Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15)

by Hamilton Crane

  “We’ve got a deal,” decided Superintendent Brinton, and Mel rewarded him with her most dazzling smile, while Detective Constable Foxon chuckled into his handkerchief. If it had been anyone else, he’d never have believed it—but he’d seen Mel in action before. Old Brimstone was a tougher nut than most, but she’d managed to crack his shell. . .

  “Nuts!” exploded the detective constable, laughing all the more; while the reporter and the superintendent regarded first Foxon, and then each other, in a puzzled silence.

  chapter

  ~ 11 ~

  THUS HAD IT come about that Saturday morning found Plummergen waiting in vain for a journalistic invasion. Hopes were raised when it became known that Amelita Forby of the Daily Negative had booked a room—her usual, as part-time receptionist/waitress Maureen remarked with a yawn—in the George and Dragon; but Mel’s arrival late the previous evening proved, next day, to have heralded a false dawn: the lone Forby swallow did not make a Fleet Street summer. The grapevine soon reported that Mel had hired a self-drive car from Crabbe’s Garage—and that she had driven, disappointingly, out of Plummergen soon after breaking her fast without even (the grapevine fermented wildly at this) stopping off first to visit Miss Seeton, long known to be one of her cronies.

  Nothing was seen of Mel for the rest of the day. There were a few irritable twitches of the Lilikot curtains, but no firm sighting of the Nuts, whose absence from the scene was sadly missed. Without their inspiration, how was Plummergen to enjoy itself properly as, failing the excitement of media interest, it pondered the behaviour of certain of its citizens? The Buzzard, for one . . .

  The Admiral, realising with relief that his chivalrous precautions had been in vain, grew tired of unnecessary gardening, and retreated around the back of Ararat Cottage to inform his bees (as the wise apiarist will always do) of what had occurred, thereafter to dig his vegetable patch until the sun was comfortably over the yardarm and he could splice a welcome mainbrace. The grapevine speculated with enthusiasm as to what had been the purpose of his apparent watching brief, but could reach no satisfactory conclusion, save that there was definitely something odd about his behaviour. Hadn’t he exchanged secret signals with Miss Seeton when she’d gone up The Street around eleven o’clock? What more proof did anyone need that the pair of them were up to no good? And with the Nuts, usually so quick to have an answer for everything, in hiding as they were . . .

  Miss Seeton had spent a peaceful Saturday going about her normal routine. After washing the breakfast dishes, she dusted the most obvious shelves and a few corners Martha, still worried about her cousin Beryl’s boy Barry, seemed to have missed. She penned a letter to her bank manager while drinking a mid-morning coffee, which reminded her that she was running low. Having slipped the letter in the box, she popped into the post office for a jar of rich roasted instant and a packet of chocolate biscuits. Admiral Leighton was hoeing weeds as she emerged into the sunshine, and looked across to wave and smile; Miss Seeton, also smiling, waved back. She greeted other friends and acquaintances as she trotted back home to her own garden, and spoke to still more once she was busy among the flower beds and borders, tidying virtuously.

  Such virtue was to receive its due reward. As the hour for afternoon tea approached, Miss Seeton (who had temporarily raised hopes of a Nut-like retreat by vanishing indoors around the middle of the day, only to dash them when she reappeared three-quarters of an hour later after lunch) gathered up fork, trowel, and rubbish bag, and disappeared once more. Behind the high brick wall of the back garden, nobody could see what she was doing (she was, in fact, oiling her tools and putting them away in the shed) and impossible suggestions were made; but, half an hour afterwards, everybody could see her clearly as she came out of the cottage with her umbrella (the gold one!) over her arm and, having locked the door, trotted down the front path. Plummergen held its breath: was she on her way to who-knew-what goings-on at the Admiral’s house—perhaps even in London? Miss Seeton, unaware of scrutiny, passed through her gate—Plummergen held its breath—and turned left up Marsh Road in the direction of Rytham Hall. Breath was let out in deep sighs of disappointment. Even on top form, the village was unable to impart sinister connotations to a teatime visit to the home of Sir George and Lady Colveden.

