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

by Hamilton Crane

  Despite herself, Mel giggled at the memory of Hamish’s face as he brooded, presumably, on broken furniture and bits of glass flying in all directions. Then another memory made her groan again: the memory of how, after everyone had finally departed—Malcolm MacDonald delayed by his friends until last, surrounded by them as he lurched out in the wake of the slit-eyed man—the landlord had locked the outside door of the bar with a sigh of deep thankfulness and poured double Lairigighs for himself and his only guest without asking whether she wanted one or not.

  Mel wished, now, she’d had sufficient strength of will to refuse his kind offer. Or—as memory prodded yet again—had the offer been so kind, in reality? Hadn’t she wondered last night—and, in the cold light of day, didn’t she wonder all the more—about the true nature of the landlord of the Pock and Tang?

  “But if anyone knows how to get right to the heart of a person’s true nature,” mused Mel, through foaming peppermint as she scrubbed at fur-coated teeth, “it’s good old Miss S., as always. I’ll have to ask her along here before long, to take a look at Hamish McQueest. There’s something about him that just doesn’t seem to add up. He’s enough of a local to give me chapter and verse on the juiciest scandals—though it was the least he could do, seeing as I had to listen to all that rumpus between Campbell and MacDonald—but nobody seems to like him very much.” She frowned at her face in the mirror as she began to apply her makeup with a hand that lacked much of its usual steadiness and skill.

  “He’s only lived in the village a few years, of course. But why do I get the feeling that it’s just as well there’s only one pub in Glenclachan? He wouldn’t have it all his own way if there was any opposition, I bet—he’s hardly the most tactful landlord around. He scoffs at all the Jacobite history, which people seem to take very seriously in these parts—he says the pearl fishers are hardly better than dropouts, and he’s got to be wrong about that . . .”

  As Mel made her cautious way out of her room and down the stairs towards the main street, she daydreamed of pearl necklaces, and Thrudd Banner, and deep-sea divers and coral reefs, and the cold, hard reality of the life about which Hamish McQueest had waxed eloquent until the small hours, in the bar last night when everyone had gone. Although Hamish had seemed to pour scorn on the pearl fishers’ chosen way of life, even he could not deny that it was hard, dangerous work. The physical effort of wading through fast-flowing streams, the risk of drowning, the icicles on a fisherman’s beard clanking against the bucket and pulling him down when the melt water flowed from the ice fields, the daily despair when nothing was found, the loneliness of it all. Running away from the grown-up world, Hamish had concluded. Antisocial. Forever complaining when things didn’t go their own way . . .

  All of which had made Mel determined to write one of her Pieces on the pearl fishers of the Highlands, if only out of sheer annoyance at Hamish’s attitude. And what about her feeling that the Jacobite angle was worth pursuing? Hamish might have told her it wasn’t—but what did he know?

  “What, indeed,” muttered Mel, as she pushed open the door of the Pock and Tang and emerged into—ugh—the sunlight. She closed her eyes, whimpered once, then steeled herself with thoughts of Thrudd, and the editor of the Daily Negative, and plunged down the front steps into the street. She landed heavily on her weak ankle, jarring it. Ugh, yet again. But forge on, Forby—you’re here to get yourself a story. You may have to hop on one foot to get it—so, hop. Because you’re going to get it. Or them. Because you just happened to be right on the spot . . .

  Mel woke from her trance to find herself several hundred feet along from the hotel’s front door, and on the opposite side of the road. Evidently her subconscious had taken her across out of the sunlight and into the shade. Top marks to Freud, or whoever. She was starting to feel slightly less fragile now. Was there anywhere in this burg she might find herself a decent cup of strong, hot coffee?

  She glanced over at the clock on the tower of what she guessed must be the church—kirk, she supposed she ought to call it. There was an awful lot of bright blue sky behind that stern grey edifice, and too many dazzling white clouds for comfort. Her eyes narrowed in a squint. Could that be the proper time? She double-checked it with her watch; even moving her wrist made her flinch, never mind having to focus so close. Well, so she’d missed breakfast—lunch, too, unless she hurried, which she didn’t feel like doing, so—

  “Why, good gracious.” A voice she recognised addressed her from behind. “What a coincidence, Mel dear—I was only just now thinking of you. How very nice to see you again.”

