Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Once it had got the hang of things the table joined the spirit of the game. It tapped out messages, although it couldn’t spell and was inclined to stop mid-sentence as though forgetful of its theme. The quickest and surest method appeared to be question and answer. Was Miss Seeton a witch? The table said she was. Was there danger all about them? The table was sure of it. Was the church at Iverhurst bedeviled with ghosts? Yes: the table was emphatic. Wasn’t it their duty to insist that something should be done? The table nearly broke a leg insisting that it should.

  The party finished late, good nights were exchanged and the ladies retired to rest enkindled afresh with missionary zeal. They were to be the saviors of the district and Mrs. Blaine felt all too keenly her position as the leader of the band.

  She visited the Brettenden Free Library; read a book. If the district was to be infested with eerie lights which appeared in empty churches at midnight, with ghosts and witches, the district, as the Master had too rightly said, must then he purged, and this book, Ghosts and Go-Betweens, told you just too clearly how to do it. You had to exorcise them. An ordained priest, it stipulated, was necessary to perform this feat.

  Mrs. Blaine and Miss Nuttel canvassed the village; exhorting, arguing, demanding. Finally, when sufficient enthusiasm had been roused, they led a deputation to the vicarage. There they met with opposition.

  Miss Treeves was adamant. Never, she averred, had she heard such foolishness. Nor would she dream of letting Arthur get entangled. And table rapping … Really, she had no patience. How could they be so silly? And as for the suggestion that Arthur should go to Iverhurst, at night, and exorcise … It was quite the stupidest idea she’d ever heard. And if there really were lights at Iverhurst, then it was a matter for the police.

  “You don’t understand,” protested Norah Blaine. “Even if the police would take it seriously—which of course they never do—there’s nothing they can do against evil spirits. It’s too obviously a matter for the Church; it says so here.” She produced the library book. Wisely, knowing Miss Treeves’ sympathies, she had avoided the subject of Miss Seeton.

  The vicar listened and felt unhappy. Molly was right, of course. She always was. And it did all sound unlikely and farfetched. Spirits … Well, frankly he knew nothing of them. And as for exorcising … He’d heard of it, of course. Yes, yes, of course he had; he’d read of it in books. And in the Bible the casting out of devils was referred to many times. But to the best of his recollection it didn’t mention the procedure. Presumably there must be some kind of ceremony. He really didn’t see … But on the other hand, these were his parishioners, and he was responsible for their welfare. And Iverhurst church, though never used, did lie within his parish. But even so, he didn’t see … It was very difficult.

  Sensing his weakness, Mrs. Blaine attacked. “It’s too clear that it’s your duty, vicar. You’re the only one can save us. It’s always the Church that has to do it—haunted houses or anything like that. Spirits and ghosts don’t pay attention to ordinary people, but when the Church commands they must obey. It’s all in here.” She waved the book. “It says ‘Evil spirits flee when exorcised’ on page ninety-four. You can’t possibly leave things as they are—it would be too dreadful.”

  “Won’t do,” agreed Miss Nuttel.

  Arthur Treeves looked hunted. “I … er …” he began.

  “Arthur …” warned his sister.

  “It’s—that I don’t know about such things,” he confessed. “I don’t know how to exorcise. I—I believe there’s a special ministry that deals with exorcism. I’d have to inquire.”

  “No need for outsiders,” said Miss Nuttel. “Waste of time.”

  “It’s all in here.” Mrs. Blaine handed him Ghosts and Go-Betweens. “In chapter twelve; it’s too simple. You hold a sort of service and sprinkle holy water to consecrate the ground, and make the sign of the cross and things like that. And then you command the spirits to go away and say—”

  “Avaunt,” supplied Miss Nuttel.

  The deputation won. Miss Treeves fought a rearguard action. If this folly was to be done at all, it must be done by day. They wouldn’t hear of it. It said in Ghosts and Go-Betweens that the most successful time for exorcising was at the same hour that spirits had appeared. The book apparently made a point of this; possibly on the assumption that if the spirits were not there to hear they might not get the message.

  The project was determined and the deputation left. Once they had got their way their enthusiasm mounted. A nucleus of them decided that the vicar must have support: they would accompany him to see the job was done. The idea caught on and flashed around the village. Nearly everyone would go—it wasn’t the sort of things to miss. Should be better than the Harvest Festival. It was discussed among those who owned cars who should lift whom; some would go on bicycles; some would make up parties, starting early, and proceed on foot. Flasks were filled with tea, and sandwiches were cut. It was arranged with their mothers that the church choir should have their tea early and be sent to bed; to be roused later with cups of cocoa and with sugared buns—the baker did a sellout—so that they could be there on time to lead the community, at the right moment, in the singing of a hymn. The village looked forward to the best treat in months. Even Sir George, informed by Molly Treeves of what was brewing, decided the padre might need bolstering. And anyway, as Nigel said, if they were set on this damnfool thing, why miss the fun?

