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

by Hamilton Crane

  Miss Seeton had spent not a little time packing for her Highland holiday, a large proportion of which had been given to thoughts of which umbrella she should take. Mr. Brinton—Superintendent Brinton, she supposed she should say—had been very firm, some years back, about the need to keep her golden brolly for best, advising her, in his whimsical way, that for a working model she should keep to ordinary nylon with a steel shaft, to be replaced as necessary. Miss Seeton had never quite understood what he’d meant, especially as he’d added something about those of her hats destroyed in the course of duty—his idea of a joke, she supposed, as she really couldn’t see why it should be thought anyone’s duty to destroy a perfectly harmless, and altogether useful, hat. Miss Seeton put a hand to the cockscomb on her head and patted it. Dear Mr. Brinton might like to tease—it was perhaps fortunate that she had never taken him too seriously—but surely even he would admit that staying with an earl must warrant, on the part of his lordship’s guest, the very greatest effort of courtesy. If MacSporran Castle didn’t deserve the gold umbrella, then nowhere and nobody did . . .

  Pondering the niceties of umbrella etiquette, Miss Seeton favoured the weather vane with one last look, then sighed as a drop of rain fell on her upturned face, and glanced behind her to see the bank of cloud racing towards the sun, driven by a high wind which only now began to disturb the lower atmosphere. Trees tossed their branches, birds headed for cover, Miss Seeton’s skirt flapped around her knees as the rain began to fall in earnest. Long before the final patch of blue sky had been vanquished by the leaden conqueror, the gold-handled umbrella was open and doing its duty.

  As she headed down the main street, Miss Seeton’s eye travelled along its narrow, gently curving length, lined with low-roofed cottages, solid granite houses, and a lively selection of shops. She would, she thought, like to paint Glenclachan, when the weather was more settled. Perhaps, if the picture turned out well, it could serve as a farewell gift for the MacSporrans, who had been so very kind. Such an attractive place, though one could not help feeling a little, well, homesick for Plummergen, still full of colour from a riot of late summer flowers, while in this street one stepped from pavement to front door without even the smallest of gardens on the way. There was, after all, no place like home, but the curve of this street reminded her so much of The Street, now she came to consider it . . .

  A vivid splash of colour emerged from one of the side roads, and Miss Seeton blinked. How bright. How unusual, indeed—yet, to an artist, how pleasing a contrast against the whitewashed walls and granite grey of Glenclachan in the rain: though this splash of colour could hardly remind anyone of Plummergen. She doubted whether the village would so much as dream of a tartan umbrella—why, she herself had never thought of such a thing, and, while not wishing to appear boastful, umbrellas were, nobody could deny, what one might call a particular interest of Emily Dorothea Seeton.

  The tartan umbrella—such a large, cheerful, practical protection against the Highland weather—was still some way off when it suddenly stopped and disappeared into what Miss Seeton assumed to be a shop. Recollecting herself, she now realised she had chanced to stay her steps next to the very shop she herself had been seeking and, with a little exclamation, darted thankfully through the door, out of the rain. Just inside the door, she let down her brolly and shook it briskly over the mat before turning to examine the contents of Glenclachan’s newsagent, stationer and general stores, prop. (she’d just had time to notice as she passed beneath the lintel) Jamesina Pictarnitie.

  Mrs. Pictarnitie, who sat behind the main counter with a pair of knitting needles busy in her hands, was plump and friendly. She greeted Miss Seeton with a smile.

  “You’ll be the English visitor up to the castle. I make no doubt—the one who found the laird’s baby.” Miss Seeton, after an anxious pause during which she mentally played this sentence over at a slower rate, and with an accent less strong, warily agreed, with a blush, that she was. One knew that the staff at the castle had been more than flattering in their attentions, but really, one had hoped . . .

  Jamesina’s smile grew wider as she viewed Miss Seeton’s display of modesty with approval. “Aye, well, then you’re no stranger to the rain—though it’s ragglish weather for summer, and the wind fairly raving, altogether unexpected. Bide you here in the dry,” she invited. “Take as long as you like over your messages.”