  Slowly, Mel turned to greet Miss Seeton, whose smile and cockscomb hat she would have known anywhere, and whose umbrella she felt like welcoming as a saviour. How to persuade Miss S. to use it as a parasol, that was the only problem . . .

  Miss Seeton’s smile turned to an anxious frown. “You do not, if you will excuse my saying so, seem altogether in the best of spirits this morning, Mel dear, although perhaps we should rather call it this afternoon. One tends not to notice the passage of time when one is enjoying oneself, and I have just spent the most interesting—oh. Mel, what is the matter?”

  For poor Mel, at Miss Seeton’s mention of spirits, had felt herself slowly, inexorably start to turn green from the inside out—and the greenness had now become all too apparent to Miss Seeton’s concerned, artistic eye. Change her costume and gender, pose her on a couch, and Mel could have modelled for Wallis’s Death of Chatterton. Miss Seeton, so sympathetic when any of the children in her class fell ill—as opposed, of course, to those who merely malingered—said firmly,

  “You should be in bed, my dear. Perhaps you have taken a touch of the sun—or, as there was a heavy storm earlier, you may have caught a chill. If you were out in it, that is to say, but of course you should not be now, until you are feeling better. Out, I mean. Let me help you home . . .”

  Mel swallowed once or twice, gave up the unequal struggle, and consented to accept Miss Seeton’s escort back over the road to the hotel. She felt more than a little foolish, especially when Miss Seeton, clucking her tongue, opened her umbrella and held it high above Mel’s supposedly sunstruck head. But with the brown-paper parcel of books tucked under her spare arm, and her handbag swinging comfortably from its crook, Miss Seeton was happily confident that she had coped to the best of her ability, in the circumstances. She would see dear Mel safely to her room, then ask the manager if she might carry up a tray of tea for her, with some dry toast and perhaps a lightly poached egg . . .

  And she completely ignored all of Mel’s moaning requests to be allowed, quietly, to die.

  chapter

  ~15~

  WHEN MISS SEETON returned to the castle, it was to find her hostess much occupied with rusks, bone-handled rattles, and gripe water: Lady Marguerite was on the point of cutting her first tooth. She was grizzling, red-faced, and restless. Liusaidh, Mrs. McScurrie, and one of the housemaids had been taking it in turns to walk her up and down, or rock her in the old wooden cradle that had done duty by generations of small MacSporrans, but her wails, despite everyone’s best efforts, continued.

  Miss Seeton uttered expressions of sympathy, wondering at the same time whether to confess to that midnight tin of condensed milk. Her blushes, amid the squalls and lamentation, went unobserved—which she herself did not. On first catching sight of the newcomer’s cockscomb hat, and the way the sun glittered through the nursery window upon the handle of her gold umbrella, Marguerite’s eyes emptied almost miraculously of tears, and her hitherto woeful mouth parted in what seemed to be a smile.

  Everyone held their breath. Nobody moved. Marguerite gurgled. She smiled again. Miss Seeton smiled back.

  “Bless you, Miss Seeton,” breathed the countess, as her cherished offspring began to blow bubbles. “I won’t ask if you’ve enjoyed your day—I’m afraid I don’t care, because you’ve certainly made ours! She’s been fidgety almost from the time you left, and we haven’t been able to do a thing with her
, poor mite.”

  “Or,” muttered Mrs. McScurrie, with a dark look at her mistress, “anything at all. So will we be away back down to the kitchens the now?”

  “Gracious, I hadn’t realised”—Liusaidh glanced at her watch, and seemed startled by what she saw—“it was so kind of you to help, but—only I was hoping to talk a few things through with you, and . . .”

  She regarded Miss Seeton with a pleading look. “You are so very good with her, Miss Seeton. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask if you’d mind—It wouldn’t? Oh, that is kind of you! With luck”—and she rolled her eyes in the direction of the departing housekeeper—“it shouldn’t be for too long.”

  Miss Seeton and Lady Marguerite, old acquaintances now, gazed thoughtfully at each other once the door had closed. The baby was rubbing her face with chubby hands, and might, Miss Seeton guessed, be on the verge of slumber. Worn out by all the crying, no doubt. She rocked the cradle with one gentle foot, and the baby’s eyelids drooped.

