“The vicar seems enthusiastic about it,” Lady Colveden said, “from what I hear. I don’t suppose his sister is, though. She has too much common sense. I gather she tried hard to squash the first rumours when they started up again, about the time the Manudens moved in. Her hairstyle didn’t help, of course.”
Father and son gazed at her in surprise. “Hairstyle,” said Sir George, blankly.
“Don’t say the vicar’s sister has—gasp—dyed her hair and become a painted woman,” cried Nigel. “No wonder the gossips of Plummergen are in an uproar!”
Meg Colveden pushed back her chair and rose briskly to her feet. “I can’t think what’s wrong with you two today, making fun of everything I say. I thought you’d both be interested, and all you do is snigger. Molly Treeves would no more paint her face or dye her hair than—than—”
“Than Miss Seeton would,” supplied Nigel, gurgling with mirth. “Or you, Mother dear. But are we to assume that Mrs. Manuden’s done just that? I can’t say I’ve noticed anyone outlandish in the village recently.”
“She seems to be rather an old-fashioned little thing,” said his mother, “from what I’ve seen, which isn’t much. Hardly goes out at all, quiet, speaks only when she’s spoken to, dresses quaintly—a definite Forties look, hairstyle—” she glared at Nigel—“included, so I can understand why all the rumours of Susannah’s disappearance began. I wonder,” she murmured, a thoughtful expression on her face, “if I oughtn’t to call on her and welcome her to Plummergen? Just to see how they’re settling into the cottage. It was really in rather a sorry state, or so I gather, though the husband is doing splendid work putting things to rights. But he’s quite a few years older than she is, so perhaps it’s his second marriage and he’s taking care not to make the same mistakes as the first time around, not paying attention—” she frowned at her husband—“and never listening to her when she told him what needed doing about the house.”
The expressions on the faces of Sir George and his son were identical as they stared at her. It was Nigel who at last managed to find words.
“When did you and Dad first come to live in Plummergen, Mother darling?”
She seemed surprised at this change of subject. “Just after your father came out of the army and we were married. Julia was born here the following year—let me see, 1947, that would have been. Over twenty-five years ago. It was our silver wedding last year, surely you remember that?”
“Of course I do. And—would you say they’ve been twenty-five happy years? You’ve fitted into village life without too much difficulty?”
“Don’t be silly, Nigel, you know I would. And of course I have. We all have, haven’t we? Fitted in, I mean. I’m sure I shouldn’t feel comfortable living anywhere else but Plummergen, after so long.”
And her undutiful son grinned at her. “Yes, Mother, we thought that’s what you’d say. About fitting in with everyone in Plummergen so well . . .”
chapter
~12~
DEAD SUSANNAH DAWKIN’S possible discovery upon the bunker’s raffled opening had displaced the Nuts’ competition win as the major topic of Plummergen conversation. Indeed, Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine might have felt almost aggrieved to be so supplanted, had it not been that the supplanting topic was a scandal of such high quality. They eagerly listened to every speculation from longtime inhabitants, and stirred (once they’d had time to think of something) several ideas of their own into the simmering brew.
But any grievance, however slight, felt by the Nuts was soon dismissed when the most recent Dick Turpin robbery made headline news on national television. Eric and Bunny were delighted: shocked, but pleasantly so, and the excitement nearly made up for the loss of Bunny’s beautiful ring. The leading part they had played—their major role as eye-witnesses—crowds of journalists would rush to interview them, and their photographs would appear in all the newspapers.
As has already been shown, this did not happen: and with what result has also been shown. The Nuts, in short, were sulking. Though they did their best to foment interest in the carriage of Miss Seeton to London by the police, their hearts were not in the business. They were suffering, they decided, from delayed shock, and would feel better with a change of scenery.
