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

  “Oh, bother,” said Miss Seeton.

  Two young men were at work in an underground chamber. Their work was deceptive. On a shelf which ran the length of one side of the huge cellar they were stacking tinned provisions—the cheaper varieties. As each carton of tins was emptied, they resealed it and placed it on the shelf, behind its erstwhile contents. It was in this that their labor was calculated to deceive; giving a double impression for a single expenditure.

  One of them dragged forward a heavy crate of bottles. He lined the bottles up on the rock floor and tossed the empty crate up to his companion. Stooping had made his face throb and he stroked a swelling across the bridge of his nose with heedful fingers. He wore a black plastic ring.

  “James.”

  “Huh?”

  “What really was that do at the meeting all in aid of?”

  “The old girl was with that detective we chucked out,” James explained, “and she’d been taking notes. Duke wanted to check.”

  “Well, next time he wants to check on somebody’s grandmother he can do it himself. Old biddies with brollies weren’t on my combat course. No rough stuff, Duke says. Why the hell didn’t somebody tell her that? Looked as mild as milk, but I’d no sooner got a grip on her bag when, wham! she bashes me in the face and starts laying about her in all directions.”

  James was bored with complaints. “Stow it, Ted, and fetch the empties.”

  Ted crossed to a corner of the cellar, gathered armfuls of empty bottles and brought them over. “Need to fill these?”

  “No.” James began to drop them in the crate. “With their tops on they look all right. Who’s going to reach over and pinch one out of this lot when the full ones are easier to get at? And we’d need to go all the way up top for water.”

  “Why couldn’t they have laid it on down here?” Ted grumbled. “Thought smuggling was supposed to be so well organized.”

  “There wasn’t laid-on water in those days. What would smugglers want with water anyway? They came up the tunnel, stored their cargo here and then, if the Excise were about and they had to hole up, they could always breach a keg or so of brandy. Besides, we don’t want too much weight on the shelves—we’ll have the damn things down.”

  In a corner, near the roof, a bell rang. They stopped and watched. The bell was one of three, hung one above the other. The top bell rang twice more. They relaxed. A door at one end of the cellar opened and Basil Trenthorne carried in a suitcase.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He received sour looks. “Had to get some stuff for a new idea Duke’s dreamed up for tomorrow night.”

  “Where’d you leave the car?” asked James.

  “Didn’t. Duke dropped me. He’s not taking any risks round here at the moment. Had to walk down through the blasted wood—brambles everywhere. You can’t even see the church from that path you cut till you’ve taken a purler over a couple of gravestones. He’ll have us picked up soon as it’s dark.” He smirked at Ted. “There’s a job lined up for you.”

  “Me? Why me? It’s always me.” Ted slammed the last of the bottles into the crate. “Got enough to do tarting this place up to look like a grocer’s shop. Any new jobs, you do ’em. Wouldn’t hurt you to dirty your lily whites for once.”

  “Not my line,” Basil sneered. “Spot of burglary with trimmings. Duke says you can look the place over this evening and do the job tomorrow night.”

  “Do what? Where?”

  Basil smiled maliciously. “Plummergen. You should be grateful,” he jibed. “Duke’s offering you a return match with the old geezer who biffed you on the snout and made it all uneven. Not that you’re in her class …” He skipped back as Ted swung at him.

  James caught Ted’s arm. “Stuff it, both of you. What’s the old girl done that Duke’s so worked up about? After all, she only turned out to be the aunt of that gorilla who drove her home.”

  “Aunt, nothing. That was an act. And the gorilla happens to be a Yard man.”

  James freed Ted. “The Yard?”

  Basil was pleased with himself. “I asked around a bit. She’s worked with the Yard; she’s well known; she’s the one the papers call the Battling Brolly.”

  “Where’d you get all this?”

  “Mother’s been staying with some duff cousins of ours in the village; they all know about this Miss Seeton there.”

  “But if she’s in with the police,” James objected, “they’ll have the notebook already; so where’s the point?”

  Basil condescended. “The point, my dear James, is that the notebook’s not the half of it. It looks as if she’s on to this place.” He observed their reactions with relish. “The day Merilee arrived, she met the old trout down by the coast. The Brolly was pretending to paint the view, but Merilee saw the picture and it was this church—plus the wood behind it—and it’s not even in sight from where she was. So what’s the betting she was hunting for the tunnel? Duke’s hopping. Says you’re to find the picture and get it. Get her at the same time.” He laughed. “Nothing violent, of course. Just enough to put her in hospital for a bit—and if she turns up dead on arrival he won’t lose any sleep. Can’t afford to have her rummaging about for the next few weeks until we’ve finished here.”

  Ted’s expression was mulish. “And what’s this new gammon for tomorrow night?” he demanded. “More work?”

