In their office at New Scotland Yard, Delphick shook his head at his red-faced subordinate. “No, no. Don’t you mean it’s Anne who has the responsibilities? She’s stopped worrying so much about all her patients in favour of trying to take care of her husband. And she’s the one who’s decided it’s time you had a holiday, not you. Am I right?”
Bob blushed again, and grinned. “Well, sir . . .”
“I’m right. I thought so. And I’m not surprised. Your Anne isn’t the only one who’s noticed you’ve been working at full stretch recently, Sergeant Ranger. And, as things seem to have slowed down a little in our particular department—and we’ve even made noticeable inroads into the paperwork—in short, why not take a few days off?” Delphick quirked an eyebrow at the enormous young man on the other side of his desk. “Am I really such an ogre that you must stiffen your sinews and summon up your blood before daring to ask me for leave of absence? Surely not. Especially when, as I remember, you haven’t used half your year’s entitlement yet.”
Bob shuffled his feet and cast uncomfortable glances in the direction of Delphick’s in-tray. “Well, sir, I did sort of wonder. . .”
“Whether you could be spared? Nobody, Detective Sergeant Ranger, is indispensable—though there are times when some are less indispensable than others. And, since we have already established that this might just be one of those times . . . Make a break for it, Bob, before something happens to prevent it.” He stretched luxuriously. “Rest and recuperation—you can’t beat them. And who knows? As I appear to be in a sufficiently good mood, you might wangle a long weekend out of me. Have you thought where you might go?”
“Nowhere special, sir. Anne would like to spend a little time with her parents, so—”
Delphick sat up with a jerk. “In Plummergen? Cancel my last remarks immediately. A rest is the very last thing one expects to enjoy, with Miss Seeton in full cry. She is, if you recall, back from her Scottish holiday now, no doubt with her brolly primed and her sketchbook on red alert.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be seconded to Inspector Borden to help him investigate the coiner killing? A nice, safe murder that’s nothing to do with Miss Seeton . . .”
“No, sir, thanks all the same. You said yourself, the other day, it is Fraud’s case, not ours—besides, the poor bloke they found dead may well have been a retired die maker, but they still haven’t definitely proved he was anything to do with the coiners— or with us—or,” some imp of mischief made him add, “Miss Seeton, sir. So, if there’s no logical reason why I can’t have a weekend in Plummergen . . .”
Delphick regarded him thoughtfully. “Use your imagination, Sergeant Ranger. What else did I point out the other day? That everything was unnaturally quiet in our specific operational area—the lull, I now strongly suspect, before the coming storm. There is, no doubt, an entire series of deaths in suspicious circumstances about to be discovered, all of which will successfully be proved to lead back to the coiners—scrap metal merchants, plant and machinery suppliers, drivers of delivery vans, hydraulics engineers—with the inevitable and overwhelming result that Fraud will be forced to ask for assistance.” Delphick achieved a frown of monumental bewilderment. “I doubt, however, if they will ask it from us. I have noticed, in recent years, a marked reluctance on the part of our colleagues to request the help of this particular office.” He shook his head. “I cannot for the life of me imagine the reason . . .”
Bob, who could, grinned, and said nothing. The chief superintendent chuckled suddenly.
“You have your long weekend, Bob, and perhaps I’ll treat myself to a day at the Oval beforehand. If the weather stays fine for the Test Match . . .”
“Tell you what, sir. If it’s cricket you want, why not pop down to Plummergen on the Saturday? It’s the annual Murreystone match—Anne’s mother’s helping with the teas—and, well, it might be interesting. Potter passed the word unofficially that they’re still brooding about the Best Kept Village Competition, and a bit of, well, of muscle—” Bob tried to sound modest, with little success—“might come in handy, Potter says. Young Foxon from Ashford’s likely to drop in too—he’s a handy sort of bloke in a scrap, if you remember. But if Murreystone see enough coppers about the place, it might put them off—and they know us, sir, don’t they? I mean, there’d be no need to let ’em know we weren’t exactly on duty, would there?”
