Autumn. One’s favourite season, when leaf-fall and the dying back of the last summer flowers revealed more clearly the stark and graceful forms of nature in bare branches and lightened stems blowing freely in the wind—or, as it was today, breeze, which made gently swirling patterns of the first few drifting leaves as they danced their way down to the waiting earth . . .
All through early service, Miss Seeton daydreamed guiltily of her own waiting earth. Having duly worshipped, she smiled a greeting to her various acquaintances among the congregation, shook hands politely with the Reverend Arthur Treeves as he stood outside the porch to bid farewell and godspeed to his parishioners, and hurried home to change into gardening clothes before anything might occur to distract her from her purpose. It would have cheered her, perhaps, to know that the thoughts of the vicar had been as wayward as her own during the hymns and prayers. The Reverend Arthur was as enthusiastic a gardener as Miss Seeton, and almost as knowledgeable as Stan Bloomer: and, in his enthusiasm, had been of the same wistful opinion as his parishioner that the day was indeed remarkably fine.
As the church bells summoned Plummergen to morning prayer, Miss Seeton was once more to be found upon her knees. This time, however, she was busy with trowel and fork rather than handbag and hymnbook, grubbing happily in the well-tilled soil in her walled, sheltered garden. At the bottom of the garden, chickens pecked and squawked and sunned themselves behind the wire; wild birds sang in wind-tossed trees, their whistling a counterpoint to the pealing of the bells. Miss Seeton, lost in thoughts of ground elder and sucker shoots, let the sounds of Sunday drift about her, and smiled to herself, humming an off-key anthem.
“Oh!” As the peal fell silent, just before the clock struck eleven, the tramp of footsteps became audible above the avian chirrups and Miss Seeton’s tuneless humming. A visitor, thought Miss Seeton, rising effortlessly from her knees to see who it might be coming round the side of the cottage—a visitor who knew her well enough to guess that she would be found in the back, rather than the front, garden on a Sunday. She removed her gloves, turned, and smiled as she recognised her guest.
“Nigel! Why, this is a most unexpected visit—though welcome, of course,” hastily, for fear he should feel insulted. “It is just, you see, that after so late a night, one would have supposed you all—yourself and your Young Farmer friends—to be sleeping it off. That is—oh, dear. The late night, I mean.” Miss Seeton turned pink. “It would be the greatest impertinence, naturally, even to suggest that any of you had been . . . well, intoxicated.”
“Only with the atmosphere,” he told her, with a grin. “Talk about a night to remember—gosh, you’ve absolutely no idea—and as for your umbrella, it was pretty much the hit of the evening!” Nigel, who had been carrying the borrowed brolly carefully over one arm, now unfurled it and favoured its owner with a brisk twirl to express his high spirits. “Thanks awfully, Miss Seeton, for lending me this. Heather—er, everyone said it was one of the best there, and the parents tell me it made a first-class show on the box.” He sighed, and twirled the umbrella again, brooding on the ribbons and bunting his mother had stitched with such care, and which she had that morning insisted her son was well able, last train home or no last train, to remove unaided before returning Miss Seeton’s property in person. “Gosh, how I wish I’d been able to see it as well as be there—but of course you can’t be in two places at once, can you? And it was an unforgettable experience—tiring, though,” he added, stifling a yawn as he furled the umbrella prior to handing it back to its rightful owner.
“Oh, dear—Nigel, this is dreadful,” exclaimed Miss Seeton, as she took the umbrella from his hand, and clicked her tongue.
Mr. Colveden blinked. “I’m awfully sorry—I thought I’d snipped all the loose stitches off,” he began. “And Mother was certain she didn’t tear the—”
“Oh, no,” cried Miss Seeton, blushing again as she realised how her innocent remark had given so wrong an impression. “No, indeed, Lady Colveden will have taken the greatest care, I feel sure—and in any case, as we agreed when you first asked to borrow it, this is merely one of my second-best umbrellas, and what are they between friends? A few loose stitches, that is, though I cannot see,” as she opened the brolly for herself, and gave it an experimental twirl, “that there are in fact any. But for you to have woken up so early, I mean,” as she closed and furled the umbrella yet again. “After coming home on the last train as your mother told me you had planned to do—and,” venturing a twinkle, “having to drive your friend Heather home . . .”
