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

by Hamilton Crane

  The vicar regarded his sister with awe. The Plummergen Church Fete, the Flower Festival, and the Best Kept Village competition would involve much feminine feuding and argument with which he knew himself to be incapable of dealing. But Molly, bless her, understood how to deal with this monstrous regiment of women who (the Reverend Arthur admitted, to his secret shame) intimidated her bachelor brother so greatly. And how pleased she was to have made such an ally—such a good friend, the vicar corrected himself, ally carrying connotations of warfare—of Major Matilda Howett, the new head nurse at Dr. Knight’s private Home, recently retired from the Army and, Molly had said in high approval, running the place like clockwork. Although army, too, reminded the vicar of war—and the war, of course, had still its part to play in today’s world, with the fund for the church roof and Dennis Manuden’s bunker . . .

  “Arthur,” Miss Treeves said patiently, “do pay attention and tell me you’ll go and see for yourself that Miss Seeton is Miss Seeton, and not an imposter. The talk is getting quite out of hand, and if I can report back at my committees that you have been to see her, and that she has neither been kidnapped nor is in league with armed robbers, it should put all this ransom nonsense out of people’s silly heads.”

  “Miss Seeton has been kidnapped? But that is dreadful!” The Reverend Arthur, who tried to like everyone and in truth liked Miss Seeton, looked shocked. “Although whether it is advisable to expect me, Molly dear, to face armed kidnappers single-handed . . . Of course I am willing to do what I can, in Miss Seeton’s best interests, but surely the professional touch is what is required? And as to the matter of ransom, the Archdeacon might be willing to let us sell some of the church silver to raise funds, but—”

  “Arthur, please. Miss Seeton has not been kidnapped. Which is what I want you to find out for yourself, and then you can tell me. And I,” said Molly Treeves triumphantly, “can tell the ladies of Plummergen, and we can start to mind our own business again. There is a great deal to be done, if we are to be ready for the Flower Festival or to stand even a chance of winning the Best Kept Village competition. The Fete, of course, should almost run itself, provided the regular stallholders are suitably organised. Matilda Howett will do splendidly there. But nobody will be able to think of anything except this nonsense about Miss Seeton, until we have ascertained that nonsense is what it is.”

  But even when she’d explained it all to him twice, very carefully, Molly Treeves was not entirely sure that Arthur had fully grasped the purpose of his visit to Sweetbriars to see for himself that Miss Seeton was indeed Miss Seeton. He left the vicarage with his head whirling, thoughts of ransom notes and robbery on the Queen’s Highway and guerrilla warfare as practised by the Plummergen ladies tumbling through his mind with memories of the second world war and air raids and bunkers with tin helmets and ration books inside, as on display in the post office window.

  The public house, situated next to a travel agency boasting on its pavement sandwich boards Luxury Coach Tours, was a scruffy, long, low grey building with its owner a scruffy, tall, grey-faced individual who looked less jolly than anyone Delphick had seen since he arrested Bernard Finchingfield, the celebrated bigamist, as he was about to tie the illicit knot with Artemis MacSporran, the madcap whisky heiress. The owner’s name, however, turned out to be Roger: and he looked more mournful than ever as he admitted it.

  “Everyone makes jokes about it,” he said with a sigh. “Can I help it if I’m of a serious turn of character? Why should I laugh when they come in asking for a bottle of rum and then start singing ‘Fifteen Men on the Dead Man’s Chest’ and expecting me to join in the yo-ho-ho-ing? I can’t sing, either.” He signed again. “Sometimes, I wonder if I might have gone into the wrong profession, but my father used to run this pub before me, you see . . .”

  As Roger shrugged helplessly, Delphick caught the eye of Superintendent Brinton, and stifled a grin. “I suppose,” he remarked, “it’s true that people generally expect publicans to be bonhomous in the extreme—but why not set a fashion? Every pub needs its gimmick. The Jolly Roger could have a weekly sweepstake in which of the regulars would be the one to make you smile, bonus points if you chuckle or laugh out loud. Proceeds to the charity of your choice, and a good time had by all. You might even develop a sense of humor,” he added kindly.

  Brinton had no patience with such whimsy. “What we’re here about is no laughing matter,” he said, darting a dagger look at Delphick and scowling at Bob Ranger, who had dared to snigger. “We want to know about sherry, and quick.”