Delphick chuckled again. “Deviousness is not a trait I would previously have associated with you, Bob. So much for your urgent need for a holiday! You haven’t just adopted Miss Seeton as an honorary aunt, you’ve adopted her village as your second home. And now you’re trying to rope me in as moral, if not physical, support . . .”
“It was Anne’s home first, sir,” Bob began; then grinned once more, and shrugged. “Oh, well. After all this time, I suppose I do sort of think of it like that—Plummergen, I mean, as a second home. I get on all right with Anne’s parents, and we’ve made friends with quite a few of the locals over the years. Most people are pretty friendly, once you get to know them—it’s a decent sort of place on the whole, sir. The sort of place it’d be a pity to have bashed up by the local rivals just because of a cricket match. When it’s normally such a—such a peaceful sort of place, sir . . .”
To which outrageous remark Delphick could find no suitable, or coherent, reply.
Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton has no idea that she is regarded by so many people with such circumspection. Never mind that she so frequently becomes, in Delphick’s word, embroiled in adventures which are not of her choosing: never mind that the aftermath of such adventures is almost invariably chaos. Few save her sternest critics have accused Miss Seeton of being directly responsible for the chaos, for direct responsibility suggests choice, and free will, whereas it is generally recognised that Miss Seeton would consider it quite unsuitable for a gentlewoman such as herself to choose any path which is in the least out of the ordinary—and out of the ordinary describes her adventures to perfection. Since, however, she remains firmly convinced that she never undergoes adventures, whether ordinary or not, it is left for her friends and associates to bear the brunt of all the nervous strain which accompanies these adventures, and of the clearing-up which often, of sheer necessity, ensues. Miss Seeton never notices their efforts—or, if something especially out of the ordinary should manage to force itself to her attention, she is always sure that only by accident has she become involved in matters far too exotic for the retired art teacher she feels herself to be: and which, indeed, on one level she is. Her friends and associates, however, know otherwise . . .
But even for Miss Seeton, an invitation to afternoon tea at Rytham Hall was unlikely to result in anything other than an enjoyable time being had by both guests and hosts—some of them, anyway. Lady Colveden was always happy to see Miss Seeton, and looked forward to meeting Nigel’s newest romantic interest; Nigel had changed his shirt in Annabelle’s honour, and was staving off pangs of hunger by demolishing the emergency supply of scones in the kitchen—but Sir George, who had eaten no breakfast and little lunch, was sitting by himself drinking black coffee, and saying that the thought of clotted cream made him feel ill.
“Better not let Mother hear you say so,” warned Nigel, who’d come to tempt his suffering father out of seclusion. “She thinks it serves you jolly well right—she was almost frantic yesterday when you didn’t come home for so long. I was starting to wonder myself, I might add, though I managed to stop her ringing the hospitals to see if there’d been an accident—I said that everyone between here and Brettenden knows you and the station wagon, and somebody would’ve been sure to tell us. But the idea of an orgy—” Nigel grinned wickedly—“never occurred to either of us, of course.”
Sir George groaned. “Strong drinks, in the Navy. Some time since I was on a troop ship. One forgets.” He closed his eyes, and winced. Nigel snorted.
“That’s hardly an excuse for scaring poor Mother into a blue fit and then waltzing in four hours later say
ing that the Howitzer wasn’t such a bad sort after all. Is that any kind of example to be setting your only son? I’m young, and impressionable,” Nigel informed his father in his most solemn tones. “It could do me no end of psychological harm to be the product of a broken marriage.”
His father glared at him, but said nothing. Nigel tried again, producing from behind his back the blue-glass-lined, silver jam dish which Lady Colveden, before her son began to make such inroads into its contents, had filled with strawberry preserve. “You’ll feel better,” said Nigel, “once you’ve taken some sugar into your system. A scone or two, with a good dollop of jam on each—three lumps in your cup, and you’ll be a new man. I’d hate Annabelle to think,” he added carefully, “that my father was such a poor, broken-down specimen . . .”
Sir George managed a grin. “Poor breeding stock, eh?” Nigel looked startled, and blushed. His father essayed a chuckle, which didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared. “Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you? Better see this filly of yours, though, or your mother’ll never let me hear the end of it.” With another groan, less urgent than the first, he raised himself slowly from his chair, took several deep breaths, and tried moving. He was pleased to find that he did not fall over. He made his cautious way across to the window and looked out down the drive.
