Miss Seeton's Finest Hour (A Miss Seeton Mystery)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Good God!” He dropped the clothes beside the umbrella, shuffled through them, found Miss Seeton’s petticoat, shook it out, and draped it over the glass dome with a muttered “Rest in peace” while Miss Seeton tried to stifle her giggles.

  “They told me,” he said, settling himself on the chair, “that you were convalescent. The quality of your convalescing is open to serious doubt, with a monstrosity like that leering at you in such a way that would put ideas into the head of someone with less sense than you, Miss Seeton.”

  Miss Seeton accepted the compliment with another twinkle and a discreet murmur that the wreath was one of her landlady’s most prized possessions, brought out of retirement, as one might say, for her to use as—as artistic inspiration, when she was feeling well enough again.

  “Yes,” said Major Haynes, becoming serious. “They told me you’d fallen on your hands and knees as well as bumping your head. The damage won’t be lasting, they said. I sincerely hope that’s true—and not just because of your work for us.”

  Miss Seeton blushed, and lowered her gaze. “I fear,” she said, “that there has been little opportunity, in the circumstances ...” She stopped. She looked. She shook her head and looked again.

  “I wondered if you’d spot it,” said the major. “It’s my own idea—had it made specially. A bicoloured, reversible umbrella!”

  Miss Seeton lifted her head to smile. “I thought,” she said, “it was the same, but the other was black, and—well, it seems slightly bulkier than a normal umbrella, now that I see it close to—although this would be caused by the extra seams in the fabric, no doubt.”

  Major Haynes regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t miss a trick, do you, young Emily? I beg your pardon,” he added as Miss Seeton turned pink. He was a little red himself as he went on: “It’s a brolly with a secret, this one. I told you I had it made specially—I’ll show you.”

  He jumped to his feet, seized the umbrella, twisted the handle ... and stabbed into the air with a swordstick. Miss Seeton’s eyes widened. The major laughed and stabbed once more, with some force, in the direction of the petticoated wax wreath dome. Miss Seeton giggled. The major caught the petticoat’s lace trim with the tip of his sword, tossed, twirled, and began a deft juggle of white satin above Miss Seeton’s head, the fabric swirling and billowing like some exotic canopy tethered by a shining metal cord. His movements were swift, graceful, and energetic. Miss Seeton was reminded of a toreador caping a bull, or a flamenco dancer with his cloak awhirl as he leaped. There was, she decided as she admired the performance, no inch of Major Haynes that was not pure muscle, tuned to perfection. She had always enjoyed watching an expert at work ...

  Or at play. With a sudden “Olé,!” of triumph, the major gave his wrist a sudden flick. The petticoat flew across the room to drape itself in its former elegant folds over the dome. Breathing only a little harder than usual, he slipped the sword into its umbrella sheath and sat down.

  Miss Seeton’s hands were still too sore for clapping, but she contrived to mime vigorous applause, nodding and smiling as she did so. The major rose to take a modest bow before sitting down again.

  “To business,” he said with a sympathetic glance for her bandages. “I know you haven’t had much time, and your ... stay in hospital can’t have helped, but there’s always a chance that you might have come up with something. Miss Seeton—where is your sketchbook?”

  chapter

  ~ 25 ~

  “SHE LOOKS JOLLY,” was the major’s observation as he turned a page to reveal a sketch of Jemima Wilkes in flying kit, perched on the wing of a Spitfire and waving her helmet in the air while the breeze ruffled her curls.

  He had made very few comments as he leafed through the sketchbook while Miss Seeton’s heart sank at his silence—a silence broken only by the discontented feet of Mrs. Beamish clumping, after a very meaningful barrage of coughs, down the stairs. Miss Seeton sighed. She—or rather, her work—had clearly disappointed him. Yet ... competent, surely, even if uninspired: and had he not assured her, back at the Tower when she signed all those forms, that Section G would be pleased with whatever she did? Drew, that was to say. She had tried then to explain—talent, not genius—he had said it did not matter ...

