Miss Seeton Cracks the Case (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 9)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Noses regular out of joint, I’d say,” remarked Mrs. Flax in satisfied tones. She, in common with a high percentage of the Plummergen population, had entered the Anyone’s competition about famous royal mistresses: the first prize had been flashed as a mystery tour, and there was laughter and mockery in certain quarters when the Nuts, having announced their success to the entire village, had learned the exact nature and destination of their win. It served them right, thought Plummergen, for having been so cocky about it all—and now this.

  “Noses out of joint,” said Mrs. Flax, “and it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if they didn’t keep them noses inside for a day or two, not liking to admit the truth of it.” She lowered her voice so that anyone outside on the pavement—the fine weather had encouraged Mr. Stillman to prop open the door of the post office to gain the full benefit of the sun—would be unable to overhear. “For to my mind, there’s but one possible truth about this not being mentioned nowhere at all . . .”And she rolled her eyes meaningfully.

  Mrs. Scillicough edged nearer, ostensibly to browse among the tinned baby foods. Her triplets were a demanding little litter, each insisting on something different, each, for every meal. Plummergen, having taken bets before their birth as to the number of babies she would produce, was now running a book on how much weight the child-oppressed Mrs. Scillicough would lose—and how quickly—in her all too frequent outings to Mr. Stillman’s grocery counter.

  Now she sighed automatically, then picked up her day’s quota of tins with far less thought than usual. “So, what d’you reckon the truth of it to be, then, Mrs. Flax?” asked Mrs. Scillicough, handling her selection across the counter for Mr. Stillman to price. “Secrets, you reckon?”

  Everyone else stopped even pretending to shop, and drew near with ears flapping and eyes agog. Mrs. Flax, savouring her moment as the focus of attention, breathed in deeply and swelled to twice her normal size. “Secrets,” she said, “and beyond—dark plots and mischief, mark my words! Pretending and playacting, that’s what, and it’s not them highwaymen in their masks I mean—it’s them who’s the playactors, catch them ever admitting to it!”

  “Them, who?” everyone wanted to know. Mrs. Flax nodded a sage head and pursed her lips.

  “Them Nuts, is who I mean, making out they was on the coach and witnesses to it all. But, I ask you, if they was to have witnessed from the front seat the way they said, why no mention of ’em in the news and the papers?” She did not wait for anyone else to supply the scandalous answer she had worked out for herself. “Weren’t there, were they? Just a lot of big talk and pretending. They didn’t really win that competition how they said, so they never were on no coach, so they never saw no highway robbers—that’s what I think!”

  This was an idea which had occurred to nobody else, and for a moment or two the post office was quiet while everyone digested it. Mrs. Scillicough, her temper frayed by exhaustion, broke the silence first by remarking that she’d always wondered just what it was about the Nuts, but Mrs. Flax had made her start thinking ...

  At which there was a general chorus of realisation that yes, it was odd, wasn’t it, and with all the stories they’d come up with over the years it wouldn’t surprise anyone if it wasn’t just one more Nutty story about winning the competition and being on the coach and witnessing the robbery—

  “But what for would they do that?” a disaffected murmur was heard. The murmurer was rounded on at once.

  “Make themselves look important, that’s what,” came the answer that was obvious, weren’t it, because there was always them as thought better of theirselves than others.

  This was true, everyone agreed; but further agreement was lost when somebody else wanted to know what they’d been doing instead, if it wasn’t winning prize coach tours and spending the day with furriners, because they’d been seen yesterday morning hurrying to catch the Brettenden bus so’s to be (the speaker had heard one of the Nuts explain) early for the coach and to get a good seat.

  This was an obvious problem. The suggestion that they had skulked in various Brettenden shops all day in case anyone should spot them absent from their boasted excursion was vetoed loudly as being (a) unlikely—Plummergen regularly shops in Brettenden, and the risk of being encountered by a fellow villager would be too great for the Nuts to take; and (b) boring. Plummergen prefers its scandals colourful, not mundane; and promptly began now to invent more interesting destinations for the Nuts on that momentous Monday. Having to sneak away in such a hole-and-corner fashion must mean they’d been up to no good, so like enough they’d gone further afield to get up to it: London, the speaker would guess if asked, since weren’t there the railway station close by and the trains running regular and fast?

