Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Nigel.” His mother didn’t even bother to look shocked at the suggestion, though Sir George had blinked once or twice before realising it was his son’s little joke. Lady Colveden glanced at her husband before continuing, in a voice she tried to make reassuring:

  “You needn’t look so startled, George, it’s nothing like that, truly.”

  “But?” supplied Nigel, with a grin, as Sir George fixed his wife with a suspicious gaze, and Miss Seeton’s air of polite interest quickened. Lady Colveden blushed.

  “But nothing, Nigel. Not really. Though I suppose you could call it metal, if you were in a nit-picking mood, but that seems rather, well, infra dig for gold leaf. Does anyone,” enquired Lady Colveden smoothly, lifting the teapot in a hand that barely trembled, “want another cup?”

  The diversion failed to work. Her words had sunk in. “Mother!” burst from Nigel, at exactly the same time as Sir George uttered a choking cry. “Gold leaf? You’re pulling our legs—say you don’t mean it!”

  Now that she’d finally dared to broach the subject, Lady Colveden found herself able to enlarge upon it with comparative ease. “Yes, Nigel, gold leaf is precisely what I meant—no joke, I assure you. Alicia says it lasts easily three times as long as paint—the Devonshires at Chatsworth put her on to it in the first place, she told me. You can imagine what a time it must take to paint all of those windows: the place is enormous.”

  “And,” supplied Nigel with a grin, as his father began to turn slowly purple, “what’s good enough for dukes and earls certainly ought to be more than good enough for a baronet—if only he can afford it. We could always pawn the family silver, of course. It has a nice ironic touch about it—using silver to pay for gold—”

  “Nigel,” said his mother in warning tones, as his father gasped and seemed ready to explode. “That’s quite enough. George, please don’t pull such dreadful faces. You’ll put poor Miss Seeton off her tea.”

  “Indeed, no, Lady Colveden,” returned Miss Seeton earnestly. “Not stewed at all, and such a delicious scone—and the butter, so delightfully rich. Is it from your own cows, perhaps?”

  “Rich,” groaned Sir George, thinking of gold-leafed window frames, and his overdraft. “Hah!”

  “George,” said his wife, using exactly the same tone as she had used to her son not two minutes earlier. “Miss Seeton, I hope you don’t mind my admiring your necklace. Such an unusual design, all those different yellows in the glass. Is it”—her eyes twinkled—“another little treat?”

  Miss Seeton explained that it was part of dear Cousin Flora’s legacy, which—not being much given to jewellery, such a worry in case one lost or damaged it—she only wore on special occasions. But, as it was always such a pleasure to visit the Hall—or rather she meant the Colvedens themselves, for, picturesque though the building might be, any house without its inhabitants lacked, she thought, a certain charm . . .

  The clearly intended compliment was becoming so convoluted that, in a suitable pause as she drew breath, Nigel came rushing to Miss Seeton’s rescue. “What a teatime conversation!” he remarked, stirring sugar briskly. “From poison to gold, and from gold to the attractions of inheritance . . .

  “Anyone would suppose,” he said, “that we were right in the middle of a mystery novel . . .”

  chapter

  ~2~

  THE MILLINER’S IN which Miss Seeton bought her yellow straw hat is situated in nearby Brettenden, a favourite shopping centre. Anyone wishing to purchase items out of the ordinary—anyone wishing merely for a change of scene—will take a bus (the county service once a week is supplemented by the twice-weekly bus run by Crabbe’s Garage), or drive (Miss Seeton, on occasion, is known to bicycle) six miles in a northerly direction from the village, there to have almost every wish fulfilled. Ashford, larger, fifteen miles to the northeast, fulfils most other wishes, and, if it fails to do so, there always remains—viewed with suspicion by much of the village, because Miss Seeton takes frequent trips to (she claims) its art galleries and museums—London.

  But Plummergen shops in Plummergen itself for the basic necessities of life, and is only too glad to do so. These necessities being not merely staple supplies, but (to many, rather more important) the gossip, rumour, and scandal without which at least half the village would be unable to survive. Plummergen has developed tittle-tattle and surmise to the only sort of fine art it understands: not for the clacking tongues of this tiny Kent community the echoing vaults and marble floors of aesthetic London—the village shops, all three of them, are all the populace requires for its survival. And the post office, having marginally more floor space than either the draper’s or the grocer’s, is the shop most favoured for the exchange and discussion of whatever item of news is most pressing on any particular day.