  “Not much,” Basil reassured him. “You know that platform thing they must’ve used to raise the barrels on, under the trapdoor; he wants us to get it working. I’ve brought some rope. We’ve got to shove the Master through it at the crucial moment. I’ve got his gear in this.” He tapped the suitcase and laughed. “I’ve also got a little idea of my own which should wake his devilship up.”

  “What?” James wanted to know.

  Basil looked sly. “Never mind. Just a small touch of reality which should get old Hilary in the proper mood and keep him on his toes. Duke wants us to have some colored lights shining underneath the trap.”

  Ted’s surliness increased. “Why?”

  “Because he thinks it’ll help to give ’em all the heebies. When we wind his highness up as the service starts, it’ll look like Old Nick coming up from his home town.”

  “Why?” repeated Ted. “Doing all right as we are, aren’t we?”

  “Duke wants the pace hotted up a bit now that we’re near the end of this one.”

  Ted was unappeased. “Pity they got themselves chased out of Malebury. Now we’ve got the two things together, one on top of the other. I don’t care how phony it is, black magic’s not a thing to muck about with. One day they’ll really raise the Devil by mistake, and then where’ll we all be?”

  “Oh, belt up,” said James. “Let’s get on.”

  They carried a butane gas lantern up two shallow steps to a smaller cellar and set to work. They fixed new rope to the reel of a winch that controlled a loading platform, threaded it through the pulleys, oiled all the mechanism. James stood on a box and worked the rusted iron bolt which secured the ceiling trap until it moved silently, then pulled it free, letting a heavy stone slab swing slowly on its iron pivot, balanced by a counterweight. The edge of the stone flicked against a wire running across the roof: a bell rang. The other two jumped nervously and Ted headed for the main cellar.

  “All right—hold it,” James calmed them. “Only me. We’ll have to shift the wire farther over. Nobody warned me we might need this damned trap.”

  Between them he and Ted moved the wire, Basil handing up tools. It took time since the staples had to be rawlplugged into rock and the wire reset with springs at intervals of its length to keep the tension. They had fitted this alarm system to all three entrances of the smugglers’ old hideout. The top bell was connected to the entrance from the crypt of the ancient church outside Iverhurst. The second was wired the full length of over a mile down the slope of the main tunnel, which ended in a cave at the cliff face, the mouth concealed by rocks and still occasionally awash during a spring tide. The third entrance, hidden
by boulders and scrub, was on the downs; this was a branch tunnel which joined the main one a quarter of a mile below the church. Their rewiring completed, Basil was sent to test it. Taking his flashlight, he went up a short passage which ended in a rough wall, put his hand on one of the irregular pieces of stone and pushed it sideways to release a catch. He leaned his weight against the wall. A section swiveled, pivoting on the same principle as the trap. The bell rang. He flicked the wire twice to complete their usual signal, pushed the section back into place and rejoined the others. James gripped the edges of the roof opening, swung himself up and through and stood for a few moments behind the altar rail. Yes—it could work. Effective too, with the church lit only by a few black candles, and the Devil rising slowly by the altar in a ghostly light—providing the old devil wasn’t drunk again and didn’t fall back into the pit.

  “Right,” he called down. “Try her out.”

  Ted worked the winch handle. The platform rose smoothly until at full extent it fitted the opening a bare half inch below the sanctuary floor. James stepped onto it and was lowered. They stopped the contraption before the bottom to test the ratchet brake and to give James time to close the trap and shoot the bolt. Leaving Basil’s suitcase there, they returned to the main cellar and continued to unpack the foodstuffs.

  A bell rang. They froze. They watched it as it swung still at the end of its wire. James jumped forward and put out the lamp. All three flicked on their flashlights.

  Basil was shaken. “What the devil …?”

  “Be quiet,” rapped James.

  He kept his flashlight trained on the wire near the bell. Little more than a minute later the wire jerked and the bell rang again. They waited. There was no third ring. They hurried the length of the cellar and stepped down into the last of the three chambers, quite small, almost an antechamber. They grouped themselves near the wall on the far side and listened. They heard nothing.

  “Put out your lights. And, Ted, you slip through.” “Why me?”

  “Don’t argue. Go down and see if you can find out what’s happening. We’ll leave the slab open a crack so you can get back quickly if you have to.” James pressed on a protruding piece of rock, thrust against the wall, a part of which swung outward, a replica of the one in the crypt. “And don’t,” he added, “use a light more than you need.”