Nigel grinned, and blushed in his turn before assuring Miss Seeton that farmers were used to rising with the lark, particularly in a good cause, which he couldn’t help but feel the return of someone else’s borrowed belongings would be considered by anyone. “Though mind you,” he added, with another yawn, “late nights and early mornings mean a chap’s system takes time to wake up properly. If anyone happened to be making a cup of coffee, for instance . . .”
They sat under the apple tree, and Miss Seeton offered chocolate biscuits. Nigel did not refuse the offer. Picnicking, he remarked, cheerfully munching, had been of necessity in recent weeks rather fashionable among the Young Farmers; not that, even in a good cause, he was a slavish follower of fashion—but, now it was all safely over, he’d be interested to see (in a minor sort of way) what he’d been missing by way of fun. He helped himself to a second biscuit, and absently rubbed the base of his spine.
Miss Seeton looked puzzled. “I would have thought,” she ventured, “from what I have observed, that you would be far too busy for picnics at this time of year. Farmers, I mean. And from what dear Stan has told me,” hastily, in case her knowledgeable guest should take offence at her apparent assumption of an expertise she most emphatically did not possess. “Stubble burning, I understand, and ploughing—”
“And taking the ewes to market,” Nigel broke in rapidly, “and buying new lambs—and trying to argue a decent price for our cereal crop—not to mention clearing the ground of weeds—and drilling—oh, yes, farmers aren’t short of work at this time of year, believe me. But then, is it ever any different?” He chuckled as he answered his own question. “No, it jolly well isn’t, so we have to squeeze time out to enjoy ourselves whenever the chance presents itself.”
“Carpe diem,” murmured Miss Seeton, as she pushed across the plate of biscuits so that her young friend could help himself to those on the farther side. Nigel, whose knowledge of Latin was limited to the occasional botanical name, decided it was safer to ignore her remark. He grinned, and rubbed his spine again.
“I don’t mind a spot of hard work now and then, but I do object when it’s my bed that’s hard! My ghastly experience at boarding school left me with a taste for interior springing and decent pillows I doubt if I’ll ever lose—and pavements in Town, even one night at a time and with an inflatable mattress, don’t particularly appeal, strange to say.” He pulled a rueful face. “Lucky not everyone felt the same way as me, or we’d never have collected enough points for Clive to be able to come with us—although,” half to himself, “it might not have been such a bad thing if he hadn’t. Still, I was the one who drove her home . . .”
“Pointes?” Miss Seeton brightened. “Why, I understood them to be only Promenade Concerts, Nigel. I had no idea there had been a ballet as well. What an interesting departure from custom. No doubt it was shown during the first half of the programme, while we were eating supper. Which ballet was it?”
Nigel stared. “Ballet? You mean gauzy white dresses and rows of dying swans?” He scratched his head, leaving a faint smear of chocolate in the wavy brown hair. “Well, I know I’m not the most observant chap around, but I really don’t remember anything like that going on last night—must have been one of the times when the others were queueing. They sort of took it in turns, once we knew Clive would be back in time to come with us—to make sure enough programmes were stamped,” as Miss Seeton looked puzzled again. And no wonder, he be
rated himself silently. Enough to puzzle anyone, the rambling way he’d come out with his explanation. You had to admit it, there was something about the air of Sweetbriars—or, to admit the absolute truth, about its owner—that could be alarmingly infectious when it came to telling people things they didn’t already know. He took a deep breath, and began again.