  A bedtime story, perhaps. Miss Seeton, proud to be thus of assistance to her kind hosts, racked her brains for the fairy tales of her distant youth: an aristocratic infant—her christening . . .

  “Once upon a time,” began Miss Seeton, “there was a baby princess who had three fairy godmothers, called . . . called”—the prettiest names she could remember right now—“Anthea, and Melinda, and Serafina . . .”

  When Liusaidh peeped through the nursery door some time later, Miss Seeton had run out of fairy tales and was reading to Marguerite from Bird Life of the Glens. Both parties appeared to be enjoying the experience. Lady Glenclachan smiled, and spoke softly.

  “You’re a marvel, Miss Seeton! I do hope you haven’t been too bored?”

  “Indeed, no. Although she has never fallen entirely asleep, she has remained very quiet, which is sure to have soothed her. And what an excellent writer Miss Philomena Beigg is! A pleasure to read, in every sense. I thought, however, that the Massacre of Glencoe would be rather too violent for one so young—and, growing up as she will in the Highlands, I felt it would do her no harm to learn about the natural history of the area. Educational theorists, as I understand the matter, are unable to agree on the earliest age at which a small child will absorb what she hears, and certainly Lady Marguerite seems a very alert baby—from the little I know of babies, that is. Poor Dulcie Rose, though naturally I would never be so impertinent as to tell the Hosiggs so, does seem rather, well, slower. But of course,” and she brightened, “she is generally asleep when I see her, which may account for it. Poor Lily was rushed to hospital, you know, and dear Len was so worried about them both . . .”

  Lady Glenclachan expressed polite concern, then thanked Miss Seeton for taking such good care of Marguerite for the second time, and suggested that she might care to freshen up before dinner. Over which meal, Ranald added his thanks to those of his wife, and Miss Seeton blushed with pleasure.

  “And what are your plans for tomorrow?” enquired Ranald, who had approved Miss Seeton’s choice of reading matter for his infant daughter. “Bird-watching, I suppose?”

  Miss Seeton nodded. “Miss Beigg’s book mentions so many species we do not have in Kent, even as visitors, and I feel it would be a great shame not to take advantage of my stay here—if, that is, it would not inconvenience anyone in any way. But from her description it seems just possible that at this time of year I might see Bucephala clangula—the Common Goldeneye, you know, although I understand it to be mostly a winter visitor. And then there is Regulus regulus. We have gold-crested wrens in Kent, of course, but as it is particularly fond of conifers as breeding sites—and there are one or two plantations in the area . . .”

  “More’s the pity,” muttered Ranald, who had strong views on the Forestry Commission.

  Liusaidh, not wishing to become involved in a political discussion, said quickly, “One of the dialect names for it in these parts is moonie—the goldcrest, I mean. Otherwise known as a gold-cuttie, which is odd, because an ordinary cuttie was a razor-bill, or a guillemot, or even a hare, if it comes to that. Does Philly Beigg mention all this in her book? I have to confess I’ve not read it.”

  “She writes in a most detailed and knowledgeable way,” Miss Seeton replied, “but I regret I am unable to remember everything as well as you do. Moonie and cuttie, you say? How interesting.”

  Liusaidh’s eyes twinkled. “Now, might I make a guess at another of the birds you thought of looking for? The spink, or Carduelis carduelis, perhaps?”

  As Miss Seeton blushed, Ranald said, “There aren’t many goldfinches in these parts, Miss Seeton. Oh!” Realisation had finally dawned. Liusaidh smiled at her guest.

  “Men are always that little bit slower than women, don’t you agree? When you said you’d spent the morning with Philomena Beigg, I simply knew she would have told you about the lost gold mine. And as soon as you spoke of wanting to see those particular birds, well . . .”

  Miss Seeton murmured of her subconscious, adding that it might seem foolish, but she couldn’t help, well, wondering. “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre—such a splendid film. Not that I would know what it looked like, as when it came to the end it all blew away as dust, did it not? Except that when it is not nuggets it is to be found as veins in certain types of rock—granite, mostly, as I recall—and in jewellery, of course, when one recognises it instantly. Unless it is pinchbeck. But one would have to crush and pan it—fast-running streams, or do I mean burns? And no doubt many people have gone looking for it, and never found it.”

