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

“It was naughty of me, I admit. But he did boom so. It’s my cousin’s solicitor. I had to see him this morning about probate and he would insist on giving me pills for a headache. I didn’t want them, but it was easier to take them than argue.”

  The superintendent considered: it certainly was funny. And yet . . . A con man if ever he’d seen one. And the odd coincidence of a bottle or phial in both drawings. Coincidence? A little probing there might pay off. A few inquiries into this man’s financial standing and that of his clients . . . But with a solicitor any such investigation would need to be discreet.

  He put the sketch down and regarded the charcoal drawing. Miss Seeton watched him anxiously. “I don’t know that it’s very clear. Does it help at all?”

  “Oh, yes. I think so.” The sergeant glanced at him in surprise. “I’m not too happy about it—or the implications. But, oh yes, I think it helps. ‘Like Niobe all tears.’”

  She glowed with pleasure. “Then you do understand how I felt.”

  “You say she was rude to you?”

  “Well, yes—in a way. But I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. She had a headache and I offered her Mr. Trefold Morton’s pills. She knocked them out of my hand and said something about spying and told me to get out. But I’m sure she didn’t mean it. It’s just that I think she’s very unhappy and on edge.”

  Delphick pointed to the picture. “Hence the broken bottle down here?”

  She nodded. “You see, I’d interrupted Mrs. Venning in the middle of working and creative people don’t like that. It’s very understandable.”

  “What’s worrying you, Sergeant?”

  Bob was looking perplexed. “It’s that I don’t get this Niobe business, sir. I know the statue and I thought she was a Greek lady who couldn’t stop crying because all her children were dead.”

  “A Greek myth,” corrected The Oracle. “Artemis and her brother killed all Niobe’s children except one daughter and turned Niobe herself into a rock and her tears became twin streams that ran from it. The rock, Sergeant. Can’t you see the woman’s face in it?”

  Suddenly Bob could. Those shadows and vegetation were the eyes, the nose, the mouth. Like a tragic mask. Couldn’t think why he hadn’t seen it before. Couldn’t see it any other way now. All the children killed except one daughter. He looked at the bottom of the drawing again. The girl lying crumpled half in the water. He didn’t like the implication either.

  chapter

  ~7~

  REALLY, IT WAS VERY MUDDLING. “Tread the earth well down when planting so that no air-pockets are left round the roots.” That seemed clear and sensible enough. Then, a few pages later, under “Care and Attention”, it said, “Fork well round the roots to let in air.” Surely it seemed a pity not to have left the air there in the first place. And now it said on page fifty-three, “Never fork roses as, being suface rooters, you may damage the roots.” Miss Seeton closed the book and put it on the grass beside her. Greenfinger Points the Way. Yes, but which way? It pointed in so many directions. Was gardening, perhaps, like some of the other professions, she wondered? One knew that, in many cases, unsuccessful singers taught singing, unsuccessful authors taught writing and, as one knew oneself only too well, unsuccessful artists taught drawing. In fact one liked to console oneself that such persons made the best teachers. And there was no question that, if one were successful, one would hardly have the time to teach. So could it be, she mused, that unsuccessful gardeners wrote gardening books? Or was that heresy? Certainly one got the impression that if one did half the things that appeared to be vital if any plant were to survive, one would have no time at all, even for meals. It really was very muddling indeed. She must ask Stan. She heard a tapping. Probably someone who had tried the front door and failed to get an answer. She got up, crossed the lawn, took the key off its nail and opened the side door in the wall.

  “C’n I int’rest you in sump’n, miss?” Bright eyes gleamed under a tangle of ginger. The sinuous, eager movements of youth—appealing; the clear complexion fading, the puppy-fat receding; guileless cherub yielding to disingenuous ferret.

  Miss Seeton was puzzled. “Interest me? In what?”

  “Anything, miss, for gossakes. Fresh veg., bottles of pop, eggs, cheese, canned stuff. No kidd’n—you name it, we got it.”

  “Really, I don’t think there’s anything I need just at the moment, thank you.”

  “Aw, c’mon! Cheaper y’see, cuts out the middleman. We bring it right to your door f’you to choose. C’mon, take a look-see,” he wheedled, “can’t hurt you none to take a look.”