  Could he get a transfer, Foxon wondered? Much more of this and he’d had it in the force. Poor little thing. First that meeting, and now to drag an elderly party out on a September night to sit in an abandoned church and catch a cold, in case she got impressions. She’d get pneumonia, that was what. He didn’t care if she was being paid for it, they’d no right to do it. And no complaints: just seemed to think she ought to do whatever she was told. Well, it was wrong. Old Brimmers ought to have his head examined. She was—what was the word?—gallant; that was it. Foxon boiled. Well, he’d done his best. He’d looked over her getup for the jaunt and said it wouldn’t do. He’d borrowed an old blue duffel coat from the local P.C.’s, Potter’s, wife and insisted that she wear it. It was much too big for her. And if she put the hood up she’d be snuffed out like a candle. But at least she might keep warm. He’d pinched a leather cushion too to try and make her comfortable. But there really wasn’t much you could do except to get it over with. He backed down the path to the church door, holding a flashlight to guide her footsteps. Trailing blue melton cloth, Miss Seeton followed him.

  A bend in the path took Foxon by surprise. He trod on grass, on a gravestone, did an ungainly dance and crashed. So did the flashlight, which smashed. Heroically he muffled both his feelings and his words. “Don’t fall over your feet” had been his first injunction. Well, he’d done that. Next on the list was to knock the building down.

  Miss Seeton was distressed. “Oh, poor Mr. Foxon, did you hurt herself?”

  “No, not a bit,” he lied. “I only broke a couple of my backs. Pity about the flashlight—we’ll have to crawl the rest.”

  Miss Seeton fumbled beneath the navy blue, found her bag and opened it. Really, one did appreciate why country people … She produced her flashlight. A thin pencil of light pierced the surrounding darkness and, thus enlightened, they proceeded on their way.

  Once they were inside the church, Miss Seeton’s flashlight proved less than adequate. It found the way to the main aisle, described the jutting carving on a pew, but failed to warn their feet of moldering hassocks. Miss Seeton and Foxon groped and stumbled on until they reached the center of the building. Foxon tried a pew for comfort. It lacked it. The hard, narrow seat, the upright back, would prove impossible after a short time. The only impression anyone would get would be one of numbness in the nub. He left Miss Seeton there while he explored. The pulpit was useless since the stairs were rotten. Returning to the nave, he passed the choir stalls until the thin flashlight beam showed the gap in the center of the communion rail. Ahead must lie
the high altar, which wouldn’t help, and so he tried the sides. To his right he found the mildewed remains of tapestry lying on the floor. He shone the light above and saw a brass rod, from which the tapestry had fallen, protruding at a drunken angle from a pillar which was set against the wall. The left-hand side was better. The tapestry here still clung precariously to its rod. Evidently they had once framed the extremities of the sanctuary steps, hiding such mundane things as a door, a row of pegs and two stools, one with a missing leg. He fetched Miss Seeton and asked her where she’d rather sit: against the wall? or out in the open? Miss Seeton was uncertain; uncertain where to sit; uncertain quite what was required of her. Foxon explained once more that the chief inspector was anxious that she should remain for a while and feel the atmosphere of the church at night—get an impression. Miss Seeton was dubious. It was, she pointed out, a little difficult, perhaps, in some ways, to gain an exact impression of a church that one could not see. But supposing that one were lucky, on the other hand, and the moon came out, one might then, of course, be able to see the buildings as a whole. So it would be wiser, in that case, to sit forward a little, where one would have the chance to do so, supposing that one were. Lucky, she meant.

  Foxon pulled out the sound stool, dusted it with his sleeve and set it behind the edge of the tapestry, hoping that the tattered relic might help to keep some drafts at bay. He arranged the cushion and settled Miss Seeton. He searched and found the missing leg to the other stool, propped it in the angle formed by the wall and pillar, sat down and resigned himself to patience.

  Death and the Queen of Hearts—and soon. Miss Wicks pulled the woollen wrap tighter round her shoulders. Whom could it signify? It was silly to be scared, since foreseeing by cards was essentially only a sort of solitaire, but this was the sixth sequence in succession and the message was the same—the Ace of Spades next to the Queen of Hearts. And soon. It seemed so sinister. Should she stop?

