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

by Hamilton Crane

  As a means of communication it was a complete success. No words had been exchanged, yet Miss Seeton and the baby each knew what the other wanted as if they had spoken on the subject at great length. Miss Seeton gulped. Her thoughts turned to the airing cupboard, and old sheets, and safety pins in her needlework basket—but, before that . . .

  “A bath,” said Miss Seeton, her nose twitching again as the baby writhed in its wrappings. Her wrappings? His? It seemed discourteous to continue referring to the poor little thing as neuter. At least some part of her problem would be easily resolved. Miss Seeton squared her shoulders, and thought of fire watching during the Blitz. A gentlewoman who had faced doodlebugs and falling masonry without flinching should be able to manage to bathe a baby . . .

  chapter

  ~7~

  IT HADN’T BEEN, Miss Seeton reflected, one of the, well, cleanest experiences of her life. She breathed a silent word of thanks to the long-handled dish mop, with which she had warily polished the baby—a girl, she’d soon discovered—in the washing-up bowl in the kitchen sink. (What Martha would say when she found out, Miss Seeton dared not think. And as for what she would say when she looked in the kitchen waste bin . . . ) Nor had it been one of the driest. She’d never realised how much energy even a small baby possessed, or how little water it took to make a great deal of damp. Once the excitement was all over, she felt very weary.

  The baby was obviously far from weary. She had suffered the tentative ministrations of Miss Seeton with barely a yip or a yelp of protest, and towards the end had seemed almost to enjoy them. Miss Seeton had tipped bubble bath into the bowl with a generous hand, and had frothed it up with the mop before inserting the baby so that—well, so that things wouldn’t be quite so visible. The little girl couldn’t help herself, of course, but there were some sights Miss Seeton felt she needed time to prepare for—and on this occasion, she hadn’t had it. At the thought that she might have to go through all this again, her heart quailed within her; she kept an anxious eye on the clock, and an ear listening for the dawn chorus.

  The only chorus it could hear, however, was that of the baby. Warm milk, Miss Seeton supposed the solution to her charge’s cries must be: her mouth had certainly been open wide enough for Miss Seeton to know that she could not wish for solid food. Warm milk—but how warm? Babies had such delicate digestions, she understood. Did one boil it first and allow it to cool, or . . . and surely the baby was too young to drink from a cup? Was there anything in the house from which a rudimentary bottle could be manufactured?

  Suddenly, inspiration struck. This was an emergency, as anyone must agree; perhaps it would only be once, or (if she was unlucky) twice—and it wasn’t as though the little girl had any teeth to lose . . .

  Within five minutes, the baby was propped up by cushions in one corner of the big armchair. Beside her, Miss Seeton balanced, grateful to the yoga which had made her limbs so . . . adaptable. Miss Seeton smiled. In one hand, she carried an open tin of condensed milk, creamy and thick and sticky with nourishment; in the other, she held a spoon, which from time to time she dipped into the tin and held to the baby’s mouth so that she could catch the sugary drops as they treacled from the tip. Miss Seeton was not the only one to smile. The baby smacked her lips and gurgled her appreciation of this diet, and Miss Seeton only hoped she hadn’t encouraged the little girl on a self-indulgent course which would ruin her eating habits for years to come. But what else, in the circumstances, could she have done? Secretly, Miss Seeton suspected she’d coped rather well . . .

  Lord and Lady Glenclachan thought so, too, once they had been joyfully reunited with their daughter. When Martha, summoned by Miss Seeton (truly thankful that dear Stan was a farm labourer, and used to rising early) realised the implications of her employer’s midnight discovery, she was on the phone to PC Potter even before she offered to check the baby for—well, Miss Seeton knew what babies were, didn’t she? Just let her tell Potter about the unexpected visitor to Sweetbriars, and then she’d—

  With mingled modesty and pride, Miss Seeton informed her that everything about the baby’s nether quarters was, at the latest time of checking, in good order. Martha stared, then nodded, pleased. Her dear Miss Emily was equal to anything, hadn’t she always said so?