  “We could certainly use a few of these for a leaflet or two,” said the major as he flipped the sketchbook shut and stared down at the cover. He heard another sigh from Miss Seeton and looked up. “Make a change from sandbags, eh?”

  This time she was not cheered by the little joke they had grown to share. She sighed yet again, and her voice was troubled as she embarked on an apology for having, well, wasted his—and the government’s—time, and money, and—

  “Hold on!” broke in the major. “What’s all this? Who said anything about a waste of time?”

  “The—the journey here,” said Miss Seeton, her cheeks beginning to glow. “And—and everything,” she finished helplessly. Her hands, had they not been sore, would have writhed into knots on the coverlet, but her fingers were able to dance a most unhappy dance, and they did.

  Major Haynes muttered something and reached across to take her hands in his, holding them until they stilled, saying nothing as he held them. When at last he released her he was smiling.

  “Too conscientious, my girl, that’s what you are,” he told her. “You’ve been worrying about this all along, at a guess.” Mutely Miss Seeton nodded. The major nodded back. “Away from home for pretty much the first time—fretting about what might be going on back in London—trying to make sense of assembly lines and machinery when you’ve never seen anything like it in your life before ... It’s no surprise that you’re worried. It’s only natural.” He grinned. “And I’ll apply a metaphor from nature and call you a fish out of water, doing her best to try to keep afloat. Sound right?”

  “About right, yes,” said Miss Seeton, smiling now with relief that he understood so well.

  “At another guess ...” Haynes began, and stopped. When Section G had first discussed employing Emily Seeton, they had agreed that, though the experiment might well fail, it was worth a try. Had she known what they really wanted of her, she would have worried even more during her time at the factory—time that would then indeed have been wasted. And if he told her the truth now, conscientious as he knew her to be, the same would happen. She was sure to worry herself out of any possible use to Section G. She would become self-conscious, straining with dutiful patriotism to relax as she had been relaxed when she drew those earlier, almost psychic sketches ... with the result that anything she drew would reflect that strain, and the experiment—his experiment—would without doubt have failed.

  One is not accepted into the intelligence service without intelligence. Major Haynes had plenty, and was a quick thinker. “At another guess,” he said, “you need ... well, forgive the impertinence, but speaking as a friend rather than a—a colleague ...” He patted her hand again and coughed. “As a friend,” he hurried on, “may I suggest that you need to put your worries in their proper perspective? Look them full in the face. Get them down on paper and—and yourself safely back in the water once you’ve seen they aren’t so dreadful, after all.”

  The ingenuity of the logic pleased him, but it had been hard work. If he hadn’t been holding Miss Seeton’s hand, he would have mopped his brow.

  Miss Seeton hesitated, then nodded. “You are right, I fear,” she said. “I have not been facing up to my worries in the way I should have done—and of course it is exactly like riding a horse—not that I ever have, except for seaside donkeys as a child, which is hardly the same thing—or rather, falling off it.”

  For a second time Major Haynes had to think quickly. “By analogy with jumping straight back on the minute you’ve checked there are no bones broken,” he said. “Exactly.”

  Miss Seeton was smiling. “Dear me,” she said. “Fish and horses: it reminds me of our discussion that first day, you know, about the outing with the children to the zoo, and the girl in the
kiosk who looked like little Miss Brown, and Sandy Powell—and the goldfish, of course.”

  Major Haynes pounced at once on this invaluable cue (was the girl a mind reader?) and said, “Talking of sandy, and thinking of those blessed bags of ours, how about a sketch or two now you seem to be more in the mood?” He turned Miss Seeton’s hand over and inspected the palm. “My poor dear—you did come down with a bump, didn’t you?”

  “I exercise my fingers daily,” said Miss Seeton, which was hardly a direct answer but somehow reassured him. “Such a charming girl—though very busy, of course, with so many people injured far worse than I—but she told me to play an imaginary piano whenever I could, and said what a pity it was that I cannot knit.”

  “The seaboot stocking—I remember.” Haynes released her hand and chuckled. “You could try jotting down a few impressions of the unfortunate man who had to wear it, just to get you started ...”

