Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  There was one small niggle of unease, right at the back of his mind. He ignored it.

  In the post office Mrs. Blaine shuddered, her hand to her head. “That noise—it’s too dreadful. Why must motorbikes have such loud engines?”

  “That Wayne and his pals,” said Mrs. Henderson, “did really oughter be stopped, racketing about for hours and not the first time, neither.” She looked round in case Mabel Potter was there. She wasn’t. “What I’d like to know is, what’s Ned Potter doing about it?”

  “You can’t rightly call it hours,” said Mrs. Skinner. “Two or three times at most, today.”

  “Much too fast,” said Mrs. Blaine. “They might run someone over. Those people at Mrs. Venning’s nearly killed Bert, remember. You’re right, Mrs. Henderson, the police should be doing something about it. I’ve half a mind to report him.”

  “But you can’t be sure it’s Wayne.” To Mrs. Stillman, as to most of female Plummergen, one motorbike looked much like another. “And they all look the same in their helmets, don’t they? It wouldn’t be fair to blame the boy when nobody saw his face. Was there anything else, Mrs. Blaine?”

  “Oranges, Bunny,” prompted Miss Nuttel.

  “Thank you, Eric—that new recipe. I was going to make a fool.” Mrs. Stillman thought Mrs. Blaine would have made a fool of herself if she’d gone complaining to PC Potter; but it didn’t do to upset the customers.

  “How many would you like, Mrs. Blaine?”

  “Six, please, and a tin of cornflour—oh, and a bottle of olive oil. As you know, we never touch animal products, but there are so many substitutes...”

  The omnivores present shuddered at the very idea of using olive oil as a substitute for honest milk and cream. Them noisy bikes must’ve turned her brain.

  “Reminds me of the mock cream we had during the war,” someone said.

  “And you can’t say worse than that,” said someone else.

  “Oh, I dunno. What about mock duck?”

  There was laughter from all save the vegetarian duo at this reference to the strange sausagemeat-and-breadcrumbs concoction of the 1940s. Mrs. Blaine, headache forgotten, looked affronted and might have snapped at the mockers had the shop-door bell not just then heralded the entrance of Mrs. Potter.

  “Or Woolton Pie.” A quick-thinking pacifist. “Hello, Mabel.”

  PC Potter’s wife seized her chance. “Talking of the war, have you heard they’ve found the gold that Hitler paid the Saxons, hidden in Summerset Cottage?” She gave details. “... back to Ashford with him,” she concluded. “So there’s nothing left in the place now but that picture on the wall.” And, having bought stamps she didn’t really need, she went back to the police house feeling she had done what Mr. Brinton wanted. The word would soon be round the village that the gold had been not only found, but taken into safekeeping by the authorities. Poison and exhumation were simple misunderstandings. The rumour of buried uniforms, long gone, had been proved true by the bag of metal notions. The wilder gossip could now die down, leaving Plummergen to meet its deadline for the centenary commemorations.

  But the rumours had spread farther than Brinton realised...

  As Foxon had half-wondered, the Costaguanan purchase of a metal detector did not go unremarked in Ashford. The broken speech and accent of the purchasers, their dark hair and black eyes, their clothes, had been too exotic to be ignored. Word soon spread, and was magnified. A hoard of Spanish gold—a chest, two chests, treasure uncountable from the Spanish Main—buried not many miles away, and these foreigners trying to take it from the trusty English soil that had concealed it for centuries. The cheek!

  The Choppers thought it more than cheek. Buried treasure? And them English born, and local! But why do the searching and digging when someone else would do it for them? Burglary, petty theft, even robbery with violence—they didn’t mind violence when they were on the winning side—yielded small pickings when set against treasure beyond their wildest dreams. Sacks of gold and silver, ropes of pearls, jewelled necklaces, bracelets, brooches. Find, take, fence—easy money, and theirs for the making. A handful of foreigners against the Ashford Choppers? No contest.

  They had only to find out where the foreigners were based.