  Nigel’s mother, her eyes sparkling, met her guest halfway down the drive. “Miss Seeton! I’m so glad you could come.” She stifled a giggle, and lowered her voice. “It’s in the sitting room, you know, with George desperately trying to pretend he’s just checking the aerial’s tuned in properly, or whatever you’re meant to do. I must warn you, though, he’s been checking for an awfully long time—and there isn’t even a cricket match on . . .”

  Miss Seeton’s eyes sparkled in sympathy as she followed her hostess into the hall and set her umbrella carefully in the stand beside the carved mahogany chest. “Children, of course,” murmured Miss Seeton, as electric voices wafted at considerable volume from an open door, “are much the same, until the novelty wears off. With a new toy, I mean—not,” in sudden dismay at the possible implications of this casual remark, “that a television set could ever be called a toy. And Sir George is certainly—I intended no disrespect, I assure you—far from being in his second childhood. Quite the opposite, in many ways—one might almost say educational. So very many interesting wildlife and nature series, are there not? And far better suited to the greater detail afforded by colour—and one would not be so capable a magistrate if one was. Than black and white, that is. Children—young people—sometimes a little lacking in judgement, perhaps.” Her thoughts turned briefly to Martha’s second cousin Barry, and his desire to be a pop singer. “Such strong feelings, you see—one could almost say they were black and white, as well—and imparting a . . . a bias to one’s point of view, which must, of course, in a magistrate be impartial. The point of view,” said Miss Seeton earnestly, “is really most important. Most. Which I feel sure he is, reading in the local newspaper some of the cases with which he is obliged to deal—impartial, I mean. Dear Sir George,” she paid compliment, “is a man of extremely sound judgement, and fair-minded as well, if I may say so. Entirely without bias. Travel programmes, you know, and art, and historical documentaries—so much clearer than in black and white, though I must confess,” with a slight blush, “to a fondness for the older films, which were black and white in any case. It is pleasant to see them again as one saw them first in the cinema, in the comfort of one’s own home.”

  Miss Seeton smiled to herself as memories of her London life came drifting back. Art college first; then teaching, once the sad realisation had been made that one’s talent showed few signs of (she blushed again) the genius for which one had hoped—and as one’s friends had hoped, for themselves. Some of whom possessed it, and some of whom, sadly, had not. But it had been, nevertheless, a happy time, on the whole, for Emily Dorothea Seeton: youth, ambition, common purpose shared . . . although how much in common she’d really had, even among so many with similar aims and abilities, it had been (she now recalled) a surprise to discover. Rather less than she would, thinking about it, have expected—except, of course, that everyone else had been so much more talented than oneself. But one might have supposed—indeed, one had hoped—to find in so congenial an environment a multitude of kindred spirits—when even in one’s own home there had always been the feeling . . .what was the modern phrase which seemed to describe so well the way it had been? Miss Seeton, oblivious to Lady Colveden waiting to usher her into the sitting room, frowned in thought.

  She smiled. “On a different wavelength,” she said, with a decided nod. Lady Colveden smiled back.

  “Don’t worry, it will be, onee I’ve had a word with him—or at least at a different setting. Quieter,” slipping a casual hand under her friend’s elbow and directing her gently televisionwards. Left to herself, she knew, Miss Seeton was perfectly capable of daydreaming (or whatever she’d been doing) by the umbrella stand for hours; and she must, poor thing, be thirsty af
ter her walk.

  “We’ll go and chivvy George,” she said, “and he can show you which buttons to press and so on while I make the tea. I would have liked your opinion of my borders afterwards, but I suppose we’ll have to have supper early. Nigel will be furious if he’s shown in close-up and we tell him tomorrow morning we missed him while everyone else’s parents had a grandstand view. George!” as they entered the sitting room and found it filled with a flickering, multicoloured glow. “Here’s Miss Seeton come for tea, and to watch her umbrella being broadcast to the nation . . .”

  At the appointed hour, the colour television was switched back on, Lady Colveden having insisted it should be silenced during supper, when nobody was going to be in the room watching it, were they, George? To which her husband responded with a harrumph that he supposed they weren’t. Bally contraption could take over your life if you let it . . .