  Miss Seeton found that somehow or other she was holding a pencil in one hand and the sketchbook in the other. “Go on,” urged the major. “Let your subconscious rip. Show me what’s been bothering you. The bogeyman is never so scary once you’ve seen he’s not under the bed.” As he spoke he lifted the frilled valance and peered. “Nobody home,” he said. “And nothing to worry about. So—show me!”

  For a time Miss Seeton did not move, except to close her eyes. While she concentrated, Major Haynes was also motionless, watching her face and, when they gave a sudden twitch, her fingers.

  Miss Seeton opened the sketchbook to a blank page, and stared. There was a pucker between her brows as she broke the silence with a gusty sigh and set furiously to work with the pencil—swift, flowing, hazy lines, scribbled shadows and hatchings that looked, from where Haynes craned his head to see, like a dark jumble of shapes without form or reason.

  The pencil flew back and forth across the paper; Major Haynes watched. And waited. And hoped ...

  Miss Seeton wilted, lying back on the pillows and letting the pencil slip from her grasp. “I’ve done my best,” she said as the major reached out to take the sketchbook from her. “Do you ... do you think it will work?”

  Haynes did not answer. It was now his turn to concentrate. He saw ... a man—but not the sailor who had been his suggestion. This was a man in typical Spanish costume—heeled shoes, flowing cape, flat hat beneath which his features were out of focus—juggling with bandaged hands half a dozen small black balls to each of which, on closer inspection, short lengths of string were attached. Beside him, affecting a remarkable pose in her draperies and metal breastplates, was a veiled, exotic dancer with mystery in every curve of her body. In the background overhead a group of aircraft marked with crosses swooped and soared, while a billowing parachute carried earthwards to safety an indistinct human figure that might have been male or female.

  The short lengths of string ... were fuses. The small black balls were ... bombs, in traditional style. The aircraft marked with crosses were ...

  “Not the Luftwaffe, surely?” The major traced one of the crosses with his forefinger. “These ...” He studied the Spanish man’s bandages. “The Red Cross?” he asked Miss Seeton, who nodded, though she looked rather more puzzled than pleased at his quick understanding.

  “I’m sure I can’t think why,” she said, “apart from the dreadful accident to poor Betty, when Mrs. Morris and I tried to help with our sadly limited first aid and Mr. Coleman—the works manager, you know—was so disturbed, until the doctor came.” She hesitated. “Which in a man, I suppose,” she went on, “one may concede, particularly as it was his responsibility, even though in these days we are all asked to do what we can and one would have hoped ... only perhaps he can’t. There are many people who dislike the sight of blood. Or so I imagine he must regard it, for he is very conscientious, and the head of any organisation has to accept ultimate responsibility for what happens under his—his jurisdiction, does he not?”

  “He does,” said Haynes after a moment or two. He stared again at the picture. The exotic dancer—Mata Hari? That a spy should be foremost in Miss Seeton’s mind should come as no surprise, but ... the bomb-juggling Spaniard? “Why Spain, my dear?”

  Miss Seeton began to explain the sound of castanets each time anyone went up or down the stairs, and the capelike effect of her swirling petticoat, and—this with a delicate cough—her admiration of the major’s splendid physique. By the time she finished, it was hard to say who was the more embarrassed of the two in the quiet little bedroom.

  “I see,” said Major Haynes. “Yes, and I thank you for the compliment. Er—his face is blurred, but ... were you thinking of Mr. Coleman when you drew this?”

  Miss Seeton hesitated. “It was when the bomb dropped, I think, as we were running to the trench, for I have a memory of his gazing down at me while the doctor was ...” She sat up. “Dr. Huxter! I had entirely forgotten him! Major Haynes, please tell me—was he hurt? Is he safe?”

  “Emily Seeton, you are a shocking flirt,” said the major with a grin. Then he became serious. “Didn’t anyone tell you? Have you only just remembered? The concussion ...”

  Miss Seeton was shaking her head. “I believe I recall asking the nurses once or twice, but nobody would say anything, and after a time I fear that I let the matter slip from my mind. The concussion, no doubt, as you say.”