  It took some days, travelling to nearby towns, keeping eyes and ears open. Someone in Brettenden spilled the beans. Spanish folk in Plummergen, he thought. Seen ’em once or twice, shopping. In a small town a Bentley stands out, or perhaps it was a Rolls, not the usual sort of car, anyway. Not that Plummergen was the usual sort of place. Never had been, and now even worse than usual. Some kind of secret everyone was keeping—heard ’em muttering, seen ’em following each other from the bus all over town. No idea why. He never went there, too much talk of ghosts and witches. Inbred lot they were, on the edge of the Marsh.

  The Choppers, based miles from the Marsh, didn’t believe in witches. Ghosts were another matter, but only on Halloween, or at midnight in a churchyard—the Choppers went to all the X-rated films, and knew about horrors. A grave made a handy place to hide chests of treasure. How deep did metal-detectors reach? They sent a further deputation to ask for more advice at the Ashford shop.

  Another group of bikers visited Plummergen in search of evidence to support metal-detecting, or digging, or foreigners. On their first visit they found nothing of interest, but while they roared up and down The Street a second time and gave Mrs. Blaine a headache, they saw great activity at the village hall—bunting being hung, and a large banner proclaiming the Grand Opening the next day of the Manville Henty Centenary Display. Those of the community up ladders refused to speak when questioned, those on the ground shook their heads about what it all meant, and said the entrance fee was destined for local good causes and they’d have to pay like everyone else.

  The tallest of the bikers slipped round the back of the hall. The blinds were down on every window, every window was locked—like the main door of the hall once the banner-hangers had disappeared inside. Baffled, the Choppers roared off on their bikes. They passed a black Bentley rolling majestically down into Plummergen, and guessed they were on the right track. They brooded all the way to Ashford...

  As always, Remendado escorted Mercedes into the shop and stood with the phrase-book ready. The maid smiled shyly as she handed her list to Emmy Putts. “Please,” she said, and Emmy nodded as she always did.

  Mrs. Stillman came forward as Emmy went to fetch a cardboard box. “A lovely day,” she smiled to Mercedes and her chaperon. Both smiled back.

  “Fine weather for a drive,” probed Mrs. Skinner.

  “Shopping,” said Remendado. “Cooking. Today, very busy—as also, you.” He waved vaguely towards the northern end of The Street. “Las banderas—” a fluttering motion with his fingers—”for fiesta.”

  “Oh, the bunting—the little flags,” said Mrs. Stillman, the past weeks having shown that hand gestures were almost as good as words. “Yes, that’s for tomorrow. Grand opening at ten o’clock, everyone invited, and all the money is for the church.”

  Mercedes recognised church at least, and she smiled, saying something to Remendado, who nodded, then looked thoughtful. Emmy returned with the box, and he watched as Mercedes selected items from the shelves and passed them to Emmy for ringing up on the till before packing them. The total was announced, the money handed across; change was given. Mercedes bobbed a quick curtsey and picked up the box. Remendado bowed, and Emmy Putts blushed and simpered until Mrs. Stillman frowned at her. The doorbell jingled as the two foreigners finally departed.

  It was the middle of the night. Every house was dark. Except when roistering, Plummergen tends not to keep late hours. The moon had yet to rise, but patches of stars spangled a half-cloudy sky. Amelia Potter’s Tibs, the police house tabby for whom the gardens of the lampless Street were as the jungle to a prowling tiger, saw movement in the grass. She pounced. A sudden squeak, then blood ran red as feline jaws bit and crunched.

  Tibs, whiskers a-twitch, prowled north f
rom Lilikot. She had left the corpse on the back doorstep: some cats have a sense of humour, and the squeals of outraged vegetarians were always music to carnivorous ears. An owl hooted—whether sharing the joke or complaining of theft, impossible to tell.

  Tibs, nearing home, saw movement through the grass. She stiffened. Lights, dancing across the ground. Her ears flicked. Voices, low and muted. She did not know them.

  The Choppers loved their bikes, but had to admit that riding them close to the village would be a bad idea. They switched off the engines as they passed the nursing home, and coasted as far as they could before having to dismount near the fork in the road and push their bikes the rest of the way. Even in the council houses, crowded with small children and elderly grandparents, no light shone. Everyone was asleep.

  The motorbikes were wheeled into the sewage farm access lane and left on the wide grass verge facing the recreation ground, itself almost directly opposite the village hall and the police house—where, too, there were no signs of life. The Ashford roughs slouched across The Street, bearing muffled torches and various tools useful in burglary.

