Miss Seeton recognised most of her fellow travellers as she climbed up into the bus, and nodded a greeting to those nearest. The Nuts were in the front seat, and could hardly meet her gaze as she passed them with a courteous inclination of the head. She moved down the aisle to choose a seat on the other side of the bus, and the Nuts began to mutter.
“Did you see, Eric? The effrontery of it, trying to act as if nothing was the matter! And why do you suppose,” Mrs. Blaine hissed, “she wants to go into Brettenden today?”
“Following us,” suggested Miss Nuttel, after a thoughtful pause. “Star witnesses. Knows we’re on to her.”
“Oh, Eric, you’re right of course,” thrilled Mrs. Blaine, her black-currant eyes glittering with excitement. “We must be very careful the whole time. Think how easy it would be for her to arrange some sort of accident to be rid of us.” As the engine of the bus began to turn, she raised her voice as she glanced back over her shoulder. “She could easily push us under a car, or something . . .”
Even for Miss Nuttel, this was too much to accept. “Not both of us at once,” she objected. “But true enough—have to take care. Best be very careful while we’re shopping—eyes skinned all the time, Bunny. All the time . . .”
“Or, better still,” suggested Bunny, “we could keep an eye on her before she tries anything, couldn’t we? There’s nothing we desperately need to buy today that wouldn’t wait for another time. It would be much more sensible to watch what Miss Seeton does and where she goes, wouldn’t it? Then we’ll have real evidence to give Scotland Yard, next time!”
And so it was with their hearts full of sleuthial zeal, and their intentions of shopping abandoned, that, once the Omney bus had arrived in Brettenden, the Nuts were the last people to leave. Miss Seeton bowed again as she passed the front seat where they waited in anticipation . . .
And, as she walked towards the Brettenden shops, wondering whether it would rain, she had no idea that she was being followed . . .
chapter
~14~
WITH HER UMBRELLA and handbag over one arm, and her lightweight mackintosh packed neatly into a sturdy carrier held in the other hand, Miss Seeton set out to enjoy her day’s shopping. It would be most sensible, of course, to consult the electrician first, since one had no idea how long these matters might take, although Martha had given very detailed information, but there might by some chance be a shortage of both the models she recommended, and then one would have to ask for advice as to what was nearest Martha’s choice, and perhaps there would be several to choose from, which would be confusing when one knew that there were differences in the model numbers and to one’s unpractised eye they tended to look more or less the same . . .
“Look!” gulped Mrs. Blaine, and grabbed at Miss Nuttel’s bony elbow. “She’s checking something in that notebook—a contact address, I’m sure it must be!”
“Fence,” suggested Miss Nuttel. “Usually a jeweller, or a pawnbroker. Strange, being a chain store.” For Miss Seeton had drifted to a halt outside the plate glass of the local branch of Marker & Spence, and was studying its display of electrical goods.
“Oh, Eric! Do you suppose this is entirely safe?” And Bunny peered doubtfully over her shoulder, as if the streets of Brettenden might suddenly erupt into gang warfare with themselves in the middle of it all. “They must be desperate people she’s dealing with—you don’t go waving shotguns all over the place if you’re not planning to use them, do you?”
“Nobody in sight,” Miss Nuttel reassured her, after some anxious moments of frantic scanning. “Anyway, seems to have changed her mind,” for Miss Seeton, shaking her head slowly at the bewildering selection of vacuum cleaners, and hoping that Martha’s preferences would both be in stock, was once more walking in the direction of the electrician’s.
She was utterly oblivious to the stalking advance of the Nuts down Brettenden High Street behind her. It was fortunate for their tracking skills that the number of shoppers, even though it was not a market day, sufficed to mask the peculiarities of their progress: they kept stopping, with a series of startled little gasps and grabs at each other, to leap into nearby shop doorways, or they would realise their retreat had given Miss Seeton several yards’ distance, and would break into a curious gait midway between a scuttle and a trot in order to catch her up. “Must be drunk,” observed one old gentleman, who was handing out teetotal tracts to unwary passersby. He was a Holdfast Brother, and wondered whether he should try to redeem the souls of Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine before it was too late: but while he was still making up his mind, they had skittered out of sight behind a group of chattering people all armed with large carrier bags and holdalls.
