Picture Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 1) Read online

  “I’m so sorry. How dreadful for you,” sympathised Miss Seeton. “Shouldn’t you lie down? But what a curious coincidence.” She opened her bag and began to hunt in it. “I was given something for a headache only this morning. It’s in here somewhere. I’m most unlikely to use them as I don’t care for taking drugs myself.”

  “Why not? Who’s not caring about taking drugs?”

  Both women turned at the interruption. Mrs. Venning went quickly to the door.

  “Angela, what are you doing down here? Go back to your room.”

  “Oh, don’t be so fud. What gives? What’s that old . . . ?”

  “Don’t argue with me. Go back to your room at once. You aren’t well. You weren’t well last night, if you remember. Go back to bed and stay there as I told you or I shall have you seriously ill. It could easily be serious, do you understand. Now, will you do as I say.” Reluctantly her daughter retreated up the stairs. A door slammed. Mrs. Venning forced a smile. “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Please.” Miss Seeton was distressed. “It is I who am sorry. Such a worry for you. And the young—so impatient. Always sure that they know best. Now what was I . . . ? Oh yes, of course. I don’t know if they’ll be any good to you, but I’m told they’re excellent.” From her handbag she brought the phial of pills. “These, for your headache. Do try them if you think they’ll be any help.”

  The smile froze on Sonia Venning’s face. She gave a high-pitched, ugly laugh. Miss Seeton recoiled. Mrs. Venning stepped forward and slapped the phial out of her hand.

  “Get out,” she flung at her visitor. “Get out, you lying, filthy little spy. Go on, get out. If you want money, try some other game. You’ve made a bad mistake this time. Go on. Go on, get out.”

  Lunch at Rytham Hall, for which Miss Seeton, having misjudged either the distance or her walking speed, was late, was not a success. With a guest who appeared abstracted, a son who was sullen and preoccupied and a husband who was never a brilliant conversationalist, Lady Colveden’s efforts to enliven the proceedings gradually petered out and they finished the meal in silence.

  After lunch Miss Seeton announced her intention of going back to her cottage. The superintendent, arriving with his sergeant to interview her, joined his arguments to the protests of the Colveden family in an attempt to dissuade her, but she stuck to her decision. Grateful as she was for shelter the previous night, she could see no reason to remain. Simply, she had fallen in love with her cottage and wanted to return. So Delphick and Bob Ranger drove her back, to conduct the interview in her own home.

  Miss Seeton and the superintendent were at their ease on either side of the fireplace, while the sergeant, with his inevitable notebook, sat at a table near the front window looking on to The Street.

  “So we must accept that this time the sound was working, but the vision was switched off. Or rather the lighting was faulty.”

  Miss Seeton smiled. “I’m afraid so, superintendent. But I think that you could be wrong in imagining it was the same boy as in London. This one was completely English.”

  “Lebel’s parents may have been French, but he was born and bred in London, he’s got no foreign accent. What was this man’s voice like?”

  She thought. “No. I can’t help you, I’m afraid. It was just a voice. Very ordinary. Not well educated. I remember he called me ‘Lady’. He said ‘Go back to the house, lady’—or something like that.”

  “Did you see him walk at all?”

  “Yes, he came forward when I first got there—to the hen-house, that is.”

  “Then can you remember if he limped at all? Sir George thought he did. I wondered if he genuinely has a limp, or whether he might have ricked his ankle getting away.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. A flush stained Miss Seeton’s cheeks.

  “You don’t remember?” he prompted.

  “Well—yes. I’m afraid I do. I feel very guilty about it. You see I was worried on account of the hens, knowing that Stan would be upset. I felt responsible. So I told him to stop—stop upsetting the hens, I mean. When he defied me and told me to go back to the house and pointed that gun at me, I’m afraid I lost all patience and smacked his wrist. And the thing exploded. I think it must have damaged his foot. I did ask him if he was hurt, but he didn’t say. He only cried out and hopped about, holding his foot, before he scrambled up on to the hen-house roof and disappeared.”