  “Plenty to get up to in London, that’s rightly said . . .”

  “These cities where nobody’ll know your face . . .”

  “Not like here where the shops know their regulars . . .”

  “All them big department stores and such . . .”

  It didn’t take long before Mrs. Scillicough was seconding the suggestion of Mrs. Flax that the Nuts were in charge of a shoplifting circle which regularly descended upon Harrop’s, Sellidge’s, or Marker & Spence to deprive these prestigious emporia of their most expensive clothes: which were then—a happy thought from Emmy Putts, who served behind the grocery counter and, wearing a long blond wig, had been crowned as last year’s Miss Plummergen—forcibly applied to their miserable victims in the white slave racket they ran in their spare time. Emmy’s eyes held a suspicious hint of enjoyment as she proposed this theory, and a minority view held that she really ought to be ashamed of herself for speaking so, but on the whole it was felt that the true solution to the recent behavior of the Nuts had been found. Indeed, so plausible did the whole proposition sound that Mrs. Manuden, who had watched, entranced, the practised unfolding of the sheet of scandal, now ventured to exclaim in horror that she had no idea that her next-door neighbours were so shockingly unrespectable, and if she’d known before she and her Dennis come to spend the summer there, she wouldn’t have taken the cottage for four months, low rent or not, and she’d be careful in future to drink none of the home-made wine or herb tea (if that’s what it really was—she had her doubts) they’d offered her when she popped round once to borrow a cup of sugar.

  Betsy Manuden smiled gratefully upon the entire company. She and Den had only been in Plummergen a few weeks. People said it took time to be accepted in a village, but people were wrong. Here she was, sharing the very hottest scandal with everyone as if she’d been born in the place, no trouble at all, and treating her like one of themselves. Oh, it was ever so interesting, living in the country . . .

  The general air of satisfaction which now filled the post office was suddenly, shockingly, darkened by a shadow—two shadows, one angular and tall, one shorter and rotund, with a pronounced limp—that fell upon the post office floor. A horrified silence gripped the gossips as the Nuts appeared in the doorway and found every face staring at them, open-mouthed, wondering at their boldness in mixing with decent folk when by rights they ought not to show themselves.

  But Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine were far too big with news to pay any attention to the startled expressions which greeted them, and the uncomfortable wrigglings of scandal suppressed into hurried, tactful dumbness. Miss Nuttel moved towards the counter, remarking over her shoulder to Bunny that she’d forgotten to check how low their stock of seaweed biscuits was, and should she buy double just to be sure. “Can’t be too careful, times like these,” she said. “Been one robbery here in the past. Shouldn’t like to have the place closed again and no supplies.”

  “You’re so practical, Eric,” praised Mrs. Blaine, while a muted shuffling indicated that Plummergen was sufficiently alert to wish to learn more. Doubts as to the probity of the Nuts would be suspended, at least until this new hinting at another sensation had been fully investigated. Everyone, without appearing to do so, drifted closer to Miss Nuttel and
Mrs. Blaine, willing to risk the miasma of white slavery for the chance to pick up the titbit they were obviously about to let fall.

  “Maybe make it three packets,” reflected Miss Nuttel, just as Mr. Stillman was putting away the folding steps he kept behind the counter for those items seldom called for and stored on the topmost shelves.

  “And a tin of soya chunks,” chipped in Mrs. Blaine, as for the second time he prepared to stow the aluminium steps. Mr. Stillman sighed and waited. “And, Eric, shouldn’t we perhaps try another box of those dried soya granules? Once we work out the correct recipe for the gravy to reconstitute them, they’ll be so much cheaper than the tinned.”