“You can’t just turn up at the Last Night of the Proms, you see, and expect to be let in, because it’s tremendously popular, and even in the Royal Albert Hall there’d never be room for everyone who wanted to attend. So there’s a sort of ballot system—I’m not entirely sure of the details—for people who want to do the thing in comfort, sitting down—but for Promenaders, so long as you have your programme stamped from however-many-it-is previous concerts, they’ll let you in to stand in the pit. But of course, because you don’t have numbered seats, it’s first come, first served for the best places, which is why some people queue on the pavement for days beforehand—except that most of us YF lot are much too busy, as you so rightly said.” Nigel rubbed his spine once more. “Some crazy types think it’s fun to sleep outside for a night or two, just to soak up the atmosphere! In fact, I believe some of our less busy members did, even though between us there were more than enough ticket stubs to squeeze an extra person in—Clive’s been abroad for a year, you see. He arrived back last week”—a pucker faintly etched itself on Nigel’s normally unfurrowed brow—“just in time to join the rest of the party for the Last Night, once he was over the jet lag.”
“And what a delightful welcome home it must have been,” said Miss Seeton, with an approving smile. “To be able, through your great kindness, to accompany so many of his friends on so pleasant an excursion. I believe, from something dear Lady Colveden said, that he was the young man with the Union, er, Flag painted on his face? From the brief glimpses I had of him, I should say it had been most carefully done.”
Nigel nodded, sighing. “He sweet-talked Heather into helping him—said after a year in New Zealand he really wanted to fly the flag, but he couldn’t remember what it looked like.” He frowned again. “I volunteered to lend him a mirror and my old Boy Scout manual. He ignored me . . .”
Miss Seeton was used to the sufferings of Nigel in love, and knew that silent sympathy and a change of subject would be her best way to help him now. “You were telling me,” she prompted, “about the ballet?”
And by the time they had unscrambled the difference between points and pointes, Nigel was almost his normal cheerful self once more.
chapter
~ 15 ~
ALMOST, BUT NOT quite. Mr. Colveden finally departed homewards with a brave smile and repeated expressions of thanks for the loan of Miss Seeton’s umbrella; but such repetition only reminded him again that, though he had indeed attended the Last Night of the Proms—and for most of the evening had been pressed encouragingly close to Heather in the crowd—he had only the fond opinions of his parents and friends that he had presented so splendid a spectacle on the television screens of the nation. One day, he said, wistfully echoing his mother’s lament, someone would invent some method of photographing television broadcasts in the home, so that people could see what they looked like afterwards . . .
As Miss Seeton returned to her interrupted weeding, she found herself musing on her young friend’s words. Why, she wondered, had somebody not invented an apparatus of the kind he described? The benefits would surely be enormous. One could photograph, for example, natural history programmes—if photograph was the correct terminology—which were all too often broadcast after children’s normal bedtime; and could then take them to school next day—the programmes, not the children, who would naturally be there already—unless, of course, the next day should be Saturday, or Sunday—and screen them, in much the same way that Mr. Jessyp occasionally brought out the old school projector to show some of the—it had to be confessed, rather dull and scratchy now—old educational films which the children seemed so to enjoy. Which was very probably, Miss Seeton told herself with a smile, because the watching of a film was not so obtrusive a teaching method as an ordinary lesson, though certainly as worthwhile, one would have thought. Because watching a film—or a copy of a television broadcast—was bound to encourage one’s pupils to look, and to see, and to remember . . .
“Art programmes, too,” murmured Miss Seeton, fired by this vision of fifty eager pairs of eyes focussed on the wonders of Rembrandt, of Michaelangelo, of Leonardo; larger, perhaps, than life, so that every detail of their genius could be pointed out by one whose talent—Miss Seeton tried not to be envious, but she could not help sighing—was of a sadly lower degree. “Impertinence,” scolded Miss Seeton, as she shook earth from an uprooted tuft of grass. Even daring to think of herself in such elevated company . . .
But to show to—to share with—one’s pupils—to plant perhaps the very smallest seed of enthusiasm and appreciation, which one day might grow into a truly enviable gift—that, acknowledged Miss Seeton, made her task of teaching the young so rewarding. One lived forever in hopes that it would fall to one’s own small lot to recognise true and budding genius, to encourage it to blossom . . .