  A Bentley’s engine is as quiet as that of a Rolls Royce. Round the back of the village hall, busy with jemmies and wrenches, none of the Choppers heard the arrival of four Costaguanan men coming in search of the gold for which they had searched so long and so hard, hampered by language difficulties and the need to be unobserved, warned by post office chat that the money, only just discovered, was now in the village hall and would eventually be donated to the church. Money that could fund another revolution...

  Each carried a torch; El Dancairo in addition had a jar of honey, wrapped in a stout dishcloth. Remendado held an adjustable spanner, a chisel, and a screwdriver, Zuniga a selection of knives in a canvas bag, Lillas Pastia a paintbrush and two more bags. They had no idea how much money, how many coins, there would be. At the side of the hall, beneath an overhanging tree, they set to work. If the window could not be forced it must be broken. They could not be sure which would be quieter.

  Tibs, curious as only a cat can be, came closer. Men laboured over sturdy window-frames and catches. There was cursing. A sweet, sickly smell, a sticky sloshing sound, a strange noise, a body boosted upwards to dislodge sharp splinters.

  Tibs skittered back as glass was tossed to the ground. Boosted again, a body squirmed through. There was a thump as feet landed awkwardly on the floor.

  There came a yell—several yells—from inside, and sounds of skirmishing.

  “Others are within!” cried El Dancairo. “Pastia must be supported! Round the back to find how they entered!” He guessed that whoever was in the hall must, like his own small group, be there for no legitimate purpose and had used an equally illicit means to get in. “Zuniga, that way—Remendado, with me!” He might not have the military mind of his supplanter, but El Dancairo knew the value of a pincer movement.

  He did not, until too late, know that the dark shape into which he blundered was a large and ill-tempered cat.

  Tibs let out a screech to curdle the blood. As the Costaguanans rounded the hall and met at the jemmied emergency exit, a light came on in the police house. Amelia Potter could tell her pet’s every mood from her voice. This was no yowl of triumph—this was pain.

  Amelia jumped out of bed and rummaged for her shoes. Her mother, waking, went to expostulate with her offspring...

  Uproar was heard in the village hall. Mabel called to her husband, who flung open the bedroom window and listened.

  “More than one,” he said. “Too many for me on my own—while I get dressed you call Brettenden, then Sir George and Mr. Jessyp.”

  Some years ago, an upsurge in the Murreystone feud had resulted in the Night Watch Men, a muscular and protective company established by Sir George Colveden and Martin C. Jessyp. The Watch was revived from time to time as necessity dictated, and what remained all year round was covered by what Mr. Jessyp called the Double Spiderweb Alert. In an emergency, the first two people on his list would be alerted by the villager who spotted the trouble. Each would alert a designated two more, and the resultant four would telephone, in turn, a further eight. Lines would never be blocked by everyone trying to raise the alarm with everyone else at the same time.

  Within minutes, as battle raged inside the hall, Plummergen’s men rushed to join the uniformed Potter outside. Boots thundered up The Street from cottages and farms, down from the council houses. Torches flashed, weapons were brandished.

  “Them bikers from Ashford...”

  “Parked on the grass down Sewage Lane...”

  “That Bentley from Mrs. Venning’s outside the Rec...”

  Sir George appeared with Nigel, asking the official representative of law and order what was required of the troops. PC Potter said Brettenden was sending a car, maybe two, but if they could sort out that rumpus as soon as possible it did ought to stop what sounded to him like a massacre.

  “If it’s them foreigners from Mrs. Venning’s place fighting with the Choppers,” he explained, “far as we know it’s just four of them against a dozen or more.”

  “And the Choppers are dirty fighters,” Nigel said, a cricket bat in one hand and a heavy flashlight in the other.

  “But them Spaniards might use knives,” said Potter. “We can’t have bloody murder on our hands.”

  “Quite right,” said Sir George, champing at the bit. “In the dark, what’s more. Someone to turn on the lights, that’s the ticket. Potter, got your whistle?” He himself clutched an ancient football rattle and a starting pistol filled with blanks. They’d been used before, and in similar circumstances. “Detail men to back and front—catch ’em as they come out, Potter?”

