of them—had gambled on Foxon’s, or rather Potter’s, list of likely local houses—and they’d lost. But the Oracle had spent a fair old while talking with Princess Georgina; he’d heard what she’d had to tell him about Miss Seet
on, and he’d tried to make her remember everything she could, and more. Now he’d had time for it to pickle in his subconscious, maybe—just maybe—he could tie it all in with those sketches they’d seen back at the cottage, back in Plummergen ...
“Back to Plummergen,” said Delphick, and Bob jumped as the others gasped: had he spoken the thought aloud, or was the old man a mind reader? Or perhaps it was—he grinned, as Foxon and Brinton made if-you-say-so noises—the logical thing to do: except that with Miss Seeton, logic was about the last word anyone would use.
“You are entirely correct, Sergeant Ranger.” Delphick’s dry tones informed his startled sidekick that he had spoken that particular thought aloud. “There is,” continued the Oracle, above Bob’s muttered apology, “no logic whatever to my proposal that we adjourn to Miss Seeton’s village—no logic, that is, beyond the perpetually illogical premise that where her ambience is most strong, perhaps there will be found some means to guide us towards the, ah, personification of that ambience. Towards, that is, Miss Seeton herself. Another examination of her sketchbook would not, I believe, in these perplexing circumstances come amiss ...”
In Plummergen, Sir George—huffing through his neat moustache, conscious (despite his hidden concerns) of the importance of the occasion—struck the ceremonial match, and held it to a strategically-placed wisp of straw. It was thought an omen of good luck for next year’s harvest if the fire caught at the first time of striking; and everyone watched intently as the tiny flame licked its way into life, scarlet and crimson and rich, ripening gold ...
In Buckingham Palace, Georgina slipped from the window-seat, and turned slowly in the direction of her bedside table. On that table were a reading-lamp and a selection of books, a small tin of biscuits, a box of paper handkerchiefs (Royalty is far more practical in its lifestyle than many people realise), and a telephone.
Her hand reached out to the receiver; hovered; and fell back. With a sigh, she shook her head, and quietly scolded herself for her folly—or, perhaps, for her lack of conviction. Had she had a ridiculous, exaggerated idea—or an inspired brainwave? She took a step closer to the telephone—reached out again—paused ...
From outside, the distant sound of exploding fireworks—the whine of Catherine wheels, the overhead crackle of rockets, the cannon-fire of Roman candles—broke for the first time into Georgina’s consciousness.
“Guy Fawkes,” she murmured. She smiled. “Guy Forks!”
She made up her mind. Better to appear foolish than, if she was too late proved right, afraid of seeming foolish—a coward. Generations of Saxe-Coburg ghosts looked on, and nodded their approval.
“And anyway,” said Her Royal Highness Princess Georgina, with her index finger poised and her eyes dancing, “I’ve always wanted to do this—and it’s probably the best excuse I’ll ever have in my life!”
Whereupon, with no more hesitation, she began to dial.
Into Plummergen swept the two-car cavalcade, Foxon in front, Bob close behind. From over the marsh they came, racing across the narrow bridge and ready to roar up The Street to the bonfire to find Martha, or Stan, or someone with Miss Seeton’s front-door key ...
But Brinton and Delphick, keen-eyed passengers, spotted the light in the Bloomers’ cottage as they passed, and both ordered their drivers to slam on their brakes and stop.
Foxon’s reflexes were quick: mercifully, so were Bob’s. Four car doors swung open; eight booted feet pounded up the short front path, and only Brinton’s barked command for some common sense, dammit, prevented four urgent hands reaching out to seize one brass knocker.
The unorthodox arrival of these clamorous guests brought the Bloomers to the door before anyone had time to knock. It was Stan who opened to them; Martha, the corner of her apron to her reddened eyes, could only stare in dismay at the four official faces on the step, dreading what news they might bring.
“It’s not bad news,” said Delphick, before either of Miss Seeton’s friends could speak. “In fact, it’s no news at all, I’m afraid, and I don’t propose to insult you with the bromide about no news being good news, because we have absolutely no way of knowing, at present. What we do know is that we should very much like to borrow the key of Miss Seeton’s cottage—we want to take another look at her sketchbook. I have an idea ...”
He hadn’t; he was hoping, that was all. But the worried Bloomers knew nothing of this, and welcomed his suggestion with relief. Stan, almost before the tall policeman had finished his request, was hurrying down to the kitchen for Miss Seeton’s spare key, safe in its usual place on the board beside the Bloomers’ own front, back, shed, and greenhouse keys; he was back as Martha was still only halfway through her sad little speech about not having the heart to go to the fireworks tonight, no matter what folk might say about poor dear Miss Emily not wanting to spoil anyone’s Guy Fawkes fun, when they were both so worried about her, and those who said they’d no need to fret on account of her always turning up in the end just didn’t understand, did they?