  Miss Seeton caught at the one word she safely recognised among the welter of dialect. “Oh dear. I’m so sorry—were you expecting me to bring a message from the castle? I fear I must have left before anyone told me. If only I had known . . . but perhaps, if it would not cause too much inconvenience, you could telephone?”

  In her turn, Jamesina took time to think; then she burst out laughing. “Och, I was forgetting, and knowing you were English, as well! It’s what you’d call doing the shopping—only we say that a body’s doing her messages.” She laughed again. “What I meant was, with the storm upon us the way it is, you spend as long as you like looking round the shop, hen. Don’t worry yourself about going outside in the rain—or about me telephoning up to the castle, either. A fine welcome to the Highlands it would be to end up catching your death of a host!”

  chapter

  ~11~

  MISS SEETON BLINKED. The general intention of Mrs. Pictarnitie’s little speech had (or so it must be thought) been a kindly one—but the accent in which she’d uttered it had been, to say the least, rather strong and, as a result, not a little confusing. One found it hard to credit, however, that Mrs. Pictarnitie, who had (as one supposed) known Lord Glenclachan for most of her life, suspected his lordship of harbouring dark designs against his guests, and one therefore hesitated to reply, for fear of awkwardness. Miss Seeton smiled in a manner she tried to make both courteous and noncommittal, but carefully said nothing. Jamesina, on the contrary, was in a mood to talk.

  “A fearful thing, a host can be, and dangerous if you’ve not sense enough to coddle yourself when needful. Why, my own cousin Morag took to her bed and died of it four winters since, and Dr. Beltie saying he was aye minded to put a tape recorder beside her where she lay, as a warning to others. Coughing to tumble the rafters, she was, with a gey moose web in her throat, all on account of she’d a daft notion to gang out in the rain after her cat, and never a thought of boots, of course, or a hat, or an umbrella.” She regarded Miss Seeton’s brolly and sensible shoes with an air of approval, then sighed. “And she only eighty-two years old . . . Puir silly Morag.” She shook her head over the tragedy of her cousin’s coughing death, and Miss Seeton, at last making sense of what she’d heard, hurried to assure Mrs. Pictarnitie of the watchful eye she herself always kept upon the weather, and promised that, should she be so unfortunate as to catch a cough, she would retire at once to her bed and not leave it until she had recovered.

  Her ear, she decided as she drifted about the little shop examining the various displays, was becoming attuned to the accent. So much richer, if that was the word, than that of the earl or his wife, who, after all, spent much of their time in London, whereas the genuine—no, that wasn’t right, but she couldn’t think what was—the full-time, perhaps, or might one say local inhabitants—though even this suggested that the Glenclachans weren’t, which of course they were, as anyone would know as soon as they remembered the village had the same name . . .

  At this point Miss Seeton arrived in front of a shelf of assorted books and halted thankfully in front of it to peruse the titles.

  Mrs. Pictarnitie, whose comfortable chatter had accompanied her customer’s perambulations without, or so it seemed, any great expectation of being answered, said at once, “Now, if you’re by way of being a reader, there’s one or two items on yon shelf could be of interest to a lady like yourself. If you’re interested in birds, for instance . . .”

  “Bird Life of the Glens,” cried Miss Seeton in delight, not meaning to interrupt, but thrilled by the discovery she had just made. She darted forward and took a smal
l hard-back from the top of a neat pile, over which was balanced a hand-written notice announcing that the book was by a Local Author. “What a lucky find, and such a splendid memento of my visit to Glenclachan, although from what her ladyship has said I understand that there might be postcards I could buy, if it is to be considered a . . . a tourist attraction, instead of trying to sketch it, which I had thought of doing—until I realised it was rather too high for comfort, that is.”

  It was Jamesina’s turn to puzzle, but not for long. She laughed. “Yon doitered weather cock, of course! Dougall McLintie’s aye been a rare one for the drink, though mebbe for once Glenclachan will reap the benefit of his mistakes—and it’s enough of them he’s made, over the years, on account of his liking for the whisky, not a soul in the village would deny. But I’ve no postcards for you today, hen. They’ve been ordered, though, for Glenclachan himself saw to the taking of the photographs, and sent them away to be printed. He’ll mebbe know when I’m to expect them in the shop. You could always ask him yourself, if you’re in a hurry.”