  This was beyond. This was way, way over the odds. The sergeant was impelled to speak. He addressed his superior: “She-hee-hee!” he tittered. Shocked at the sound and wilting under The Oracle’s quelling eye, he clenched his teeth. Through tight and trembling lips he said: “I’m sorry, ma’am. For the record, was it your umbrella you smacked him with?”

  “Why, yes,” agreed Miss Seeton. “How did you know?”

  “B-Because it had to b-be. Only you—hoo-hoo . . .” Heroically he silenced himself by biting his tongue—hard.

  “If you’ve quite recovered, Sergeant?”

  Bob’s glowing face gazed at The Oracle in mute appeal. Between pain and suppression, water welled in his eyes. Two large tears ran down his cheeks. Hastily Delphick looked away. One tear splashed on the notebook, made a blot, to remain in testimony to the emotion of the interview.

  “Well . . . yes.” Delphick had the rare experience of finding himself at a loss. He reversed his gambit and tried again. “Yes . . . well, that disposes of his limp. And very nice marksmanship too, if I may say so.” He drew a deep breath. “Now, two other matters.” He smiled. “Poor Miss Seeton, it must seem to you like one unending catechism. But I’m afraid police work consists of information. Volumes of information. All of which has to be filed, tabulated, correlated and what-have-you. And from this process, if we’re lucky, emerge facts. Information is occasionally given to us, but mostly we go out and dig for it—with endless questions.”

  “But of course, Superintendent. I’m only too willing to help, if I can. I don’t see how you can do your work if people don’t tell you things.”

  “Right. Now, there’s an authoress, living locally, who writes what some people refer to as ‘stupid’ books.”

  “You mean Mrs. Venning? I don’t know about stupid. I believe her books are very successful. I’ve never read any myself. They’re books for small children.”

  “And she has a daughter called Angie.”

  “Angela, yes.”

  “Have you met them?”

  “Yes.”

  Give him credit, thought the sergeant. Hadn’t been able to find out the name of young Colveden’s ‘stupid authoress’ at lunch-time because the local P.C. was out on his beat, he’d now winkled the information out of Miss Seeton without her even knowing she’d given it. He’d be asking for a description next.

  “What are they like?” asked Delphick.

  “I’m sorry—I can’t say. I’ve only spoken to Mrs. Venning once. And I haven’t met her daughter, only saw her. She wasn’t at all well.”

  “But you must have formed some impression—of the mother, at least. What kind of woman is she?”

  She baulked. “I—I don’t know, Superintendent, I can’t tell you.”

  “Then tell me, how did you happen to meet her? I understood she was something of a recluse.”

  “I called on her.”

  “Recently?”

  “Yes. This morning, on my way back. Just before lunch. I’d overheard something spiteful and, knowing it was quite untrue, I thought she should be warned. So I called on her and . . .”

  “And?”

  “And . . .” She faltered again. Her hands moved restlessly. “And that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry to badger you, but it is important for me to learn more of the Vennings. If you remember, you agreed we couldn’t do our work if people didn’t tell us things.”

  “It isn’t that I won’t—it’s that I can’t. Oh, I could tell you that she was a little strange in her behaviour. And that she was very rude to me. But it would be wrong, don’t y
ou see. It wouldn’t be the truth.” Again the uncharacteristic restlessness of the hands. “Not the real truth.”

  Delphick had been watching her intently. He jumped to his feet. “Got it. Off you go. Find yourself paper, your drawing-block, pencils, paints, whatever it is you need. The sergeant and I will take a turn round the garden, if we may. We’ll examine the chicken houses, the wall, the ground beyond it. We’ll crawl about on our hands and knees and spoil our trousers. We’ll observe blades of grass through magnifying glasses. Have you got your magnifying glass, sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then we’ll use the eyes our National Health has given us and see sweet nothing at all. But at least we shall look like sleuths. While you stay here and do some paper work.” He swung round on her with a broad smile. “I’m right, aren’t I? That’s how you resolve your problems, find out about people, get at the truth—your fingers tell you, don’t they? You put it down on paper and then you can see it—then you know? Am I right?”

