That sigh (the blacksmith, despite the near-perpetual clangour in which he worked, had quick ears) convinced Dan Eggleden, who rose to his feet before the pot could begin its proper pouring. “You know, Miss Seeton, I think mebbe I’ve left the forge a bit longer than I really did ought, in the middle of the day as it is, so I’ll say thank you kindly for the beaver and be off, if it’s all the same to you.”
A few startled drops splashed from the spout as, despite her having known for years that Plummergen folk often referred to their elevenses as beavers, Miss Seeton’s attention was distracted by the vision of a furry-faced, bewhiskered little animal gnawing away at the obstinate old oak of her chest. She blinked; the beaver, with a flirt of its flattened tail, vanished. Miss Seeton set down the teapot, trying to hide her relief at Dan’s decision. She must remember to round up by another five pounds her cheque for whatever sum he would write on the bill ...
So Daniel departed and left Miss Seeton, the beating of her heart just a little louder than usual, to close with heroic resolution the sitting room door on the sight of that tantalising carved oak chest, and to hurry instead to the telephone, to dial the well-known number for Rytham Hall.
chapter
~ 13 ~
LADY COLVEDEN INFORMED Miss Seeton, with genuine regret, that she had a meeting straight after supper, and wouldn’t be able to come. Nigel, however, she felt fairly certain had nothing planned.
“And even if he had,” said his mother, “I’m sure he’d be only too happy to cancel, unless it was something absolutely vital. He’ll be thrilled to be one of the first people for goodness knows how many years to know what’s inside your box—and are you positive you don’t mind waiting until tonight? I really don’t believe I could be so noble.”
Miss Seeton’s assertion that she was indeed happy to wait soon became tangled with courteous references to the aristocracy, of which the Colveden family were so shining an example. She paid particular reference to the good sense and character of her ladyship, and Lady Colveden, embarrassed as the English always are at the compliment direct, was quick to divert the confused tributary flow by laughing her thanks, promising Nigel’s attendance upon Miss Seeton at the agreed time, and firmly ringing off.
Miss Seeton ate her lunch, washed the dishes, darned a slight tear in the sleeve of her cardigan while she digested, and then forced herself out into the crisp January air for a spell of gardening. Not that the garden—dear Stan, even in winter, worked so hard—needed it; but she did. With her border fork, she pricked over the bulb beds where the pale spikes of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths had crept their first quiet inches through the earth. This aerating task complete, she pruned the few straggling stems Stan had left among the roses; hoed the ground destined for the first spring flowers; peered at some of the softer shoots, looking for early greenfly; and finally, captivated by the yellow stars cascading down its dark green stems, picked a large bunch of winter jasmine as the light was fading, and hurried indoors to find a suitable vase.
“Jolly flowers,” said Nigel, observing the graceful arrangement in the centre of the table. “Mother’s up to her ears in cyclamens and hellebores and things. Lenten roses, you know—silly, isn’t it? I’d have thought Christmas rose would be a more suitable name for them, considering the time of year.”
Miss Seeton smiled. “Christmas roses, indeed, come into flower rather closer to Easter than to Christmas—but this may be due to the calendar change, perhaps. When everything was brought forward by eleven days, in the eighteenth century ...” She frowned. “Or perhaps not. When one comes to consider the names, they do seem somewhat ... illogical—though that, of course, is one of the charms of the English language, isn’t it?”
“I could always,” came Nigel’s impish reply, “disagree with you. And then we could spend the rest of the evening in—dash it, what’s it called? Learned philological discourse, that’s what. Which sounds splendid—but I’d far rather spend my time looking inside here,” he said, tapping the lid of the waiting wooden box, “and solving the mystery. And I bet you would, too.”
Miss Seeton twinkled at him and agreed that she would. From what she had been told by Mr. Eggleden, opening the lid backwards, as it were, on its makeshift padlock hinge, would be far easier with two pairs of hands than with one ...