“Genius,” said Miss Seeton, addressing the rosebush about whose roots she had been grubbing as she pondered; and was somewhat surprised when the bush seemed to answer back.
“Genius? Much good it’s done him if he is, dear—or anyone else, for that matter!”
Miss Seeton, glancing over her shoulder, recognised Martha Bloomer as she approached from the direction of the gate in the side wall, and rose from her knees with a smile of welcome. “Now, let me guess,” she greeted her trusty servitor, ignoring the strangeness of Mrs. Bloomer’s salutation. “Cabbage? They’re still in excellent shape, I would think. Or carrots—or peas, perhaps—or even broad beans,” more tentatively, as Martha, who had at first seemed to nod, now began shaking her head, as if the last thing in the world she planned to do was pick a single plant from the vegetable plot so lovingly tended by her husband. Miss Seeton studied her friend’s appearance as she drew nearer. Martha was pink of face, and slightly breathless; her eyes were bright; her apron was twisted halfway round her waist, as if she’d started to undo the knot and then thought better of it.
“Martha, dear,” said Miss Seeton. “Something seems to have upset you. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Upset? Me? Whatever gave you cause to say that?” Mrs. Bloomer tossed her head, and tried to sound as breezy as she always did; but too late. Observing the knowing eyes of her employer upon her, she heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, and seemed to shrivel where she stood. “Well, in normal times I’d not want to bother you . . . but with everything the way it is I’m that confused I don’t know if I’m coming or going, I really don’t, dear. I mean—for such a thing to have happened, and the family always so respectable—and when they said poor Beryl was in hysterics, I can’t honestly say I was surprised, because I’m sure I’d be hysterical, too, if it was me, and my only son took away by the police for murdering that poor girl, not to mention the other one last year—and Stan . . .” Martha broke off, fumbled in her apron pocket, sniffed, and took out a handkerchief to rub briskly at her eyes.
“Stan?” Miss Seeton, who had already uttered one little cry of dismay on hearing the word murder, now sounded truly horrified. “Stan has been—been murdered? Oh, Martha, no! Or”—as Martha lowered her handkerchief to stare—“or do you mean rather—surely not—that Stan has been arrested? But—but that is dreadful! There must be some mistake!”
Martha, after a moment’s frozen silence, suddenly burst out laughing. “Mistake? I’ll say there is, dear.” Apart from the quiver in her voice, she sounded much more like her old self. “And it’s you that’s made it, bless you—cheered me up no end, you have—and don’t I wish I could get you to have a word or two with poor Beryl,” she added, while Miss Seeton smiled faintly, relieved that things were evidently not as bad as they had at first sounded. Then she frowned, as she tried to r
ecall just what Martha had originally said. She felt sure there had been some mention of murder, and an arrest . . .
“And so there was, dear,” Martha told her, “only with me in such a state I don’t wonder you’re a bit muddled. It’s poor Beryl’s boy Barry they’ve arrested—well, taken off to Ashford to help with enquiries, they said, but it all comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? And Stan, when I told him who it was when I put the phone down, he said he wasn’t a bit surprised, what with me saying all these years he’d end up in Queer Street—Barry, I mean. Not that I’d ever tell Beryl so to her face, understand, just how sorry I was she’d kept having such a time with him and his pop star nonsense—only so’s she could let off steam in private, with no bones broken arguing with him, because when all’s said and done he’s her son, isn’t he? Blood being thicker than water any day . . . poor Beryl.” The gloom had returned to Martha’s tone as she remembered. “I was so upset, hearing about it on the phone—and then Stan—I let the cabbage boil away right to nothing, so I thought I’d best slip over and pull another head and have myself a breath of fresh air at the same time—killing two birds with one stone, as you might say—except now I wish I hadn’t said it,” and she fumbled for her handkerchief again. “Two people killed—and Beryl’s boy suspected! It doesn’t bear thinking of, it really doesn’t—but what am I doing,” putting the handkerchief briskly away, “worrying you with my nonsense? It was only—with you knowing the police like you do, I wondered . . .”
Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15) Page 13