“Here she comes, dressed to kill,” he announced; and Nigel, with an exclamation, abandoned the jam dish on a side table, blushed again, and bolted from the room.
Ten minutes later Sir George, his spirits much improved by having played this little joke on his son, was talking to Miss Seeton in the sitting room while, in the kitchen, Lady Colveden made tea and, in the hall, Nigel lurked.
It had not been Annabelle Leigh whose coming Sir George had announced with such enthusiasm, but Miss Emily Seeton. Who, with her unique gold umbrella over her arm, her favourite string of beads—yellow glass, inherited from Cousin Flora—about her neck, and a neat straw hat upon her head, had walked the half mile from Sweetbriars under a lazy August sun; and when pressed had admitted that yes, she might perhaps be a little thirsty.
“We won’t wait for Nigel’s friend,” Meg Colveden said as she headed kettlewards. “George, you stay and tell Miss Seeton about the admiral’s party—I don’t want her talking about her holiday until I’m back to hear it. I’m sure it was marvellous—Scotland is so beautiful—but for now . . .”
Lady Colveden smiled kindly upon her guest, nodded to her husband, and left them alone to prepare the tea. Miss Seeton, conscious of the good guest’s duty, enquired:
“You have been to a party, Sir George? And at Ararat Cottage, of course. Dear Martha has told me—it was one of her mornings today, you know—about his coming to live in the village—Admiral Leighton, I mean. Such a pleasure for two such senior officers—oh, dear. I do beg your pardon. In rank, as opposed to in years, because I trust you understand that I would never . . .” Poor Miss Seeton turned pink. “Senior, that is.” She took a deep breath. “Officers and, well, gentlemen . . .”
“Quite right, quite right.” Sir George spoke quickly to spare her blushes, and—to reassure her that he’d perceived no insult in her remarks—nodded once or twice, until he remembered, wincing again. At Miss Seeton’s subsequent look of dismay—had her apology been insufficient? had one still sounded impertinent—he made haste to justify his remarkable facial contortions.
“Gin pennant,” said Sir George slowly, as if those two words explained everything: as, in a sense, they did.
But not to Miss Seeton, whose knowledge of matters military and naval was not so much limited as nonexistent. She regarded Sir George doubtfully. Had she heard him aright? Djinn, she knew from having read The Arabian Nights as a child, was the plural of genie. “In a bottle?” she murmured doubtfully, thinking of the hapless Scheherazade, and her thousand and one tales told night after night to ward off the penalty of death decreed by her husband, the temperamental sultan Schahriah. “Hardly,” she murmured, “a model husband . . .”
Sir George looked startled. Accustomed as he was to the idiosyncrasies of Miss Seeton’s thought patterns, it nevertheless surprised him that she, normally so considerate of other people’s feelings—so reluctant to pass personal remarks—now should apparently think it her duty to censure him for having succumbed to the hospitable wiles of Rear Admiral Leighton. Most unusual—quite out of character for the little woman. Must have misheard, surely?
He became convinced that someone had misheard when Miss Seeton, still musing on his cryptic utterance, frowned, and said, “Although why they should feel obliged to praise an insect, of course . . .”
“Ah,” said Sir George, with relief. “Tea!” How was he to know that Miss Seeton believed him to have uttered not two words, but three—to have talked of the djinn’s “paean” of praise to the humble domestic ant?
“Hymenoptera,” said Miss Seeton, after the briefest of hesitations. “Formicidiae.” And she smiled, thankful for this proof that her memory seemed as sharp as ever, even for the complicated Latin names by which naturalists classified the various species.
Lady Colveden, carrying the tea tray, smiled back without comprehension, and struggled to find a quick and noncommittal reply to her guest’s unorthodox salute. “I’m sure you’re absolutely right, Miss Seeton. It sounds most interesting—but never mind all that now, if you don’t think it rude of me to say so. I’m longing to hear how you enjoyed the Highlands—but you didn’t bring your sketchbook with you. What a shame.”