His expert eye honed by years spent humping sheaves of harvested wheat into stooks, Nigel gauged the likely weight of the lid and suppressed a grin. Miss Seeton might well stand only five feet high and weigh no more than seven stone wringing wet, but even she shouldn’t have found it an impossible challenge to part the ancient hinges and tip back the iron-bound lid without assistance. Nigel knew his Miss Seeton. She was making excuses, as she generally did, for being caught out in any act of kindness: she’d known he’d been really keen to learn the contents of the treasure chest, having spent so long the night before trying to get into the thing, and she’d saved up the fun on purpose until the working day was over, so that he could share it.
Not for the first time, Miss Seeton seemed to read the thoughts of another. “It would be selfish of me, wouldn’t it?” she went on, twinkling again, “not to share the fun of this little adventure that chance—and my own carelessness”—here she gave a faint smile—“has placed in my way—when you consider how very uneventful is the life I normally lead.”
She said this last with a perfectly straight face. The face of Nigel, as his jaw dropped, was convulsed. If Miss Seeton really saw her life as uneventful, she was the one person in the world who could. “Whether or not,” she continued calmly, “there’s anything inside, it will be a most delightful change—not, of course, that I’m complaining,” she said with a blush. “I have been, I know, very fortunate. And afterwards it will, in any case, make a charmingly unusual box for storing blankets and pillows, as your mother suggested, once it has been cleaned and polished.”
She nodded at him, smiling. Nigel nodded back. “What does Martha have to say about it?” he enquired with a grin. The invaluable Mrs. Bloomer came to Sweetbriars twice a week, in normal circumstances, but a shocking head cold had kept her away for some days past. Nigel supposed that the efficiency of Plummergen’s grapevine would have advised this domestic paragon of every detail of her employer’s accidental purchase, even if Miss Seeton herself hadn’t told her all about it on the phone. Nigel was genuinely curious as to the Bloomer view on carved wooden blanket boxes. He had heard Martha (who also obliged on a regular basis at Rytham Hall) hold forth many times—and at some length—on the problems associated with the polishing of old oak, with particular reference to parquet floors and the heavy boots worn by working farmers.
Miss Seeton, who’d heard similar grumbles when Martha’s irritation with the boots had lasted overnight, nodded, then smiled again, rather ruefully. “I fear I haven’t told her very much just yet—with such a dreadful cold, you know—but at least, because it is oak, there’s no need to treat it for woodworm. Which is a relief, as I dislike the smell. It would be so ungrateful of me to allow dear Cousin Flora’s inheritance—the furniture, you know, and the floorboards—to become riddled with holes, which seems strange when you remember that I have spent much of my life working with turpentine. Dear Martha would rightly be very vexed with me. And most irresponsible ...”
As she spoke, Miss Seeton had drifted, followed by Nigel, from the doorway to the box, where she was now absently running her hand across the massive, rusty iron bands and the battered panels with their worn, though still intricate, carving. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and turned to address Nigel in a voice that barely trembled.
“Which side will you take? It makes little difference to me, and there seems to be plenty of room—as Mr. Eggleden never needed to move it from where you left it in the middle of the floor—but ...”
Nigel realised she didn’t so much need his muscular as his moral support. For ladies of Miss Seeton’s generation, gentlemen made all the decisions. If he didn’t start, in the nicest possible w
ay, to organise his hostess, they could be here half the night before anything was accomplished. “I’ll take the left,” he said, “if you’re sure you’ll be happy with the right. Let me just bring this chair across to lean the lid on once we’ve got it open ... Here ... And now if you kneel sort of sideways on, like this ...”
It never occurred to him that Miss Seeton would be incapable of kneeling: and of course she wasn’t. Not for the first time, her yoga, which she regarded as the most private of pursuits, proved its public worth. She tidied her skirt out of the way, bent her ankles and knees at the same time, and without a single click or creak almost glided down to the newspaper, settling herself a convenient distance from the eager young man at her side.
She watched him closely. As he moved, so did she, copying everything he did with the mirror exactitude only to be expected from someone with a trained eye. He checked that the pin was indeed missing from its double cradle: Miss Seeton checked hers. He seized his corner of the lid and shook it. Miss Seeton, likewise, shook.
