Instead of Miss Seeton with her umbrella, it was Martha Bloomer, domestic paragon, who now appeared with a broom. Foxon grinned. The worm-casts were not long for this world.
Neither was Foxon. Martha Bloomer vanished in a sudden shower of fireworks, and sickening darkness enveloped him in an irresistible embrace.
Brinton’s charge that Foxon had been frolicking among the flowers of spring might have been an exaggeration, but not a gross one. Even in the middle of January there were usually flowers of some sort to be seen in Kent, the southeast Garden of England.
Miss Seeton, heading back from the shops with her basket over one arm, her brolly over the other, was in no hurry to reach home. From time to time she would pause to peep admiringly over some neighbour’s fence into her front garden. (In Plummergen it is rarely the men who do the gardening; most work on the land during the day, and the last thing they want is to see any more earth than they need during their hours of relaxation.) Miss Seeton admired neatly edged lawns, hand clipped where mowers would have compacted rain-soaked soil. She saw snowdrops and cyclamen, irises and aconites, periwinkles and hellebores and sarcococcas, with their haunting, heavy perfume and their dainty cream blossom.
Was she reminded more of vanilla or of honey? Miss Seeton breathed deeply, inflating her lungs in the approved yoga fashion, from her diaphragm down. She exhaled slowly, then inhaled again, savouring the distinctive bouquet. Yes. Something ... exotic. Rich. Mysterious ... and faintly oriental in its aroma, teasing the taste-buds as well as the sense of smell. All at once Miss Seeton had visions of myriad eastern houris, clad in diaphanous garments and floating veils, bearing cups of spiced chocolate and trays of sickly, sugared Turkish delight.
Chocolate ...
Ah. Shaking her head, Miss Seeton resumed her homeward journey. What a pity one had suddenly remembered—
“Miss Seeton!”
Oh, no. No, surely not. One’s imagination had simply conjured up an unpleasant coincidence when—
“Hello there, Miss Seeton!”
Oh, dear. Not imagination, but a true coincidence—and very far from pleasant. Yet one could hardly pretend not to have heard: the voice was so very loud. Sadly Miss Seeton stopped walking, squared her shoulders, and turned to look back up The Street at the figure of Antony Scarlett as it strode, cape flapping, arms gesticulating, towards her.
“Miss Seeton!” boomed Antony for the third time, drawing closer. “What a splendid coincidence!”
A gentlewoman knows when to bite the bullet. One could hardly be expected to smile in welcome, but ... “Indeed, yes, Mr. Scarlett,” said Miss Seeton, inclining her head as far as politeness demanded and no farther. “Good morning.” On the handle of her umbrella, her basket-bearing hand clutched for reassurance. Really, it was ridiculous to feel ... intimidated, but there was no doubt the wretched man’s visits were growing rather more than tiresome. There were some children who never seemed to know when enough was, well, enough. Not, of course, that Mr. Scarlett was a child. She would remember the advice of Sir George and kind Mr. Foxon and refuse to allow him indoors ...
The handle of the basket dug into her forearm. Except, of course, that it would become inconvenient to stand for too long outside the house—and one could hardly slam the door in his face. Miss Seeton, while in no way afraid of Antony Scarlett, was severely embarrassed by the imminent necessity of being rude to him. Blushing, she stood her ground and wondered just how firm she would have to be.
“Miss Seeton, I see that you have been toiling about the shops and are heavy laden. You must allow me to escort you home.” Antony thrust a hand through the folds of his cape to reach for the basket. Miss Seeton, slightly startled at his irreverent rewording of holy writ, took a backward step and held firm. Antony stepped after her. “I insist, Miss Seeton. It will be a pleasure!”
“Thank you, Mr. Scarlett, but there is really no need to trouble yourself. I am more than halfway home now, and the basket is not in the least heavy.”
“No trouble, Miss Seeton, I assure you. Please.” Once more the hand on the basket; the automatic backward step.
“Thank you,” said Miss Seeton, “but no.” No trouble to Antony Scarlett—but certainly to herself and certainly no pleasure. One could not accept the escort of a gentleman only to dismiss him on the doorstep of one’s house. Courtesy would compel her to ask him inside, and, once there, he would be almost impossible to dislodge.