  “Three packets,” decided Eric, “just in case.” Without a word, Mr. Stillman placed the items on the counter and waited for the next indication that the Nuts knew what they were talking about. As Miss Nuttel had said, he’d had one brush in the recent past with armed robbers—who, thanks to the efforts of Miss Seeton, had escaped with nothing but a cardboard box of anticlimax in the form of grated cheese with one postal order sticky-taped to its lid, and which in their flight they had dropped. If there was even the most remote chance that another gang was likely to carry out a hold-up, then Mr. Stillman wanted to know about it.

  But with the Nuts, it was sometimes risky to press them for a direct answer. They would hedge, and back away, and use weasel words to keep you guessing, instead of coming right out with it. The best way of finding out was often to pretend you weren’t really interested. Mr. Stillman began totting up the prices with the pencil he kept stuck behind his ear, and asked the Nuts nothing at all beyond: “Now, is that the lot, ladies?”

  “I’m not sure. Eric, can you think of anything else?”

  “Bit short on prunes, Bunny, unless you had time to pop to the shops yesterday and stock up.”

  Mrs. Blaine wasn’t slow to seize her cue. “Oh, Eric, you know what a hurry we were in yesterday to catch the Brettenden bus for that coach trip. There certainly wasn’t a moment to spare before, and as for afterwards—you remember what a state I was in, delayed shock, I’m sure it was, and the last thing on my mind would have been the shopping!” And Bunny did her best to tremble at the memory.

  Erica Nuttel patted her on the shoulder before picking up the brown paper bag Mr. Stillman held out to her. “Best not to dwell on things, Bunny. Give you nightmares if you aren’t careful.”

  Mrs. Blaine’s eyes widened as she recalled the horrid sight of the shotguns and the masked men, and her gaze swept blankly over the now rapt audience. “Oh, Eric, you’re such a strong person, you don’t know what it means to be as highly-strung as me, and of course I’ve had nightmares, anyone else would expect to. I’m sure the police doctor ought to have given us tranquillisers, I know I never slept a wink last night with being so upset. My grandmother’s beautiful gold ring with the cabochon ruby, wrenched from my finger by that dreadful man with the stocking over his head . . .”

  This sounded authentic: this was worth listening to, and Plummergen was not slow to draw even closer. Miss Nuttel, turning to leave, stopped to stare at the book carousel and remarked: “Can’t be sure it was a man, can we? Never spoke a single word, just collected everything in that duffle bag and left all the talking to the other one.”

  “Oh, Eric, surely you can’t mean you think it could have been a woman!” breathed Mrs. Blaine, with an anxious glance over her shoulder. “How dreadful! Why, I shan’t sleep easy in my bed until they’ve caught her!”

  “Only guessing,” said Eric, once more patting her friend in a comforting fashion, and taking no notice of the crowd now pressing close with straining ears. “Suspicious, though, not speaking. Might be in case we’d recognise the voice, sitting right at the front.”

  “Oh, Eric, then it was somebody we know—that’s awful! But how many women of our acquaintance could be so—so very cold-blooded as that?”

  Every woman there tried to look warmhearted as well as interested in what was being said, but the Nuts ignored them all. “Mention no names, Bunny—slander,” said Erica Nuttel in a meaningful tone which accompanied a jerk of her head in the direction of Sweetbriars. “But odd, isn’t it—the very next day, police coming all the way from Scotland Yard to question her!”

  And on this glorious exit line, she headed for the door, giving the book carousel a brisk shove to send it whirling in sympathy with Plummergen thoughts. In the doorway, she stopped dead, so that Mrs. Blaine cannoned into her.

  “Told you so,” announced Miss Nuttel, quite blocking the view at which she pointed. Bunny Blaine squeezed past to stare. “Oh, Eric, you were right! It’s the police car, and it’s heading for London—and there’s a passenger in the back, and it’s a woman!”

  “Oh, no.” Eric shook her head and stood firm as everyone rushed to see what was happening. “Wrong word, if you ask me—not passenger. Prisoner.”

  And the Nuts hurried away back to Lilikot to savour the moment of triumph.

  chapter

  ~8~

  MISS SEETON PATTED her hair into shape beneath her hat, then picked up her umbrella and smiled at Sergeant Ranger. “Such a beautiful day for a drive,” she said, “and so kind of you to think of taking me.” In her eyes there was the suspicion of a twinkle.