  PC Potter—who had come hurrying down from the police house with his wife Mabel—was equally impressed by Miss Seeton’s handling of the situation. Superintendent Brinton, Potter’s Ashford superior, was astonished, but allowed himself no more than two minutes to recover from his astonishment before telephoning Scotland Yard. It was inevitable that he should ask for Delphick . . .

  Thus it came about that Lord and Lady Glenclachan were joyfully reunited with their infant daughter. Miss Seeton, whom they insisted on meeting to thank in person, told them she was proud to have done no more than her plain duty, and shyly confessed that she couldn’t remember being quite so nervous in her life before. Delphick, whose presence at the meeting had been urgently requested by his Scotland Yard colleague (“Heaven knows what makes the Battling Brolly tick—like a bomb, so I’ve heard. Over to you, Oracle, and welcome.”), suppressed a yelp of amazement. In the seven years since he’d first met her, MissEss had encountered almost as many villains as himself; she’d been gassed, abducted, hit on the head, and threatened with knives, guns, and death by incineration. Yet none of these adventures, she seemed to be saying—and he knew her to be one of the most truthful persons of his acquaintance—had caused her as much anxiety as the Lady Marguerite MacSporran, all eleven pounds of her in her terry-towel nappy . . . Delphick found his lips pursing in a silent whistle. He looked forward eagerly to telling Chris Brinton all about it later. His old friend’s blood pressure wouldn’t have had such a shake-up for years.

  The romantic return of the lost heiress gave the scoop of her dreams to the Daily Negative’s Amelita Forby. Thrudd Banner, brooding on Mel’s good fortune, promptly went out and bought her a new hat, claiming that her head was sure to be too large now for any of the old ones. Mel, basking in her editor’s praise and the envy of her colleagues, ignored the insult and accepted the hat (which was large enough to do duty as a wastepaper basket) with one of her sweetest smiles. She graciously permitted Thrudd to study the pages of her notebook . . . but not until after the Negative had been safely put to bed.

  Thrudd, of course, knew who was really behind such headlines as “Found in a Phone Box” and “Missing Marguerite: Glenclachans Gleeful,” but he had long ago become a member of the discreet conspiracy which strove to keep journalistic interest in Miss Seeton to a minimum. The columns he wrote for World Wide Press were as unexpansive on the subject as anything Mel might have produced. The Battling Brolly angle could not, in the circumstances, be ignored, but Miss Seeton’s protectors saw to it that their newspapers never enlarged upon the nickname.

  Other reporters, however, were less considerate of Miss Seeton’s desire for privacy. “Pandemonium in Plummergen” was one headline, referring to the first occasion on which hordes of pressmen, camera-toting and inquisitive, rubbernecked their way about the village in an attempt to interview the heroine of the hour. Miss Seeton, however, had been strictly coached by Mel; she stayed either indoors or in her back garden, sheltered by the high brick wall. Her shopping was done on a daily basis by a resolutely mute Martha Bloomer, while Stan tended the flowers in front of the cottage so that no photographs could be snatched.

  “Anne’s parents say it’s been pretty grim down in Plummergen over the last few days,” Bob Ranger informed Delphick one morning. The nursing home run by Dr. and Mrs. Knight was at the far end of the village from Sweetbriars, yet they nevertheless managed to keep a kindly eye on Miss Seeton for the benefit of their son-in-law’s nerves—and those of his superior. “Flashbulbs popping all over the place, cars parked on the verges ruining the grass—if the Best Kept Village Competition wasn’t over, I think someone would have been lynched by now—and traffic jams as bad as Potter’s ever seen them.”

&
nbsp; Delphick sighed. He’d just returned to the office from a meeting with the inspector in charge of the kidnap case. “And we must, I fear, expect things to become rather worse: that pair in MissEss’s drawing have been seen. A copy was circulated with the PhotoFits Mrs. Ongar managed to put together, and the likenesses were good enough for a beat bobby to spot them both during a routine check of after-hours drinking—trying to recover their lost nerve, no doubt, in some pub just outside Hastings. Harry Furneux sent a couple of men to collar them, and they only just missed the blighters. So they’re still in the area . . .”