  Miss Seeton said that she wasn’t, and wouldn’t, in any case, wish to disturb his lordship when he was so busy. She would purchase Bird Life of the Glens, which would be a fine addition to the small library of natural history books which she was gradually acquiring at home, in Kent. Which reminded her—Jamesina had no chance to ask why—of her original purpose in entering Mrs. Pictarnitie’s shop. She was looking for a magazine with a cryptic crossword somewhere among its pages . . .

  By the time Miss Seeton had, with the permission of Mrs. Pictarnitie, leafed through the pages of every likely-looking periodical on her shelves in search of a Jack Crabbe Special, it was raining harder than ever, as fearsome lashings against the shop’s plate glass bore witness. Jamesina prophesied thunder and warned her new friend not to venture outside with her umbrella up, for fear of attracting a bolt of lightning. Miss Seeton explained that the shaft of her brolly was of gold, not steel, so that she must suppose herself to be safe. And, since she feared to trespass for too long upon Mrs. Pictarnitie’s good nature . . .

  Jamesina scoffed at this, and once more urged Miss Seeton to bide in the dry. Was this not an excellent chance for a good crack, with the rain pelting down and nobody else for either of them to talk to? Miss Seeton, never one to gossip, murmured something noncommittal and once more gazed out of the window. Surely the rain was not quite so heavy, the clouds a little less dark? She ventured to say so to Mrs. Pictarnitie, and reiterated her reluctance to take advantage of anyone’s kindness, grateful though she was . . .

  She was almost ready to tear herself away from the press of hospitality, and was by the door, fumbling with the catch of her umbrella, when a shadow—large and round and bright of hue—appeared on the other side of the frosted glass. Miss Seeton’s artist’s eye at once recognised this polychromatic manifestation, and she stepped back to allow its owner to enter.

  Shaking her tartan brolly briskly, not worrying whither the raindrops flew, a tall, well-built woman strode into the newsagent’s and greeted Jamesina cheerfully. Mrs. Pictarnitie returned the greeting, then called to Miss Seeton:

  “Now, isn’t this the very chance you’d have been sorry to miss, if you’d gone out in the rain as you wanted! Have you not just bought her book for yourself? And I’m thinking Miss Beigg’ll be pleased to sign it for you, should you make the request of her. Staying,” she interpolated to the newcomer, “up at the castle, so she is. This is Miss Seeton,” with a meaningful look, adding, before Miss Seeton could start blushing once more, “and she’s interested in birds, or else why did she just now buy a copy of yon book?” And Miss Seeton glanced with pleasure from the brown-paper parcel in her hand to the pile of Bird Life of the Glens beneath its Local Author notice.

  It was now the author’s turn to blush, as she introduced herself and shook Miss Seeton by the hand. “Philomena Beigg—my father’s idea of a joke. He was an expert on Gaelic history and language—but I have to admit it looks good on a book jacket, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Miss Seeton agreed, but with a hint of query in her tone which made Miss Beigg smile. “Of course, to a Sassenach it doesn’t have the same ring to it, I know. You must understand, Miss Seeton, that, after the Forty-Five rebellion, Highland dress—the feileadh mor, or big kilt—you’d call it a belted plaid, in English—was banned by the government in Westminster until 1782. Anyone who persisted in wearing it was sent to the colonies, with the result that, by the time the ban was lifted, the big kilt was nothing more than a memory. So the Highlanders—not the Scots in general, not yet—wore the feileadh beg, or little kilt, instead. Hence,” with a wry smile, “Philly Beigg, at your service.”

  Miss Seeton responded to the twinkle in Philomena’s eyes with a twinkle of her own, and a murmur that it was all most interesting. She recalled having learned something of the history of the Highlands during her school days, and had been told more, of course, by her hosts. She favoured Philomena with a look of alert inquiry, to which Philomena was glad to respond.

