Sweet Miss Seeton
A Miss Seeton Mystery
Hamilton Crane
Series creator Heron Carvic
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Note from the Publisher
Preview
Also Available
About the Miss Seeton series
About Heron Carvic and Hamilton Crane
Copyright
chapter
~ 1 ~
A STRAY MOONBEAM tipped the corner of an uncurtained window and slowly spread a clear, calm, pitiless light around the little room.
The ashes were long cold in the grate beside which, in happier times, brass fire-dogs had barked companionably at the toasting fork on its nearby hook, and the leather bellows had huffed warmth and life into coal from the copper scuttle. The hearthrug had borne mute witness that such life had its inconvenient side ...
No longer. No coal; no fire; no sparks. No rug. No set of fire-dogs, no bellows, no copper coal-scuttle ...
No hope.
The little figure silhouetted in moonlight sat quietly by the window until a deep, mournful sigh filled the room with the ghosts of past comfort and the spectre of present loss. A loss which, day by day, must grow ever more acute until it became impossible to bear ...
As it had now become.
The blurred eyes of the little figure turned from the silent reproach of the empty hearth to tearful contemplation of the black-and-white outdoor bleakness of paths and flower beds and asphalt drive, stark beneath the moon.
Moonlight made the world not sparkling silver but cheap, weary pewter, grey and dull and heavy. There would be no bright memories of frost-filigreed branches or cobwebs spangled with diamond dew going gentle into that good night; there would be nothing but the dark emptiness of despair.
Darkness and hunger and cold, of spirit and body alike; no light, no warmth, no comfort.
And no thirst. The little figure on the window-seat lowered her gaze to her hands. In one hand was a glass of water, almost full. In the other—thin fingers tightened their feeble grip on the brown plastic phial—was ... oblivion.
Her hands, as she thought this, shook. A few drops of water spilled over the edge of the glass; she clicked her tongue at the carelessness that had stained her best silk dress, then smiled for her vanity. It hardly mattered now.
She lifted the hand holding the brown plastic phial, and shook it. There was a reassuring rattle. She set the glass down on the bare board of the window seat and brushed those final foolish drops from her skirt, then felt with fingers that were suddenly numb for the lid of the plastic phial, and began to twist it open.
She tipped the contents, saved over many pain-wracked days, into the palm of her hand and picked up the glass to drink one final toast to her lost world before the world lost her. It would lose her—but it would not miss her.
Who in the world would miss one small, unimportant, elderly spinster?
At her kitchen sink, a small, elderly spinster rinsed the last of the breakfast dishes, humming a tuneless tune as she set her plate, cup, and cutlery to drain in the plastic rack. She washed out the mop one final time, squeezed it, and hung it on its hook beside the tea-towel. Still happily humming, she took the kettle to the cold tap to fill it for her midmorning cup of coffee. The lapse of more than thirty years could not weaken the Blitz-learned habit of taking advantage of the water supply while it was there.
Thoughts of elevenses made Miss Seeton glance up at the kitchen clock. A slight pucker appeared between her brows; then she looked out of the window at the frost-powdered garden and smiled. “The weather, of course,” she said. “Dear Nigel has more than once observed how very low temperatures can make it difficult to start a motor—something to do with the battery, I believe—and, of course, a milk float runs entirely on electricity. Unlike the post, which can sometimes be so smelly.” She wrinkled her nose and sighed. “The van, that is. Diesel—or is it petrol? But even worse than turpentine.”
More than seven years earlier, Miss Seeton had chosen to take early retirement, settling in the country after a lifetime in London. One of the many benefits of her choice had been that, as a former teacher of art, she no longer had to work with oils and clean her brushes with turps. Crayon, charcoal, pastels, and watercolour were her preferred mediums now that she drew almost entirely for pleasure.
Almost entirely. There are occasions when the artistic talents of Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton are harnessed by the most unlikely persons ...
Miss Seeton was checking her list before heading for the shops when, from the front door, she heard at last the welcome rattle and thump of the letter-box. She smiled as she trotted down the hall and saw the folded Times on the mat and heard the fading jingle of the milk float as it rumbled off along the village’s only street: The Street, as this thoroughfare is proudly known to those who live in Plummergen. Miss Seeton, who lives there by inheritance, is quite as proud as any.
It was a little early, perhaps, but when one normally read one’s paper while digesting one’s breakfast, perhaps it would not be too ridiculous to read it now while drinking a cup of coffee. It wasn’t, after all, as if there were any particular urgency about her little shopping trip. The post office opened at eight, stayed open for lunch, and shut at six: it was just a matter of stamps, and writing paper, and a few groceries ...
Miss Seeton settled herself and her conscience with The Times and a steaming cup at the dining room table and began to read. Small Earthquake In Chile. Not too many people, she hoped, had been hurt. Revolution In Stentoria: Foreign Office Advice For Travellers. To stay away, she supposed. Chancellor Promises A Prosperous New Year. The trouble with politicians, she felt, was that they were always promising and always making excuses when those promises weren’t kept. Or didn’t seem, to the lay mind, to have been kept, even if the politicians somehow made it sound as if they had been all the time.