  “Poor Miss Seeton, when the news gets round,” said Bob, scowling. “Apart from Mel and Thrudd—and a few of their pals, I suppose—I wouldn’t trust a reporter as far as I could throw one.” Detective Sergeant Ranger stood six foot seven, weighed seventeen stone, and played football for the police eleven. He was perfectly capable of throwing two reporters together, if necessary.

  Delphick grinned at the vision which flashed across his inward eye, then grew serious at once. He picked up the telephone. “I promised Mel she should have first whack at any story, and it will do Miss Seeton no harm if I try to remind Amelita Forby of a few past favors . . .”

  Mel was all gratitude and contrition once she realised the Oracle was on the other end of the line. “Great,” she enthused, when she heard how the police net was closing in on the two people suspected of abducting Lady Marguerite MacSporran. “This should just make the fudges in the evening papers, and I know I’ll get a decent spread in tomorrow’s Negative, thanks to you—and Miss S., of course. But I’m sorry she’s having a rough ride from those leather-hided hacks who call themselves Fleet Street reporters—she ought to get out of town for a while, till things calm down. Pity she won’t take up that invitation to MacSporran Castle. The Glenclachans told me when I interviewed them that they were on the point of hightailing it back to Scotland, where it was a sight more peaceful. Matter of fact, if I phone them now to tell them, there could be another exclus—”

  “What invitation?” Delphick had no time to observe the courtesies. Mel’s perpetual pursuit of scoops, exclusives and front-page stories meant she was quite capable of hanging up on him before they’d finished talking. A forceful interruption was often the only way to get through to her.

  “What invitation? Hey, you mean she never told you? If that isn’t typical of Miss S.—modesty’s her middle name.”

  “As a matter of fact,” began Delphick, despite himself; then he repeated: “What invitation to MacSporran Castle?”

  “What? Oh, well, it seems the Glenclachans wrote and asked her to spend a few days with them, once they’d calmed down from getting the baby back. I was working too hard to go back to Kent myself, but I rang Miss S. and kind of apologised for the fuss I knew there’d been once the story broke—said to watch out when she was answering the phone, and so on. She told me all about it. Envelope with a coat of arms on it, embossed writing paper—the works, she said, and very impressive, and she hardly felt she deserved such attention—you can imagine her saying it, can’t you?”

  “I can indeed. What I can’t imagine is that she would be impressed to the point of becoming intimidated by such attention, which seems to be what you’re implying.”

  “Does it? Well, maybe in a way she is, just a little. I’ve known Miss Seeton almost as long as you have, Oracle, and I can’t think offhand of any time before when she’s been intimidated by anything—or anyone, come to that. Mind you, there have been the odd occasions when it might not have been such a bad idea,” and her voice quivered with laughter.

  “I happen to agree with you, but I’d rather not waste time saying so. The sooner you’ve finished explaining, the sooner I’ll ring off and let you go about your business . . .”

  “Masterful, yet,” replied Mel. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal, though I don’t know there’s much more to tell you, really. It was just the way she kept saying she was sure they were only being polite, and after their dreadful experience she supposed they’d rather be left alone because privacy’s so important, isn’t it—and in any case she’d hate to put them to any trouble, and Scotland is such a long way from home . . . It’s more an acute attack of modesty, if you ask me, than being intimidated. With a little encouragement, she’d be packing her bags tomorrow.”

  “I wish, for her sake, that she would.” Delphick paused in a meaningful way. “Mel, I don’t suppose . . .”

  “That when I’m talking to the Glenclachans,” she said at once, “I could happen to mention that Miss S. would love to be coaxed into going to Scotland with them? Perhaps apply some of the famous Forby charm, and get them offering to send a car to collect her or something?”

  “Maybe not that, exactly, but you have the general idea. Mel, would you?”

  “For you, Oracle, I would. And I’ll do more than that,” she added, with a note in her voice that he knew of old. Amelita Forby had just had another idea . . .

  “I’ve just had an idea,” Mel said. “A brainwave, that’s the only word for it. This MacSporran business may have started off as Banner’s story, but it’s mine now, and partly thanks to you. Don’t think I’m not grateful. And, one good turn, right? Thrudd lost out, but I’m still in there—and there’s more to come on this, if Miss S. is involved. That’s what you’ve been thinking, isn’t it?”