  It was little Mrs. Hosigg who set the ball rolling on a sunny morning two days after Miss Seeton’s visit to Rytham Hall. Lily Hosigg and her husband, Len, Sir George’s farm foreman, were a quiet young couple living in the old Dunnihoe cottage at the lower end of The Street, Plummergen’s main thoroughfare—not far, as village sceptics were wont to point out, from Sweetbriars. The Hosiggs, though they kept themselves very much to themselves, were known to be staunch supporters of Miss Seeton, about whom opinion in Plummergen could never make up its mind, with the inevitable result that about her supporters, too (and even more so when they were the incomers the Hosiggs undoubtedly were) opinion was always sharply divided.

  The recent arrival of Dulcie Rose Hosigg had made Lily’s retiring nature still more obvious. The birth had been both premature and difficult. Lily, barely out of childhood herself, took longer to recover full health and spirits than either Len, or Dr. Knight—summoned from his private nursing home in the middle of the night by a panic-stricken Len—would have wished. Dulcie Rose spent the first month of her life in a hospital incubator, with Lily (when permitted) vigilant at her side, and, once she had been taken triumphantly home, spent subsequent months wrapped round with blankets, anxiety, and tender loving care. All Plummergen had seen so far of the minute Miss Hosigg was, on particularly sunny days, the tip of a tiny nose, or a pale pink starfish hand fumbling from beneath a shawl . . .

  “Which nobody could say’s natural, not with it being her first, could they?” was the opinion of young Mrs. Newport, proud mother of a quartet of under-fives and sister to Mrs. Scillicough, whose triplets were a village byword. “Stands to reason there must be summat for her to keep hid, instead of letting everyone see, smothered up in that great old pram the way the poor kiddie always is.”

  “And for all it was a seven months babby, it’s not growing so well, is it?” remarked Mrs. Henderson darkly; whereupon Mrs. Skinner, who had fallen out with Mrs. Henderson some time ago over who should arrange the flowers in church, came straight back with:

  “Which is what everybody knows is nonsense, if they’ve any wits about ’em. Seven months babbies is after folk have got wed in a hurry, finding out it’s needful to tie the knot—but them Hosiggs’ve bin married four or five years, and not a sign of a babby before this, poor things.”

  “They should have come to me,” proclaimed Mrs. Flax, who held her head high as Plummergen’s Wise Woman. “I could’ve give ’em herbs enough to help—ah, and to spare her the torment and trouble when her time came, but they wouldn’t heed me in their pride . . .”

  She allowed her words to fade away into a slow, ominous silence. Everyone shuddered, and looked over their shoulders, and crossed nervous fingers: not that they really (they told themselves) believed Mrs. Flax to have ill-wished the Hosigg baby out of spite at being rejected . . . but it did no harm to be on the safe side, did it?

  Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Scillicough, who had lost faith in the purported powers of Mrs. Flax when they failed to assist in the suppressing of her triplets’ insatiable—not to say unnatural—high spirits. Mrs. Scillicough snorted at the sinister hintings of the Wise Woman, and tossed her head scornfully.


  “Young Lil just ain’t the type to bear children easy, being so small and everything. No mystery in that. But she’s not had to see the doctor for weeks now, has she?”

  “That we know of,” somebody pointed out. There came a general muttering, and a thoughtful pause. “Course,” somebody else added, as inspiration struck, “she’d keep quiet about seeing him, wouldn’t she, if there was anything not rightful to be shown—like bruises from young Len bashing the kiddie when he’s taken with the drink, say.”

  At which point, speculation ran riot around Mr. Stillman’s post office, and an excellent time was had by all—or rather, as excellent as it could be when two of Plummergen’s most noted speculators were absent. But everyone knew that, as it wasn’t a day for the Brettenden bus, Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine would doubtless soon be with them . . .

