Sold to Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 19)

by Hamilton Crane

  chapter

  ~ 18 ~

  REALLY, ONE HAD to agree that Sir George and dear Nigel had some cause for complaint. The hours during the past two or three weeks when it had not been raining must by now number very, very few. It came as no great surprise that farmers everywhere sounded, when one heard them interviewed on the television, or the wireless—there was that most interesting and informative programme, Farming Today, of which one sometimes caught snatches before breakfast ... it was no wonder that they were so gloomy. As gloomy, in fact—a faint chuckle escaped Miss Seeton as she wrought with button and strap—as the weather ...

  “Miss Seeton! Whatever are you doing here?”

  Miss Seeton, putting up her umbrella before descending the front steps of Candell & Inchpin, was quite as startled by this situation as the speaker—from his tone—had evidently been startled by her presence.

  “Why, Mr. Foxon, what a pleasant surprise.” Miss Seeton halted in mid-unfurl to stare, then to beam, at the young man who came bounding up the steps towards her. “And would you think it too late,” she went on as he reached her, “for me to wish you—as this is the first time we have met since Christmas—a happy new year?”

  “Well, thanks, MissEss. And the same to you, of course—though it’s not so much happy as soggy, wouldn’t you say? I reckon it’s the super’s fault, giving you that brolly for Christmas—even if you haven’t got it with you today.”

  Miss Seeton smiled and murmured that it had seemed a shame, when the weather promised to be so damp, to make too much use of Mr. Brinton’s generous present all at once, when she had, as Mr. Foxon knew, several others.

  “That’s how I guessed it was you.” Foxon nodded down the steps to the street from which he had erupted. “Though I shouldn’t really have been all that surprised to see you, even if old Brimstone—the super—never said he was going to ask you—but you should’ve let me know. Checking statements or not, I’d’ve been happy to fetch you in the car, and I know nobody else did because they’d’ve told me. I bet you didn’t like to cause any bother and came by bus, didn’t you? I can’t believe you rode your bike. But on a day like this, you could end up with pneumonia if you aren’t careful.”

  “It’s very kind of you to be concerned, Mr. Foxon, but I assure you there’s no need. The bus service is generally most reliable, as it was today. And if I had entertained any serious doubts about the weather, dear Lady Colveden would have brought me, had I asked, though normally one does hate to impose. But she and Nigel have expressed almost as keen an interest in the outcome as my own—and, now you mention it, it is of course only natural for Mr. Brinton to be quite as interested, since he was present at the time.”

  Foxon goggled. “Old Brimstone? Come off it, Miss Seeton—with all due respect. While I’ll agree with you he’s got a temper, and might just bash someone a bit too hard if things got out of hand, you’ll never make me believe he’s a—a closet burglar. He’s too fond of his creature comforts, and prowling around in the middle of the night in the pouring rain, when he could be tucked up nice and warm in bed, wouldn’t be his scene at all, believe me.”

  It was Miss Seeton’s turn to goggle: which she did with ladylike restraint. “I cannot imagine—if you will pardon my taking issue with you, Mr. Foxon—that Mr. Brinton would ever—could ever—strike anyone ...”

  Foxon recalled various high-velocity peppermints, hurled in the heat of the moment, but said nothing. He gulped once or twice, however, and felt himself turning red.

  “And as for his being a—a burglar ...” Miss Seeton favoured her scarlet-faced young friend with an anxious, appraising stare. “It has, of course, been a decidedly wet few weeks, and even when there was no rain, the sun was more often than not obscured by clouds. Nevertheless,” she said as Foxon returned her puzzled stare with a look of slowly dawning comprehension, “are you sure, Mr. Foxon, that you are feeling entirely yourself today?”

  “Apart from being incredibly short of sleep, I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He grinned at her in the way she knew so well. “And don’t worry, the super isn’t suffering from sunstroke, either. That was just my little joke.”

  Miss Seeton, whose sense of humour was as restrained as herself, smiled politely, but with a doubtful air that made Foxon feel guilty for having confused her.