  The old lady gathered up the cards and reshuffled the pack. She was, as she often was, alone. People tended to avoid private conversation with Miss Wicks. Like many individuals with a speech defect, she appeared to be under a compulsion to practice the impracticable and the effect of her protruding teeth and the constant stream of s’s which sissed through them was mesmeric. Notwithstanding their efforts, others would find their own upper lips beginning to twitch, retract, and they in their turn would start to hiss unlooked-for s’s in response. Even in silence a subtle essence of sibilance seemed to surround Miss Wicks.

  Tentative, worried, the old lady again began to lay out the cards. The Queen of Clubs. She felt happier. At least since that was not the same the rest also should be dissimilar. Encouraged, she laid down another card and referred to her copy of Master Metaphysics to find the meaning. The Place Card … Here it was—House. The Queen of Clubs in her house. The following card according to the book typified the Law. The Queen of Clubs in her house and associated with the law? That must surely stand for Miss Seeton: no one else of her acquaintance had any association with the law—the police. This was most exciting. Quickly she took the top card, peeped at it; wavered. The Ace of Spades. Reluctantly she put it down and brooded on the resultant formation. Yes, there was a difference: the Ace was in reverse. Surely that symbolized something else. She consulted the book again: the Ace of Spades reversed was Accident. Unless … Was it possible she had reversed it by mistake? In which case it was Death. With misgiving she turned the final card, the Time Card. This meant … no, she must ask the book. The book replied: Immediate; At Once.

  Old Miss Wicks pushed the table from her and levered herself to her feet. It was most disturbing, because there was no one about; the whole village was at Iverhurst for the exorcism. And if Miss Seeton were seriously menaced in her own house, and anything should take place, she would feel so responsible. Miss Seeton, so sane and sensible, was the least likely person to have set off for the exorcism, and there was no question strange things did take place in Miss Seeton’s vicinity. The clock on the mantel gave one chime. A quarter past eleven. It was very late for visiting, but without a telephone there was no other means of making certain and at least if nothing was amiss Miss Seeton was not the sort to scoff or make her feel ridiculous.

  By this time the old lady had buttoned herself into her mouton mink coat. She pulled on her daisy hat, a home-knitted affair, which resembled a tea cozy with a pompon on top made from a superabundance of yellow and white wool scraps. It looked like a prize-winning chrysanthemum, but to Miss Wicks it was a daisy and she was proud of it. Allowing for shrinkage she had made the hat too big, so for safety she placed a scarf over it and tied it beneath her chin. She drew on her gloves, picked up her handbag, locked the front door behind her and, flashlight in one hand, her cane in the other, four inches of matchstick leg exposed beneath mouton mink, long pointed shoes neatly splayed in divergent directions, Miss Wicks embarked upon her thirty-yard expedition down the street.

  On her arrival at Sweetbriars she found the cottage in darkness, the front door ajar. This daunted her. She stepped back and looked around for help. All the other houses showed dark and silent, reminding her that everyone had gone to Iverhurst. Fearful, she pushed the door wide and shone her flashlight into the passage. It was empty; no sound, no sign of anyone. She faltered forward, stepped through the doorway on her right into Miss Seeton’s sitting room, played the beam of light upon the wall, found the switch and stretched out her hand as a beam of light brighter than hers sprang from behind her. She gasped and was about to turn, when she felt rather than heard a swishing in the air and a blow upon her head put out all lights for her.

  chapter

  ~11~

  Ted, anonymous in motorcycle gear, wheeled his machine off the road across the Downs and parked it behind some scrub. By the beam of his powerful flashlight he picked his way past an assortment of cars. Looked like most of them’d arrived. His mouth set in a mutinous line. What did N. and Duke want to mess about with witchcraft for? Doing well enough on Nuscience, weren’t they? And this new prank of bringing the witch lot up through the caves—crackers. If they didn’t want cars parked near the church, why use it? Go a mile or two farther on and use the wood. But no, Duke liked to use a church if there was one handy; said it gave a service that extra something. It’d give it good night if he wasn’t careful. And the hell of a secret the Nuscientists’ Secret Place was going to be with half of Kent traipsing back and forth through it. And, Ted reflected bitterly, the extra work. Tacking up black sheeting everywhere so that all the witches and warlocks didn’t get an eyeful of what they weren’t supposed to. Nuscience itself was good straight stuff: cod the fools, take their money, soak the richest of ’em with this Secret Place stuff and then get out. But devil worship, no. Start fooling about with odd Powers and you’d find one day the Powers were a bit odder than you thought. Involuntarily his shoulders contracted. He had a feeling there was trouble coming. Look at that old soak Evelyn, already more than half believing the crap he spouted. If they kept him playing the Devil much longer he’d grow himself a pair of horns for real—and a tail. Ted pushed his way through some bushes to where the boulder had been rolled back from the passage entrance.

