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

by Hamilton Crane

COULD THERE BE anyone in the country who did not recognise the music? Pom, pom, tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle—pom, pom, tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle—then a slight rearrangement of notes, the same rhythm; another variation—the whole sequence, repeated . . .

  The camera showed the hedgehog again, jigging up and down in time to the dah-diddle-dah-diddle-dah-dah-dah pom of the middle section of Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance.” Dah-diddle-dah-diddle-dah-dah-dah pom Pom Pom Pom Pom Pom Pom Pommm—a swirl of notes, the lead-in repeated, the glorious tune itself, played unaccompanied by no more than the quiet coughs from six thousand throats, clearing in anticipation.

  Sir Stanford, the orchestra, redoubling their efforts in a swirling crescendo of notes. A stab of the baton—You’re on your own—a quick spin round to face the arena—a toss of the white locks as a streamer fell from above . . .

  “Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,” sang six thousand voices from the television screen. “How shall we extol thee who are born of thee?” Sir George squared his shoulders, a martial light in his eye. “Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set; God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.” Lady Colveden was humming to herself; Miss Seeton had a smile on her lips. “God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet!”

  Uproarious waving of flags as Sir Stanford nodded a curt approval of his ramshackle choir’s efforts, then relative quiet as his attention returned to the orchestra. Elgar’s musical spell—the composer had boasted that he’d found “a tune that will knock ’em flat, knock ’em flat!”—continued to hold. Miss Seeton sighed.

  “A sad dereliction of duty, I fear,” she said, above the quieter section of the march. “I remember it all so well.”

  Neither Sir George nor Lady Colveden knew quite what to say, and so said nothing. The camera swooped past the high-rise hedgehog to zoom in on a young man in the arena conducting the orchestra with a closed umbrella—

  “It is Nigel!” Excitement filled the sitting room of Rytham Hall. “Oh,” cried Lady Colveden, “why doesn’t someone invent a tape recorder for television? He’d be thrilled to be able to watch himself afterwards . . .”

  Nobody answered as the final chords and trills led into the reprise of “Land of Hope and Glory.” Sir Stanford’s baton coaxed yet more sound from the roaring chorus; Nigel with Miss Seeton’s umbrella encouraged his friends. A pretty, pink-cheeked girl beside him wore a red, white, and blue blouse. Obviously longing to dance with excitement, she was prevented by the press of bodies. Pinioned by Promenaders, she waved a hunting horn instead.

  “Isn’t that Heather?” Lady Colveden glanced at her husband, who had coughed. “Yes, it is—and I’m sure that’s Linda and Ray behind her, though with those funny hats on it isn’t easy to—”

  “. . . make thee mightier yet!” entreated the voices from the Royal Albert Hall, and the orchestra was almost drowned out in the closing bars as the Promenaders prepared to signal their approval of proceedings so far. The conductor bowed, his head inclined no more than an inch; but it was enough. Streamers fell thick and fast, bugles blew, Nigel in the background opened the umbrella and twirled it with enthusiasm above the heads of his near neighbours.

  As the camera at last focussed on other revellers, Miss Seeton said: “I was teaching in London, you know. A small party of us felt so distressed by events—such weak, foolish self-indulgence from one who was supposed to set the highest example—that we visited a variety theatre to cheer ourselves up. The Holborn Empire, as I recall.” She sighed, and shook her head. “It was bombed during the war—but when the programme was over, the house manager came on stage and said that, because nobody had any idea what was going to happen, instead of ‘God Save the King’ we would sing ‘Land of Hope and Glory.’ I still believe I have never heard it sung with such feeling as during the Abdication . . .”

  Her final words were overpowered by resounding applause from the Promenaders. Sir Stanford had succumbed—as Last Night conductors always did—to their wish, and was now instructing the orchestra in their second rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory.” “Why, how very interesting, Miss Seeton,” said Lady Colveden, when the cheers and shouts had once more died away. “That’s a story I’ve never heard anyone tell before—though I suppose nobody would know about it unless they’d been there, would they? And the chances of meeting one person who’d been in that particular theatre on one particular night—unless, of course, everyone did it every night during the crisis—”

  Sir George emitted a snort of disgust as he muttered of dereliction of duty, by Gad. Miss Seeton was absolutely right—chap should have been setting an example rather than chasing off like that after some—harrumph! He begged the ladies’ pardon. Forgot himself. Better listen to the music and keep a lookout for Nigel.

