Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3)

by Heron Carvic

  “Scuse me, miss.” Miss Seeton turned. A small, happily grubby boy studied her with solemn eyes. “Me nuisance’s stock up t’ tree.”

  “Your …?” Her gaze followed the indication of a pointing finger. On a branch just out of her reach was a—well, a balloon, she supposed. Four bloated red sausages attached to an inflated orb with an orblet for a head: it resembled the gentleman who advertises Michelin tires. Probably a space man, she decided. Miss Seeton raised her umbrella and gently prodded the object. Carefully she lowered it free of the branch. The child jerked the string. Miss Seeton’s umbrella had a sharp ferrule. There was a pop and the body of the figure disappeared; its appendages began to wither, thus metaphorically fulfilling Chief Inspector Brinton’s pious hope that she would stick her umbrella into Nuscience and pop it for him. “Oh dear,” said Miss Seeton.

  “Don’ matter,” the boy comforted her. “Got ’nother.” From a pocket he produced some wrinkled red rubber. He put it to his mouth and blew. Another space man blossomed. Inserting a plug, he untied the string from the corpse and attached it to Mark II. He held it out. “Give that a poke with yer brolly,” he suggested. “Makes a good bang.”

  “Don’t be silly,” protested Miss Seeton. “Then you wouldn’t have a balloon.”

  “Would an’ all. Got three more.” He rummaged in his pocket again and held them up. “Me mum’s a Nuisance, yer see. She got ’em at a meeting. They gives ’em you for free if yer gives ’em enough lolly to join ’em. It’s a ’vertisement, yer see.”

  “Still I think you’d better make them last as long as you can, otherwise your mother won’t be pleased. Also”—Miss Seeton frowned—“you shouldn’t refer to your mother as a nuisance. It’s not polite and I’m sure it isn’t true.”

  “Is an’ all,” the boy reiterated. “Me dad’s wild. ’E’s Railway, yer see, with overtime on t’ farm an’ ’arvestin’ an’ such and me mum does field, spuds an’ beans like—savin’ for a car they was—and then me mum she goes an’ swipes the lot an’ gives it to this Nuisance an’ me dad was that mad I thought ’e’d do ’er straight.” His eyes sparkled at the recollection. “ ’Sides, ’e’s church, yer see, an’ ’e don’t ’old with Nuisances.”

  Miss Seeton abandoned the argument. Obviously there was something one hadn’t quite understood. The Kentish dialect. So very different for a newcomer. She smiled, nodded and went her way.

  chapter

  ~3~

  “Something awful has happened.” This breakfast bombshell failed to explode. “I said,” said Lady Colveden, putting down a letter and taking more butter, “something awful’s happened.”

  Her son raised balanced egg on sausage. “Such as?” He munched.

  “Aunt Bray,” replied his mother.

  Nigel pushed his plate aside and reached for the toast rack. “Dead?” he asked hopefully.

  “You shouldn’t be callous,” his mother reproved. “Though,” honesty forced her to admit, “it would be nice.”

  Nigel spread toast. “Then what’s she done?”

  “She’s coming here.”

  The explosion lost none of its effect through delayed action. Nigel choked, while the newspaper opposite her went down with a scranch. “No,” said Sir George.

  “Yes, George.” Lady Colveden tapped the letter. “She’s coming to stay.”

  “Put her off.”

  “I can’t. There isn’t time. She’s arriving this afternoon.”

  “Tell her we can’t have her.”

  “Don’t be silly, George, how can I? And if I did it wouldn’t make any difference. You know she never listens unless it suits her.”

  “Or doesn’t suit others,” put in Nigel.

  “And anyway,” concluded Lady Colveden with unanswerable logic, “she’s your cousin, George, not mine.”

  Nigel dug into the marmalade. “What’s happened to the juvenile delinquent?”

  “Nigel, I’ve told you before that’s not the way to speak of your cousin.”

  “Second cousin,” corrected her son, “twice removed—by the police.”

  “Besides, Basil wasn’t delinquent. If your mother’s got as much money as Aunt Bray has, you’re maladjusted and go to an approved school.”

  “Approved by whom?”

  “How should I know? I imagine it’s a school that approves of that sort of thing. After all,” she pointed out reasonably, “I suppose even criminals must be trained somewhere.”

  Sir George passed his teacup. “Why?”

