Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14)

by Hamilton Crane

  Annabelle hesitated. “You know nothing about me,” she began; but Nigel broke in to say that he knew everything he wanted to know. For the present.

  “Nothing about my talent,” she enlarged, ignoring this hint and speaking in a serious voice. “For all you know, I could be a hopeless artist—don’t you even want to check me out before making such a rash offer?” She gestured towards the laden bicycle panniers. “While I’m, er, checking in,” she said, smiling at the shared joke. “That’s if you don’t mind keeping Edgar company while I see if your Mr Mountfitchet has room for me. After all, there’s no point in asking me to paint Rytham Hall if I’ll be miles away from here by this evening. If you wouldn’t mind waiting while I ask . . .”

  It hardly took those cornflower eyes to persuade Nigel that he didn’t mind in the least; and Annabelle thanked him prettily, blew him a hasty kiss, and opened the front door of the George and Dragon, leaving her own St. George on the step outside, wondering if he dared couple an invitation to tea with a request for a signed likeness of his home.

  “Oh, gosh,” said Nigel, patting Edgar’s handlebars, not caring if his panniers contained the work of a Royal Academician. “Annabelle. Annabelle Leigh . . .”

  chapter

  ∼ 8 ∼

  MRS. BLAINE, NORMALLY so insistent that Eric should digest her meals properly before doing anything about the house or garden, had almost thrown the plates on the table at lunchtime, and herself had set to with knife and fork before her friend had time to pull up her chair. She glowered at Miss Nuttel, daring her to comment on the meal, which was far less elaborate than usual: but Miss Nuttel understood, and ate in a hurried silence. If a watch was to be maintained on the admiral, as little time as possible should be wasted in eating.

  “Weed the borders in the front this afternoon, I think.” Miss Nuttel swallowed a final, hastily chewed mouthful and washed it down with a glass of water drawn from Lilikot’s private pump. “Mow the lawn too, perhaps. Compost.”

  Mrs. Blaine did not point out that the lawn had been mown only three days earlier. She nodded sagely. “August, too hot—everything grows so much faster, doesn’t it? And with all the rain, as well—I thought, you know, that I really ought to clean the windows. They’ve been too splattered by the dust . . .”

  Five minutes later, both Nuts were busy at their respective stations, Miss Nuttel carefully weeding, Mrs. Blaine wielding a languid shammy leather across the vast expanse of plate glass along Lilikot’s front wall. A casual onlooker must have marvelled at how they managed to keep the good work going all afternoon. Anyone else would have been finished within the hour. But the Nuts were not anyone else: they had spent years nosey-parkering, which they considered the perfect pastime; and they could pass that time as slowly, or as fast, as circumstances might demand. Three hours after they had first begun, Miss Nuttel was still clearing weeds from her herbaceous borders, and Mrs. Blaine was still dipping her leather washcloth into soapy water that was by now stone cold, and from which the froth had long since faded away.

  The admiral, alone in Ararat Cottage following the workmen’s departure, was at one time heard through the open windows, hammering nails. Mrs. Blaine, with a squeak, dropped her shammy and darted across to Miss Nuttel, bleating that he must be building a coffin for another underworld corpse, and what did Eric think they ought to do about it. Miss Nuttel, whose ear was more expert and whose indigestion was more intense, retorted that he was probably putting up bookshelves, and Bunny had just trampled on her prize Limnanthes Douglasii. Mrs. Blaine, with a toss of her head, muttered something and stamped off back to her bucket and washcloth.

  Miss Nuttel’s pangs of indigestion died down enough for her to contemplate the thought of a cup of herbal tea, if Bunny could be coaxed into making it—but how to approach her, in this mood? For her part, Mrs. Blaine began to feel hot and thirsty—the very sound of sloshing water made the problem more acute—and wondered whether Eric was still in such a mood, since someone ought to stay on patrol while the other put the kettle on. They each looked up from her task, caught the other’s eye, pulled rueful faces, and stopped what she was doing; but, as neither was prepared to admit she was in the wrong, they went indoors together . . .

  And together rushed out of the kitchen before the kettle had finished boiling. Through their open back door, they heard the sound of Admiral Leighton’s own door closing—his footsteps round the side of Ararat Cottage, marching down the path towards his front gate . . .

