And, resolutely pushing Plummergen and its cricket match to the back of his mind, Brinton settled down to read.
Paperwork is paperwork the whole world over; liked by some, loathed by others less mentally attuned to its demands. Nigel Colveden, for instance, had relished the practical part of his course at agricultural college, coming a respectable third in his year—and had passed his written exams with less than respectable marks. After graduation, he had sighed with relief at the thought that he would never again have to take any sort of test . . .
Yet here he was, sitting with his father trying to sort out Plummergen’s cricket team now that Daniel Eggleden was unable to play. The bad news of the blacksmith’s broken arm and the drunken Murreystone carthorse had scorched its way round Plummergen as fast as any news had ever done: helped, of course, by the fact that there had been so many witnesses to the perfidy of the rival village. The high-speed advent of the Brettenden fire engine with its bell ringing at full volume had drawn almost all who heard it into The Street to watch what was happening: only those who were housebound ignored its summons, especially since the distance between the forge and Sweetbriars may be measured in yards. General opinion, before the full facts were known, unwittingly echoed that of Superintendent Brinton: what was Miss Seeton doing this time?
“Well, I think it’s jolly unfair of them to blame Miss Seeton for the horse,” said young Galahad Colveden, as his father frowned over the list of names and pencilled in a few tentative changes to the batting order. “How could it possibly be her fault when she’s been in London all day?”
“But she hasn’t,” said Annabelle gently, as Sir George huffed through his moustache, swapped Jack Crabbe’s name for Mr. Stillman’s, and added a question mark. Miss Leigh had been invited to supper after her day’s journeying was done, and was delighted to accept. She sat with her sketchbook on her knee, jotting down impressions of what she had promised Nigel would be a portrait of himself, though her preference, he knew, was for buildings. He hadn’t known whether to be pleased or embarrassed at her tentative offer to draw, perhaps paint, him, but when he learned that it would be unnecessary for him to pose, he agreed, silently reasoning that in order to achieve the series of rough sketches Annabelle said she needed, she would have to spend lots of time with him. Which suited Nigel very well . . .
“Harrumph!” Sir George broke into his son’s reverie with a sympathetic, though forceful, cough. Couldn’t blame the lad for admiring the girl, but work came first. “Team to be picked, remember. Sorry, m’dear,” to Annabelle. “You were saying?”
Annabelle flashed him her most brilliant smile. “Only that—begging your pardon, Nigel—Miss Seeton hasn’t been in Town all day, if it was Miss Seeton I saw as I cycled to Brettenden earlier, which I’m pretty sure it was. We artists don’t often forget faces—and she smiled at me as if she knew me, so it must have been her. In a tiny car being driven by a most enormous young man, turning into the nursing home.”
“Bob Ranger!” Nigel grinned. “What a stroke of luck—I hadn’t heard he was coming for the weekend, but I’m jolly glad he has. We might well have found our substitute for Dan Eggleden—all thanks to Annabelle.” And his admiring glance made her blush.
To cover her confusion, she said: “I’m glad I seem to have been of some help, though I really don’t understand how—or why, if it comes to that. Nigel thinks I’m awfully ignorant,” she confided to Nigel’s father, “but cricket just isn’t something that’s interested me. Until now.” And it was Nigel’s turn to blush, as Annabelle looked at him.
“Oh, gosh,” said Nigel; adding hastily: “I mean, suppose Bob doesn’t play cricket? I know he’s in the police football team—he looks as if he could be a handy bowler like Dan—but if we’re wrong, we’ll be back to square one.” He shuffled the papers with a dismal finger. “We can’t really afford to mess around with the tailenders and twelfth man unless we really must—they’re nowhere near good enough. You’re doing a grand job, Dad, when I’m not even sure it’s the umpire’s job to sort out the players, but . . .”
“Jessyp’s busy with his timetables again,” his father reminded him. Martin Jessyp was captain of the Plummergen team, with Nigel as his deputy, an arrangement which generally worked well. The schoolmaster was acknowledged to be the best paper shuffler in Plummergen, while Nigel was the best bat, always going in at Number Four, after things had settled down. Mr. Jessyp would open the batting, his partner being Charley Mountfitchet from the George and Dragon; Three was usually Mr. Stillman from the post office. He and Nigel could be trusted to put on a fair number of runs together, though it was his spin bowling for which he was most valued. Young Len Hosigg. Sir George’s shy farm foreman, made a good stonewalling partner for Nigel once the postmaster’s wicket had fallen, followed by PC Potter, Bert the postman—who had at last managed to win the Plummergen round for his own and was regarded as a local even though he lived in Brettenden—and, at Number Eight, Daniel Eggleden, whose broken arm had caused such consternation among his friends . . .