“Spellbrook: Electrician” was located in a side road off the far end of the main street. Miss Seeton, following the instructions Mr. Spellbrook had given her on the back of an envelope—(“Look, Eric, she’s checking her contact address again!”)—arrived there just as the first few drops of rain were thinking about falling from an overcast sky. How thankful she was that she had thought to bring her mackintosh with her, and of course her umbrella as well . . .
Miss Seeton hitched the umbrella more comfortably over her arm after groping in her handbag for the notebook with Martha’s list—(“Eric, she’s holding it in such a strange way! Do you suppose it could be a shotgun in disguise?”)—and pushed open the door of Spellbrook’s. In triumph that they had succeeded in tracking her to her lair, the Nuts proceeded to keep observation on Miss Seeton by lurking together in the doorway opposite, which was the entrance to a flower shop.
“Suppose,” breathed Bunny, “she escapes through the back door? We’d lose sight of her then!”
“Better not separate,” opined Eric, after some thought. “Divide and conquer, risky business. Stay on watch here and be ready to pursue if we spot her making a break for it. That service alley—we’d notice.”
Mrs Blaine was full of admiration for this scheme, and so thankful that Eric didn’t expect her to stay in this shop doorway by herself while covering the rear exit singlehandedly. Or perhaps Miss Seeton would come out of the front, after all, and leave Bunny to face her alone . . . Mrs. Blaine shivered, and wished she hadn’t thought of mentioning the other way out of the suspect shop. Suppose Eric changed her mind, and went there, and left her!
“Eric,” she began, “promise me you won’t try to be brave. You said yourself we’d have to face this together. There isn’t any point in being a heroine if—”
“Oy,” broke in a voice from behind her, “and just what d’you think you’re doing, then? I bin watching you two—squashed in here like pips in an orange, neither buying nor planning to buy, it seems to me, and don’t try to hand me that sheltering from the rain excuse, when it hadn’t barely begun when you first started blocking my doorway. So, now,” and the speaker, an enormous red-faced man, folded his arms and glared at the startled Nuts, “what are you going to do about it, is what I want to know.”
“We were sheltering from the rain,” began Mrs. Blaine in a peevish voice, indicating the puddles beyond the pavement which danced and rippled with falling drops. “We could tell that a storm was on the way, so—”
“So, if you’ve no plans to buy, you can be on your way, and be quick about it,” said the red-faced man, a veritable mountain of menace. Miss Nuttel gulped; Mrs. Blaine uttered a quavering squeak. The mountain ignored them. “Blocking my door and scaring my customers,” he said grimly. “Like to have the law on the pair of you, but if you was to purchase a few choice items of the florist’s art, I dare say I could be persuaded to overlook the matter.”
“B-b-bl-black-black—” began Mrs. Blaine, unable to complete the protest when the mountain turned his furious red gaze upon her.
“Black flowers, you was wanting, was it?” he enquired, a note of wrathful amusement in his voice. “For a funeral, I suppose. Well, perhaps—”
“Oh! No!” Cries of sheer terror erupted from the Nuts, and they darted from the flower
shop doorway and fled along the street as fast as their trembling legs would allow. It was not until they had turned the corner out of the side road that they controlled themselves to a halt and stood in the shelter of a flapping canvas awning which protected the windows of a clockmaker and jeweller, breathing hot, shuddering breaths.
“Obviously the gang’s look-out,” opined Miss Nuttel at last, peering round the corner of the awning in search of pursuit. “Just our bad luck to have raised the alarm—”
“He threatened us, Eric! Planning your own funeral, are you? And the way he laughed—he was gloating! Positively gloating, and trying to threaten us into keeping quiet about what we know!”