  “Over the years, yes—including me, when I was a boy—but no one’s ever found a trace. The Highlands are a wild, uncharted region, Miss Seeton. It’s all too easy to lose a place that might never have existed from the start, and”—his voice grew suddenly grim—“it’s all to easy to lose yourself, too, if you’re not careful. People have wandered off and not been found until the corbies—the carrion crows—have picked their bones clean. You must promise me you’ll be sensible when you go exploring—I wouldn’t want your death from exposure on my conscience for anything in the world. That would be a fine example of gratitude, after all you did for us and the baby!”

  Miss Seeton blushed again, and promised faithfully that she would observe the greatest care while walking in the hills around Glenclachan. She had always impressed upon her pupils the importance of common sense, and hoped that she—who as a teacher was supposed to set a good example at all times—possessed sufficient of this quality to appreciate her singular lack of expertise at mountaineering. Walking, whether through the streets of London or on the paths around her own dear village of Plummergen, was a completely different matter from climbing. She understood the warning his lordship had seen fit to give, and only hoped that by her presence she was not causing him particular anxiety, as she would hate to think—

  “Oh, Miss Seeton!” Liusaidh was conscience-stricken at her guest’s remarks. “You’re not a bother—of course you aren’t. You mustn’t think that for a moment. Indeed, it’s we who should be apologising to you, for leaving you so much to your own devices. But until the . . . the kidnappers have been caught, I’d be frightened not to have Marguerite under my eye all the time—and it isn’t the easiest thing in the world to keep carting a tiny baby around with you . . .”

  Ranald, his eyes showing all the horror of one man in the company of two near-tearful females, said quickly, “If you take a map, and wear sensible clothes, and don’t go too far, Miss Seeton, you’ll be fine. You’re not to worry about it any more—mind you,” he added with a chuckle, “if by any chance you should stray, you could end up mixing with company of the very best, you know. Balmoral’s not so far from here, for a noted walker like yourself. You probably won’t want to speak to anyone in Glenclachan again once you’ve had a chat with the Queen.”

  Miss Seeton beamed at him. “It is most gratifying, and indeed a matter of some relief to me, that the weather has been good, on the whole, for one would much prefer there to be no sugges
tion of untruth, even in the interests of etiquette, although”—and a slight frown puckered her forehead—“I confess that I am not entirely sure of the correct etiquette, when wearing tweeds. Whether or not to curtsey, that is. Martha tells me that in the popular press”—a faint sigh escaped her—“it is generally remarked that, while she is at Balmoral, Her Majesty enjoys a well-deserved holiday with other members of her family, and therefore might prefer to be treated with rather less formality. Because on the last occasion when I was so fortunate as to meet her, at a garden party, Lady Colveden had been kind enough to warn me that one should curtsey and say, ‘Yes, ma’am, delightful weather.’ Although, of course, not incognito. Which, fortunately, it has been, has it not?”

  Ranald blinked, and looked to Liusaidh for assistance. The countess thought rapidly. “Delightful,” she agreed at last, hiding a smile. “Most of the time, anyway, and there hasn’t been as much rain as some years. At least we haven’t had any thunder yet. Some of our storms seem to get trapped between the mountains, and go banging and flashing round and round the glen for hours. It’s all very spectacular—huge towering clouds, and positive daggers of lightning, and the air quite electric in blue and yellow and green . . .”

  Miss Seeton perked up at this description, and remarked that, though she herself had not particularly worried about thunderstorms until her house had been struck by lightning—an occurrence, she had been assured, that was most unlikely to happen again—dear Martha disliked them intensely, and suffered unpleasant headaches beforehand. “Which made it a little awkward, you know, when The Grey Day was overpainted, though strictly speaking one should use another term, as it was pastels on watercolour—because I had considered replacing it with my painting of the electric storm, while it was at Scotland Yard. The Grey Day, I mean. Or, rather, waiting to be stolen from the gallery—at least, so the chief superintendent assured me . . .” She had never been entirely certain that Mr. Delphick hadn’t been teasing her, as dear Bob, who after all worked for him, so often did. Calling her aunt, which naturally one found flattering as a term of affection rather than not, for instance. Not that Mr. Delphick would ever . . .