“I’ll give the Knights a ring, shall I?” Nigel was on his feet, eager for action.
“Is someone ill?” Lady Colveden, who had refused Annabelle’s offer to help with the washing up, had rinsed and left to drain the last of the dishes, and now came to join the rest of the company. “Has worrying about the team driven your father to distraction? I don’t need to ask,” she added, “whether you, Nigel, have survived the ordeal. I’m sure you’ve delegated it all beautifully.”
“To my elders and betters.” Nigel grinned. “I think Dad’ll pull through, though—which is more than can be said for us, if we don’t find another bowler. But Annabelle says Bob Ranger’s in town—at least, how many other enormous men driving Miss Seeton about in tiny cars do you know who’re likely to take her to the nursing home—”
“The nursing home? Oh, dear. Perhaps she’s not well.” Lady Colveden frowned. “Wasn’t she going to London for the day? I hope nothing’s wrong—Nigel, if you’re phoning, do ask, won’t you?” And her son, who hadn’t thought of anything so unfortunate as illness or accident requiring Miss Seeton’s visit to Dr. Knight, promised he would report back as soon as possible.
During his absence, Sir George took it upon himself to answer Annabelle’s shy query as to the importance of someone so large as Bob Ranger, or a blacksmith, to the cricket team in preference to Nigel, and why Nigel himself was in such a state about it all.
“Muscles, m’dear.” The baronet twirled his moustache in Miss Leigh’s direction and allowed his eyes to twinkle as he enlarged: “Not that Nigel hasn’t his share, of course—working farmer—but big, beefy chaps like that—fast and deadly, y’know. Knock ’em down like ninepins if they get it just right—stumps, that is, not players.”
“The wicket,” said Annabelle, who’d learned a lot over the past few days. Nigel’s devotion to herself had almost equalled his devotion to the national game. He had spent those moments when he wasn’t gazing into her eyes, or paying her compliments, in explaining the strategy he and Mr. Jessyp had worked out between them for Saturday’s big match; and, whether or not she’d been deeply interested, the young woman now knew far more about cricket than she had before. “Three stumps,” she said with a faint smile, “with two bails balanced on top, and if they’re knocked off by the ball when it’s bowled, or when the wicket-keeper catches it and hits them, or by the batsman if he’s clumsy with his bat, then he’s out.”
“Or l.b.w.,” said Sir George, the umpire. “Leg before wicket,” as she turned wondering blue eyes upon him. “If the ball hits the chap on the leg—out. Why you wear pads when you’re batting,” he added. “Ball can fairly whistle down at you sometimes. Why you wear—harrumph! No, never mind—you wouldn’t.” And he reddened behind his moustache as he realised how close he’d been to embarrassing the young lady by mentioning the batsman’s vital little plastic box. He caught his wife’s warning eye and changed the subject.
“Ranger’s a
sporty type—wouldn’t surprise me if he bowled. Hitter, too, probably—different, of course, from a batsman. Just as likely to be out as to hit a six, y’know—but a batsman like Nigel, now . . .”
Annabelle smiled faintly at her swain’s father’s casual compliment to his son, and Lady Colveden, who knew how susceptible her menfolk were to a pretty face and didn’t think overkill was a good idea, remarked:
“You and Nigel and Mr. Jessyp seem to have sorted it all out wonderfully, George. I’m sure Murreystone don’t stand the ghost of a chance—but I can’t help thinking, especially after that business with the horse. It really would, you know, be rather a good idea to go ahead with the revival of your Village Watch scheme . . .”
A suggestion which, after a few twirls of a thoughtful moustache, Sir George was moved to discuss with the assembled company for no more than a few token moments before agreeing that it was a thundering shame the blighters couldn’t be trusted, but, since they couldn’t, he’d do his best to settle their hash for them.