  “Sherry?” Roger looked more alert. “What sort did you want? And how much of it?”

  “How do you sell it?” countered Brinton. “Single bottle sales, by the case, in the barrel—”

  “A cask of Amontillado, perhaps,” interposed Delphick as Roger blinked at the superintendent’s keenness. The gloomy grey countenance turned towards the Scotland Yard detective, and lightened fleetingly with a smile.

  “I’m a great reader,” Roger said. “In my spare time I’m writing a book—my autobiography. I’ve led such an interesting life, I’m sure lots of people would want to read about it. Some very strange things happen in a pub.”

  “Something very strange,” hissed Superintendent Brinton between clenched teeth, “is likely to happen right now in this pub if you don’t answer my question. Do you sell your bottles of sherry—Sergeant Ranger, could you let me have the sample, please—this sherry, in bulk?”

  Roger peered at the label and admitted that he did, but not very often. Quinta Phylloxera was the cheap end of the price range, only drunk by masochists; from time to time, however, people with less discernment than he, Roger, thought proper, would buy sherry of this label by the case: twelve bottles at a time.

  “They sometimes buy it for wedding receptions,” he said, “when they get married at the register office instead of in a church.” He shrugged. “They probably see it as a judgment on the bride for not being in, well, the proper state. And we have the Holdfast Brethren, of course. They bought a case only last week. They’re teetotal,” he explained.

  Before Brinton could explode, Delphick, divining the real meaning behind Roger’s strange utterance, said mildly: “They want to smash the bottles in one of their services, do they? Heaping imprecations on the head of the supplier, or whoever, meanwhile.”

  Roger nodded. “I believe they make quite a ceremony out of it. Cover the case with a black cloth, preach at it with chunks out of the Bible, then attack it with hammers blessed by the Senior Brother in the tabernacle. Rather impressive, I imagine, if a little messy, and dangerous, of course. One of my regulars works for the ambulance service. Apparently there’s nearly always at least one torn artery or slashed vein when it’s a Holdfast Water Festival day.”

  “And has anybody else,” Delphick enquired, thinking it tactful to take over the questioning before Brinton really did explode, “bought a case of this recently? Someone not buying for a wedding or an otherwise smashing time?”

  “Oh, yes.” Roger nodded; Brinton and Delphick looked at him; Bob Ranger prepared to make notes.

  “Old Man Buntingford’s son-in-law bought three cases,” said Roger. “For the funeral. He’d wanted a good send-off. Wrote it in his will, I gather, and left enough money to pay for it, too. Quite a party, they tell me—”

  Superintendent Brinton was almost foaming at the mouth. “Anybody else?” demanded Delphick, beginning to lose control himself. “Anybody you’d never seen before?”

  Roger frowned. He scratched his head. “I believe there was,” he said slowly. “It struck me as odd at the time, but in this business the customer is always supposed to be right—goodness knows why. Few of them have palates, as I understand the word.” He reeled back against the blast of fiery dislike that scorched from Superintendent Brinton’s eyes. He rubbed the tip of his long, thin nose. “There was a man,” he said at last, “dark, in his thirties, I suppose, and I’m almost certain I’ve never seen him before . . .”<
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  “Then tell us,” invited Delphick, “all about him.” And motioned to Sergeant Ranger to take notes.

  The vicar had felt decidedly awkward. When Martha Bloomer opened the door of Sweetbriars, he did not find it easy to ask her whether she was absolutely sure that the Miss Seeton in whose house she was cleaning that day was the identical Miss Seeton for whom she normally performed this service two mornings a week. Mrs. Bloomer, an expatriate Cockney with a quick wit and a lively sense of the ridiculous, would most likely laugh at him, and while in a good cause he could see no harm in laughter, he felt that some respect ought to be due to the dignity of the cloth. Or, mused the Reverend Arthur, ought it? In his particular case? He had long ago lost his faith, and though the bishop had assured him that it did not matter, he felt something of a fraud. As such, he must ask himself if the pretence under which he lived his life and pursued a no-longer-valid calling was indeed owed any dignity whatsoever. Yet, to all outward appearances he was still a cleric in holy orders, and therefore the office, rather than himself in that office, might deserve—

  “Can I help you, Vicar?” Martha Bloomer was tired of holding the front door open while the Reverend Arthur stared at her. “Were you wanting Miss Seeton?”