  Sir George’s son and heir did not appear on screen again for some time. Sir Stanford, swayed by the Promenaders’ exuberance, agreed, unlike many conductors, to a second encore of Elgar’s stirring march before, firmly shaking his head when begged for a third, he brought in the trombones at the start of the ballet music from Holst’s Perfect Fool. The delight with which the audience received this was evident from the number of camera close-ups that followed. Mascots, banners, crazy costumes, smiling faces: the party atmosphere radiated from everyone to warm the heart of all who watched.

  The final notes from the cor anglais, and once more the audience leaped up and down, waved, whistled, shouted, and stamped. Sir Stanford bowed again. A balloon loudly burst. A wave of laughter when the conductor pointed his baton sternly in the direction of the noise.

  “Ah, yes, now that reminds me.” He placed a slim white finger to his lips. “In the piece which follows, some of you may recall that a rather nice little fiddle solo introduces the Sailors’ Hornpipe. This year, you know, I should so much like to hear it . . .”

  A gale of laughter was followed by cheers, whistles, and then an expectant hush as the trumpets prepared to give tongue. The television voice announced that the fanfare heralded Sir Henry Wood’s Fantasia on British Sea-Songs, an all-time Prom Concert favourite. “Could do with the Buzzard,” remarked Sir George, as the bugle calls rang out. “Tell us what they all were, no doubt of it. Different from the Army.”

  The rolling sea-rhythms of “The Anchor’s Weighed,” the euphonium’s bouncing jollity in “Saucy Arethusa,” the cello’s lament for poor Tom Bowling, darling of the crew; a stir among the waiting listeners as the first high notes of the violin sounded “The Sailor’s Hornpipe.” Despite the earlier warning, hands began to clap in time, feet to stamp. Sir Stanford, spinning round, continued to conduct the orchestra with the baton behind his back, ignoring the gales of laughter which greeted this impressive display. He shook his head at the Promenaders, and gesticulated again for silence. More laughter was drowned out by the frantic shushings which followed his command, and he stared grimly out over the seething arena for a few moments, still conducting, before turning back to the orchestra.

  “Never missed a beat,” marvelled Sir George. “Clever chap, Rivers—enters into the spirit of the thing remarkably well, considering he always looks so dashed fed-up with life. Good gimmick, I suppose.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said his wife, as Miss Seeton’s feet tapped on the floor in sympathy with the youngsters in the body of the hall. “They do seem to like him, don’t they?” as the screen showed a banner with Stanford is Top of the Pops painted on it.

  The flutes and piccolos danced their merry way through the variations on the hornpipe theme, until the moment when the conductor abandoned his orchestra yet again and invited the Promenaders to join in as they chose. He still barely smiled, but his amusement was plain as those who accepted the invitation—almost everyone there—suddenly realised that he had sneakily increased the tempo. The resultant chaos of clapping and stamping had the television announcer beside himself with glee as he explained Sir Stanford’s joke for any viewers too tuneless to observe it for themselves.

  The hornpipe encore was
taken even faster, Sir Stanford having remarked, in an audible aside to the first violin, that a little more rehearsal was required. Nigel, his horrified mother’s eyes upon him, in his excitement dropped Miss Seeton’s umbrella, and ducked hurriedly out of sight to retrieve it before it should be trodden on.

  “Oh!” cried Lady Colveden, as a young man with a red, white, and blue visage was thus revealed. “How very clever of Clive—at least, I think that’s who it is. Was,” she amended, as Nigel reappeared, red-faced from stooping, with his booty, and the young man was once more hidden from view. “A Union Jack. I wonder if they do them for themselves in a mirror, or whether they have to ask anyone else to help?”

  “I should imagine,” remarked Miss Seeton, as the trombones played the opening bars of “Spanish Ladies,” “they would ask somebody else, as one usually does, with stage makeup. At least, that is what happened at school—plays, and pantomimes, and so on. It always struck me as a little odd, for one would have supposed modern girls to be far more used to makeup than their teachers—though possibly the greasepaint is more difficult to apply.”