“Not Brettenden, Eric, I wouldn’t care to be stared at,” Mrs. Blaine said, as they sipped the tea brewed from freshly-pulled nettles which was supposed to be so good for the kidneys. Only the tips of the nettle shoots were used, picked by a Miss Nuttel protected by stout gardening gloves, as supplied by Mrs. Welsted at the draper’s at a cost of (since decimalisation in February last year) fifty-two-and-a-half new pennies, formerly ten shillings and sixpence. Eric was a keen gardener—utterly organic vegetables, so much better tasting and without the carcinogenic risks of fertiliser . . .
“Could do with some broccoli seeds,” mused Miss Nuttel, “and chervil, as well. New handle for the hoe too, perhaps. Buy everything in one place—that shop in Ashford.”
“Oh, yes!” Bunny was delighted. “Nobody knows us there so we’ll be able to relax. I’m sure a little outing to Ashford is just what we need. My ankle,” she added bravely, “probably ought to be able to withstand the strain.”
“Bus in forty minutes,” Eric said, consulting her watch and for once ignoring Mrs. Blaine’s plaintive tones. “String bags, not baskets—easier to carry on the bus.”
“Oh, Eric, how sensible,” breathed Bunny, forgetting her troublesome ankle, “then we won’t have everybody wondering what we’re doing. I do dislike the way the entire village seems to interest itself in the affairs of others. Too intrusive, isn’t it?”
And Miss Nuttel pursed her lips, looking wise, as Norah Blaine sighed and shook a sorrowful head at the intrusiveness of Plummergen interest.
The Nuts made their escape from prying eyes to Ashford as privately as they professed to wish. They spent a few anxious minutes at Brettenden bus station waiting for their connection, but not a soul who knew them saw them; and they looked smugly about them as they were decanted at Ashford, congratulating each other on the wisdom of their choice.
After full consideration of the proposed outing, Bunny was heard to murmur of a hunt for pillowcases—quite worn through, their old ones, and there was a limit to the number of times she could sides-to-middle sheets, as well. While Eric busied herself at the hardware shop and selected seeds, and a hoe handle, and anything else her gardener’s soul might crave, Mrs. Blaine would study the Manchester goods in the town’s largest department store, and note down prices for comparison with the stalls on the market.
“Though perhaps,” she said in a peevish tone, “we ought to have brought my little basket on wheels, after all. It’s so much easier than carrying anything heavy in these silly string bags,” shaking hers under Eric’s startled nose. Miss Nuttel stared at her.
“Thought you agreed with me it was a good idea. Nobody knowing what we planned or where we were going—hidden bags in our pockets. Basket on wheels takes up too much room and goes half fare on the bus, as well. Anyway, too late now.”
“Yes, Eric, I know,” pleaded Bunny, as her friend looked rather crossly upon her, “but I hadn’t really had time to think properly about my ankle when we talked about it first, you did rather spring it on me, you know. And I don’t see how I can be expected to carry heavy sheets and pillowcases by myself—”
“No need to. Choose what you want, then wait for me.”
“But, Eric, you’ll have your own shopping to carry. Oh, and I was so looking forward to this little jaunt, but maybe it’s a judgement on us for not sticking to Brettenden shops, where they deliver.”
“At a price,” Erica Nuttel reminded her grimly. “Better value for money here, if you shop wisely, so no need to get in a stew, Bunny.”
And she patted her friend briskly on the shoulder before nodding her farewells and heading for the seed and gardening supplies shop at the far end of the street. Mrs. Blaine, her string bag limp in her hand, gazed after her for a few
brief moments and then made up her mind. She stuffed the bag into her pocket, and hobbled, sighing, along to the shop where she hoped to find sheets and pillowcases and—if Eric really was going to carry them all for her—maybe towels as well, if the price was right.
She didn’t know just how long it would take Miss Nuttel to purchase her requirements, and therefore took care to be limping at all times as she moved from counter to counter, examining quality, price, and colour—very important, with the wrong vibrations the aura of sleep could be totally destroyed, even if the pillow that was encased happened to be stuffed with dried herbs. Not blue, for instance, and pink could only be acceptable in certain shades, closer to the peach end of the range, more natural, of course. Or green, apple-green—but the pink of apple-blossom, if they had it matching in sheeting, was always acceptable . . .