  In gleeful anticipation, Lady Colveden and Miss Seeton arranged themselves in comfortable armchairs, with the Radio Times between them on a low table, open at the page for Saturday evening. Sir George, bursting with importance, plugged in the television, switched it on, and tuned it to the correct channel. With a low crackle and a rapidly expanding point of light, the screen came to life.

  “. . . interval,” said the invisible announcer, as the camera panned slowly round a sea of distant faces, and the microphones picked up a rhythmic chanting. “Any minute now, the conductor, Sir Stanford Rivers, will put the Promenaders out of their misery—although I really can’t remember when I’ve seen a less miserable crowd than we have here tonight—I should say, he’ll put an end to their waiting and respond to these repeated calls for his presence by mounting the podium for the second half of the Last Night of the Proms—the Sir Henry Wood Promenade Concerts. And here,” as the camera showed a marble head-and-shoulders bust, “we see Sir Henry himself, complete with laurel wreath. This wreath is given in memory of Sir Henry every year by the Promenaders and, after the Last Night, is laid on his tomb, in the Musicians’ Chapel of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—which, for the benefit of those who have just joined us on the international relay, is near the Old Bailey, of which you may have heard. On behalf of the BBC and the Royal Albert Hall, I’d like to welcome all our overseas listeners. Tonight’s concert is being broadcast to more than one hundred million people throughout—ah!”

  He fell silent as the rhythmic chanting, now recogniseable as good-humoured singsong yells for “Stan-ford! Stan-ford!” suddenly gave way to an eruption of cheers, whistles, horn blasts (impossible to tell from the camera shot whether Nigel was among the blasters), and bursting balloons as the unmistakeable form of Sir Stanford Rivers, stately, white-haired, a carnation in the buttonhole of his evening dress—a red carnation, noted Miss Seeton with pleasure, while Lady Colveden’s lovely eyes gleamed—made its unhurried way to the podium. As the conductor stepped up, the roar of the crowd redoubled; the camera, zooming in for a quick shot of Sir Stanford’s unique and austere half-smile, stayed focussed on his right hand. Instead of reaching for the waiting baton, the hand was raised in a brief wave of acknowledgement. Louder, more incoherent cheers. The waving hand was lowered. Sir Stanford’s distinctive eyebrows arched in surprise at the tumultuous welcome; his noble head bent half an inch in further acknowledgement—and a streamer uncoiled its way from the riotous Promenaders on the floor of the hall to wind itself about Sir Stanford’s ramrod shoulders.

  The world famous eyebrows arched still higher. With a frown, the conductor plucked the streamer from his immaculate black piping, regarding it in silence for a moment. He turned to face the seething arena just a few feet below. A hush fell upon the Promenaders as he cleared his throat.

  “This,” said Sir Stanford, “is nothing less than an insult.” The streamer hung limply from the pale, sensitive fingers which could coax, even the sternest critics agreed, rhythm and melody from a comb-and-paper orchestra. “This—for a man of my—not to indulge in ridiculous false modesty—eminence! A paper streamer! I should have thought the very least I could expect would be two!”

  He turned just in time towards the grinning orchestra: the subsequent rain of streamers, had it fallen across his face, would have blocked out the slightest view of the sheet music on the stand in front of him, let alone the musicians he was supposed to be conducting. Within seconds, as tootling horns and waving flags accompanied this paper rain, the stark black of the conductor’s tailcoat had disappeared beneath a swirling, rustling, ever-growing effervescent cascade of pastel curls.

  “Looks just,” said Sir George, “like a paper sheep, dammit, been dyed instead of dipped. Feller must be mad.”

  “This is the third year running,” came the announcer’s voice, as Sir Stanford raised his baton and the Promenaders at once subsided, “that the Last Night has been conducted by Sir Stanford Rivers. He has chosen to start the second half of this year’s concert with Walton’s Facade Suite . . .”