  “Oh, don’t mind me. Put it down to overwork,” he said apologetically. “The pair of us—the whole team, come to that—are rushed off our feet right now, you know—well, of course you do. I don’t suppose,” he enquired, lowering his voice as he spoke, “you’ve had any ideas yet, have you? If you could give me even a slight hint, I’d be awfully grateful. Might even come up with a brolly of my own when it was your birthday. I like my eight hours,” he said in heartfelt tones, “as much as the super does, and until this is sorted out there won’t be too many of us getting ’em. Take pity on a weary copper, Miss Seeton! Spill the beans—I mean, let’s have a quick look at your sketchpad. Please?”

  “My sketchpad? I didn’t bring it with me, after all.” Miss Seeton sighed. “The one or two I attempted didn’t, I feel, do it proper justice. But I have the catalogue in my bag ...” Her eye gauged the strength of the rain-lashing wind as it eddied about the corners and crannies of the old brick building. “Perhaps we should move back inside, to more adequate shelter ... with, of course, the full written description. It all happened so”—here she blushed—“so quickly that Mr. Brinton really had very little chance to pay the close attention he would no doubt have wished.”

  Foxon goggled again. What bee was it she’d got in her bonnet (and what a bonnet—even at such a moment, he had to grin at the sight of that godawful hat) about Old Brimmers being on the spot the night Terry Mimms was murdered? Talk about a one-track mind. Talk about her thinking he’d got sunstroke—he’d the nastiest suspicion the boot must be on the other foot.

  Or maybe it was visiting the scene of the crime that’d done it. The body wasn’t still there, of course, and things were chugging slowly back to normal: but they all tended to forget she wasn’t getting any younger, and there’d be bound to come a time when she cracked up: so, maybe it had finally come. Brinton had pushed her too far, for once, and her subconscious had guessed it was coming and made her leave her sketchpad at home, so she’d tried to put it down in words instead—never anyone more conscientious than MissEss—and she was offering him the written description as the best she could do, poor old girl, and looking guilty as hell about having let everyone down, because normally they didn’t come much more conscientious than Miss Emily Seeton ...

  Miss Seeton, politely waiting for Detective Constable Foxon to endorse her proposal (one could hardly, of course, insist on his seeking shelter—but how fortunate that the squall appeared to have died down) was suddenly dismayed. How foolish of her not to have realised before! Mr. Foxon must be in Brettenden on official business. Here she was, wasting his time in idle chatter—

  Or was it indeed so idle? Had he not been asking about her recent sketches and speaking of Mr. Brinton’s interest? Had word somehow reached the Estovers that their long-lost heirlooms had turned up at an auction in a small country town and had been sold to one of whose name they were as yet unaware? Candell & Inchpin, she knew, maintained the strictest professional etiquette and would reveal nothing of the private details of their clients—not even, it seemed, in response to a ducal enquiry. To whom should the frustrated nobility turn in matters of confidentiality but the police? Mr. Foxon was an experienced detective: he might reasonably be expected to learn more, enquiring in person, than even a duke or duchess over (one assumed) the telephone, or by letter. Superintendent Brinton had sent Mr. Foxon to Brettenden to—Miss Seeton gasped and turned pale at the realisation—to detect herself!

  With her eyes suddenly bright, she fumbled at the catch of her handbag, reaching for the Candells catalogue. There was a snatch; a cry; and a clatter, as the forgotten umbrella slipped from her grasp to the ground.

  “Whoops!” He�
�d been right—it’d got to her at last, poor old girl. Too upset to know what she was doing. “Let me, MissEss—no, don’t worry.” Though a fat lot of use it was, saying that ...

  Watched by a now blushing Miss Seeton, Foxon bolted down the steps in pursuit of the wayward brolly: which, bouncing on its ferrule, had begun a swift somersault descent to the street instead of rolling to a bumpy halt at the brink, arrested by the handle—

  Arrested. Miss Seeton quailed at the very idea. Surely not. Lady Colveden had assured her—

  But then she was only the wife of a magistrate, not the magistrate himself—

  But she had bought it in good faith, even if the circumstances had been—

  “Mr. Foxon!” Miss Seeton’s voice quivered as the young detective, grinning in triumph, came loping up the steps to present her with his trophy. “It really was—thank you so much—an accident. Do please believe me”—her tone was almost pleading—“when I tell you I had absolutely no intention—as you will see, if you will only look at this”—she handed him, in belated exchange, the catalogue—“which is not marked, as I understand people do when they intend ... and in any case, we were looking for a barometer. And perhaps a fireside chair as well. For his birthday, or a late Christmas present. Surely if you explain to Mr. Brinton—ask him to tell them—that is, surely one cannot be—be prosecuted, over what was a genuine mistake?”