Mrs. Blaine was pottering along in contented calculation when a strange female voice accosted her.
“Are you having trouble walking, dear? You look rather tired, I must say. Does your foot hurt?”
Mrs. Blaine stopped limping and turned. “Why, yes, it is troubling me rather. I sprained it the other day, you see, and the swelling simply won’t go down. I’ve tried footbaths and hot poultices—”
“You don’t have to tell me!” The young woman shuddered artistically. “All you can do is grin and bear it. I know, only too well. And it’s a real pain, isn’t it, trying to do things on your own, carrying heavy parcels and trying not to put too much strain on it.”
“Oh. Yes, it is.” Mrs. Blaine resolved to limp even more once Eric had finally appeared: somebody, she was pleased to see, recognised the sacrifice and inconvenience she’d been put to, coming out like this without proper thought for how she was supposed to carry everything, and her ankle being a nuisance, no matter how Eric told her to stop thinking about it. How could you possibly forget, when you were suffering? “Oh yes, it’s a real pain,” she agreed.
“You’re just about to start your shopping,” the young woman said. “Do you want any help? I mean, this is heavy, awkward stuff in here. You could really do with a trolley or a wheel-basket, but if you like I could give you a hand.” She shifted her own shopping bag, which bulged in an unusual way, to the other side, and smiled brightly. “I’ve finished all I came out for. I wouldn’t mind helping you, if you had things you wanted and couldn’t really manage on your own.”
Mrs. Blaine was pleased and flustered. Here was someone who sympathised with an invalid’s struggles from counter to counter, with the frustration of not being one hundred percent fit and able to cope, with the awkwardness of shopping for bulky parcels—but wouldn’t Eric niggle a bit at her, if she hurried through her own shopping to find that Bunny was managing perfectly well on her own? Eric liked to spend long agreeable minutes choosing things for the garden: she’d be cross if she curtailed her pleasure for her friend’s sake and then learned there’d really been no need to rush at all.
“Well, that’s very kind of you . . .” began Mrs. Blaine, with a brave smile. The young woman smiled back at her in a very understanding way.
“Just doing my good deed for the day,” she said briskly, “so don’t you give it another thought. What were you thinking about buying? If we start with the larger things, then pile the others on top as we collect them, it’ll be easier for me to carry to the car, you see—”
“The car? But—”
“Now, I told you not to worry about it,” the young woman said in a smiling, scolding tone. “Naturally, I’ll run you back home. What sort of neighbour would I be if I left you to struggle with your parcels when I’ve got my car parked just around the corner? And if you didn’t think you could manage to walk that far, well, I could pick you up outside the main doors, and I’m sure just this once the traffic wardens would turn a blind eye to the double yellow lines. Not another word,” she insisted, as Mrs. Blaine opened her mouth to protest, “about anything, all right? Let’s just get on with the shopping. And if there’s anywhere else you need to go after here, maybe we could fit that in, as well. I’m not in any particular hurry.” And she leaned back against the counter in a grand gesture of exaggerated laziness, yawning and then grinning at a bewildered Mrs. Blaine. As she leaned backwards, her shopping bag knocked against the wood of the counter with a strange, clinking sound.
Bunny was beginning to feel that she was losing control. “It’s very kind of you,” she repeated, “but there’s really no need for you to go to all that trouble. We came by bus, you see, and bought return tickets.”
The young woman’s expression suddenly changed. “You’re not alone, then? With—” her swift glance darted to Mrs. Blaine’s left hand—“your husband, are you?”
With Humphrey? Norah Blaine shuddered at the thought of spending any time, voluntarily, in the company of her long-divorced spouse. “With a friend,” she said, wishing, not for the first time, that her plumpness did not prevent the removal of her wedding ring. More than once, she and Eric had tried soap, and cold water, and brute force; but on the third finger of Bunny’s left hand that golden band remained. A visit to a jeweller would of course result in a charge for cutting the ring, and why should she pay to be freed from her shackles? “My friend Eric,” she enlarged, “who’s shopping for garden supplies down the road, and ought to be here any minute. I’d like you to meet—”
“Well,” interrupted the young woman briskly, “it sounds as if you don’t really need my help, doesn’t it? Eric can give you a hand with the shopping, and then I can get on with my bits and pieces. I’m a little pushed for time after all, I’ve just realised. Nice to have met you, though—and I enjoyed our chat. Bye, now!”