  There was a squeak from Mrs. Blaine and a grunt from Miss Nuttel as their two selves collided in a doorway designed to allow the comfortable passage of only one. Neither was at first prepared to yield—they struggled, and squeezed, and snapped at each other. Miss Nuttel’s bony elbows prevailing at last over Mrs. Blaine’s more easily bruised padding, and Eric raced along the hall with Bunny in close pursuit, heading for the all-seeing safety of the net curtains, and the windows that overlooked The Street.

  Side by side the Nuts peered out through the plate-glass spyhole. “Post office,” said Miss Nuttel, as the admiral’s sturdy form strode in the direction of that establishment.

  Mrs. Blaine rubbed a thoughtful bruise, and pouted when Eric took no notice. “He might be going to Crabbe’s Garage, you know. To ask about the bus service, as he hasn’t got a car, after all, has—oh.”

  “Post office,” repeated Miss Nuttel, in tones of deepest satisfaction. “Buy everything this morning?” she added; and Mrs. Blaine understood at once. Forgiving her friend for her elbows and her disagreeable behaviour, she said quickly that she was sure there were a few things she’d forgotten, which wasn’t surprising in the circumstances, was it, and if they were only to go back again she felt sure she would remember what they were. “But we really ought to go as soon as we can, before I have even longer to forget,” she insisted; and Miss Nuttel nodded.

  But before they had finished locking doors, closing windows, and hunting out shopping bags—all of which took far longer than usual, as both Nuts would keep rushing back to check on what was happening over the road—the door of the post office opened a second time, and the admiral appeared, smiling broadly behind his neat ginger beard. The Nuts saw that he had been buying things, for he now had with him two brown-paper packages he hadn’t had before. Tucked under one arm was a heavy, string-tied, bulky bundle; in his free hand he held what was evidently a much lighter affair, which he swung jauntily to and fro as he stepped over the pavement, paused on the kerb, checked for traffic, and duly crossed The Street, back to his cottage.

  Four interested eyes watched him approach the gate—he had left it open when he went out: now the Nuts knew why—and pushed it shut behind him with a careful foot as he held his packages fast. He marched up the path, round the side of the cottage and, presumably, in at his back door: which he then, with a thump, closed.

  Miss Nuttel looked at Mrs. Blaine. Mrs. Blaine looked at Miss Nuttel. She seized her shopping bag and hurried to the front door without waiting to see whether her friend was behind her: she knew, without checking, she would be.

  They were in such a rush to reach the post office that they narrowly missed being run over by Sir George, driving with his usual efficiency from Rytham Hall to Brettenden, in search of some necessary item of farm equipment Nigel, busy repairing the tractor, had said he needed. Lady Colveden’s offer to save everyone time by going herself had been vetoed by her menfolk with ribald remarks concerning her shopping habits, and slanderous suggestions—from Nigel—to do with extravagance, especially in the matter of hats. So it came about that Sir George nearly ran the Nuts down: and they, with one more grudge against the manor to add to their tally—Lady Colveden’s regular employment of that domestic gem Martha Bloomer was another—were faced with the delightful prospect of two different titbits for discussion: the buying habits of the admiral and the driving habits of the general. Their eyes gleamed, their steps quickened, and they entered the post office in a fever of excitement.

  Their ex
citement was the greater as they were frustrated in their attempts to discover anything of what the admiral had bought. Emmy Putts, who had served him, had been the target of some bluff Naval gallantry, and now saw herself as his champion, and therefore mute. Moreover, Mrs. Stillman, who regarded Emmy as a Responsibility—what would she say to the girl’s mother if Anything Happened?—kept a watchful eye both on her youthful employee, and on her tongue. For once, the post office was empty of other customers . . .

  Baffled, Mrs. Blaine rejected three different brands of tinned tomatoes as having Political Undertones and stalked out without buying anything. After a few seconds’ thought, Miss Nuttel followed her.

  “Well!” Mrs. Blaine flounced up the garden path and with hands that quivered put her key in the front door. “Well, really, Eric, I never thought . . . too insulting! When all I did was require a civil answer to a civil question. If the post office prices weren’t lower than the rest . . .”

  But, since they were, this vague threat was as idle as both Bunny and Eric knew it to be; and Mrs. Blaine stamped in silence into the house, wishing she could slam the door to vent her feelings, but conscious that close behind her came Miss Nuttel. Who, to Mrs. Blaine’s surprise, shut the door with a thud, rather than a bang; and then—the only word for it—smirked.