  “Delayed shock,” agreed the major absently as he studied the sketch again. “As for your friend Huxter—is he the chap coming down with the brolly?”

  Miss Seeton turned pink and said that she didn’t think so, and if the major knew anything about him, she would like to hear it. “He might,” she explained, “have saved my life, with his superior knowledge of the factory grounds and where we could take shelter in the emergency. I hope that nothing has ... When he didn’t come to see me, I wondered ...”

  “A flirt,” said the major, “but a grateful flirt. Yes, by all accounts, Huxter did indeed get you to shelter just in time—picked you up and carried you after you fell, so I’m told. That man knows his way around, all right ...”

  As he broke off, Miss Seeton found that she was—not angry, but irritated, at her continuing ignorance. “But is the doctor all right, Major Haynes?” she demanded, turning even more pink in her indignation.

  “What?” Haynes looked up from the sketchbook. “Oh, of course. My apologies. There was a second round of bombing after the lot that caught you—a direct hit on the Machine Shop—and while Huxter went over to see what could be done, part of the wall collapsed on top of him.”

  The colour drained from Miss Seeton’s cheeks, and her eyes were dark with horror. “Oh,” was all she said. “Oh, dear ...” And her hands, despite the pain, writhed together on the blanket.

  “They won’t have told you because ... some of the girls were killed,” said Major Haynes, once more taking her hands in his. “A lively piece with red hair was one—but Huxter came out of it alive,” he added as Miss Seeton’s small frame shook with a suppressed sob at the news that she would never again hear merry young Muriel—she was sure he meant Muriel—poking fun at Lord Haw-Haw. Famine stalks side by side with Winston Churchill today. England will become a land of skeletons by the wayside. Anything less skeletonlike than the dogged figure of Winston Churchill was hard even for Miss Seeton to imagine—but now she would no longer have to try. Miss Seeton gulped and sniffed.

  “I’m sorry,” said the major. “But—you asked.” Miss Seeton, with another sniff, nodded. “And,” Haynes went on, “didn’t we agree that it’s better to face up to the facts, no matter how unpalatable?”

  Miss Seeton, in a trembling voice, confirmed this.

  “Huxter’s in another hospital with a crushed pelvis,” said the major. Intelligence learned most things, sooner or later. “He’s a regular jigsaw puzzle of pins and wires and plaster, but he’ll live, though it’s doubtful if he’ll walk properly again.” He did not add if ever, but Miss Seeton, for all her distress, was no fool. He did not need to add it. The tears spilled dow
n her cheeks, and she wrenched her hands from those of Major Haynes to hide her face from his sympathetic sight.

  Awkwardly he patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll leave you now—you’ll want to be left alone for a while.” He cleared his throat. “I—I’ve brought you another sketchbook and some more pencils. I’ll leave them on the dressing table and ...”

  He picked up the original sketchbook and, with a final glance at the Spaniard, closed it. “I must be off,” he said. He picked up his swordstick umbrella, slipped the sketchbook in his pocket, and patted Miss Seeton once more on the shoulder before, without a backward glance, walking quietly from the room.

  “I’ve had to tell her what happened after she was knocked out,” he told Tilly Beamish, who met him at the bottom of the stairs to bar his escape until he should confess to such sins as might have been committed during his time in her lodger’s bedroom. “She’s pretty upset, but—”

  “Of course she is,” retorted Tilly with scorn. “Father and son the Huxters have doctored this part of the world, good men both of them, and to bomb and cripple the likes of him—if I could only get my hands on that Hitler ...”

  As she paused for breath the major seized his chance. “She’s upset,” he said again, “but a good cry will do her a world of good—I suspect she’s been bottling it up for some time. It would be a kindness if you could take her a cup of tea in, say, half an hour, and sit with her awhile if she wants to chat.” He directed the full force of his charming smile at Mrs. Beamish, who found herself smiling back.

  “I might,” he told her, reaching automatically for the pocket that contained the sketchbook, “be seeing Dr. Huxter later on. If I do, I’ll send him your regards, shall I?”

  Dr. Huxter—who knew his way and seemed to move freely around a factory that was high security ...