To uproot. Miss Seeton, with lingering memories of her garden musings and their oriental bias, had a sudden vision of Antony looming over her as a giant, all-shadowing tree. A upas tree. She blushed. How rude. Yet—she sighed—how, well, apposite. Java, where these trees grew, was undoubtedly eastern. And there was no doubt in her mind that Antony Scarlett, while certainly not pernicious, was something of a nuisance. She wished he would leave her alone. She feared she would have to invite him indoors. She did not want him to carry her basket home ...
“No,” said Miss Seeton again with a shake of the head. “It is very kind of you, but I ...” She blushed. “I have other errands to run, which may take some time.” She could always pop across to the bakery for the bread she hadn’t planned to buy until tomorrow. “I would not wish to take up any of your valuable time in—”
“My time?” cried Antony Scarlett with an expansive gesture that made the whole world a mass of swirling black and red. Miss Seeton, blinking, took another step back. “My time,” boomed Antony, “is entirely at your disposal, Miss Seeton! It was only to see you that I came to this—this benighted village in the first place! Can you suppose I would be here for any other reason than to ask—to beg—to beseech you to change your mind?”
This insulting assurance provoked Miss Seeton to a far sharper retort on Plummergen’s behalf than she would ever have ventured on her own. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-nothing, took a deep breath, and stared Antony Scarlett firmly in the eye.
“Then I regret,” she said, sounding not the least regretful, “that you have had a wasted journey, Mr. Scarlett. I have told you more than once that I have no intention of selling my house, and I have not changed my mind. You may insist that it is the perfect place to construct your—your chocolate absurdity.” Miss Seeton was now so irritated that she did not blush for this rudeness. “I, on the other hand, consider Sweetbriars the—the perfect place for me to live. Good morning.”
With a nod she turned to go. Antony’s hand shot out again. As she turned, it fell, not on the basket handle, but on the umbrella. The folds of the cape eddied and enveloped. There was a clatter as the umbrella slipped from Miss Seeton’s arm to the ground. Automatically Miss Seeton ducked to catch it.
So did Antony. But, while several decades Miss Seeton’s junior, he did not have the benefits of yoga to assist him. The brolly was safe in its owner’s grasp, and she was rising to an upright position again as Antony was still on the way down. There came an unpleasant wickery clump as his chin met the rim of Miss Seeton’s shopping basket.
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Seeton with a guilty blush.
Then her heart sank as she realised there was now nothing she could politely say or do that would prevent the arrival of Antony Scarlett on the doorstep of her cottage. And—which was worse—inside. Good manners demanded that she at least offer him a cup of tea; he would start to boom and bluster about the location of the canal, the bridge, and the corner of The Street and how it would be a Philistine act for her to continue to deny him the chance to create his masterpiece ...
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Seeton again, and she sighed.
The frequent visits of Antony Scarlett to Plummergen, and his pursuit of Miss Seeton, did not pass unnoticed around the village. Speculation was, as ever, rife. Antony—with his cloak, his booming voice, his expansive gestures—was so much a contrast to Miss Seeton, with her muted tweeds and soft-spoken gentility, that there could be no doubt in the mind of anyone that there was Something Going On.
The more discerning gossips had not fai
led to remark how after each of Antony’s visits Miss Seeton always seemed for a while somewhat distraite. In true Plummergen tradition, there were at least two different schools of thought as to the cause of her condition, but general opinion was coming round to the idea that the man Scarlett must have some hold over his elderly acquaintance—a hold he chose at intervals to exercise for sinister purposes of his own. Blackmail was mooted as one possibility; dope peddling another. The fact that Antony had made the purported reason for his visits more than audible had been dismissed as an over-obvious attempt at bluff. He wanted to buy Sweetbriars just to knock it down? He must be mad to suppose anyone could believe a thing like that: or he must be mad to suggest it. Either way, he was mad. Which all artists were, weren’t they? And, of course, notorious for their illegal habit.