Starting that very night.
chapter
∼ 18 ∼
HAVING EXAMINED MISS Seeton with all due care, Dr. Knight was able to reassure Bob that she would, after a day or so, be back on top form without any lasting effects from the day’s little adventure.
“Miss Seeton,” he said, waving his stethoscope beneath the startled nose of his son-in-law, “is a walking marvel, as you and your precious Oracle really should know, by now. I’m concerned about the quality of policing with which England must be burdened when so-called detectives can trust neither the experience of years, or the evidence of their own eyes. Some people never learn.”
Bob grinned. “She’s a marvel, all right—but you can’t help wondering if she isn’t going to push her luck too far, one day.”
“Well, she hasn’t today. And if it’s any consolation, I doubt if she ever will. Just goes to show what yoga can do for you, plus an overactive guardian angel, of course. Better ring Delphick at the Yard and let him know what I said, to stop him having kittens about his protégée.”
When Bob returned at last from the telephone, he found Miss Seeton taking a late-afternoon-tea-cum-early-supper with Anne, her parents, and Major Howett. The cakes—left over from the patients’ earlier meal—were delicious, the tea itself just right, and the company, as ever, delightful—so said Miss Seeton with one of her brightest smiles, as if collapsing cranes and handbag thieves and coiners’ dens were no more than hiccups in an otherwise orderly existence—which (thought Bob with a secret chuckle) to Miss Seeton they probably were. He accepted a cup of tea from his mother-in-law, suppressing a grimace as he realised how weak, in deference to their guest, it had been made; and ate three cakes in quick succession.
“Got to keep up my strength for Saturday,” he explained to Miss Seeton, who was twinkling at him as she refused to pass the plate a fourth time, after hearing Anne’s protests that he wasn’t to be encouraged. He sighed and turned to his father-in-law. “You know Nigel rang just after I spoke to the Oracle? He’s asked me to play in the Murreystone match—asked if I could bowl at all, and I said I hadn’t been too bad at school. So he said I could take Dan Eggleden’s place at Number Eight.”
“Ah, yes. I patched up the poor chap’s arm before they took him off to hospital.” Dr. Knight shook his head. “It’s a bad business, for a self-employed man like a blacksmith. Those silly bees from the Marsh deserve a good kick in the rear end.”
Miss Seeton was the only one present who didn’t know the full story of perfidious Murreystone, and was properly distressed when she heard it. “Poor Mr. Eggleden—it looks so splendid, and has been much admired, though Miss Wicks’s ornamental balustrade is his pièce de résistance, I believe. My wrought-iron fence. And one has to be so careful, with fire. One cannot help but feel that the Murreystone people have a . . . a less than responsible attitude . . .”
“Load of silly bees,” repeated the doctor, with a snort. “Potter says, and I agree with him, that things are getting completely out of hand over this feud nonsense.”
Major Howett offered a somewhat stronger opinion before recalling that Miss Seeton was not, perhaps, accustomed to her bluff military manner, and barked an apology, her cheeks pink. Miss Seeton assured the major that she had known dear Sir George for some years now, and moreover sympathised with the feelings of those who, labouring to care for the sick, must feel their time was likely to be wasted by those whose misfortunes, to a greater or lesser degree, might be regarded as having been their own fault, and thus unnecessary.
“Except, of course, poor Mr. Eggleden. And—oh, dear.” Miss Seeton looked suddenly more upset than she had when the crane collapsed. “I had forgotten dear Miss Wicks, who can hardly be blamed for the flooding of her home any more than one can blame the fire brigade—who were, after all, only doing their duty. But he will be unable to work for so long—and she is so prone to arthritis, poor soul, that one cannot help feeling anxious . . .”
A general chorus, in which the voice of Dr. Knight became rapidly dominant, hurried to explain that Miss Wicks was even now upstairs, taking a well-earned nap, and Miss Seeton had no need to feel any anxiety for her friend’s welfare. Miss Wicks would remain in the Home until full repairs had been carried out on her cottage. Which, in such warm weather, shouldn’t take too long.
“And she has everything she needs,” he added, as Miss Seeton continued to look anxious. “Anne went down with me to help her pack, and they’ve made a list between ’em of what’s what for later in the week. But don’t worry about her,” he said again. “Let her keep quiet for a day or so, and she’ll be her old self again. Sit on the boundary with you watching Saturday’s match, if she likes.”