  “Oh. Er, yes.” The Reverend Arthur, roused from his trance, looked wildly about him and tried to recall what had been his purpose in coming here. “Miss Seeton—yes. That is to say—Miss Seeton. It is Miss Seeton, Martha?”

  If he was looking for old Mrs. Bannet, he was by several years too late. “Yes, of course it is, Vicar,” Martha said, slowly and clearly, as if to a backward child. Poor vicar, looked even more confused than normal, he did, probably all this talk of the church roof and the raffle and the bunker had took him back in time to when he’d been a fair bit younger, and Mrs. Bannet as well. “Did you want to see Miss Seeton, Vicar? Will you come in?”

  Mr. Treeves cast a haunted look over his shoulder, then removed his hat and darted into the hall. As Martha closed the door behind him, he gasped: “You may confide in me with confidence, Martha. You realise that, don’t you? Unless you have been advised otherwise by the police, that is.”

  “The police? They were here earlier this morning, and they never said nothing to me about confidences. It was that young sergeant as married Anne Knight, and his boss—but they didn’t stay all that long. Wanted Miss Seeton to do them one of her pictures, I think. But you can ask her yourself, if you like. I’ll just call her—she’s out in the garden.”

  “Hiding from me? She heard the doorbell,” said Arthur Treeves, still clutching his hat. “Tell her—tell her, if you think it advisable, that I will say nothing. Nothing,” he repeated firmly. Wild horses, try how they might, would wrest no part of the secret from him.

  Martha wondered why, if the vicar was determined not to speak to Miss Seeton, he’d bothered coming to call on her: but everyone in Plummergen accepted the Reverend Arthur for what he was, and humoured him. “I’ll just fetch her in from the weeding and you can tell her yourself,” she said kindly. She gently removed his hat from his hand and set it down on the hall table beside the umbrella rack. “Come through to the sitting-room—I’ve already done in there.”

  Bewildered, he followed her, and tried not to listen as she opened the french windows and called, “Here’s the vicar come to see you, and will I put the kettle on?”

  “Mr. Treeves, to see me?” It certainly sounded like Miss Seeton’s voice—but the police had doubtless chosen someone skilled in mimicry to play such a dangerous part . . .

  “Why, Vicar, how nice.” A figure which also looked like Miss Seeton had appeared in the french windows: and, it had to be said, it still sounded like her, even close, too. Why was Molly so sure this lady was an imposter? And why should she wish to tell the Fete Committee and the Flower Festival people this remarkable story? Would their time not be more suitably employed in thinking of other ways to raise money for the repair of the church roof?

  “Martha is just making us a cup of tea, if you’d care to have one,” said—yes, the Reverend Arthur was almost sure—Miss Seeton cheerfully. “We could take it out to the garden and sit in the sun, such a beautiful morning for being lazy if the right excuse comes along. I have been waging war on the weeds, but it will be lovely to stop for a while.”

  Ah yes, the war. How it did seem to keep cropping up in conversation. Mr. Stillman’s window, no doubt, and of course the raffle for opening Dennis Manuden’s air-raid shelter, brought back so many memories, not all of them distressing. As a minister of the church, he’d played his patriotic part by becoming one of Plummergen’s air-raid wardens: in a pleasing personal version of the swords-into-ploughshares text, his tin helmet, upturned, now housed seedlings in the vicarage shed. “Geraniums,” said the Reverend Arthur, with a smile. He might be able to work this into next Sunday’s sermon.

  “Such very bold, colourful flowers.” Miss Seeton, the perfect hostess, was always willing to adapt to the wishes of her guests. If the vicar had come to discuss his garden problems with her, however, he would be better advised to speak to Martha, who could pass on a message to Stan, who knew all anyone could wish to know about horticulture. Or should she offer to lend Mr. Treeves her copy of Greenfinger Points the Way? “One cannot easily mistake them for weeds,” said Miss Seeton happily. “The leaves, so distinctive, and delightfully shaped, as well. I sometimes used them when I wished my pupils to draw a floral still life—the generous curve, and the zonal markings, so attractive. And I believe one can also eat them, although this is not something I have ever tried.”