Miss Seeton taught Art. Antony Scarlett had an exhibition on in London, hadn’t he? And he hadn’t been down to Kent until after she’d gone up to Town to see it, had he? There you were, then. Either he kept coming to bring Miss Seeton her regular fix, as they’d arranged, and charging her more for it each time, which was why she was looking more and more fed up when he’d gone again, and why she’d gone pawning stuff in Brettenden hoping nobody would see her; or else she was supplying to him (a post office shopper asked how she got her supplies and was mocked for missing the obvious), and he was refusing to pay the money she demanded, which was why she looked fed up because he was bigger than her and could easily intimidate her as criminals invariably did.
In fact, as has been shown, he could not. Since their first unfortunate meeting, Miss Seeton had bitten the bullet and invited the man into her home only on the one occasion necessity in the form of a bruised chin had forced upon her. She had not, however, allowed him to browbeat her, even as she poured tea and apologised again for her carelessness in the matter of the dropped umbrella. His next two attempts to persuade her to sell her house in the interest of Art—although Miss Seeton feared it was more in the interest of the Stuttaford cheque for fifteen thousand pounds—had been thwarted by a prudent retreat into the kitchen (one day when it was raining) and the garden (on another when it was not).
Antony Scarlett had stalked the pavements of Plummergen, flaunting himself in his silk-lined cape and trying, in his search for the elusive Miss Seeton, to strike up conversations with people who scuttled in the opposite direction when they saw him coming, which in a village with only one street was not difficult. On the journey to and from Brettenden, he sat noticeably alone on the bus. It was the policy of Genefer Watson that her latest discovery should demonstrate true artistic disdain for worldly comforts by eschewing such expensive luxuries as the motor car, unless driven and owned by someone else.
On one occasion Antony made the mistake of asking Nigel Colveden, who had pulled up outside the post office to run a quick errand en route to Brettenden, for a lift in his MG. Nigel had heard from his parents (consulted by Miss Seeton as to the legal position regarding unwelcome guests) of Miss Seeton’s continued persecution by the would-be purchaser of her home, and returned him a dusty answer before leaving him blinking as he roared off in a cloud of furious exhaust, quite forgetting his promise to buy stamps. Rytham Hall believed in supporting local industry where possible. Stamps bought in Brettenden, while fiscally just as valid, would have been somehow disloyal.
Antony’s cape swirled in the slipstream. He said something ungracious as a piece of grit bounced up into his eye. Something loud. Crude. Profane. Blasphemous ... and audible on both sides of The Street.
“Well, really!” Mrs. Blaine turned to Miss Nuttel, her plump hand frozen in midopening of the post office door. From above came the last echoes of a jangling bell. “Eric, did you hear?”
The jangle had warned those inside the shop that new arrivals were imminent. The presence of Antony Scarlett on the other side of the road had been noted; it had been the sole topic of discussion among a huddle of persons so keen to theorise that they had allowed their attention to drift from what was happening outside. The sudden roar of Nigel’s departing engine and the subsequent roar from Antony had shown them, too late, that vigil should have been maintained. The sight of the Nuts, who must have witnessed the entire incident, in the doorway immediately stilled wagging tongues and pricked expectant ears.
“Nasty piece of work,” said Miss Nuttel, closing the door and following her friend through a crowd of people all trying hard not to listen. “Quite see Nigel wouldn’t want him in the car, even six miles. Sinister.”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Blaine. “Only it’s too unlike Nigel, don’t you think? To be so very disobliging, I mean. If he was on his way to Brettenden in any case, I can’t see what harm it would have done to offer the man a lift.”
“No?” Miss Nuttel shook her head sadly. “Trouble with you, Bunny, is always thinking the best of people.”
This intelligence startled Mrs. Blaine almost as much as it astounded everyone else. Modestly blushing, Bunny begged to be enlightened. Why should—how could—her benevolent regard for her fellows be considered a handicap?
Miss Nuttel sighed. “Risky,” she said. “Very. Didn’t dawn on me before, but ...”
“But what?” gasped Mrs. Blaine, blackcurrant eyes widening in horrified apprehension. “Oh, Eric ...”
“That cape,” said Miss Nuttel, jerking her head towards the window through which Antony Scarlett might still be observed, magnificently glooming at the bus stop. “Visits Miss Seeton, too.” She paused to allow another horrified gasp to burst from Bunny’s lips, which were turning pale. “See what I mean?”