Miss Seeton murmured of finishing touches, and unpacking still to be done. She did not say—possibly she did not remember—that she had done some more sketching since she’d come home, and been slightly unnerved by what she’d drawn. Miss Seeton’s memory for those instinctive and unusual artistic efforts for which her services are so prized by the police has always been elastic, in order to accommodate a natural reluctance to acknowledge her unique talent. “Perhaps another time,” she said; and Lady Colveden, the perfect hostess, did not press her, and with a light laugh changed the subject.
“Has George told you the truth about yesterday evening, or did he fluff round it the way he tried with us? Is that too strong, by the way?”
Miss Seeton accepted her cup, saying that it was exactly how she liked it, and smiled again. Lady Colveden winked.
“I’d never heard of the gin pennant, until George came rollicking home at some unearthly hour last night positively reeking of rum and singing ‘Heart of Oak’ out of tune. But it seems it’s a really old Naval custom—the gin pennant, I mean. If a ship flies the thing, or whatever the technical term for running it up the flagpole is, then any officers who see it are entitled to assume they’ve been invited to a party—and,” with a grin, “they do. And they party—until the wee small hours, given half a chance.”
Sir George harrumphed, and twirled his moustache, and put sugar in his tea with a determined hand, trying not to wince at the clink of lumps against porcelain. His wife smiled.
“So of course, when the admiral hoisted it—and Major Howett spotted it, and then George—well, no wonder I was without a husband for so long last night. I do think—” she turned to shake her head at her spouse, who was sipping tea with a faint grin on his face—“you might at least have telephoned and told me, so that I could have come to fetch you, rather than have you risk driving the station wagon under the influence—or—” in more heartfelt tones—“so that I could have come to the party as well.”
But Sir George shook his head, and—so potent is the restorative power of tea to those with English blood in their veins—did not wince as he shook it. “Impossible,” he said firmly. “Need to be an officer, m’dear. Charming company, but other ranks—not the done thing at all.”
A remark to which his helpmeet would have responded with suitable scorn, had not a sudden sound of voices in the hall prevented her. She cocked her head to one side, listening. Sir George twirled his moustache again.
“Talk of charming company,” he said,
“and here she is—Nigel’s latest fancy. Miss Annabelle Leigh.” And he frowned. “Wonder why that name sounds familiar?”
chapter
∼ 10 ∼
MISS ANNABELLE LEIGH appeared shyly in the wake of a delighted Nigel, who introduced her with a broad smile.
“Miss Seeton,” he added to Annabelle, “is an artist, too—I bet you’ll have lots to talk about. Come and sit down, and have some tea.” He ushered Miss Leigh across to one of the deep and comfortable chairs within easy reach of the occasional table, in another of which sat Miss Seeton. Who, her eyes bright, smiled warmly at Nigel’s new young friend, and looked forward to a pleasant little talk at some time in the future: for of course one would not wish to discuss matters not of the general interest among one’s friends, who might well be less interested than oneself. Annabelle, her blue eyes alight with her own warm smile, took her seat near her fellow artist with a fluid grace of movement that made Nigel catch his breath, while his father twirled his moustache and decided that his hangover was completely cured.
“Guess what Annabelle’s been doing?” Nigel demanded of the assembled company as his mother poured tea and he passed plates. “When I was so afraid she might have forgotten—she was right outside in the drive, drawing the Hall! And it’s jolly good—spot on. Won’t you let me show them?” he begged, as Annabelle blushed discreetly and murmured that it was the very roughest of sketches: notes and impressions for an idealised English Village painting she planned as a project for the winter, when travelling by bicycle would be rather difficult.
Miss Seeton’s attention was caught by Annabelle’s talk of cycling, for she herself, though an indifferent mistress of that art, practised it from time to time when necessity required. Plummergen regularly shops in one of its three main stores for the basic, and even for some of the more unusual, items; but nearby Brettenden is a larger centre, and to Brettenden, twice a week, Crabbe’s Garage runs a bus sendee to complement the once-weekly county provision. Should any Plummergen shopper have an urgent need for the unusual on one of the non-bus days, the Brettenden trip must be made under one’s own power: in Miss Seeton’s case, that of the rubber-treaded pedal.
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14) Page 8