  “Unfortunately for me, Miss Seeton, there’s a school of thought which credits the invention of the fillibeg, worn by Scots with such pride, to a Sassenach! A Mr. Rawlinson was the manager of a Lochaber iron-smelting works in seventeen twenty-something. The story goes that he adapted the fillimore, the Highland dress worn by his workers, so that they could work more easily. Very hot and uncomfortable, I’ve no doubt the full gear must have been—though another theory says that the kilt as we know it nowadays was invented after the Forty-Five, as a uniform for the Highlanders who enlisted as soldiers to keep their rebellious brethren in some sort of order. Either way,” she concluded, with a chuckle, “it was a regular pest of a name for me at school, even if I’ve managed to come to terms with my poor father’s terrible sense of humour since then.”

  She nodded towards Miss Seeton’s parcel. “If you’re interested in birds—or in books—you might like to see my library. Come home with me now for a cup of coffee and a bun—I generally have something around this time of day, and I’d welcome the company,” she added, above Miss Seeton’s modest demur. “No, I assure you, the pleasure would be all mine. Why else do you suppose I would have ventured out in the rain, if not for the chance to be among my fellows? Writing is a solitary business, Miss Seeton. You’d be doing me a kindness to spare me just half an hour of your time.”

  Miss Beigg might well be solitary, but she was certainly silver-tongued. Within ten minutes, having pattered through the now gentle rain beside her tall new acquaintance, Miss Seeton was sitting in Philomena’s neat little kitchen while her hostess boiled the kettle and made hot buttered toast—a treat, Philomena had decided after two umbrellas had been set to drain in the sink, to be followed (if they had room) by home-made shortcake, because she’d tried out a new recipe and would value her visitor’s opinion.

  Miss Seeton munched happily, drank coffee, and in reply to her hostess’s courteous questions spoke of her life in Plummergen, and how kind the Glenclachans—or should she say the MacSporrans—had been to her, a virtual stranger, when there was really no particular reason why they should be. Highland hospitality was everything she had been led to believe it was . . .

  “It always has been, Miss Seeton. Eat a man’s salt, and stay beneath his roof, and you’re his friend, or at least it won’t be him that’s to blame if you’re not. Though people in times past have taken sore advantage of the obligation to think no ill towards a guest—oh, I’m so sorry.” Philomena grimaced. “My latest book—my author’s copies arrived this morning, and I’m afraid I’m quoting—I simply had to share it with someone, you understand . . .”

  Miss Seeton murmured that she had never written a book in her life, but as an artist—of very limited ability, she hastened to explain with a blush—she could, she thought, understand something of the creative urge. Had someone not once referred to it as divine discontent? Speaking for herself, she could never say that she was completely satisfied with a painting or a ske
tch, but, when forced to be realistic, one had to acknowledge that there came a time beyond which mere tinkering with one’s work would no longer suffice, and it had to stand or fall on its own merits, under the critical eye of those with whom one planned to share it—the experience, that was to say, which had been captured on paper, whether by writing or by drawing. For was that not the important part about any creative impulse—to have shared it with others? The experience which prompted that impulse, she meant. Or so—and she blushed again—she thought; no doubt Miss Beigg had her own views?

  “In my case,” said Philomena, topping up the coffee cups without waiting to be asked, “it was my editor who was the discontented one, not me, though I certainly know exactly what you mean about tinkering. I’d been so foolish as to promise the manuscript for March of last year, and when I failed to deliver she wasn’t very pleased. It was in the catalogue, for one thing. But I made an all-out effort, and sent it off in June—and so now you must come and see the result,” she said, jumping to her feet and beckoning Miss Seeton through into the dining room. “On the table—my first published work of fiction—isn’t it splendid?”

  Miss Seeton moved closer to the table in response to the thrill in Philomena’s voice. She picked up the topmost book of the little pile and read the title aloud. “Grey Stone of the Glen—a Scottish story, no doubt.”

  “The Massacre of Glencoe retold for the umpteenth time, but none the worse for that, I hope,” said Philomena, taking the book from Miss Seeton’s hands and trying not to look too pleased at the result of her long labours. “That age-old feuding between Campbells and MacDonalds—nobody knows when it began, but it continues to this day, I assure you. Glencoe was one of the most dramatic episodes in the past, however, which is why I feel the tale deserves retelling once in a while. Do you”—she fixed Miss Seeton with a bright, burning gaze—“know about the massacre?” But, before her startled guest could reply, she went on: “And to think that Ewen Campbell and Malcolm MacDonald ever thought they could be friends!”