  In the smaller cellar, underneath the sanctuary, Ted pulled aside the black material to find that the lamp was lit and that James and another Majordome were kneeling on the floor throwing dice, while Hilary Evelyn, black-robed, a piece of paper in one hand, strode to and fro declaiming, “Deum nostrum hoc ad …” A part of the actor’s mind was on his lines as he repeated Latin in reverse and the rest was concentrated on his power. Deriding Power from Above, you gained Power from Below. Which power was greatest? Could base power defy the power Sublime and win? His fingers plucked nervously at his robe, but in removing his jacket he had removed his flask. The answer for him, as all answers spiritual, was spirituous.

  Ted crossed to the others. James glanced at him. “O.K.?”

  “O.K.” Ted unzipped the front of his jacket and pulled out a
folded sheet of paper and a weighted leather sap. He handed the paper to James. “That’s the one of the church Duke wanted; better give it him afterward.”

  James took the drawing. “No trouble?”

  “No. Dead an’ alive hole, whole place was dark, everybody asleep. All except our old bird—she’d been out somewhere. Came in while I was there.” Ted grinned. “I bopped her on the daisy from behind just as she was going to turn on the light.” He waggled the sap. “Got a lovely spring in it. She’d only got a scarf thing over her head and I gave it her so hard it flipped right back and I nearly dropped it. If she ever comes round she won’t worry anybody for a month or two.” He jerked his thumb upward. “All in?”

  James nodded. Evelyn stopped in his pacing and stood over them. He looked down at the dice.

  “They shared my garments among them and cast lots for my clothing.”

  The other young man rocked back on his heels. “What’s biting you, pop?”

  The actor turned away. “Bah, ignorant puppies. You know not what you mock.”

  James stood. “I know one thing. It’s about time we sent you up. Come on.” He scooped a goat’s mask from the floor and threw it to Evelyn. “Get your face on and stand on the platform.”

  Ted pulled a box into position and stood on it ready to slide the bolt to the trap. The other young man took hold of the winch handle. He eyed the black-robed, goat-headed figure with derision.

  “Pleasure to send you up any time, pop. No effort at all.”

  Really. Police work. So strange. One had, of course, understood that the police needed great patience, but one had not, until now, fully appreciated how much of their time was spent in waiting about. And in such odd places. Miss Seeton stared about her trying to penetrate the almost total darkness of the church interior. She did so hope that she would be able to do whatever it was they wanted her to, though, to be frank, she still wasn’t clear—well, not entirely—quite what that was. Admittedly that nice Mr. Foxon—so very sympathetic—had explained it all again, but even he did not appear fully to understand that it was not possible to get an impression, or make a drawing, in the dark, of a church that one had not seen, when one was too, and so was it. In the dark, that was. And although this coat, which Mr. Foxon had so thoughtfully borrowed, was comforting, even if a little large, there were one’s ankles. Such a draft. Miss Seeton surreptitiously began to draw her feet up under the blue melton cloth. If one was going to sit here, one might as well utilize the time. She’d do her breathing exercises. She pulled her right foot up onto her left thigh, then reaching down, she grasped her left foot and placed it upon her right thigh. There. That was better. It really was quite extraordinary. When she had originally seen a photograph in Yoga and Younger Every Day of a gentleman in the lotus position, it had never occurred to her that she herself might achieve such a contortion. But now she found it comfortable. And, of course, it would, in this instance, warm her feet. Miss Seeton expelled her breath, contracted her stomach muscles and started to inhale. First the diaphragm for a count of five. Then the chest. Then lift the shoulders for a full expansion on the last count. She raised her shoulders for a full expansion on the last count and the maneuver tipped the hood of the coat down over her hat to the level of her brows. Wasn’t there …? Yes, surely, there was some light in the body of the church. Miss Seeton peered beneath the hood at a glow showing through the tapestry in front of her. It seemed so yellow. Not like moonlight at all. Probably the effect of stained glass. And, if one were fanciful, one could almost believe that one could hear movement, whispering.