“Not wedged solid,” said Nigel, “by the feel of it. We shouldn’t have too much trouble—touch wood.” He grinned. “Which is what we’re doing anyway, so three cheers for us—and now let’s have it up, shall we?”
“Oh,” breathed Miss Seeton. “Oh, yes, let’s ...”
The whisper died away. In a spellbound silence, Miss Seeton tightened her grasp on the lid as Nigel tightened his. They met each other’s glance, and nodded.
Another shake; a tug—tentative at first, then more forceful; a jangle, as the pinless hinges began to separate, top half from bottom; a sprinkle of ancient wood dust, mingled with flakes of iron, on paper and cloth-covered knees alike, though by this time neither Nigel nor Miss Seeton could have cared less. A slow, steady creak; a growing mustiness in the air accompanying the screech of metal as the dark mouth of the box gaped gradually open, pivoting on its unaccustomed, improvised hinges to rest at last against the back of Miss Seeton’s chair.
“Whew.” Nigel released his burden to wipe a hand across his brow and shook his hair back from the forehead over which it had fallen in the heat of the moment. “Jolly well done us, Miss Seeton, don’t you think?”
Miss Seeton, beaming, could only nod. Nigel, beaming back, emitted a sudden splutter. “Ugh! I beg your pardon. But when you think how that air’s been lurking inside your box for heaven knows how many hundreds of years, and we’ve gone and let it out, no wonder”—he coughed—“it’s feeling a bit ... a bit lively.”
Miss Seeton blinked and sat back on her heels in dismay. “Germs, you mean? Oh, dear, I do hope not. If you should fall ill, Nigel, it would be dreadful—and all my fault. How could I ever face your parents? One hears of such diseases as—as anthrax ...”
It was the smothered grin, and the ill-concealed gleam in young Mr. Colveden’s eye, that alerted Miss Seeton to the fact that her leg might be being pulled: pulled, moreover, in that manner peculiar to the British aristocracy, even if (to one long accustomed, as was Miss Seeton, to teaching) the social status of such youthful humorists as over the years had crossed her path was probably immaterial. Miss Seeton—who in her secret soul possessed a certain dry wit of her own—hid a smile as she continued:
“Of course, we may be worrying unnecessarily—let us hope so, although if you are at all anxious, Nigel dear, I would be only too happy to prepare a—a mustard inhalation for you.” His sudden horrified spluttering seemed to surprise her. “You think not? It’s no trouble, I assure you, and won’t take long. The kettle is always ready to boil, and one cannot take too much care, in the circumstances—which are unusual, to say the least.” She hid a smile as he continued to splutter. “Yes, the air from inside the chest is—or rather was—undoubtedly stale—though one wouldn’t call it damp, or mouldy ...”
Then, all at once, enough was enough. Good manners had required that Miss Seeton follow her guest’s conversational lead: but she could suppress her curiosity no longer. She knelt up—leaned forward ...
And finally allowed herself a glimpse of the contents of the old oak chest.
Nigel, even while raising the lid, had contrived, in the most gentlemanly fashion, to keep his eyes turned away from what that lid concealed. It was Miss Seeton’s box: she must have the first fun of seeing inside: but at her excited little gasp he allowed himself to turn slowly back to gaze at ... what?
The shadowed inner surface of the lid seemed curiously carved about the edge, but even the eye of an artist wasted little time in studying under electric light what would be far easier to see in the daytime. Miss Seeton spoke.
“Papers,” she said very softly. “Such beautiful, old-fashioned writing—printing, too—and clothes, I think.”
She sounded doubtful about this last. “Looks more like somebody’s old curtains,” said Nigel, “all that brocade and—and embroidery—and ... paint?”
“Painted, certainly.” Miss Seeton reached out a tentative finger. “Theatrical costume, perhaps. And these could be scripts,” she added, remembering the recent production of Cinderella at which she had acted as Prompt. “Although,” she said, touching one of the pale bundles, “this feels rather too ...”
Nigel touched, as well. “Good quality,” he agreed. “D’you think it’s parchment? I say, Miss Seeton, do let’s look underneath—we might find one of Shakespeare’s lost manuscripts, or something!”