  Foxon, slow-witted from sleeplessness and baffled by the intensity of this remarkable plea, gazed wildly about him for inspiration. His gaze fell upon the umbrella he had so recently retrieved, which its owner now clutched in a trembling hand. Jumpy as a kitten: and no wonder, in the circs. Well, pushed for time he might be, but cheering her up with a quick joke wouldn’t hurt.

  “I suppose,” he offered, “we could always do you for Litter, Miss Seeton—I mean we could’ve, if I hadn’t picked it up—but it’s far more likely to be Lost Property, and we don’t charge for that. Which means you’re in the clear.” He took pity on her perplexed expression. “So why don’t you just clear off home?”

  He didn’t wait for her to smile: any fool could see she was too upset for that. He hurried on, “You’ll feel a hell of a lot better when you’re back in Plummergen—and never mind Old Brimstone, I’ll tell him all about it.” And bend his ear—as far as a humble plainclothes sprog would dare bend anything belonging to a super—about putting pressure on old ladies who weren’t up to it any longer, and deserved a bit of consideration after all they’d done for the force over the years. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a lift myself, but you can imagine I’m still a bit tied up, with sorting out the leftovers of you-know-what in there.” And he jerked his head with a wink towards the auction house door.

  “But never mind that,” he reiterated hastily as she turned pale again. Fool was the word, all right! Opening his big mouth and plonking both his great flat feet inside, reminding her of what he’d just been telling her she’d no need to think about any more—overworked or not, he ought to kick himself.

  He didn’t, though: too dangerous, on top of these rain-slippy steps. He biffed himself reproachfully over the head with the absent-minded paper cylinder he’d made by rolling up the catalogue ...

  The catalogue. He unrolled it. Why had she supposed Old Brimmers’d want to see—he peered at the date—last week’s sale listing? He frowned. Last week. Wasn’t that when the super’d sneaked off to buy an apology for his wife, and had come back late with nothing to show for his pains but a brooding silence for the rest of the afternoon? Did ... something, but he couldn’t imagine what, happen there? Might this catalogue hold some clue to the death of Terry Mimms; to the burglary that had preceded it?

  “Come on, Miss Seeton, don’t be a tease.” He lowered his voice and held out the catalogue with a conspiratorial gesture. “I promise I won’t let on,” he whispered. “But if you could just give me a hint, then I’ll tell the super, and no bones broken. And I bet you’d rather I kept your name out of it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, Mr. Foxon!” Miss Seeton was immeasurably cheered by this kindly offer. “Oh, if only you could, I would be so grateful—unless, of course, it happens that by doing so you will yourself get into trouble. I should feel—”

  “Trouble?” And just when she’d been starting to relax. Keep her happy: pile it on thick. “Trouble? Not me. I’ll be the super’s blue-eyed boy, honest.” Miss Seeton was somewhat puzzled by his air of certainty, but as he caught her wondering look he smiled, nodded, put a finger to his lips, and winked.

  Miss Seeton, allowing herself to be reassured, smiled back at him, accepted the catalogue, and turned quickly to the relevant page.

  “It’s this one,” she said, pointing. “The carved oak chest. The written description, of course, doesn’t include the words on the inside of the lid, or the contents, because it was locked.” She regarded him wistfully. “If you are quite, quite sure, Mr. Foxon, that Mr. Brinton—that nobody—will wish to speak to me ...”

  Dumbly Foxon nodded. Miss Seeton ventured a smile.

  “I had, you know, planned to go along to the library after coming here. It was Lady Colveden’s suggestion,” she added as he looked surprised. “Neither of us felt it appropriate to ask the dear vicar for his assistance.”

  Foxon blinked. Was she turning in desperation to the church? Were the years of strain making her hanker after the peace and quiet of a convent? Sister Emily of—despite himself, he grinned—the Sketchpad, perhaps?