“Oh, dear, yes.” Miss Seeton was looking anxious again. “The match—and I promised Lady Colveden . . .”
Ten minutes later, Miss Seeton was waving good-bye to Bob Ranger, who had driven her from the Knights’ in Anne’s tiny car despite her protests that she would enjoy a walk in the evening air. She had been, Bob reminded her, walking round London most of the morning, so how much more fresh air and exercise did she want? Besides, he was under orders to take good care of her: not just from Dr. Knight, but also from the Oracle—who was coming down on Saturday to watch the match, and would give him hell—he begged Miss Seeton’s pardon—who would be annoyed with him if Scotland Yard’s favourite art consultant gave any appearance of not having been properly looked after.
Miss Seeton had no wish to get dear Bob into trouble, of course. She smiled and accepted his escort without further demur; and realised, as he drove away, that she was indeed a little more weary than she had supposed. Another cup of tea would do no harm, she thought, though one felt one had been drinking it all afternoon. But so much dust . . .
She sighed as she removed her hat and set it on the hall table. She very much feared that it would never be the same again after having been knocked off and, one had to suppose, trodden on when the building fell in and all the bricks were sent tumbling into the road. How very fortunate that nobody had been hurt. And how distressing for the poor driver, who had kept saying over and over again—the shock, of course—that he hadn’t meant to, but he couldn’t believe his eyes. Miss Seeton hadn’t understood what he’d meant, but, knowing how important it was that one should be able to trust the evidence of one’s eyes, and to see properly, had hoped the poor man would visit an oculist as soon as possible. Should one, perhaps, have suggested such a visit to him? He might have regarded it as an impertinence from one who was, after all, a complete stranger. Which was no doubt why he had been so very insistent upon travelling to hospital for his checkup in one of the other ambulances: he would naturally not wish a stranger to observe him in a moment of weakness. Male invalids, as Miss Seeton understood—and as her experience with generations of schoolgirls had led her to believe—were far less courageous in matters of health than females, though nobody could doubt their courage in battle and time of war . . .
While Miss Seeton was sighing over PC Potter’s problems, he himself was wondering whether he’d done the right thing in letting Ashford, and Superintendent Brinton, know about what had happened. He’d hoped to maintain a discreet silence in the matter of his reports until Saturday’s match was over: a laudable end he thought he’d safely achieved, until that Shire horse had gone berserk and, almost literally, kicked over the traces. After which, he really didn’t see there was any way he could’ve kept it quiet, no matter how much he might want to. His occurrence book, for one thing: drunk in charge of a horse was the sort of crime you didn’t get much of, these days. The first time the superintendent checked through the pages to see how the other half lived, he’d hit the roof. Besides, he was bound to find out long before that—next week’s local paper’d have it written up for sure. Front page, most like, seeing as it’d happened in Plummergen, home of Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton, the nation’s favourite Battling Brolly. Potter didn’t even bother wondering how The Brettenden Telegraph and Beacon (est. 1847, incorporating (1893) The Iverhurst Chronicle and Argus) would find out: he’d lived in Plummergen for too long to doubt the efficiency of the tom-tom network. If the fire brigade didn’t tell everyone, the hospital staff who’d set Dan Eggleden’s arm, and treated the cracked ribs, the shock, and the broken toe, would. Bound to be in the Beacon, then—and when Old Brimstone spotted it he’d want to know why he hadn’t been told before. But at least—which made a change—nobody could blame Miss Seeton, could they?
Miss Seeton remained, as ever, oblivious to all thought that anyone might blame her for anything, in just the same way that she was able to remain oblivious of the momentous service she had, yet again, rendered to the police. Inspector Borden had thanked her: she had thought it perhaps somewhat excessive for one who had merely been doing her duty in preventing a thief from running off with so many handbags, but she didn’t know him very well—perhaps it had just been his normal manner. But dear Mr. Delphick’s talk of coiners had really been . . . rather muddling. Naturally, there had been coins—money—in the handbags: one kept a five-pound note and a limited supply of small change in one’s own bag at all times, for emergencies, and it wasn’t to be supposed that other ladies would have less foresight. No doubt it was the—yes, one had to admit it at last, in the relaxing privacy of one’s own home—it was the shock of having been so near to the building that collapsed under the weight of the crane which had slightly addled one’s wits . . .
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14) Page 15