  After his third fall in the dark on the uneven floor, Ted decided to use his own discretion; he switched on his flashlight and sped on his unwilling way. Time enough to turn off the glim when he saw reason for it. Past the branch to the Downs—no sign of trouble there. The way was easier now, more sand, but he was getting blown. He eased his pace—he was no three-minute-miler. Finally ahead of him he saw a faint light. He switched off the flashlight and approached with caution. Dust, carried on a current of air, half choked him, making his eyes water. Finally his progress was blocked by a pile of debris above which, through a crack, he could just see the sky. So that was it—the roof had fallen in. More work. They’d probably be kept up half the night reshoring it. Beyond the blockage he heard a sound. He flattened against the tunnel wall and listened. Dust tickled his nose; he longed to sneeze. The sound came again; a scrabbling noise. He let his breath go in a sigh of relief. A sheep—like the one that had tripped the wire at the opening on the Downs the other day. Some old sheep must have trodden on a weak patch and fallen through. They’d have to get it out. If it was missed and somebody started looking, the tunnel might be spotted before it could be repaired. Why let the stupid animals wander around loose? Always causing trouble. Probably broken its fool leg—hadn’t moved again. He listened for some sign of life from the sheep on the other side. Had it upped and died? As if in answer the scrabbling came again, then a sliding rattle, followed by a bump.

  “Oh, bother,” said the old sheep on the other side.

  Well, that was that, Miss Seeton decided. She’d have to try the passage. So while the startled Ted raced one way, to warn the others and get help, Miss Seeton went the other.

  Away from the hole, darkness closed in on her. Miss Seeton stopped. She needed … Oh, how very fortunate. One country custom that she had acquired was always to carry a small flashlight in her bag. She found it and switched it on. It showed a narrow passage with a downward slant. The child’s poem came to her mind.

  The grass and stones

  Something something

  And when they stop

  They drop.

  They drop to sand …

  Of course. That would be it. This would be some passage—part of a cave, or, perhaps, joining one, which should, if she was lucky, lead straight down to the sea. Well, not, one trusted, literally to the sea, but to the beach. The coast round this part of the country was honeycombed with such caves and tunnels, she believed. All along here as far as Dover and beyond. And, of course, Romney Marsh had been notorious for smugglers in olden days. She moved forward with confidence. This passage would, she now felt sure, unquestionably “drop to sand.” Her confidence was justified: the tunnel widened, became a small cave with daylight showing through an opening at the farther end. Miss Seeton crossed the uneven rocky floor, put her flashlight back into her handbag and clambered past rocks and boulders overhung by stunted bushes onto sand. Now. How to get back? She took a few steps, then turned to face the dunes. It shouldn’t be too difficult. If she climbed up, as straight as she could manage, she should, surely, come out near where the children were. She looked back to mark the entrance to the cave. It had vanished. Sand, rocks and boulders, stunted shrubs and coarse grass faced her in a broken line for as far as she could see. Well, never mind, it didn’t matter, she’d no intention of returning. Miss Seeton set off up the dunes.

  “If you please, miss.” “Please, miss.” “Miss, can I …?” “Miss …”

  The children began to wonder. They didn’t ought, was the consensus of opinion, to be left on their own like this—they might get up to something. The child poetess remembered that she’d seen Miss go thataway. They all downed tools and went in search of her. They came to the mound.

  “Now mind where you’re going, Emmie, mind your feet, ’s dangerous.”

  “ ’S gone an’ given way, ’s fallen in.”

  “Look, there’s a great big hole.”

  They gathered round in a respectful group.

  “She down there?”

  “Must be.”

  “Think she’s copped it?”

  “Must’ve, else she’d holler.”

  A little girl began to cry.

  “Now stow it, Liz, ’spec’ she’s just knocked silly.”

  The boy who had learned to cut out pictures crawled to the edge; looked down. Friends held his legs.

  “Not there,” he reported, “ ’less she’s under all that muck.” Liz wailed anew.

  “Best get the driver,” one of them suggested.

  “Children, the bus is here.”

  They turned, dumbfounded. Miss Seeton stood behind them: handbag on her arm, umbrella in her hand, her hat squashed and crooked, her clothes slightly tom, sand spilling from her shoes and all of her dusty and disheveled. She stood there smiling. They stared back in awe.

  “Now come along. We mustn’t keep the driver waiting.”

  She led the way: the children followed. None of them liked to question her. It was obvious what had taken place. This was the right sort of teacher—no mistake. One who could pop down into the ground whenever she’d a mind, do whatever it was that she got up to there, go flying out to sea, fly all around and back again, come bobbing up behind you just when you knew as she weren’t there. Too right they’d been—didn’t half need to watch your step with this one. They trooped after her in silence, imbued with a new respect. For one whole Plummergen generation Miss Seeton’s reputation was decreed.

  chapter

  ~10~

  Mrs. Blaine was taking her duties seriously, and following the Maidstone meeting, she had felt quite inspired. She and Miss Nuttel after much discussion had decided
to put salvation before cash consideration and had joined Nuscience. They had even, though “this was too secret,” been allowed to hear hints of the Secret Place. Now with two friends, in search of guidance, they were gathered for a table-rapping séance after supper. Hands spread on a small polished table, their thumbs and little fingers touching, the room lit only by a shaded lamp, they sat and waited. And waited. Eventually Mrs. Blaine, always short-suffering, demanded to know if anyone was there. The table, taken by surprise, gave a start and rocked. Thrilled, they confirmed the code: three raps for Yes and one for No and the letters of the alphabet by numbers.