“Blackmail,” Miss Nuttel corrected her, remembering what Bunny had so bravely begun to say. She’d stood up to that bully, all right—no doubting Bunny’s courage! But as for herself, she was ashamed—bolting down the road in quite the opposite direction from—
“Bunny,” cried Miss Nuttel, “Miss Seeton! Forgot about keeping watch—making a break for it this minute!” But she was strangely reluctant to lead the way back into the little side street that had seemed so empty of other shoppers—so far from any help, if the worst came to the worst.
Mrs. Blaine wrung her plump hands and lamented, “They’ve made such careful plans, we hardly stand a chance against them. Oh, Eric, what are we to do? To have come so close to solving the mystery, and then—that awful man, I shall have nightmares about him tonight, I know . . .”
“If,” said Miss Nuttel darkly, “they let us survive till tonight. Star witnesses, remember?”
And Bunny, shivering, remembered.
Miss Seeton, smiling, remembered, without having to consult the list in her notebook, which of the vacuum cleaners would best suit dear Martha. She double-checked her choice, just to make sure, but the sales assistant—that nice Mr. Spellbrook’s wife, apparently—was so friendly and helpful, and they had a most enjoyable chat about all manner of things before Miss Seeton duly enquired about a delivery charge, was delighted to find that there would be none if she was willing to wait until next week when the van would be in Plummergen anyway, and happily signed her cheque. “And don’t forget your umbrella, Miss Seeton,” Mrs. Spellbrook called after her. “Just look outside—it’s going to pelt down any minute, wouldn’t you say?”
“So it is,” said Miss Seeton, “and how fortunate that I packed my lightweight raincoat. I had an idea we had not seen the last of the stormy weather. And I sincerely hope there will be no more lightning, so unpleasant when one is in the open air away from shelter, though of course there are more trees in Plummergen High Street than there are here in Brettenden, aren’t there? Lightning, you see . . .”
“Your umbrella handle,” said Mrs. Spellbrook, studying it with interest. “It’s metal, isn’t it, but it looks like . . . well, this sounds silly, but—gold.” She reached out and touched it gently. “Surely it can’t be—a gold umbrella?”
Miss Seeton blushed. “My very best umbrella—a memento from a most courteous gentleman of a little adventure in which he kindly allowed me to play a small part. Hollow, of course, or the cost would have been . . .” She shook her head. “I think,” she said, deftly turning the subject, “I shall be extremely glad of it today,” and she pointed down the shop towards the windows, against which the rain had now begun to lash. “It is fortunate that there were a few other shops I intended to visit, some art supplies and perhaps a cup of coffee or a light luncheon somewhere, but—”
“You can’t go out in this,” protested Mrs. Spellbrook, in a voice that wasn’t sure whether to be amused or horrified. “You’ll catch your death!”
“Death and danger, Bunny,” said Miss Nuttel bravely. “A risk we have to run—our duty as citizens.” She glanced at the clocks in the window. “Ought to be on our way back,” in a voice she tried to make resolute. “Mustn’t skulk here all day, not if we’re trying to find out the truth.”
“Oh, Eric, you’re too brave!” Yet it did fleetingly come into Mrs. Blaine’s mind that the drips from the now-sodden canvas awning, which leaked surprisingly badly for such a high-class shop, might have something to do with the sudden decision of Miss Nuttel to go once more in search of Miss Seeton, criminal mastermind.
“Too brave,” repeated Mrs. Blaine, dismissing her unworthy thoughts and gazing proudly at her friend. “When should—”
“Look out!” gasped Miss Nuttel, grabbing her by the arm and shaking her in her shock. “Almost on top of us—didn’t spot her in disguise!”
“Disguise?” Mrs. Blaine’s beady eyes peered round the side-flap of the awning. “Oh, Eric, how lucky she’s on the other side of the road! But she must have guessed we were following her. She deliberately found that mackintosh from somewhere, and look how high she’s turned the collar up! I knew we’d catch her out in the end, and how clever of you to spot her through the disguise!”
“Just happened to see her first,” muttered Miss Nuttel, feeling that she’d somehow atoned for her previous cowardice in the face of the flower shop foe. “Dare say you’d have recognised her as well, Bunny.”
