Miss Seeton’s eggs come from the chickens which inhabit the henhouse at the bottom of her back garden. The garden, and the hens, are cared for by Stan Bloomer, Martha’s farmhand husband, without charge; he selling any surplus eggs, fruit, flowers, or vegetables for profit, enhancing his reputation around the village as a strong, silent, and invaluable worker. Martha comes in twice a week to clean for Miss Seeton, who is cousin, goddaughter, and heir to Old Mrs. Bannet, Martha’s previous employer. Mrs. Bloomer happily “obliges” other households about the village; but resembles Mrs. Micawber in her insistence that she will never desert—no matter what inducements are offered by those attempting to poach her services—her “Miss Emily,” to whom she, like Stan, is devoted. As Miss Seeton, in turn, is devoted to them . . .
“Dear Martha.” Miss Seeton’s eyes were bright as she read her henchwoman’s note. “I do hope she will like the little gift I have brought from Scotland . . .”
The kettle’s whistle broke into her reverie, and she set about following Martha’s kind advice to make herself a good hot cuppa. An English gentlewoman, no matter how weary, can brew a cup of tea almost by instinct. Take the pot to the kettle—rinse with boiling water to warm it—pour the rinsings away—spoon in just enough loose tea from the caddy—some say one spoon for each person and one for the pot, but Miss Seeton prefers hers less strong—pour on boiling water—put on the lid—pop on the cosy—and wait.
“Four minutes,” murmured Miss Seeton, glancing up at the clock before hunting out milk from the fridge and cake from the tin. She poured milk, sliced cake, tidied away as the clock ticked on; the time was up, and she took a teaspoon to the pot, stirred briskly, allowed the leaves to settle, and poured. And smiled. And carried the tray into the sitting room . . .
The comfortable chink of china was interrupted by a yodelling wail from just beneath the window, and Miss Seeton started, sending a splash of tea into her saucer. The wails turned into growls, and there came a hasty, spitting sound, followed by a series of vegetable crashes, and a bump.
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Seeton, knowing what these noises signified. She had moved to the window, and now looked out to see a black-and-white furry streak disappearing down her front path, hotly pursued by a victorious tabby thunderbolt. “Tibs!” Miss Seeton banged on the window, rattling the glass. “Tibs!”
But little Amelia Potter’s infamous pet, though normally holding Miss Seeton in some respect, was deaf to all remonstrance as she chased the interloping moggy through the gate and out of sight behind Miss Seeton’s wrought-iron fence, leaving Stan Bloomer’s herbaceous borders looking less tidy than they’d been two minutes earlier. “Oh, dear,” said Miss Seeton, hearing distant sounds of combat; but she knew there was nothing to be done. Tibs, with the light of battle in her eye, can move extremely fast, and will cheerfully chase any foreign feline from one end of The Street to the other—indeed, had probably done so on this occasion, since her home in Plummergen’s police house is on the northern edge of the village, while Sweetbriars lies towards the southern.
Miss Seeton sighed and returned to her neglected tea. She ate cake and poured herself a second cup; she yawned. It had been a busy time: everyone had been so kind, but home was, after all, the best place to be, though her memories of Scotland were indeed happy. She would look back through her sketchbook to refresh them, while she drank her second cup; Jack Crabbe’s magazine was a treat which would need rather more concentration than she felt able, at present, to apply.
Miss Seeton’s sketchbook was on the top layer of her suitcase, and easily found. Automatically, she took pencils and her eraser back with her into the sitting room; and, as she leafed through the pages, found herself drifting into a happy daydream of sights she had seen, people she had met.
After the final drawing, she allowed the book to rest open on her lap, while she pondered Miss Philomena Beigg, naturalist and author, whose signed copy of Bird Life of the Glens had been packed next to the sketchbook in Miss Seeton’s suitcase. She must remember to tell Mrs. Ongar, who did such splendid work at the Wounded Wings Bird Sanctuary, all about her new friend from Scotland . . .