  The Nuts, as they are commonly known in the village, can shop and gossip with the best. Their plate glass–windowed home, Lilikot, is almost directly opposite the bus stop and neighbouring post office: they therefore miss none of any Plummergen comings or goings, and are always busy with finding new twists for old, or not-so-old, tales. Erica Nuttel tends the garden, Norah Blaine (Bunny to her friend) the house; in any spare time, the ladies listen, inevitably, to the news from wireless or television.

  And it was just after eleven o’clock when a breathless Bunny, string bag in hand, appeared in the post office doorway with Miss Nuttel close behind. From their air of muted excitement, it was clear to seasoned observers that they had news to impart, but, in true Nutty fashion, they approached their notificatory task in a roundabout way.

  “Two boxes of caraway biscuits and a tin of soya chunks, please, Mr. Stillman.” Mrs. Blaine pretended to consult her shopping list while Miss Nuttel paused by the revolving book stand, browsed briefly, then came to her senses with a start as she noticed the animated little group beginning to congregate about them.

  “Looks as if we’ve jumped the queue, Bunny,” she remarked, as Mrs. Blaine began hunting through her purse for the correct change. “Sorry,” to the shoppers at large.

  As they murmured that it didn’t matter, Mrs. Blaine could hold herself in no longer. “Well, it’s hardly surprising, is it, Eric, with my being so upset by what we’ve just heard—too dreadful, it really is. Those poor parents . . .”

  Ears pricked; interest quickened. “The Hosiggs,” came from one or two quarters. “In here just now, weren’t she?” As the Nuts must know, from the customary net-curtain watch they maintained across the road. “Buying its dinner, so she were—and now summat’s happened to the babby!”

  Mrs. Blaine turned to Miss Nuttel, her blackcurrant eyes gleaming. “Oh, Eric, you don’t think . . . surely not! To have laid their plans so carefully, and so far in advance—too positively wicked, that’s the only word!”

  “Could never have thought of it by themselves, though,” opined Miss Nuttel. “Could they? Hardly seem that bright—or that devious,” she added, driving the inference partway home while leaving Mrs. Blaine to finish the job.

  And Bunny duly obliged. “Oh, Eric!” she breathed, plump hands clasped in anguish. “You don’t—you can’t mean . . . even for That Woman it would be going too far!”

  The draught from flapping ears could have driven a fair-sized yacht. Everyone clustered close about Miss Nuttel as she left the book stand and went to help poor Bunny, so very distressed, carry the shopping. What were the Nuts hinting that Miss Seeton had been up to now?

  “That it should come to this,” moaned Mrs. Blaine, turning as pale as she could. “Our dear little village the home of a cruel, criminal mastermind—too shaming to think of!” And she allowed her voice to quaver on the final words, ending with a sigh and a sorrowful shake of the head.

  Miss Nuttel frowned. “No good brooding, Bunny—actions speak louder than words. Take a good look at that baby next time we see it, and then—”

  “But that’s just it!” burst from Mrs. Blaine in a voice of thrilling dismay. “Too mysterious, haven’t I said so all along—nobody ever sees the Hosigg baby! She keeps it very well wrapped up, even though it’s the middle of summer”—a chorus of that’s what we were saying not a moment since came from her eager audience—“and now we know, only too well, why she does! How could anyone ever be sure whether it’s really the Hosigg baby—Dulcie Rose, too ridiculous—or—” her voice sank to a whisper just loud enough for everyone to hear—“Lady Marguerite MacSporran!”

  A bewildered silence greeted this bombshell, followed by an equally bewildered babble, as the listeners gazed from one Nut to another and clamoured for enlightenment. It was obvious, of course, now it had been brought to their notice, that Lily Hosigg’s reluctance to let anyone take a good look at her baby could be for no good purpose—but why should it have anything to do with a Scottish heiress? Or, a vociferous minority appended, with Miss Seeton? Hardly what you’d call the motherly type, was she . . .

  “On the wireless just now,” said Miss Nuttel, as soon as she felt she could make herself heard above the hubbub. “No clues at all—nanny unconscious in intensive care . . .”