  Miss Seeton moved forward as he stepped to one side. Backed at right angles across the lane, the back doors open and touching the wall on either side of her, was an elderly car, the rear half converted to a van. On the floor inside were two or three cabbages in sere and yellow leaf, some bottles of ginger beer and a cardboard box out of which were sticking tins of soup and packets of detergent.

  Miss Seeton regarded the disheartening array. “I’m afraid I really don’t think that . . .”

  Her sentence finished in a muffled squawk as a sack descended over her head, her ankles were seized and she was pitched among the merchandise. The doors were slammed, a jolt as the driver jumped into his seat, a jar as he banged his door, the engine roared and Miss Seeton, accompanied by bottles, was rolled from one side to the other as the van lurched forward, backed, then sped up the lane.

  Miss Seeton squirmed and writhed to free her arms; to free herself from the stifling mustiness of sacking which enveloped her. But the sway of the car made co-ordinated movement difficult. Objects with sharp or blunt edges would move in to unexpected attack. If she found something on which to gain purchase for her feet, she no sooner braced herself than that something melted to nothing and she was once more rolling helpless at large; rolling on, rolling off, endless bottles—surely there hadn’t been so many. On one of these excursions something jabbed her painfully in the neck, catching the sack, holding it. She wriggled downward, freed her elbows. Now it was simple. She pushed the sack over her head and sat up in the dark to take stock of her position, drawing grateful breaths of stale cabbage and petrol; ozone after her enmuzzlement. Miss Seeton, rarely angry on her own behalf, was cross.

  This was beyond a joke. It was outrageous. Perhaps that redheaded boy was the one who’d been after the eggs and this was his idea of revenge. He probably thought it was a lark. But it wasn’t funny. Not in the least. A perfectly good hat, and almost new—it must be ruined. Leaning back against the side of the van she put up tentative hands. Yes, she’d thought so—squashed. Her indignation rose. It was no good knocking, calling him to stop. If he’d intended to stop he’d never have started. Where were they going? And what did he imagine he could do when they got there? Really, the young—so thoughtless. Never considering the consequences. No, she must shift for herself. But how? How did you stop a car when you were shut up in the back of it?

  Patting and feeling, she began to crawl about the floor. At one side something jutted up with what felt like a large rubber cap. She clung to it for support as the car heeled round a corner. The cap came away in her hand and she fell backwards. The reek of petrol grew overpowering. Miss Seeton crept back to its source.

  Yes, there was a slopping sound down there. If only one could see. It was so difficult trying to guess in the dark. Really, the smell was quite awful. But how odd. Of course she knew nothing about cars, but surely the petrol was usually on the outside. Perhaps vans were different. She put out her hand to replace the cap. No—wait. Something . . . Now what was it? Yes. Water in the petrol. She’d heard people complain of that. “It wouldn’t go because water had got into the petrol.” Water. Well, she hadn’t any. But—remembering—would ginger beer do? She began to search. The bottles, so obtrusive earlier in her predicament, now proved elusive. At last. Here was one. Two more, as if attracted by the capture of their friend, rolled bumping against her legs. She gathered them up and prepared for action. How fortunate,
they had screw stoppers. She poured all three down the pipe that stuck through the floor. Apparently wanting to join the game, a cardboard box nudged her. She pushed it away. Oh—one moment. Wasn’t there . . . ? Yes, packets of detergent poking from that box. Would they help? She pulled one out and started to tear the top. How . . . curious. She’d never known . . . such tough cardboard. There. That should do. Fumbling a little, she tipped the contents down the pipe. Satisfied that she had done all she could, she pushed the rubber cap back into place, hoping to lessen the stench that was making her head reel. At least, she reflected, with all this shaking, it should foam up nicely down there. The van rattled on its way. No good . . . it hadn’t worked. Dizzying clouds, held at bay by action, began to engulf her mind. The van gave a polite hiccup. Could that be . . . ? No, they were still moving. Two more hiccups. Miss Seeton tried to take an interest. A series of hiccups. Very tiring, thought Miss Seeton dreamily—and could prove dangerous if prolonged. People had died of hiccups. Silence descended as the engine cut out and they coasted, swaying, to a stop.