And, with a smile which looked somehow slightly forced, her bulky shopping bag still clanking at her side, the young woman waved and hurried away.
Mrs. Blaine blinked after her, then shrugged, primmed her lips, and muttered to herself about how strange some people were. She turned to inspect a further display of sheeting, and decided that perhaps she might try apple green . . .
“Talking to yourself, Bunny?” Erica Nuttel, that tall, thin woman, appeared beside her friend carrying a long, thin parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Still making up your mind? Better not decide finally,” she said, with a stern eye fixed on a hovering sales assistant, “until we’ve checked out the market. Almost bound to be cheaper there.”
The assistant, who resented having been called back from her coffee break before she’d finished exchanging gossip and newspapers with her cronies, tossed her head, and flounced back to the far end of the counter. But she kept a watchful eye on the Nuts as they talked, in case they were potential shoplifters. Not easy to slip a cellophane-wrapped parcel of sheets into your bag or under your clothes, but some of these old girls were dead cunning, and it wouldn’t do her any harm to collar a pair, not with the bonus scheme coming into operation next week . . .
Mrs. Blaine protested to Eric that she’d been standing on her bad ankle far too long, and would appreciate the chance for a nice sit-down somewhere. “Maybe we could try a cup of tea,” she suggested, with a quick look at Miss Nuttel to see how that dedicated vegetarian felt about the idea. “I mean, it would only be just this once, and we needn’t use sugar if there’s no honey—just this once,” and she did her best to look exhausted, leaning lopsidedly against the counter to rest in an unconscious echo of the pose adopted by the young woman who had been so willing to offer her a lift home until she learned that Bunny was not by herself.
Erica Nuttel hesitated. The seed shop had certainly had a slightly dusty atmosphere, and it was a long time since breakfast—and in their hurry to catch the bus, they hadn’t thought about making sandwiches or packing a flask—and the next bus back was over an hour away, and in any case Bunny still had shopping to do, it seemed.
“If that’s what you really want, Bunny,” she said, in the tone of a grudging martyr. “Principles all very well, but needs must, I suppose. Coffee shop on the top floor here, isn’t there?”
“No witnesses at all, barring the poor woman herself, and she’s too upset to remember anything,” said Superintendent Chris Brinton wrathfully, his grip on the telephone receiver so tight that Detective Constable Foxon, sitting on the far side of the desk, could almost hear the plastic cracking. “I heard on the grapevine, Oracle, that you’d hauled MissEss up to the Yard to do some of her fancy little doodles, at a guess. Did she come up with anything useful?”
In London, Chief Superintendent Delphick sat silent, his free hand absently drawing a pirate chief, complete with the earrings and eyepatch Miss Seeton had portrayed, on the fresh sheet of paper in his blotter. He realised what he was doing, and scowled at the scrawl before saying:
“Sorry, Chris, but I’m not sure we can help you all that much—oh, yes,” as Brinton tried to expostulate, “she came and talked to one of our witnesses and drew a sketch or two, but you know what she’s like. The first attempt, the fast cartoon type I’d been pinning my hopes on, turned out to be a reflection of the conversation she and Bob Ranger had in the car when he was driving her up to Town—and the second was just a routine drawing, anyone could have done it. You know how IdentiKit pictures are all supposed to look exactly like David Frost? Well, this was a woman, and Miss Seeton got even her looking like David Frost. The run-of-the-mill rubbish she must have taught in that Hampstead school before she retired. Maybe we’d recognise the woman if we stood her right beside it, but I’m not hopeful.”
Miss Seeton Cracks the Case (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 9) Page 10