Miss Seeton smiled: enthusiasm always pleased her. And, of course, they might, though it was most unlikely, even if the appearance and style of the chest were decidedly Elizabethan, or at least Jacobean. A lost Shakespeare manuscript—Love’s Labour’s Won, perhaps ...
She smiled again.
She sobered. “Oh. Oh, dear, Nigel ... It has only just dawned on me, but ...” A quiet sigh escaped her. “So great a responsibility, you know, I’m not entirely sure ... From the little we’ve so far seen, the documents—those underneath may of course be quite different—but the ones we can see do appear to be of—of considerable antiquity, and are possibly of great value—historically speaking, that is, if not in financial terms, when one considers what I paid for them. Except, of course, that the persons who entered the chest in the auction must have been ignorant as to the contents, with the locks being jammed ... but ignorance can be no excuse where you and I are concerned.” She gently took up the topmost paper, unfolded it, and gazed pensively at the neat, ornate black writing. “We, you see, have seen it—that is, them,” she said with a wistful glance back to the open chest, and the unexamined treasures therein. “One cannot help but wonder whether perhaps we ought not to—to wait for somebody more suitable ... some member of the local history society, such as Dr. Braxted ...”
It was Miss Seeton’s house: she could invite into it whom she chose; and Nigel, the ever courteous guest, had—in the abstract—no objection to the presence of Euphemia Braxted. The renowned historian and archaeologist, though somewhat eccentric in her manner, had a jolly enthusiasm for her subject which had won young Mr. Colveden’s heart on the occasion of her recent excavation work at Rytham Hall: but youth, too, is enthusiastic, and enthusiasm often breeds impatience.
Euphemia, as Nigel knew, lived several miles on the far side of Brettenden. He didn’t grudge the petrol—or the engine wear and tear: but the time was quite another matter. He calculated silently how long it would take to collect her in the MG—even Euphemia, a noted fresh-air fiend, didn’t ride her bicycle after dark, especially in January—and winced at the conclusion. And as his hostess had so clearly wished to have her tentative suggestion rejected, Galahad Colveden promptly and firmly rejected it.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Miss Seeton. Not if we’re careful taking the stuff out. Order and method, and all that.” He tried to remember what he’d seen of the Rytham Hall dig before it had been closed for the winter. “Suppose we make a list as we go along? You fish ’em up, and I’ll write ’em down—nobody could have any objection to that, could they? Besides,” added the tempter, as Miss Seeton, still feeling g
uilty, wavered, “until we know just what’s in there, how will we know if it’s worth bothering a busy woman like Dr. Braxted with coming all this way to see? She wouldn’t thank us for showing her a load of theatrical props, would she? Why, we’d be doing her a favour!” said Nigel in his most persuasive tones.
Miss Seeton had asked Nigel for his opinion. What else should she, having asked, do now but accept it? Especially when it married so happily with her own secret wishes ...
She found a clean newspaper for the floor, and for Nigel a pencil and a pad of paper.
With eager hands, she began to lift, one by one, the papers and documents and lavish garments from their place of long concealment in the old oak chest.
chapter
~ 14 ~
THE FIRST PAPER Miss Seeton unfolded proved to be a theatrical handbill. It was faded, but presented little challenge to a trained artist, despite the quaintness, to a modern eye, of the lettering. “‘The Celebrated Players of Mr. Colley Kemble,’” Miss Seeton informed Nigel after no more than a moment, “‘will today present a stirring narrative of Charlemagne, Les Quatre Fils d’Aimond, or, The Four Valiant Brothers, in which the part of Charlemagne is to be taken by Mr. Augustus Pottipole. With diverse Interludes as; Mr. Franklyn, an Ingenious Exponent of the Dance, with a dozen Bells; Monsieur Baudoin and Signor Radicati, fighting with broadsword, small sword, javelin and battle-axe according to the custom of Ancient Chivalry; and an Elizabethan Egg Dance brilliantly perform’d by Sieur Daigueville over a dozen Eggs laid out upon the stage, blindfold.’”
Sold to Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 19) Page 11