  “In trouble, mate?”

  A ginger mop withdrew from under the bonnet, leaving its useless scrutiny and ineffectual fiddling. “Dunno. Guess it’s sump’n in the pump. Plenty of gas but not getting through.” He eyed the burly driver of a light blue van which had drawn up just beyond him. “Guess you needn’t worry none. Soon have it right.”

  “Not that way you won’t. Here, give us that spanner.” Faint tapping sounded from the back. “What you carting, mate, livestock?”

  “No, dad. Just bits ’n pieces and one old hen t’ deliver.”

  The burly man undid the nut to the petrol feed. “Now we’ll soon see.” They did. Out spumed a froth of blue bubbles. “What you runnin’ on, mate, soapsuds?” He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “Help!” sounded faintly from within the van. His laugh cut off. He turned. A click. He swung back only half prepared for the attack. The knife ripped into his left arm instead of his stomach. His boot came up; contacted. His assailant screeched; bent double. His right fist came down and it was over. Catching hold of a foot he dragged the unconscious boy to his own van, reached in, took twine, bound the body and threw it to one side. He strode to the back of the other car, twisted the bar handle and flung open the doors. He gaped.

  “Strewth, miss. Take it easy.”

  He held out his hand. Head swimming and gulping fresh air, Miss Seeton pulled herself forward and managed to alight. She stood on precarious feet to thank her rescuer, but her knees buckled and she knelt before her salvation.

  “So sorry,” she murmured vaguely. “The fumes, you know. So strong.”

  He lifted her up and held her. “Easy now, miss. Feel swimmy enough I doubt, cooped up in there.”

  She gasped. “Your arm. You’re hurt.”

  He glanced down. Blood was dripping from his hand and seeping through his coat sleeve. “It’s nothing, miss. Just a jab from your chauffeur there.”

  “You mean he actually attacked you? He must be out of his mind. I’m most dreadfully sorry. And grateful, too. I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t know what I should have done. What happened? Did he run away?”

  “Not to say run, he’s back there sleeping it off. I tied him up neat enough so he’ll not come to no harm.”

  Miss Seeton was recovering. “Take that coat off,” she ordered, “and let me see your arm at once.”

  The wound upon examination proved less serious than she had feared. She made a pad with a clean handkerchief from her pocket and bound it tightly with a moderately clean one from his. The burly man watched her with interest.

  “I’ve got it. You’re the lady in the papers, aren’t you, miss? The one they call ‘The Battling Brolly’. There was a picture of you. What you been up to this time? Chasing our ginger friend?” With quickening interest: “Is he the one that did that girl in London?”

  “No, no, he’s not. There’s no connection—at least I don’t think so.” She looked doubtful. “I can only imagine it’s a silly—well—joke, I suppose. Somebody tried to steal some eggs the other night. I woke up and managed to stop him. And either it was he, it was too dark for me to be sure, or it’s one of his friends trying to get back at me.”

  The burly man looked doubtful. “If you say so, miss. What do we do now? We can’t leave young Ginger lying about. Can’t leave the van neither. I’ll allow there’s not much traffic this way. But it’s narrow enough for passing. We’d best sling him in the back. I’ll give you a tow.”

  “Tow?” She was disturbed. “Oh, I don’t think I could. I’ve never driven a car.”

  “And you won’t be driving this one neither. Nor no one else. Don’t know what he filled her up with but it’s coming out blue bubbles.”

  “I poured something down a pipe where the petrol seemed to be, hoping that might stop it. It was the only thing I could think of to do,” she explained.

  “It did that sure enough.” He peered into the back, saw the bottles and let out a whoop of laughter. “Our Ginger stoned by Stone Ginger. That’s rich enough, that is.” Chuckling and delighted with his wit, he went to his own van, backed it up and returned with a length of rope. He began to tie the two vehicles together.

  Miss Seeton joined him. Looking down at the trussed body, “Is he all right?” she asked tentatively.

  “Right enough, miss. Should be waking up soon, or thereabouts. I doubt he’ll have a stiff neck and a sore—well, he won’t walk none too easy for a day or two. Do him good.”

  She picked up the knife. “What about this? We oughtn’t to leave it here, do you think?”