Shaking her head, Miss Seeton turned to the arts page. Stuttaford Announces New Prize. This was more interesting. Miss Seeton read on.
“The Stuttaford Foundation, one of the oldest and most generous art charities in Britain, today reveals plans for an annual award of £25,000 to be given for an original work, in any form, paying tribute to its Victorian founder. The competition is open to professional and amateur artists alike and will be judged at the end of the year by a panel to include Mr. Paget Stuttaford, a direct descendant of Sir Andrew Stuttaford, the eminent financier and philanthropist. Sir Andrew’s vast fortune, it will be recalled, was established by successful dealings in the tobacco and confectionery trades. His tea-clipper Isabella, named in honour of his wife, the former Lady Isabella Paget, on one occasion came close to beating the more celebrated Cutty Sark in the homeward race from China until she was dismasted within sight of land by a Channel storm. Sir Andrew, who was already noted for his generous nature and his love of the visual arts, set up The Stuttaford Foundation in memory of those who died in this endeavour.”
Miss Seeton stopped reading to study the accompanying photograph. Paget Stuttaford, a serious young man, clenched a pipe between his teeth as in one hand he held a
jar of the celebrated “Isabella” Blended Coffee, and in the other a tin of Stuttaford’s Best Quality Drinking Chocolate. Something about his expression suggested to Miss Seeton that he was, in fact, a nonsmoker. She knew little about such matters, but assumed that he had been persuaded to adopt this pose in the interests of publicity. Twenty-five thousand pounds, after all, was a great deal of money, even if—Miss Seeton resumed her reading—the sum was to be divided between three persons.
“The winner will receive a cheque for £15,000, while the second prize will be £7,000.” The writer of the article saw no reason to advise a Times readership that the third prize would be £3,000. “Entrants have until the end of December to create a suitable memorial to the spirit of the late Sir Andrew Stuttaford.” Across Miss Seeton’s imagination floated a plump, smiling man with a waistcoat and Dundreary whiskers, wreathed in a swirl of grey mist that upon closer inspection proved to be the steam from a mug of cocoa. “They should,” went on The Times, “perhaps bear in mind that the philanthropist’s acute tone deafness, a family trait, might render difficult a judicious consideration of any musical work of art.”
Poor Paget, it seemed, couldn’t hold a tune. Well, Miss Seeton knew that she couldn’t, either—or at least not very well: but well enough for her purposes. And she could enjoy listening to opera on the wireless or on television; she could enjoy a trip to the theatre in person whenever she wanted. She was, she knew, most fortunate. She had, of course, no thought of entering the competition—the attendant publicity should she win (Miss Seeton blushed for the immodesty of the very idea) would be most unwelcome—but even if she had such a thought, she had no real need of the money. Throughout her working life she had done her best to save. There had been no need to dip into her savings to buy the cottage bequeathed to her by dear Cousin Flora. With no mortgage, her pension, and her—Miss Seeton blushed again—other income ...
Yes, she was most fortunate indeed to have no serious worries over money. Unlike so many others ...
Superintendents of police are as entitled as anyone to the odd free day, even if they are often so busy chasing criminals, or catching up on essential paperwork, that they will waive their entitlement in the interests of justice.
Superintendent Brinton of the Ashford force was no exception to this rule. While the whole nation had gone on holiday over the Christmas and New Year period, citizens of the crooked persuasion had resumed work rather more promptly than their law-abiding counterparts. Brinton’s “in” tray was currently piled high with assorted files on bank robbery, assault, break-and-enter jobs, and one Domestic, in which the killer had telephoned the police himself and made full confession before the body of his wife had been stretchered out of the door.
Despite his workload, Brinton had decided that half a day must be devoted by him to affairs other than constabulary. He could trust the rest of his team—even young Foxon, whose taste in clothes belied his brains—to cope with the investigative routine for a few hours ... couldn’t he?
“If I can’t,” he informed his reflection in the mirror, “then I’ll bust the lot of ’em back to uniformed constable. And take early retirement ... or maybe I won’t.” There was the small matter of his pension to consider. Small indeed, if he retired before time; it’d be bread and water for the rest of his natural life and his wife grumbling when they had to save electricity by switching off the central heating and just boiled the odd kettle for a hot-water bottle or a cup of tea. Weak tea.
“Ugh.” Brinton, who liked his cuppa as strong as he liked his peppermints, shuddered. He wrenched at the knot of his tie. Maybe not with this shirt; this suit. He needed to look ... dependable. Respectable. Trustworthy. And not like a copper, even if the chap he was going to see knew damn well that he was—which didn’t make it easy, because coppering was about the most respectable job he knew.
But it could be dangerous. And he didn’t want to remind people of the risks if he could possibly avoid it ...
From the wardrobe he produced a quiet grey tie with a faint blue stripe, echoed in the deeper blue of his shirt. He gave himself a final glance in the mirror. Not bad. If he didn’t know who he was, as a copper he’d guess he might be ... a bank manager, perhaps.
Not bad at all. He smiled.