  Lady Colveden regarded her guest with interest. “Were you involved in many school plays, Miss Seeton? Or,” deceptively casual, “pantomimes?”

  “Tableaux, too,” said Miss Seeton, in all innocence, with a nod. “It was Mrs. Benn’s belief, you see, that self-display of a modest nature, while still at school, would be of assistance to the girls in later life. Helping those who lacked confidence to develop it, that is, and encouraging those who already had it to learn how to moderate the quality to an acceptable level. And those who had insufficient talent for acting would benefit from having learned the habits of cooperation and teamwork—painting scenery, making costumes and props . . .”

  “Spanish Ladies” ended; rippling clarinet notes heralded the oboe’s song of “Home, Sweet Home.” The camera showed another painted face, this time of a young girl, whose companion had a similar flag pasted round his stovepipe hat. With the rest of the Promenaders, they began to sway and hum in time to the music.

  Sir George, unlike Miss Seeton, was very well aware of the direction in which his wife’s apparently casual remarks were leading. Rather naughty of Meg—little woman was a guest, after all. At a disadvantage. Hardly fair to bulldoze her into running the Christmas panto before she had time to know what she was doing. Best come to the rescue.

  “Ah—not Jack, y’know,” he said, as Lady Colveden was congratulating herself on her cunning and preparing to move in for the kill. “The Buzzard told me. So sorry, m’dear.” There was a decided twinkle in his eye. Was the apology for having foiled her plan to co-opt Miss Seeton into the Pantomime Committee (it was obvious which side of the family had given Nigel his Galahad instinct) or for having talked apparent nonsense through the middle of “See, the Conquering Hero Comes”? Just how pervasive (Lady Colveden brooded briefly) was the influence of Miss Seeton’s idiosyncratic thought processes?

  “Asked him if Nigel could borrow it, remember,” Sir George continued, as his wife regarded him warily. “Pulled me up sharpish—not a Jack, he said. Not unless it’s flown on board ship. Smaller than an ensign,” he added, as the conquering hero finally arrived, and the audience broke into loud applause. “Union Flag,” explained Sir George vaguely, his eyes turning back to the television screen. “Something to do with a staff—flag, not Jack . . .”

  Neither of the ladies knew quite how to respond to this information, and in any case had no time, for down from his podium stepped the stately figure of Sir Stanford Rivers, with a bow for the orchestra and a wave of acknowledgement to the frantic Promenaders as he disappeared in the direction from which he had made his first entrance.

  The announcer’s voice spoke above the roar which filled the sitting room of Rytham Hall. “And now the conductor has left his post to escort Dame Lavinia Sheering into the hall for that great favourite, ‘Rule, Britannia,’ in which she will sing the solo verses. And here she comes—yes, just listen to that welcome!” He had almost to shout to make himself heard above the noise. “My goodness! No wonder they’re so pleased to see Dame Lavinia tonight,” as the camera picked out the two figures of Sir Stanford Rivers, still in evening dress, and the renowned soprano attired in a fashion to lift the spirits of all who saw her.

  “Britannia in person!” exclaimed the announcer, as the camera focussed lovingly on Dame Lavinia’s white gown with its red and blue ribbons, on the glittering round shield and gleaming trident she carried in either hand, on the shining helmet which crowned her flowing raven locks. “This is certainly the first time I can recall that we’ve had a Britannia in full costume . . .”

  As the conductor’s baton was raised to summon the orchestra to attention, the camera moved from Lavinia Sheering’s patriotic form to scan the faces of the Promenade audience. Every Union Flag in London, it seemed, was being waved or worn in the Royal Albert Hall as the first bars of Arne’s well-known music led into the solo singing of James Thomson’s words.

  “When Britain fi-i-i-i-irst at Heaven’s command,” sang Dame Lavinia Sheering, the trident proud in her upraised hand. “Aro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ose from out the a-a-a-azure main—Arose, arose, arose from out the azure main!” She tossed her head, and the long black hair rippled on her shoulders. “This was the Charter, the Charter of the Land, And Guardian Angels sang this strain:”

  Sir Stanford, spinning round, abandoned the orchestra to its own devices as he conducted the rapturous crowd of Promenaders in the chorus. “Rule, Britannia! Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!”