  So unexpected of the chief superintendent to telephone and say that the little excursion to London with Bob, her—sometimes she found herself smiling at the thought—adopted nephew, might give rise to some comment, but one felt sure in this instance that he must be mistaken to feel any such anxiety, although of course one would not wish to tell him so, since this might seem ungrateful, when he evidently felt he was acting in one’s best interests, and perhaps did not completely understand how one’s private affairs, after all, were simply that, and no concern of anyone else, while one’s professional relationship with the police was, again, simply that, and nothing for anyone to feel any need whatsoever to discuss. Curiosity could be distressing, one imagined, if ever for any reason applied to oneself, but one was fortunate in that one led a quiet life in which nothing that could be of possible interest to the more vulgar element in human nature—which, regrettably, one had to acknowledge existed—ever occurred.

  Nevertheless, if Chief Superintendent Delphick thought it advisable for it not to be generally known that one was travelling to Town on police business (which was, one knew well, what Mr. Delphick understood far better than one who was merely a part-time IdentiKit artist), naturally one was happy to go along with whatever little pretence the chief superintendent deemed necessary. “A beautiful day,” Miss Seeton repeated, wondering whether she ought to have waited until they were outside, so that more people could hear.

  “I think you’ve forgotten something,” said Bob, as she was heading for the door. Miss Seeton stopped.

  In one hand she held her umbrella, over her arm she had hung her capacious handbag. “Oh dear, have I? Oh dear, yes indeed I have—my drawing materials!”

  But Bob, who had bent to collect the case Miss Seeton had packed with her sketching block, crayons, charcoal, and pencils, among other items, straightened himself with the case dangling from one large hand, and shook his head. The look of gentle disapproval he directed at Miss Seeton made her feel guilty even before she had remembered.

  She glanced once more at the umbrella in her hand and smiled vaguely as she recalled how—oh. Oh dear . . . Miss Seeton blushed. She gazed up at Bob with a worried frown creasing her brows. “Oh dear, the alarm, and so lucky you reminded me, although I sometimes do wonder if perhaps the chief constable might not have used me as a guinea pig for quite long enough now, and then it could be installed somewhere else where there is a real need for it, instead of in my little cottage where, after all, there is nothing worth stealing, and even when we had that outbreak of burglaries in the village it was other houses which were broken into, although—” her eyes twinkled once more—“the value of the items stolen was not, perhaps, as great as the owners would have wanted it to be, although perfect
ly natural, of course. That they would say it was—valuable, I mean. But I have nothing here of more than sentimental value, so . . .”

  Bob was shaking his head at her once more. “That’s not the point,” he explained, leading her back to the main fusebox on the stairs and waiting while she hunted for the key. “It isn’t the monetary value of what’s taken that matters so much as the destruction of the, the victim’s peace of mind.” It was the best word he could find but it sounded—rather uncomfortable, thought Bob. He hurried on:

  “Nobody likes the idea of strangers prowling about their homes and picking over their possessions—”

  “Oh, I know!” Miss Seeton’s eyes flashed, and she stood halfway up the stairs, the keys in her hand, looking like an avenging angel with power over heaven and hell. But angels, reflected Bob, seldom wear respectable tweeds, sensible lace shoes and grey stockings. Avenging, however, Miss Seeton certainly did appear. “So very wicked,” she said, “preying on those poor old people like, like vultures—taking cruel advantage of them and running the grave risk of destroying their faith in human nature, so very wrong, and if my poor efforts can assist in any way I shall, of course, be pleased to be able to help, though I fear the stolen items may very well be gone beyond recall by this time. Photography,” said Miss Seeton, as she turned the key in the lock, “could be the answer, although I suppose it’s far too late now.”

  Was she suggesting the victims should have taken snapshots of the chummies who’d turned them over? Before they turned them over? Bob tried to envisage the scene. “Hold it—the head a bit more this way, and do smile a little, you look so serious—now, steady! Thank you—and how many copies would you like?” No, even for one of Miss Seeton’s suggestions it was farfetched.