  PC Potter said that was what he’d thought, once reinforcements had arrived, there being only one of him and knowing the Choppers of old. “And Brettenden won’t be long,” he added hopefully.

  Sir George having deployed his men—Len Hosigg with orders to find the main switch and defend it at all costs—the Night Watch began a slow, circular sweep towards the front and back doors of the village hall. “Watch out for windows, too,” warned Sir George.

  In the distance blue lights flashed, coming nearer, coming fast. Sir George was tempted to halt the advance, but shouts and yells from within were now augmented by screams. Knives? Bad show. As Potter said, risk of death. “Forward!”

  The circle closed, awaiting the signal. As the first of the Brettenden vehicles swept into the driveway PC Potter blew a shrill blast on his whistle. The Night Watch Men, helped by headlights, charged. Car doors were flung open, more men in silver-buttoned blue joined the attack. The hall lights went on. The combatants, dazzled, yelled defiance. The Night Watch, roused from sleep and angry, thumped indiscriminately at every unknown hand holding a weapon. Sir George, football rattle twirling, barged through the melee, climbed up on the stage and counted heads. At least twelve. He raised his voice to deliver what he could recall of the Riot Act while below, adrenaline exhausted, Choppers and Costaguanans alike began to succumb to the power of the righteous.

  “Like herding sheep,” gasped Nigel as Len abandoned his post at the main switch and joined the mopping-up operation.

  “S’right,” agreed young Mr. Hosigg, one eye closing and a bruise on his forehead.

  “Bastards,” swore Kevin Scillicough. “Look what they’ve done!”

  “If they’ve torn it—” groaned Trevor Newport. The brothers-in-law, like every Plummergen male with a seamstress in the family, knew how much hard work had gone into the Mural Map, and how long it had taken to arrange it to best effect for the Commemoration.

  “What did they want it for?”

  “Tie the others up?” it was suggested, as handcuffs were produced.

  But the truth was not disclosed until late the following day.

  Miss Seeton, passing Lilikot, heard a shriek. Miss Nuttel had found the corpse. A clatter of sudden wings as a wood pigeon blundered in alarm from the garden. Miss Seeton raised her umbrella
. The pigeon missed her—and only then did it begin to rain.

  The post office might have taken this coincidence as further proof of uncanny powers, but nobody noticed. Husbands, brothers, sons had been involved in last night’s engagement, and there was much point-scoring as to courage shown and damage inflicted. Miss Seeton, shaking her head for human folly, collected her pension and went home again.

  Martha came to tell her all about it. What nonsense! Everyone chasing after gold that wasn’t even there any longer but safe in Ashford, and now Stan limping with a hacked shin, Nigel’s arm in a sling, Len Hosigg with a lump on his forehead and a real shiner, poor boy, not to mention the rest of the village menfolk.

  Miss Seeton sighed, and proposed raw beefsteak, or a cold poultice, for the swelling—Cousin Flora’s mother’s Enquire Within suggested oatmeal, linseed, or bread.

  “At least you can eat the steak afterwards,” said Martha, thinking of waste.

  “The hens could eat the poultice,” supposed Miss Seeton.

  “A pack of frozen peas, more like.” Martha was irritable. “If only the dratted men would sit still long enough to give it time to work, which of course they never do.”

  Farmers. Always so busy. Miss Seeton, alone once more, savoured the peaceful view from her French window. Sparrows pecked busily at stray grain by the henhouse at the bottom of the garden. Wings clattered: a wood pigeon, swooping to displace them. So much larger than the sparrows—no doubt they feared it a bird of prey, though not for long: they flew back, a perky brown hubbub darting about stately grey, each ignoring the others as they pecked and bobbed together. Miss Seeton thought of children frolicking round an elderly headmaster, stiff white collar, pale plum waistcoat, formal dress without the top hat. Dignity and Impudence with birds, not dogs. And the other way round, of course.

  She wandered to the bureau—collected her sketching materials...

  How curious. No sparrows, just the one bobbing pigeon wearing—good gracious—a pearl necklace over its double-breasted waistcoat. The buttons were pearl, too. She really should concentrate—it had seemed so amusing an image when first she considered it...