  “You’re right, better give it me.” Miss Seeton wiped off the blood as best she could on the grass and handed it over. “I’ll turn it in to the police along with him.”

  “The police?” she exclaimed. “Oh, must we? No, no, of course you’re right,” she agreed, seeing his expression, “I do realise that. To attack you with a knife—quite unforgivable. It was just . . . I hadn’t thought. So stupid of me. But the police—and then the newspapers. They’re sure to think—to imagine . . . Oh dear, how very tiresome!”

  The burly man stood up with a satisfied grunt. “There we are, miss, that should hold. Now we’ll just get rid of Carrot-top here.” He scooped up the body which was beginning to stir. “Starting to take an interest in things, is he? Well, it’s time enough he was out of the way. I doubt he’ll have a few things to say when he comes round which saving your presence wouldn’t be fitting.” He tossed the body into the back of its own van, closed the doors and turned the handle to lock them. “Come on, miss, in you get.”

  Miss Seeton viewed the prospect with alarm. Nervousness made her voluble. “Of course, I do see that you’re right, about not leaving his van here, I mean, on such a narrow road, particularly with him inside it, I mean, if there was an accident, he might be hurt and do you feel up to driving with your bad arm?”

  “It’s right enough, miss. Can’t feel it but it’ll do.”

  “I can’t think it wise for me to try and steer, you see, I don’t know how.”

  “Nothing to it, miss. Come along I’ll show you.” Miss Seeton got in and sat upright, apprehensive. He placed her hands on the steering-wheel. “Now, remember, right hand down you go right. Left hand down you go left.” She followed his instructions. “That’s it, miss, but don’t grip so tight. Take it easy. And this,” he put her foot on a pedal, “is the brake. Keep your foot on it but not hard and press it when you want to slow. Aim to keep the rope tight between us. Only push the pedal right down if you want to stop. But don’t do it sudden or you may snap the tow. Don’t worry. I’ll be keeping an eye on you in the mirror. And we’ll take it slow and easy. Straight along here,” he pointed ahead, “joins the Brettenden road. We turn left there. Then it’s dead straight except for the bends.” He closed her door, grinned at her, gave her a thumbs-up and jumped into his own van. Gently, hesitatingly, they began to fluctuate down the road.


  Why couldn’t witnesses use their eyes, despaired Delphick. Two women, from cottages opposite, who had seen a van in the lane by Miss Seeton’s side-door had described the driver as tall, short, fair, red-haired, young and couldn’t-say-I’m-sure. And another woman, shopping in The Street, remembered a strange van passing at approximately the right time driven by a “dreadful-looking man with a white face and gleaming eyes.” The best description of the van, was that it was low; dark brown or black. The only certainty was that the man had headed north from Plummergen. It was such long odds, he thought, as the sergeant put the car into gear for their fifth sedate patrol of the Brettenden road. These endless side roads. Nothing more they could have done. Road blocks to all main roads. All available motor-cycle patrols out. He envied young Colveden rushing round scouring the countryside in that M.G. He almost envied Sir George lumbering about in a vast utility that looked like a trippers’ coach. They’d get this man in time of course—bound to. But that wouldn’t be in time . . . And catching him later, what proof would they have? Unless by a lucky fluke there were some clues left in the van. And that would prove too late to be lucky for her.

  They pulled off the road at the double bend on the rise just above the spot where Nigel had ditched the car from The Singing Swan and looked down over the marsh. In the distance two vans, one hard on the wheels of the other, crawled from a side road and turned left towards Brettenden.

  They alerted. The rear van was low. And dark. From here it could be either grey or brown. Delphick switched to transmission.

  “Car 403. Car 403. Position: mile north of Plummergen, proceeding Brettenden. Two vans half-mile ahead, approx., turned from side road, proceeding Brettenden. Slow pace, leading van large, colour light blue. Rear van low, colour dark grey or brown.” Bob got under way again as Delphick’s voice quickened. “Rear van driving dangerously. All over the road, pulling out to pass on bend. Swinging back . . . Trying again.” His voice rose. “Car coming towards them—they’ll crash. No . . . they’re swinging back. Still trying . . . fighting to pass. Dangerous driving—could be quarry. Am giving chase. Over.”