Plain Mr. Brinton squared his shoulders, picked up his cardboard file of bills, called a cheery goodbye to his wife, and marched out of the house to his car. His appointment was for half past ten. It wouldn’t do to be late.
“Mr. Brinton, good morning! You’re very prompt. Do come through, won’t you?” Percival Jestin, youngest manager in the City and Suburban banking chain, shook hands with his visitor and led the way to his office. No standing on his dignity for young Jestin when most of the people he had to deal with were locals who’d known him since before he was a twinkle in his father’s eye. He’d gone to school with their children: pulled their daughters’ hair, kicked a football around with their sons. He knew he’d be “that young Perce who did so well for himself” to the end of his days and was sensible enough not to brood over it.
Brinton, being childless, was able to meet him on rather more professional terms. Percy took great pains to settle the burly policeman in a comfortable chair, then went slowly—reluctantly?—round to the official side of his desk. It struck Brinton that the bank manager was strangely pleased at the prospect of talking with someone who (he might guess, given the early-January, post-Christmas date of this interview) wanted to borrow money from him.
No, not pleased: relieved. And that was certainly strange ...
“How can I help you, Mr. Brinton?” Mr. Jestin had caught his visitor’s quick frown and hurried to placate him. “No problem with your account, is there? If you have any complaints about our service—”
“No! No complaints at all, Mr. Jestin.” Brinton did his best to sound completely satisfied, but there was embarrassment in his voice as he went on. “As for problems, now ... well, most likely there will be. In a few weeks. That’s why I’ve come to see you now.” He fiddled with the elastic loop fastening the cardboard folder on his lap. “I’m afraid it was Christmas. The wife ... presents and so on ... a bit more entertaining than we’d planned ... it all sort of ... sneaked up on us. And when I sat down to catch up with the sums, and realised the bills would start coming in before much longer ...”
“Thank goodness it’s only once a year,” returned Percy in sympathetic accents. “Oh, I know just what you mean, Mr. Brinton. You’re by no means the only one to be caught out. You’d think that after almost two thousand years we’d expect Christmas to come round each December, but it always seems to catch us on the hop.” His smile was friendly; there was no hint of reproach. “So I suppose you’d like to arrange an overdraft? I don’t see any great difficulty. Our terms are very reasonable, I think you’ll find. Especially for someone who’s banked with the City and Suburban for as long as you have.”
Brinton, who’d come prepared for a spot of grovelling, blinked. The folder he’d been about to open stayed closed. If he was being offered a low-interest loan without having to confess just how badly he’d managed his finances during the past month or so, he wasn’t going to risk a spanner in the works by producing evidence that might be used—he had to grin—against him.
Percy Jestin grinned back. “Very reasonable terms,” he repeated cheerfully. “Let’s see, now. You’re earning how much per annum?”
The conversation thereafter became technical. Percy did sums in pencil on a piece of paper (which reassured the client) and checked them on his desktop calculator (which reassured him). The generation gap was never so noticeable as when it involved technology. He called for copies of Brinton’s statements over the past three years and approved the negligible amount of red ink appearing therein. He discoursed with eloquence upon current and deposit accounts, debated the various benefits of standing orders and direct debits, and congratulated the superintendent for having paid off most of his mortgage, and for having a job with such ... undoubted
security.
Brinton appreciated the younger man’s tact. “Well, I doubt I’ll ever be made redundant, Mr. Jestin. Not unless every villain in Kent decides to reform. And you know as well as I do how likely that is.”
Percy Jestin, who owed his position as branch manager to certain villainous activities on the part of his immediate predecessor, nodded and sighed. That sigh struck Brinton as being somehow excessive for a young man who was doing so well in his chosen career.
The young man caught the older man’s curious glance and moved restlessly on his chair. “Er—yes,” said Mr. Jestin. “A secure job and the regular income that goes with it: I’d call you a pretty safe bet, Mr. Brinton. How much would you like to borrow? And for how long would you like the repayment period to last?”
Brinton was speechless. This just couldn’t be happening. He’d thought, at first, that Percy must have been making some routine joke about reasonable terms for long-term customers to put him at his ease before the serious negotiations began. But now he had to face the fact that it had been no joke at all. Mr. Jestin was behaving in a way few bank managers treated their clients unless they were thriving local businesses, multinational corporations ... or crooks.
He had to smother an instinctive groan. Not Jestin! Not so soon after the last one! A branch manager’s power over the activities of his staff was supreme. Head office couldn’t keep an eye on everyone all the time. Pull enough wool over enough eyes and you could salt away a tidy little sum in a numbered Swiss account, under a false name, before the auditors caught up with you. And how often did they pop you in prison right away? Not often. Usually it was bail, while the prosecutor prepared the case. And the number of folk who’d skipped the country while on bail ...
This time he couldn’t prevent a groan escaping him, and the shudder that shook his burly frame made the pencils dance on Percy’s desk. “Mr. Brinton, are you all right? Do you feel ill?” Mr. Jestin eyed his visitor with some alarm. “Shall I slip out for a glass of water?”
Sweet Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 20) Page 1