  Miss Seeton was acutely embarrassed. “I don’t think . . . well, perhaps. Yes—in a way, I mean—it’s true I do draw things. And people. I always feel one shouldn’t. But I can’t help myself, somehow. It’s—it’s compulsive really. But it does help—help me, that is—to see things more clearly. But, of course, they’re quite private. Rather, in a way I suppose, like a very private diary. I never let anyone else see them.”

  “Except us. We’re the confessional, remember. We’re doctors, priests; we’re that anomalous anodyne for society’s ills, detectives. To think that I nearly didn’t recognise a drug-taker’s craving because it happened to be paper and pencil, not pills. I ought to be put out to grass.” He grinned at her. “We’ll leave you to it. Come along, Sergeant, grass it shall be.”

  Miss Seeton watched them go through the french windows and down the garden. What an understanding man the superintendent was, very comforting somehow. And that enormous young man with the notebook, who so rarely spoke. They were both—dependable, that was it. She sat at the writing-desk near the window, pulled open one of the long drawers and took some cartridge paper from her portfolio, collected pencils, charcoal and erasers, shut the drawer, pulled down the flap and spread out her things. For a few moments she enjoyed the air from the open window, the view of the garden and the quiet. How pleasant it was. How lucky she’d been. She turned back to the writing-desk, to find that her hand, of its own volition, had taken up a piece of charcoal and had started blocking in. Mindlessly at first, then with increasing concentration, Miss Seeton began to give vent to her feelings.

  The hens, who had shown a slight interest on the detectives’ arrival, now, since no food had been forthcoming, ignored them. Bob clambered back and sat astride the wall.

  “Were you expecting to find anything down here, sir?”

  “Such as a few packets of heroin wot slipped out of ’is ’and while ’e was scarperin’?” The Oracle grinned amiably. “No, Bob. And if he dropped a few in on the chickens, I’m all for letting sleeping birds lie. Who am I to interfere with their simple pleasures. And I don’t think we can have you searching the hen-houses, for even if we could get you inside, if you let your breath out, or had another fit of hysterics, you’d blow the whole structure down.”

  Bob was abashed. “I’m awfully sorry about that, sir—laughing. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “Forget it. But another time, if you must cry, have the decency not to look at me during the performance. That was almost my undoing.”

  “You. You never batted an eyelid, sir.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it, but I should hate to guarantee that I haven’t ruptured something rather serious inside. All we’re doing down here at the moment is filling in time and going through the motions, in case there’s anything to see. It’s a pity that back wall’s so low,” he reflected, “it probably improves the view from the house, but at that height it’s a positive invitation to the dance.”

  “Do you think Lebel’s got contacts down here, sir?”

  “Not accomplices in the sense you mean it, no. But people he could contact, yes. You must remember, Bob, that drugs mean big money and big money means big organisation. I should imagine that Lebel’s no more than a small-time runner and hatchet-man for them, but an organisation, if it wants to run smoothly, must protect its own people, or eliminate them. At the moment Miss Seeton is inconvenient to them because she can put the finger on someone who is evidently useful to them, but if we can catch up with him, or make things sufficiently hot that he becomes an inconvenience, with any luck they’ll kill him and leave her alone which, though it may not please the drug squad, will save us a lot of leg-work.”

  “And you think Mrs. Venning is mixed up in it, sir?”

  “Entangled in the fringe, I should guess.”

  “It seems odd for someone like her. She’s quite well known.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a fan?”

  “My sister’s kids—they love her books. They’re all about a character called Jack the Rabbit.”

  “Such erudition,” said Delphick admiringly. “Well, it’s possible that the mother’s only covering up for the daughter, who sounds like a main-liner to me.”

  “You think the girl is hooked, then?”