“Oh, Eric,” quavered Mrs. Blaine, shuddering. Clearly she saw. Others listening did not, but nobody cared to ask. They had a feeling they would not care for the answer.
“Red lining,” said Miss Nuttel, driving the message home with relish. “Hate to say this, Bunny, but it reminds me of—well, of ...”
“Blood,” said Mrs. Blaine in a thrilling whisper. “Oh! It’s too, too dreadful ...” She clapped a hand to her brow and tottered to the nearest counter, against which she leaned, breathing heavily. “Oh! Oh ...”
Such a reaction to Miss Nuttel’s remark was thought extreme, even for a notoriously fervent vegetarian. Shoppers crowded close for the ultimate grim revelation some of the quicker wits had begun to guess.
“Yes,” said Miss Nuttel, herself turning pale now that the dread word was spoken. She threw an anxious glance at the vegetable rack where parsnips and swedes rubbed shoulders with cauliflowers, potatoes, and leeks. “No garlic—thought as much. Lucky we grow our own.” She turned to the cheeses on their marble cutting slab, presided over by Miss Emmeline Putts. “Garlic’s the only thing, they say. Come over later. Let you have some.”
Emmy stared. “M-me, Miss Nuttel? What would I be wanting with garlic? My mum does all the cooking.”
“Oh, Emmy!” Mrs. Blaine let out her palpitating breath in an exasperated sigh. “Can’t you see? It’s simply too awful—we can’t let you remain at risk without doing something to try to save you—it’s what neighbours are for ...”
“Be all right for a few days,” said Miss Nuttel in what were meant to be reassuring tones. “Full moon’s when you’ve got to take most care. No harm in being prepared, though.”
“F-full moon?” Emmy was still trying to work it out as others about her shuddered and made the age-old gesture of protection. It was left to Mrs. Blaine to set about enlightening the youngest unwed female present.
“Why, surely it’s too obvious, now Eric has pointed it out—such sacrilegious language, and so blatant—why that man keeps coming here. Wanting to see Miss Seeton is just a blind, as if we couldn’t guess with such a ridiculous story. Casing the joint—isn’t that what burglars call it? That’s what he’s doing. But—but he’s not a burglar, Emmeline, even if he is on the lookout. He’s—”
“On the prowl,” interposed Miss Nuttel. Mrs. Blaine, darting an irritated look in Eric’s direction, after a second or two accepted the amendment.
<
br /> “On the prowl, Emmy. For young girls like you. Everyone knows that’s what they need ...”
“Vampires,” said Miss Nuttel, in case anyone had still failed to grasp the point.
Emmy Putts, scattering cheese and sheets of greaseproof paper in all directions, fell in an appalled swoon facedown across her marble slab.
chapter
~ 9 ~
“I HAVEN’T BROUGHT you any grapes.” Superintendent Brinton seated himself heavily at the bedside of Detective Constable Foxon and glared at the figure before him, wilting in its regulation hospital cocoon. “Or flowers.” He paused. “I’m giving some serious consideration to that tin hat we talked about, though.”
Foxon regarded his chief through not one, but two black eyes whose blackness was emphasised by the pallor of his face and the snowy folds of the bandage about his forehead. “Might not be such a bad idea,” he muttered feebly.
Brinton snorted. “A bad idea,” he growled, “is having one of my officers suspected of being an escaped lunatic, of all things. What the hell were you playing at? I told you to go and look at the scenes of the crime, not get yourself arrested by some overzealous citizen who’s terrified you’re going to lay about you with a meat axe.”
Foxon groaned. “It was him laid about me, sir. I don’t think my head will ever stop aching.” He closed his eyes—which didn’t take much effort—and groaned again.
Brinton was unsympathetic. “Your head aches? Well, it can’t be addled brains, because the way you’ve been carrying on you haven’t got any. Capering down the pavement grinning and waving and pulling ridiculous faces—what d’you expect the man to think? A complete stranger drapes himself over the gatepost and leers into the bushes, and he’s not supposed to worry? You were damned lucky Buckland answered the nine-nine-nine call as quickly as he did. Another minute or two, and you’d have been mincemeat.”
Sweet Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 20) Page 11