  Delphick was startled. “As a matter of fact, no. Once Lady Marguerite was safely returned, and the suspects on the point of being caught, I would have hoped—”

  “Come off it, Oracle—let’s be realistic about this, okay? You know as well as I do that once Miss S. has started things moving, it’ll take more than spotting a couple of small-time crooks to stop them. So maybe this pair are the only ones involved—and maybe they aren’t. You’ll want to flush the whole lot out of the woodwork, won’t you? Now, you leave Miss S. by herself in Plummergen, she gets driven round the bend by Banner and his pals, and the case goes nowhere. Send her off to Scotland, and she’s out of the way of half the bother, for a start—and, if the other half’s unavoidable, she might as well get it all over in one fell swoop . . . with me there, keeping an eye on everything that happens.”

  Delphick groaned. “Mel, I hate to admit it—but you’re likely to be right. What was it Chris Brinton once said to me? There are four things in life you can’t buck, and one of them’s fate—and Miss Seeton is the other three. I only hope the Glenclachans realise what they’re taking on, if she accepts their invitation—”

  “She will, Oracle. You know she will.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she will. Yet there seems little point in trying to prevent it, whatever it is—even if we knew how, which we’ve never known in the past. Whatever turmoil is doomed to arise is no doubt already beyond all hope of control. Like an unexploded bomb with the fuse already lit—Mel, you meant it when you said you’d go to Scotland too, didn’t you?”

  “You bet. With another Seeton case building up, would I stay in Town?”

  Of course she wouldn’t. Delphick had to smile, but then said urgently, “Listen, Mel, Scotland Yard has absolutely no legal standing north of the border, despite the name. The Scottish system is utterly different—we’d be treading on a fair number of toes if I even suggested anybody should go along to keep an eye on things.” He paused. “Anybody official, that is. But . . . a friend . . . on holiday . . .”

  “On business,” retorted Mel. “So you needn’t think I’m about to send you daily reports, always supposing they have telephones in the Highlands—which they’d better have, otherwise what’s the point in my going, if I can’t get in touch with my editor. Who else is going to authorise my expenses? But don’t worry, Oracle,” as “Damn your expenses” sounded in her ear. “I’ll be right there keeping an eye on Miss S., I promise—and not just for the sake of my story, either.”

  “I know, Mel, and thank you.” Delphick tried not to let his anxiety show. “If only I could be sure none of this is going to be necessary . . .”


  But long acquaintance with Miss Seeton told him that it would.

  chapter

  ~8~

  WHEN YOU HAVE travelled a long distance with someone who has until then been a virtual stranger, it is safe to assume you will know that someone far better by the end of the journey than you did at the start, and also that you will feel far more relaxed in their company than you did before.

  So it was with Miss Seeton and the Glenclachans: except that they weren’t half an hour out of London before everyone was talking and laughing together like old friends. Miss Seeton, who had entertained a few qualms the previous night, now felt sure that she was going to enjoy every minute of her Highland holiday.

  “This will be something of a little adventure for me,” she told Lady Glenclachan. “I have seldom had occasion to travel, and certainly have never been so far north in my life . . .” Then, as her innate honesty asserted itself, she added with a blush, “On the ground, that is. But I suppose—if one is being strictly accurate, which of course I have always tried to insist my pupils should be—if it flew over your part of Scotland on the way—the aeroplane, I mean . . .”

  By the time the full story had been coaxed out of her, they were all fast friends. Anyone, insisted Liusaidh MacSporran, Countess of Glenclachan, could have made the same mistake, particularly when travelling abroad for the first time. Anxieties about the luggage, difficulties in reading those television-sized indicator panels set so high from the ground; inability to speak French, Italian, or, indeed, any foreign language—it was really remarkable, when one came to think about it, that more people didn’t make exactly the same mistake, flying to Genoa, in Italy, instead of Geneva, in Switzerland. She managed to say this without the slightest tremor in her voice, though her eyes danced a regular Highland fling and she was thankful that her husband, whose shoulders were (to her) visibly shaking, sat where his amusement would not be so noticeable, in the driver’s seat of the old Rolls-Royce.