  As she paused for effect, drawing breath to make the final announcement, Mrs. Blaine was unable to resist the temptation. “Kidnapped,” she informed Miss Nuttel’s audience, with a sideways look to see how her friend responded, and a smirk she struggled to suppress. Miss Nuttel scowled, but did not try to compete as Bunny continued:

  “Just think—those poor parents, waiting so many years for a baby—the title and everything bound to disappear if they didn’t have one—all the fuss in the newspapers when she was born, and now this! Too, too dreadful!”

  • • •

  Fifty miles away, in London, a telephone rang in an office on the umpteenth floor of New Scotland Yard. There were two men in the office. Both were tall, though one was far taller (and far larger) than the other, who was older, with greying hair and an air of distinct command which was borne out when he glanced across from his paperwork to the younger man at his desk, and said,

  “Answer that, would you, Bob? If I don’t finish this report before I go up to see Sir Hubert, he’ll be tearing the carpet into little pieces even as I’m standing on it.”

  Detective Sergeant Ranger grinned. Sir Hubert Everleigh—Sir Heavily—didn’t often pull rank, or lose his temper, but on those few occasions when he did, his subordinates (even those as high in general esteem as the Oracle) knew they’d better toe the line, and pretty fast, too. If the paperwork was important to a case, “I just haven’t had time to write it down yet, sir, but I assure you I know exactly what’s going on” would cut no ice at all with the Assistant Commissioner (Crime). And if there was one thing the Oracle hated, it was paperwork . . .

  So Detective Sergeant Ranger grinned as he reached for the telephone and prepared to pull his superior’s irons out of his superior’s fire. An irresistible force and an immovable object, he supposed the pair of ’em must be. And on balance, he’d back the Oracle to win—he was still used to thinking on his feet, whereas the desk-bound commissioner—

  “Chief Superintendent Delphick’s office,” he said into the receiver, preparing to commit perjury by assuring Sir Heavily that he’d no idea where the Oracle might be. He was so certain it was Sir Hubert on the other end of the line that he was left gasping when a crisp female voice in his ear demanded,

  “Where’s the Oracle, Bob? That is Bob, isn’t it?”

  “Mel! Yes, it is. Hello.” Bob looked across at Delphick, wondering whether the chief superintendent was willing to forgo the pleasures of paperwork for the chance to chat with Amelita Forby, demon reporter of the Daily Negative. Then his grin grew even broader. Silly question. To avoid having to read reports and report on them, Delphick would be willing to talk to a paranoid Trappist monk with an inferiority complex, and persecution mania to boot. Bob didn’t even bother asking. “Yes,” he said, “he’s here,” and waved the receiver in his superior’s direction. “Mel Forby, sir, asking for you. How are thin
gs, Mel?” he added, and Delphick permitted a smile of relief to flicker briefly in his eyes before pushing his pile of papers to one side and picking up his telephone.

  “Things,” retorted Mel Forby, “could hardly be worse, as you and your boss know only too well, Bob Ranger. Have you any idea how humiliated I feel right now? And furious—and it’s entirely the fault of you and your precious Oracle! Oh yes”—above their attempted protests at the unjust and unexpected accusation—“with just a little help from the head of the Grub Street rat pack, of course!”

  As her bitter tones rang in their puzzled ears, Delphick and Bob exchanged looks, shrugged, and mimed bewilderment. Bob put his hand over the mouthpiece, hissed, “You’re the chief superintendent, sir, not me. Over to you!” and leaned back, preparing to savour every syllable of the coming row. Mel certainly hadn’t sounded like somebody calling just to pass the time of day . . .

  chapter

  ~3~

  WITH THE OBLIGATIONS of rank weighing heavily—he couldn’t help smiling at the word—upon him, Delphick sighed, rolled his eyes, and addressed himself cautiously to the telephone. He was, after all, a detective; he could understand at least part of Mel’s complaint.

  “And what exactly has Thrudd done to upset you, might I ask?” It was a fair bet that she wouldn’t have been so insulting about anyone other than her close personal friend and professional rival, Thrudd Banner, freelance ace, star of World Wide Press. “If he’s pipped you to a good story, Miss Forby, well, that’s life, I’m afraid. You can hardly call it theft—and anyway, this office only handles serious crimes—”

  “Like kidnapping?” snapped Mel. Delphick choked over his final words. He looked across at Bob, who was grinning. He spoke earnestly into the telephone receiver.