  No doubt about it, this was Miss Seeton. Molly really should make certain of her facts before even thinking of spreading wild rumours. He would give his sister a little scold when he went home, though not until he had jotted down his notes for the sermon, of course, lest he might otherwise forget them. “Pruning-hooks and spears,” mused the Reverend Arthur as he gazed vacantly at Miss Seeton. “And my trusty helmet . . .”

  “Of course, you were an air-raid warden too, were you not, Vicar? Such a coincidence,” smiled Miss Seeton. “How many nights I spent fire-watching on London roofs, I really could not say. Not that I begrudged the time,” she hastened to assure him, “nor the lack of sleep, but one was relieved when the Blitz was finally over. Yet so sad to see all the dreadful damage, so many fine buildings lost, and the lives, which goes without saying. Many of them one’s friends and colleagues,” she sighed, shaking her head.

  “Comradeship,” said the vicar, recalling more wartime emotions and making mental notes for his sermon. “Everyone banding together against the common foe . . .” Should he emphasise the desirability of community spirit, he wondered, now that the Best Kept Village competition was under consideration? Plummergen, his home for so many years and a place of which he could not help but be fond, nevertheless had, he knew, from what Molly told him, some regrettably partisan and argumentative citizens. “A return to those dark days when England stood alone,” he murmured. “This was their finest hour.”

  “Indeed it was,” said Miss Seeton fervently, her eyes bright with memories. “Indeed it was . . .”

  And then Martha destroyed the mood of reminiscence by clattering in with a most un-wartime-like tray. Tea, milk, and sugar in generous quantities, three sorts of biscuits, and several slices of her freshly baked rich fruit cake. “You take it into the garden and enjoy the sun,” she said briskly. “Vicar, do you think you could carry the little table outside for us?”

  The Reverend Arthur came back from his excursion into the past and leaped to his feet. “Certainly, certainly,” he said, and waved away Miss Seeton’s protesting outcry. “Only too delighted to be of assistance,” he assured her truthfully: with something to do and someone to instruct him on how to do it, he felt entirely at home. He forgot the reason for his visit, and settled down to enjoy himself.

  chapter

  ~22~

  HE LEFT FORTY minutes later, having indulged in an orgy of reminiscence with Miss
Seeton and Martha, who had been a girl during the Blitz and could swap stories of close shaves and doodlebug bombs with the best. He also indulged in an orgy of biscuit-eating, and wolfed down, urged on by Miss Seeton, the remainder of the packet of chocolate wafers which Martha had intended to last the rest of the week.

  “I will go and buy some more,” Miss Seeton soothed her. “I had planned to drop into the post office anyway, to see if Mr. Stillman stocks Indian ink. On such a fine day, it will be a pleasure to walk—and to escape the weeding for a little longer,” she added with a twinkle.

  Martha twinkled back at her and suggested adding the purchase of some gingerbread to her list, seeing that young Bob Ranger was so fond of it and staying in the village for a few days. “The size that lad stopped growing at, he could eat an entire week’s ration in a day and still be hungry,” Martha pointed out. “With a few more like him, we’d have had that rat of a Hitler on the run a lot earlier, mark my words.”

  As she made her way to the post office, Miss Seeton had to smile at the picture which came unbidden to her mind: Bob Ranger, all six foot seven of him, in full football gear, his mighty hand clasping the collar of a weedy Adolf Hitler he’d scooped from the ground and was shaking as a terrier shakes a rat. She chuckled: she would sketch out her idea as soon as she arrived back home, and if it turned out as well as she hoped she’d give it to Anne, as a companion for the other sketch she’d drawn with herself as the Red Queen dragging Bob into the unknown. She wondered how Bob would have fared in military, as opposed to police, uniform—not that he wore one. Detectives didn’t; plain clothes was the order of the day, or should one refer to it, or perhaps that ought to be them, as mufti. Yet Detective Constable Foxon from Ashford always seemed to wear the most un-plain clothes Miss Seeton had ever seen: flared trousers, pink shirts, floral ties of the shape that used to be called kipper, worn by so many of the spivs and black marketeers during the war and just after, when things were in such short supply . . .