  Three more verses followed, during which Nigel and his friends were picked out again, lustily singing. Heather was busily conducting with the hunting horn, Nigel with Miss Seeton’s furled umbrella, expending vast amounts of energy. The sitting room of Rytham Hall rang with sudden cries of delight as, while the soprano sang of “manly hearts to guard the fair,” Nigel’s beaming face was shown in close-up. Sir George blew his nose, and coughed. Lady Colveden, worried about obvious doting, remarked in a deliberate tone that yes, she was sure now that was his friend Clive standing just behind her son, with the flag or jack or whatever it was painted so cleverly on his face . . .

  Miss Seeton was neither dishonest, nor deceived. With a sigh of pleasure as the camera moved away at last, she said: “You are right to be so proud of dear Nigel. He has a manly heart indeed—gentlemanly, one might almost say, except, of course, that it would be an impertinence to say it.” This, she realised, did not sound quite right. “Because what else could one expect, in the circumstances? With such a happy family life—such a fine example before him—it would be no less than an insult, surely, to suggest even the least surprise . . .”

  Miss Seeton floundered to a halt as her hosts both blushed for the compliment; and herself blushed as she wondered whether she had spoken out of turn. The excitement of the evening must excuse her, she thought, as “Rule, Britannia” went into an encore. Her umbrella on television—colour television—the stirring songs, the uplifted spirits of all who watched . . .

  “Jerusalem” still to come, with its vivid imagery and, as one could not help remembering, always the strange drawings and pictures of Blake in the background of one’s mind when one heard the words. Were they indeed a plea for social reform, or had the poet a more physical vision in mind when he wrote of “arrows of desire” and of “clouds unfolding to spears?” One could not study, or teach art for any length of time without realising that truly inspired artists had a rather more unorthodox attitude to certain aspects of life than one would wish for in one’s pupils . . .

  “Free love,” said Miss Seeton, as the second chorus of the encore died away. “Or,” as Sir George and Lady Colveden turned startled eyes upon their guest, “education—and the giant compasses, of course. Votes for Women, and Swedenborg—measuring out the world . . .”

  And while the Promenaders sang of feet in ancient time walking on mountains with the Lamb of God in England’s
green and pleasant land, Miss Seeton mused on William Blake’s remarkable gifts, and across the faces of Nigel, and Heather, and their Young Farmer friends saw a dark shadow fall, as of dark Satanic mills; and instead of waving bugles and umbrellas, she saw a hundred sleepless swords.

  chapter

  ~ 13 ~

  “JUST CARRY ON as if I’m part of the furniture, boys,” said Mel Forby, with her most brilliant smile. While most of the nation looked forward to watching the Last Night of the Proms, Brinton and his team pressed on with their investigations into the second Blonde in the Bag murder—the team in question having increased in number by one, albeit unofficial, member. “You just carry on—and,” with another smile, “who knows? If I hang around long enough drinking in the atmosphere, I might just come up with some new angle that solves the case for you—and I don’t necessarily mean Miss S.,” she added, in deference to Brinton’s indrawn breath and purpling face. She suppressed a chuckle at Foxon’s startled look. “Mind you, I can’t deny it would be kind of nice to scoop another Battling Brolly case before the rest of Fleet Street caught on—but even with no Miss Seeton, you could find a woman’s instinct comes in handy.” She ignored the superintendent’s muttered oath. “Didn’t I work out the connection with last year’s case when nobody else has? Press morgues or no press morgues—not that they won’t catch on pretty quickly, I’d say, but right now we’re ahead of the pack—which is where I want to stay. And I’ve been giving it some thought since I first heard the news, you know.”

  “So,” said Brinton heavily, “have we. The police aren’t the complete idiots the newspapers make us look, Miss Forby. This heap of files isn’t just for show.”

  “It’s a pretty thick heap.” Mel gazed at the pile of bulging folders whose contents, she knew, had been Brinton’s especial study since the body was discovered. “Impressive. Shows how hard you’ve been beavering in the archives, all right—only . . . don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Brinton. I’m not for a minute suggesting you’re an idiot. But perhaps you’ve kind of missed seeing the wood for the trees? You’re too, well, close to what’s happened—maybe if you were one step removed, you could see—”