  Miss Seeton smiled back, though her voice at first was grave. “A dreadful cold, you know, like poor Martha, though she is almost better, thank goodness—but in the vicar’s case they have a tendency to go to his chest. There can be little fear of pneumonia—Miss Treeves takes excellent care of her brother, and should there be the least anxiety she would, I know, ask Dr. Knight to call—but the last thing anyone who is at all under the weather wants is a—an intellectual problem, no matter how intriguing. Whether or not it turned to bronchitis. With being locked, you see, for so long, and the inside naturally not visible from outside.” Foxon had stopped smiling some moments before. Miss Seeton, drifting away on a tide of historical intelligence, continued to smile vaguely at him.

  “Much longer, of course, since the break from Rome, even if they did, I believe, continue to use it for some years afterwards—William Tyndale, you will recall, was during Henry’s lifetime—though Mary’s subsequent return to Catholicism was of comparatively short duration. King James the Second, as far as I remember, didn’t impose his religion upon his subjects at all—but it is certainly not used in Anglican services today, although he is sure to have a certain basic knowledge. Unless they are extremely high. Even if he didn’t, as Lady Colveden said, have a temperature. We thought the library would be the best place to find a dictionary, you see.”

  No, he damned well didn’t: not unless she was saying that he needed a dictionary. The way he was feeling right now—his tired brain turned to cotton wool, his ears obviously out of focus—he wouldn’t argue with her. From where he stood, for the last ten minutes or so MissEss had been talking gibberish: she’d made even less sense than usual, which for her was quite an achievement. The one thing he’d got out of it—he thought—was that she thought the Mimms murder was something to do with some wooden chest sold by Candell & Inchpin in last week’s auction ...

  He thought. He was willing to admit he could be wrong: who was he to interpret MissEss once she got going? With him being only a humble detective constable ...

  He’d play it clever. He’d remember his rank, and keep his place, and hold his tongue about whatever-it-was ...

  He’d leave everything for Superintendent Brinton to sort out.

  chapter

  ~ 19 ~

  MISS SEETON WAS the last to alight from the bus. Of the many Plummergen ladies who had taken advantage of the modest break in the weather to indulge in a trip to Brettenden, she was the only one not to hurry, laden with bags and bundles as they all were, straight from the bus stop
into the post office. The most territorially-minded shopper could not claim that local emporia provided for every possible want, a sentiment with which the proprietors of these emporia never argued. Instead, they cheered (in silence) the invariable incursion, once the returning bus had disgorged its passengers, into their emporia of said passengers, each ostensibly bent upon acquiring such items as had, once examined by the light of a Brettenden day, failed to meet the exacting standards of a Plummergen eye. That such incursions rendered the exchange of gossip gleaned during the Brettenden trip much easier—and cheaper—than a telephone call from home was, of course, mere coincidence.

  But it was raining again: not hard, yet enough to make Miss Seeton’s thoughts—which had never, in any case, been directed towards gossip—turn to slippers, and tea, and fireside toast, thickly buttered. She adjusted her handbag—so much more awkward than before, with the Latin dictionary and her other library books—and smiled to herself as she opened her umbrella. The fire, she knew, would not be as she had left it. Despite all her protests that she was quite as capable as Martha of arranging coals, kindling, and crumpled paper in their correct order in the sitting room grate, Mrs. Bloomer, domestic paragon, remained convinced that she was not. Miss Emily (Martha was wont, with some eloquence, to insist) needed Taking Care Of. Miss Emily couldn’t cook as well as Martha (Miss Seeton acknowledged the truth of this: few could); Miss Emily didn’t have the same knack with a duster or a mop; Miss Emily—

  “Miss Emily. Miss Emily!”

  Miss Seeton—her inner vision focused on brass-handled forks and strawberry jam, her outer vision limited by the spread of her umbrella, her ears filled with the patter of raindrops and the splash of her puddle-skipping feet—did not, at first, hear the breathless call from the female form hurrying towards her up The Street.

  “Miss Emily!!”

  Miss Seeton became suddenly aware that Martha Bloomer—in a plastic rain hood, a lurid mackintosh, and gumboots she could only, from their size, have borrowed from Stan—was blocking her path. “Oh, Miss Emily—I’m glad I’ve caught you. The bus got in a bit earlier than I expected ...”