  “What is it, Eric? Not your indigestion again?”

  “Spirits,” hissed Miss Nuttel, with a nod and a scowl in the direction of Ararat Cottage. After goggling at her for a space of three seconds, Mrs. Blaine yelped.

  “Spirits? Sinister powers! Oh, Eric, how dreadful! We all know Old Mrs. Dawkin was simply too strange—and they say That Man asked particularly to buy her house. He said it would suit him perfectly! If he’s in league with That Woman, then he must be a . . . a warlock,” in hushed accents. “A . . . a male witch—living right next door! Oh, Eric, what shall we—what can we do?”

  The blackcurrant eyes widened, first with alarm, then with surprise that Eric was taking no notice. Indeed, rather than responding to her friend’s understandable panic, Miss Nuttel was—was smirking, in that same infuriating way . . . And the blackcurrants narrowed to slits, sparking fire. “Eric, what on earth is the matter?” demanded Mrs. Blaine, as Miss Nuttel stared loftily down her equine nose, exuding an aura of self-satisfaction. “Eric, for heaven’s sake! Don’t keep me in suspense—what did you really mean?”

  The smirk grew wider. “Looked at the shelves,” replied Miss Nuttel, with a portentous nod. “While you were talking to Emmy—”

  “Talking!” interposed Mrs. Blaine bitterly.

  Miss Nuttel ignored Bunny’s grumbles, as she so often had to do. “Checked what was missing—half the bottles gone. Spirits,” she said again, with another nod. “Whisky, brandy, gin, rum. Mixers, too—tonic, soda water, bitter lemon. Stands to reason he bought them—all there earlier, weren’t they?”

  “And nobody else in Plummergen has ever shown signs of being an alcoholic—oh, Eric, how clever of you to notice! The mixers must have been a blind, to make us all think he was really going to use them—but everyone knows,” said Mrs. Blaine, “what hard drinkers these Navy types can be. Look at the way they used to be served with a tot of rum every morning—positively encouraging the habit! He’ll pour them down the sink, of course, and take the rest neat. No doubt he’ll be singing sea-shanties in the middle of the night, and keeping us awake—too shocking, in our dear, peaceful Plummergen! We must be ready to telephone PC Potter the very instant he starts up. We don’t,” she said, in meaningful tones, “want any . . . incidents, do we?”

  “Certainly not. Keep a careful eye on him, in case.” And, suiting the action to the word, Miss Nuttel grabbed her outdoor shoes and gardening gloves from where she had flung them down earlier, and made once more for that ideal vantage point in her herbaceous borders.

  It was while Mrs. Blaine, who was really too tired to wash any more windows, was reluctantly peeling potatoes at the sink that the next stage of the drama unfolded—literally. Miss Nuttel, without warning, rushed into the house and grabbed her friend by the arm, dragging her to the kitchen door. “Bunny, look!”

  Mrs. Blaine followed the direction of the pointing fork, and looked. At the foot of his new flagpole stood Admiral Buzzard Leighton, with a roll of green-and-white cloth in his hands: a roll with a toggle at one corner and a loop at the other. These he attached to the flagpole halyards, and, by a practised hauling motion, he raised the roll of cloth—a flag, the Nuts guessed—to the top of the pole. As it hung there, swaying, he jerked once on the halyards, and the flag unfolded, to flap merrily in the evening breeze. The admiral stood staring up at the flag—a pennant, proudly flaunting its emerald-and-ivory length above his head—and gave a quick nod, as if pleased with his efforts. He walked to the garden gate, opened it, and looked up and down The Street; then he turned on his heel, leaving the gate open, and went back into Ararat Cottage by the front door—which, like the gate, he left open.

  “Well!” said Mrs. Blaine.

  “Exactly,” said Miss Nuttel.

  There was a pause. They gazed at each other, then out at the long green-and-white flag.

  “Signals,” said Miss Nuttel.

  “Well, of course, Eric, it’s too obvious he’s signalling—and to That Woman, as we suspected all along. And he left the gate open for her to come sneaking in . . .”

  There was, to the careful observer, a flaw in this argument, but Miss Nuttel rose above it. “Easier after dark for her,” she said. “Letting her know about it in good time, that’s all—but best keep an eye open now. Just in case.”