“Good gracious.” Miss Seeton came to herself, blinked, and looked down at the page before her, which was no longer blank. At some point in her reverie she must have picked up her pencil and started to draw. No doubt she had started—though one had no conscious recollection of this—with the intention of committing to paper another memory of her Highland holiday: surely those were rocks she could see in the distance? Cluttered and tumbled as they were, it was difficult to be sure, especially as the foreground was filled with images of birds. Birds which were all grey, large, long-necked, their huge wings tipped with black, their tails short, their beaks sharp—birds distinguished from other avian sketches Miss Seeton had from time to time drawn by the injuries closer inspection showed had been suffered by every one.
“Oh, dear!” Miss Seeton stared at trailing wings, damaged bills, tom feathers, broken legs. “Oh, dear . . . But, of course, as I was only just now thinking of Wounded Wings . . . And that splendid book The Flight of the Heron, which I recall reading at school. D.K. Broster—such a vivid Scottish setting . . . or are these, perhaps, cranes, rather than herons? They are sometimes so easily confused—and it is, of course, a common error in some parts of the country to refer to Ardea cinerea as a crane when it is, in fact, the Grey Heron—yet an understandable error, when one examines these sketches—if even I cannot be sure which it is . . .”
Miss Seeton frowned, shook her head, and began to murmur “Heron? Crane? Heron? Crane?” as if these words were some rare mantra recently discovered during her reading of that invaluable book Yoga and Younger Every Day. Her study of its precepts had done wonders for her knees, and indeed for the rest of her. Miss Seeton, for her age, was in remarkably good shape, both physically and mentally; she had no real need of mantras to help her relax; and she came drowsily to the decision that the birds were cranes—and that it didn’t matter much in any case. She was far more interested in the strange circular shapes which had now appeared in the air above the injured birds—hailstones, perhaps? There had been one or two spectacular storms around the glen, certainly, yet no hail, that she recalled. And, strangely, one had drawn no lightning, which had been so vivid a part of those storms . . .
One had to hope the weather would be better on Saturday, when Plummergen were to meet Murreystone. Dear Jack Crabbe. What a very clever young man he was, and how kind to let her keep the magazine . . . She feared she had not altogether understood his description of cricket, though naturally, being English, one knew a little . . .
Dreamily, Miss Seeton began to sketch what she could remember of the game of cricket, as played by the Plummergen team. One might not understand the laws, but one supported one’s home side to the best of one’s ability—and there was little hardship in sitting among friends in deck chairs, with wide-brimmed hats against the sun, watching white-garbed figures moving on emerald grass . . .
Daniel Eggleden, village blacksmith and mighty bowler—dear Nigel Colveden, who batted, so his parents explained, so skillfully—Jack Crabbe, the wicket-keeper . . .
Warming to her task of capturing on paper her many dear friends engaged in one of their favourite pastimes—no, she must not use this word, even in her thoughts. Miss Seeton smiled as she heard again the distant voice of Nigel thrilling with horror, informing her that cricket was nothing less than a religion—dear Nigel, such a lively, charming, good-humoured young man . . .
Such a dear friend—as, after so many years, were they all. Miss Seeton roughed in the final outline, added a hint of shadow beneath the umpire’s feet, and held her sketch out at arm’s length to see whether she had, indeed, captured on paper even part of the mystique that was cricket . . .
And at first smiled, pleased with the translation of her happy vision from her mind’s eye to reality.
And then looked more closely, and blinked.
“Good gracious me
,” said Miss Seeton.
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“GOOD GRACIOUS ME.” She blinked again. The picture did not change. There was Plummergen’s playing field, on which in winter football matches were fought out with rival teams, but which in summer was dedicated to England’s national game—no, religion. Miss Seeton, thinking of Nigel, smiled; but the smile was soon replaced by a puzzled stare, as she continued to study her picture. The pavilion, in which Lady Colveden and her friends served such delicious teas, looked—as it had done on the occasion of Miss Seeton’s last visit—somewhat the worse for wear: which was understandable, as the summer had been hot and dry for some weeks before several heavy storms had broken the drought. Wooden buildings, unless of oak, are painted against the ravages of the English climate—and paint, during hot, dry spells, peels.