  “Three years running!” snorted Sir George, who would, if given the chance, have loved to play a leading part in the traditional festivities and fun. “Mad—look at him, poor devil! Wonder he can stand up under the weight of it all.”

  “He’ll manage—he always does, doesn’t he? Anyway, it looks as if it’s more of a hindrance than actually heavy,” said Lady Colveden, with a sideways smile for Miss Seeton. Miss Seeton twinkled back at her hostess. They both understood well what emotion had prompted the general’s remarks, for they had fond memories of the glee with which Sir George—loudly protesting that he’d only made such an exhibition of himself out of public duty—had taken the star role in the recent Plummergen Cricket Pavilion Fund Auction. In Edwardian evening dress, twirling the waxed moustache he’d deliberately allowed to grow beyond its normal restrained toothbrush length, Sir George, with Nigel beside him in borrowed overalls as the holder-upper, had pushed the bidding twice as high as anyone had ever dreamed it could go . . . and the builders had begun work the following Monday.

  “He seems to be coping admirably,” said Lady Colveden. The movement of the conductor’s arms as he led the Fanfare sent ripples through the festoons of streamers, which started to slither from his energetic form to the floor. The camera zoomed in again, this time towards the black patent-leather feet which were beginning to disappear in a tumult of paper foam.

  “Venus, of course,” announced Miss Seeton, as the Fanfare changed to the Scotch Rhapsody. “I was wondering, you see, of whom Sir Stanford reminded me,” as Sir George and his wife turned politely to their guest. Sir George looked away with a choking sound; Lady Colveden smiled—she couldn’t for worlds have spoken—a question. “Botticelli,” Miss Seeton absently explained, her eyes once more upon the television screen. Sir George blinked. Was the little woman going off her head? Goddesses one minute, cheese the next: perhaps she’d been overdoing the sunshine . . .

  “Or, rather,” said Miss Seeton, “I suppose I should have said of what. Anadyomene, you see—rising from the waves.”

  It was fortunate for the Colvedens’ composure that they had no time to find a suitable reply, for the camera, which had swung from Sir Stanford’s feet to pan round various members of the BBC Symphony Orchestra, now switched to the main arena, crowded with eager Promenaders. In Rytham Hall, as in homes throughout the country, viewers fell silent with the effort of seeking out well-known faces among the throng.

  There was a young man wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt, a scarlet bow tie, and a white top hat crowned with a large pink plastic pig. Two girls had dressed their long hair in a myriad plaits, interlaced with red, white, and blue beads which clattered gently in time to the tango rhythm. A banner with Proms for Ever! emblazoned in spangles of patriotic hue waved frantically as those carrying it caught sight of themselves on a nearby monitor.

  “No sign of Nigel yet,” said Lady Colveden, with a sigh. “Or of any of them, though in such a crowd I doubt if . . .”

  A balloon popped; a throat was cleared; the orchestra went into the Yo
delling Song. From the Promenaders, not a sound that was not accidental: true audience participation would come later on. Sir Stanford Rivers conducted with his usual brilliance. Feet tapped during the Polka, a few hands clapped in time to the Tarantella—the suite Facade finished to a storm of applause, a riot of bugle calls and tootles, the bursting of excited balloons and the waving of red, white and blue flags. Sir Stanford, his celebrated smile as narrow as ever, bowed first to the orchestra, then to the Promenaders, who roared their applause louder still. The camera showed a young man with a toy hedgehog on the end of a bamboo pole decked with ribbons, wildly waving; just out of shot, a multicoloured circle twirled—

  “Nigel!” Lady Colveden leaped forward in her seat, just as Miss Seeton, her artist’s quick eye caught by the sight, gave her own little cry of recognition. “I’m sure that was Nigel with your umbrella—oh! What a pity.”

  For the cameras had panned away again, back to Sir Stanford on his podium as, turning back to the orchestra, he raised his baton once more. Hysterical cheers from the Promenaders, who knew what was coming; then an excited silence. Even the television announcer said no more than: “Now here’s what they’ve been waiting for—the chance to sing their hearts out . . .”

  And the orchestra launched merrily into the first, familiar bars.

  chapter

  ~ 12 ~