“They don’t, indeed.” Delphick deemed it wiser (and faster) to agree with Martha rather than waste time trying to explain that neither he nor his colleagues would ever insult the finer feelings of the Bloomers with such a suggestion. “We’re as worried as you, Martha, but we are, as I said, still hoping. It’s only an idea, I’m afraid, but there just may be something in the sketches that we missed first time around ...”
And within three minutes they were all in Miss Seeton’s sitting-room, poring over the sketches which stubbornly refused to give up their secret. Nobody spoke. Above the tense breathing of the four policemen, the sound of fireworks from outside masked the rustle of pages as Delphick flipped them back and forth, back and forth between the first cartoon—the guy with his battered hat, his cutlery limbs—and the last, the princess in her distant castle with the forces of law and order rushing to the rescue.
“Rapunzel,” muttered Delphick, staring yet again at this final drawing as Catherine wheels screamed and whooped somewhere in the distance. “The helicopter flight back to Buck House—well, she was certainly right about that.”
“Y-yes ...” Brinton wouldn’t normally have put himself forward as an interpreter when the Oracle was on the case, but when even the Yard’s own Seeton expert seemed flummoxed by her drawings, he supposed he ought to be willing to give it a try, if nobody else was prepared to risk it. And he’d crown Foxon if the lad laughed at him afterwards ... “Overdid it a bit, though, wouldn’t you say? I mean—they’ll have kept it quiet, won’t they, as far as possible? None of this fire-engine-and-squad-car business the way she’s shown it, I mean. She’ll have thought the sirens were fireworks, most likely,” he added, as a rocket howled low overhead and exploded in a high-pitched clatter at the bottom of the garden. “And with all the Guy Fawkes business as well ...”
It made no sense: he knew it didn’t: but somebody had to say something, do something to get the Oracle thinking along the right tracks—and as nobody knew what the right tracks were, it was a case of kicking ideas around until it all came together and he headed off in the right direction.
“Sirens,” said Delphick thoughtfully, still staring at Rapunzel. “And Guy Fawkes ...”
Foxon stirred; but it was Bob who spoke. “Sirens, sir,” he said, breaking into the oracular thought process without apology. “Hear them? Heading this way—”
“No,” said Foxon, “that’s the bells—fire engines, if you ask me. But those others sound like police sirens, all right,” and now his superiors could hear them as well. The whooping two-tone constabulary wail, the frantic tintinnabulation of the fire brigade—this last growing ever louder, nearer, speeding past the cottage with a roar ...
“The playing-field, or I’m a Dutchman,” said Delphick. “The Guy Fawkes bonfire—come on!”
chapter
~ 25 ~
ALTHOUGH MISS SEETON’S closest friends had been concerned about her disappearance, they were of that class and generation which seldom permi
ts its deepest feelings to show. The Colvedens were not the only people to attend the Grand Bonfire Celebrations determined to put a brave face on things; and more than one person that evening found that thoughts of their missing friend inspired them to follow her excellent example and—the sky being overcast, the outlook uncertain—to carry an umbrella, just in case.
Children in gumboots squealed with excitement as they hurtled through the churned-up mud around the base of the bonfire, around which Nigel and his friends had thrown a stern cordon, remembering Murreystone and the contretemps of the previous night. Only now Plummergen was out in force could the Village Watch relax its vigilance: the bonfire and the guy were safe, their one visible enemy being the low, dense, menacing cloud. Sir George—one eye out for the weather, one for the starter’s signal—stood by with the ceremonial matchbox; Admiral Leighton, Dr. Knight, headmaster Martin Jessyp, and other village elders coordinated the distribution of sparklers for the opening extravaganza. Lady Colveden and Miss Treeves (sister to the Reverend Arthur, nominally in charge of cocoa) supervised the jacket-potato detachment and the Hot Spiced Punch. Many were anxious about Miss Seeton; in none was that anxiety evident.
Sir George—huffing through his neat moustache, conscious (despite his hidden concerns) of the importance of the occasion—struck the ceremonial match, and held it to a strategically-placed wisp of straw. The tiny flame licked its way into life, scarlet and crimson and rich, ripening gold; good luck for next year’s harvest was assured. Adults stamped their booted feet and clapped; children cheered, and waved sparklers in wild, serpentine coils of burnished light against the dark.
Nigel snatched a brand from the merry burning, and set it to the blue touch-paper of a giant rocket, which coughed, sputtered into life, and roared into the heavens with tumbling silver glitter in its wake, and a series of jewel-hued explosions at the apex of its flight. A deafening cheer went up with the rocket: now, at last, the festivities proper could begin.
Miss Seeton Rules (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 18) Page 23