Mrs. Blaine looked pleased, then suggested quickly that they should set off once more in pursuit of Miss Seeton now that she had left her lair and was apparently on the prowl again. She did not want to give Eric the chance to propose a return visit to that unnerving back street where the ferocious florist lurked. “Don’t forget,” she pointed out, “she may have turned her collar up to stop us seeing it was her—but it will make it harder for her to see us, as well!” And so it was agreed that they should continue to track Miss Seeton through the Brettenden streets rather than attempt to find out what she might have been doing in Spellbrook’s, which was obviously a front for something sinister and when they had positive proof Eric would telephone Scotland Yard again.
The remainder of their day was uneventful, fortunately for the Nuts: their nerves were still rather shaky after the shock of being shouted at by the enormous red-faced man, and Mrs. Blaine’s ankle had started to ache, so that they could not go as fast after Miss Seeton as they would have liked. But Miss Seeton was in no particular hurry: she visited the art supplies’ shop, and filled her carrier with a gratifying selection of items such as blocks, brushes, and a packet of the new range of colour crayons with which she hoped to capture some of the violent mystery of the thunderclap. She enjoyed a cup of coffee and Chelsea bun at a very pleasant little teashop; she window-shopped her way back down the High Street, and only when it began to rain hard again did she decide to abandon her day out and hurry, instead of simply walking at a steady pace, towards the bus station.
“Running away,” said Miss Nuttel, wriggling damp toes in leaking leather shoes. “Do stop moaning, Bunny. Caught her at last, haven’t we!” And, as fast as they could, the Nuts hurried after their quarry.
With her umbrella up and her bulky bag, Miss Seeton had a difficult time of it against the wind and the rain, every now and then pausing to catch her breath and check that she was heading in the right direction. The points of her up-turned collar jabbed wetly into her cheek, and her umbrella spokes twanged melodiously as the wind dashed the raindrops against them. With relief, in the distance, she could make out the welcome black and orange livery of the Omney coach: she put her head down and her brolly up, and hurried, holdall banging against her breathless side, towards it. Before she had time to catch her breath, the driver opened the door and beckoned her in; a chorus of voices called congratulations at her having struggled through the storm.
The Nuts came panting up behind her, disappointed that the promise of their day had resulted in nothing better than a soaking, and climbed the steps with relief. They were a little peeved to observe that their favourite front seats had been taken—and taken by strangers, too. They hoped they would not have to sit next to Miss Seeton: the bus was remarkably full . . . surely, fuller than when they had set out from Plummergen?
And why were so many of these faces—why were all of these faces unfa
miliar? Who were they? What had they done with the villagers? The Nuts stood, staring . . .
And with a jerk and a judder, the engine began to turn. “Sit down, missus,” roared the driver. “You don’t want to go to France with a broken leg, do you?”
Without waiting for a reply, he put the bus into gear, tootled on the horn, and above Miss Nuttel’s stricken cry of “France? Never!” gunned the engine and set off out of the bus station.
“There’s been some mistake,” bleated Mrs. Blaine, while Miss Nuttel gasped in the seat beside her. A voice from the seat in front said:
“You and your friend just made it, didn’t you? Doesn’t look as if she’s left much room in her holdall for the duty free, though—and it’s much cheaper to get it in France. But I suppose you all know your own business best.”
“France?” repeated Mrs. Blaine in horror. “Why, we haven’t even got our passports with us!”
“Oh, you don’t need ’em,” said their new acquaintance cheerfully. “All you need’s money and a holdall—or two,” he added. “Quick trip from Lydd Airport, round the shops, a club in the evening, back home next day. Lovely!”
“Oh, dear,” moaned Mrs. Blaine, while Miss Nuttel gasped again. “France—oh, no! Whatever will happen next?”
chapter
~15~
THE JERKS AND judders of the engine had sent the Nuts stumbling almost the full length of the bus before they managed to find somewhere to sit; Miss Seeton, travelling alone, had been luckier. An empty aisle seat barely halfway down the bus had welcomed her, and with a smile and murmured greeting to her window neighbour she prepared to settle her damp self in comfort.
Miss Seeton Cracks the Case (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 9) Page 12