There was the pavilion—in the background, but still recogniseable. In the foreground, the back view of a watching umpire, his shadow flickering on the grass. The players he was watching stood together, close to the familiar three-stumped shape of the wicket, as if about to discuss some change of tactics; with their heads—their faces—turned so that the umpire, and anyone looking at the sketch, could clearly see them. There they were: Daniel Eggleden, Nigel Colveden, Jack Crabbe, and the rest of the team: all of them old friends, all of them—having been born east of the Medway—Men of Kent, as opposed to those who, born west of the river, must be called Kentishmen. But English through and through, of that there could be no doubt . . .
So why, wondered Miss Seeton, were their facial features so very . . . oriental? The slanted, dark eyes; the flattened noses; the hint of swarthiness about the skin . . . She knew, of course, who they were—who they were supposed to be—but somehow, well, they weren’t. And why did some of the players sport, instead of the traditional cricketing caps, peaked and soft-crowned—or even the newly popular soft towelling hats, about which Nigel, the traditionalist, had been so rude—wide-brimmed coolie straws? When the game they were all playing—when the setting in which they were all playing it—when everything was so very English . . .
“A touch of the sun,” said Miss Seeton firmly and shook her head, and felt a yawn coming on. “I really think . . .”
She folded her sketchpad, set it to one side with her small selection of drawing tools, picked up Jack Crabbe’s magazine, and decided that a little lie-down upstairs would not, in the circumstances, be very self-indulgent, after all—not when one had travelled so far, and when—
Miss Seeton froze in mid-movement. What was that noise?
As she stood stock-still, she heard it again: a light, scrabbling, pattering sound from the far corner of the room. A further pattering, and a squeak.
“Oh, dear.” Miss Seeton clicked her tongue. Some poor animal—a mouse, a shrew, a vole—had found its way into her house from the garden, and seemed unable to find its way out. How dreadful—she had been away for almost a fortnight. For how long must the poor creature have been starving here while she—
“Martha,” said Miss Seeton, with a sigh of relief. Dear Martha would have chivvied that mouse outside the moment she heard its tiny claws on the floorboards—Miss Seeton shut her mind to the horrid possibilities of the spring-loaded mousetrap—and she had visited Sweetbriars every other day, the last time having been only that morning. Which meant that the mouse—or whatever it was—must still be in good health. She would not, when she went to look for it, find a weak, gasping near-corpse with fading eyes . . .
The pattering came again. Miss Seeton frowned. One had no wish to harm the poor creature, but it could hardly be permitted to remain indoors: Martha usually chased them with her broom when she spotted them, which wasn’t very often, but was known to happen. Living in the country, one had to expect such incursions. Miss Seeton frowned again. By the time she had hurried out to fetch dear Martha’s broom from the hall cupboard, the mouse would have vanished—one knew how quickly they could move.
“Oh, dear!” Thoughts of speedy movement reminded Miss Seeton that Tibs was on the prowl at her end of Plummergen. Tibs caught more mice, rats, birds, and even rabbits than any other cat in the village. The mouse, or whatever it was, must be released into Miss Seeton’s back garden, behind the safety of the high brick wall—and she must be sure not to tell Stan, who would grumble about his vegetables . . .
But first, to catch it. Miss Seeton’s ear was keen, and she knew that the creature had come to a halt in its patterings over in the far corner of the room. There were no convenient holes in the floorboards down which it could escape: it was trapped—she flinched—it was cornered. She would catch it, and carry it outside . . .
She took two wary steps towards the now-stilled pattering, and peered into the distance. The eye of an artist is not deceived by shadows, by light and dark and outline: she peered, she concentrated, and she saw. A small, grey-brown, long-tailed, bright-eyed, panting creature had seen her move, and was quivering as close against the safety of the skirting-board as it could.
One could not, of course, go on peering indefinitely: it was hardly, well, practical. Miss Seeton thought wildly of dusters, with which she was wont to catch spiders before putting them out of the window—could she snatch one of her antimacassars from the back of an armchair and drop it over the mouse as if it were a spider? But spiders, of course, did not bite. Except tarantulas, and red widows, and others of foreign origin. What manner of poisonous spider, Miss Seeton found herself wondering, inhabited the Orient?