  “Merely speculating. But young Colveden has evidently been worried about her for some time. For what he didn’t say, she was obviously in on the party with those young punks last night. And according to Miss Seeton, she’s ill this morning. It sounds a drearily familiar pattern.”

  “Pity,” commented Bob.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Delphick. “And t’will be pittier still if ’tis true. However, cheer up, it may not be like that at all. It’s . . . I don’t like amateurs without the weight mixing it with the professionals. It’s dangerous. That’s why I slapped the Colveden boy down. Making him lose his temper was the only way to get him to talk. All his running around playing peek-a-boo and I-spy, while trying to cover up for the Venning girl, could easily have landed him in hospital, or worse. And a lot she seems to care. He did a good job putting those other young disasters in the ditch, it gave us all their names and addresses on a plate, so the narcotics boys can now concentrate on them, instead of just vaguely on the club. They don’t matter in themselves, it’s who starts them off in the first place and who supplies them in the second. But the Vennings, I feel . . .” he shrugged. “I don’t know; I’m not happy about it. Come on. Perhaps Miss Seeton can give us a clue. She’s had time to fill Burlington House by now.”

  “I don’t see what you expect to get, sir, by her trying to draw Mrs. Venning. After all she’s not likely to stick her behind bars, like she did Lebel.”

  “It would be highly informative if she did. I’m not sure what I expect, but I’ve a shrewd suspicion that woman’s psychic, without knowing it. But whether, by drawing the subject, it will clarify her mind and she’ll be able to tell us what she thinks, or whether there’ll be something helpful in the drawing itself, I can’t even guess. Come on, let’s go and find out.”

  As they approached the french windows they could see Miss Seeton was absorbed. She was working with charcoal, smudging and shading with thumb, fingers and bits of cotton wool. They stood to one side and watched. After a few moments she sat back and studied what she’d been doing, then took a piece of charcoal and scrubbed it across the top of the paper, working it in with the heel of her hand. She pushed away her chair, got up and surveyed the result. Delphick moved forward.

  “May we come in?”

  She turned, startled, looked at them blankly, then, coming back to earth: “Oh, Superintendent. Yes, of course, come in. I was just going to clean myself up. Charcoal’s such a messy medium.” She held out two grimy hands; she had managed to get smears on her face as well. “I won’t be a moment.”

  They stood contemplating the littered desk. On top was the charcoal drawing on which they had seen her at work. Well, you couldn’t win every time, reflected the sergeant. The Oracle h
ad fallen down on this one. Or rather Miss Seeton had. They’d been trotting round the garden, while she was supposed to be running off a few front and side views of the Venning family. Only she’d forgotten all about it and settled down to a bit of landscaping. Pretty gloomy at that. Clever enough, he supposed, but he wouldn’t want to live with it. All those mountains at the back, with that dark sky on top. It was—brooding. Yes, that was the word, brooding. And that cliff on the left—no, not a cliff exactly—a rock. Just that one ray of light catching the stream as it trickled down—there were two streams actually, but one disappeared over the other side—lighting up the pool at the bottom where—good Lord!—some girl had come a purler and dropped a bottle or something that had smashed. He wouldn’t give much for the girl’s chances. She looked as if she was lying half in the water. Bit ominous, the whole thing. Not his cup of tea at all. Delphick pulled a sheet of paper from underneath the drawing. Bob chuckled. This was more like it. This was something you could understand. It was a quick pen sketch, done in a few lines. On a rostrum, behind a table above which was festooned a mayoral chain in place of bunting, a portly, pompous figure was delivering a speech while holding up a phial in his right hand: a wicked likeness to Mr. Trefold Morton in the role of a huckster selling quack medicines.

  “Who,” laughed Delphick as Miss Seeton returned, “is the gentleman you don’t like?”

  “Oh,” exclaimed Miss Seeton. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” She looked at him reprovingly. “It was underneath.”

  “I know,” agreed Delphick, “but the corner was sticking out and I couldn’t resist it. It’s very funny.”