  And, Mrs. Blaine concurring, they set up watch once more in the front windows of Lilikot: watching for any visitors to Admiral Leighton in Ararat Cottage—watching for Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton.

  Since the Nuts were so sure they must soon see Miss Seeton, they gave no thought to any idea that others might respond to the admiral’s signal. Great, therefore, was their astonishment when the first response to that green-and-white flag came from somebody else—somebody who, until then, had been generally thought a model of Plummergen probity.

  She came briskly down The Street from the direction of Dr. Knight’s nursing home, on her way to post the bundle of letters the Nuts could see clearly in her hand. Her eyes turned with quick interest to Ararat Cottage; and she halted in her tracks—stared up at the flagpole—was observed to smile. She thrust her letters into the box, dusted down her hands, smiled again; glanced at the gunmetal watch always pinned to her uniformed breast, then headed smartly across The Street to the open gate of Admiral Leighton’s garden—passed through it—walked up the path, tapped on the front door—and, evidently hearing an invitation, entered. And vanished from view.

  Miss Nuttel looked at Mrs. Blaine. Mrs. Blaine looked at Miss Nuttel. Together, they gave vent to their surprise and shock, in four explosive syllables:

  “Major Howett!”

  It was indeed that redoubtable personage, the backbone and boss of Dr. Knight’s establishment, Major Matilda Howett. Retired from an Army career, the major had taken over as Dr. Knight’s nominal second-in-command when matrimony, in the outsize form of Detective Sergeant Bob Ranger, removed his daughter Anne to a part of Kent from which commuting would have been impractical. Anne now worked as a doctor’s receptionist and nurse in distant Bromley; Dr. Knight and his wife, who had, while she still lived with them, innocently supposed themselves to be in charge, had since discovered their mistake. The major Stood No Nonsense, and Got Things Done, and terrified malingerers into instant cures; though beneath her brisk exterior she was kindness itself to the genuinely ill. The Knights counted their blessings, and village wags christened Major Matilda the Howitzer.

  “Oh,” moaned Mrs. Blaine, “I never would have though it—never! When she’s supposed to be such a friend to the vicar’s sister—too hypocritical! What can a woman like Major Howett be doing in the admiral’s house?”

  “Better not ask,” said Miss Nuttel, in tones to send shudde
rs down poor Bunny’s spine. “Drink . . .”

  “White slavery!” breathed Mrs. Blaine, with as much glee as Emmy Putts—who found life in Plummergen very dull—was wont to speak of such things before being routinely suppressed by Mrs. Stillman. “Oh, it’s too shocking! He’ll dope her, of course—a Mickey Finn, isn’t it?—and then That Woman will carry her off to Sweetbriars, where nobody will be able to find her—that high brick wall, remember?”

  Miss Nuttel, nodding, remembered; choosing to forget, as did Mrs. Blaine, that Miss Seeton—who stood five-foot-nothing in her stockinged feet—was at best estimate half the size of the formidable major, and moreover didn’t drive a car. Since it had already been remarked that the admiral also possessed no motor vehicle, it would seem that the mechanics of this particular abduction were inefficient, to say the very least.

  “Nobody will be able to hear her calling for help,” Mrs. Blaine said gloatingly, her eyes gleaming. “And oh, Eric, how can we be safe in our beds? What’s to stop him creeping in here in the middle of the night . . . Eric? Oh, Eric! Oh, no!”

  For, even as Bunny’s lament had been building up to its thrilling climax, Miss Nuttel’s attention had drifted from her friend, caught by what was happening outside.

  Where a moving vehicle had slowed on its southbound way down The Street, and stopped almost exactly opposite, so that the driver could look in the direction of Lilikot—in the direction of Ararat Cottage next door—in the direction of the admiral’s signal . . .

  Which, having been duly observed, prompted the driver to switch off his engine, lock the car doors, and cross to Ararat Cottage. Where, after a quick tap on the open door, he went inside . . .

  Leaving the Nuts to gape at each other in horror.

  “Oh, Eric, surely not! And he’s a married man!”

  chapter

  ∼ 9 ∼

  “I’M A MARRIED man now, sir, if you remember.” Detective Sergeant Bob Ranger sounded slightly aggrieved. “I’ve got responsibilities.”