“What nonsense!” She shook her head, and the mouse was observed to jump. It emitted a terrified squeak. Miss Seeton frowned, and looked about her once more.
She smiled. Not taking her eyes from the mouse in case it should make a dash for it, she reached sideways, tipped the dregs of her tea into the slop-bowl, gathered up her saucer, and, cup in one hand, saucer in the other—a pair of porcelain pincers—she advanced slowly, steadily, upon the corner of the room where the mouse lurked . . .
And, swooping, scooped it triumphantly into its unorthodox crockery cage, where it scuttled and squeaked in great alarm while she bore it breathlessly out of the sitting room to the kitchen, set it on the draining board while she opened the back door, and, walking carefully to the middle of the lawn, released it.
Miss Seeton was rather proud of herself as she returned to the sitting room. The mouse, after a moment’s terrified paralysis, had darted to the edge of the lawn and disappeared into the shrubbery with—she could almost have sworn—a farewell flirt of its tail as it vanished. Evidently it had suffered no lasting harm from its little adventure; now she must discover whether she, or rather her dear cottage, had suffered any harm from the mouse. Teeth—and scratching claws—and, of course, droppings . . .
After a careful search around the entire ground floor of Sweetbriars, Miss Seeton could be confident that her small visitor had caused no damage. The search, however, had left her rather tired. And thirsty. “Just one more cup of tea,” she promised herself; then she would start work. Answering letters, paying bills, putting her washing in the machine—no, she’d better do that first, so that it could be soaping and spinning and rinsing while she drank her tea and read through the pile of correspondence. Although . . . when dear Jack Crabbe had been so kind—one’s own personal copy of his magazine—and he was sure to ask what she had thought—and there was always the risk, when one was drinking, that a sudden clumsy movement might spill tea over papers one would prefer to remain tidy . . .
Miss Seeton was just carrying her tray into the sitting room for the second time when, at the end of the hall, the telephone rang. She trotted towards it, set the tray down on the table beside the umbrella rack, and picked up the receiver with a smile.
“Plummergen 35 . . . Why, Lady Colveden, what a pleasant surprise!”
Meg Colveden was careful to begin by asking whether Miss Seeton had enjoyed her holiday, and—having heard how much she had—hoping that the journey home had not overtired her. Miss Seeton, with a guilt
y glance at her second cup of tea, hurried to assure her friend that it had not.
“That’s splendid,” said Lady Colveden, with perhaps more enthusiasm in her voice than might normally have been expected. “So you’re fully refreshed and ready to go! Though you’ll be busy this afternoon sorting things out, I suppose. But will tea tomorrow be all right for you? We’d all be so pleased to see you. We rather hope”—her voice sank to a conspiratorial murmur—“to persuade Nigel’s latest conquest to join us, too—at least, he may not have conquered her, but she certainly seems to have had an overwhelming effect on him.” She stifled a giggle. “George and I felt almost sorry for the poor boy at luncheon, when he was trying so hard not to look embarrassed—you know how he is . . .”
Miss Seeton knew: how could she not? Everyone in Plummergen knew that young Nigel—as he would no doubt remain for years to come—had inherited, along with his father’s eye for the ladies, his mother’s generous heart. The baronet’s heir fell in and out of love nearly as often as Miss Seeton tumbled in and out of adventure—nearly, though not quite. Miss Seeton, of course, did not acknowledge the adventures, even in thought, but she had to acknowledge the susceptibility of her young friend to an attractive face and graceful figure. And one had to confess to a little twinge of curiosity at the chance of meeting the latest object of Nigel’s fancy . . .
“Then that’s agreed, Miss Seeton. We’ll see you at tea tomorrow—and perhaps,” added Meg Colveden, “you might like to bring your sketchbook to show us? I’m sure you’ve drawn some marvellous views of the Highlands, and we’d all be so interested to see them . . .”
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14) Page 5