  “Why?” echoed his wife. “Because … well … Oh, I see: why Aunt Bray? You’d better hear the worst.” She picked up the letter. “ ‘Dear Margaret’ … Nobody but Aunt Bray has ever called me Margaret. Oh, no, that’s all complaints about the servants.” She dropped the page. “ ‘I cannot understand …’ No, that’s a complaint about some committee or other. Ah, here we are. ‘Since leaving school Basil has got the most wonderful job with some wonderful people, which only shows how wrong George has always been about him. He’s got THE FAITH’—I think she must mean Basil has, and it’s in capitals—‘and so have I. It’s changed my whole life, I’m a different woman.’ ”

  “Doesn’t sound it.” Sir George took his refilled cup from Nigel.

  “Well, no,” she agreed. “But if the change has only just begun, it probably wouldn’t show yet. ‘Until I accepted Freedom and grasped the Infinite I hadn’t lived. This world is ending very soon now, but we in Nuscience will Go On and carry the Torch Beyond. I’ll explain it all better when I see you.’ ”

  “She’d need to,” said Nigel.

  “ ‘Basil has become a Trumpeter—isn’t it wonderful—and very well paid. We had a wonderful meeting in Tonbridge and next week is to be the final one at Maidstone. After that they will disclose our Secret Place.’ ”

  “Woman’s mad,” said Sir George.

  Lady Colveden skimmed the rest of the effusion. “She says she’ll be arriving this afternoon to stay for a few days and go to this meeting, that we must go and that it’s wonderful and worth every penny of it. ‘But Basil will stay in Maidstone with some of the’—well, it looks like Majordomos but it can’t be—‘because some people’—she means you, George—‘are so unreasonable.’ ”

  “I too,” declared Nigel, “am unreasonable. Father only chucked him out of the house. I chucked him into the pond when I was only nine. What is this whatsit meeting anyway?”

  “It must be some sort of religious concert,” guessed his mother, “if Basil’s playing the trumpet.”

  “Well, count me out,” said Nigel. “Aunt Bray’s the end and Basil’s beyond it, but trumpets’d be the last straw.” “Straw!” she exclaimed. “That reminds me. Have we got any clean straw or shavings in the barn?”

  “Probably. What d’you want them for?”

  “Packing. I must send off that quite lovely doll that Miss Seeton left for Janie. It was such a shame she couldn’t give it to her herself; and she really shouldn’t have spent so much. But still”—Lady Colveden brightened—“she might find the extra money useful. I had a word with the other school governors and we all said yes.”

  Sir George folded his paper and stood up. “To what, m’dear?”

  “Mr. Jessyp spoke to me the other day; he says it’s all very well being called headmaster, but with only one other teacher—and she’s always taking time off to visit sick mothers and aunts and cousins and things—he’s more of a pen pusher and bottle washer and would the board mind him asking Miss Seeton to do occasional part-time teaching at the school if she could manage it.”

  “That should teach the tots a thing or two,” said Nigel.

  “Well, why not?” replied his mother. “After all, crises are a part of life, and you can’t deny that Miss Seeton’s an expert on crises. Disasters follow her about wagging their tails like friendly puppies and she just pats them on the head and solves all the trouble without even knowing there was any and comes up smiling at the other end. What better education could there be? It�
�s a pity the Government didn’t get her to deal with the railway strike yesterday; she’d’ve sorted it out with one wave of her umbrella and then Julia and Janie wouldn’t’ve had to go home early. I think Miss Seeton should go into politics. They’re always having crises there and she’d clear them up in no time with a little common sense.”

  Sir George turned at the door. “Common sense and politics don’t mix, m’dear.”

  For Miss Seeton, too, there was cause for misgiving in her morning post.

  Really. Very kind. And of course in a way, she supposed, gratifying. If one wanted to, that was. Teach, she meant. Miss Seeton laid down the curtain that she was hemming, pushed the box of pins aside for safety and reread the letter.

  The School House

  Plummergen

  Kent

  Friday, 26th September

  Miss Emily D. Seeton

  Sweetbriars

  Plummergen, Kent

  Dear Miss Seeton,

  Further to our conversation the other day, I have been wondering whether you would agree to consider working here occasionally as a part-time supply teacher—nothing onerous, and only when you feel free to do so.

  I have an immediate occasion in mind. Miss Maynard has had to visit her mother, who is ill, and will not be returning until next Monday night. If you would take over her class on the Monday I would be most grateful. The work is all set so it would require little more than supervision. Also we have planned an educational visit for the following week to give the children a day by the coast. If you would be willing to accompany them it struck me that this might be combined with an art project; possibly a competition for the best painting of some particular view—to be chosen of course by yourself. The pay would naturally be in accordance with the usual scale for teachers, which, as you are probably aware, is quite reasonable for those doing occasional supply work.

  Perhaps you will let me know your reaction.

  Yours sincerely,

  Martin C. Jessyp

  So that was what Mr. Jessyp had meant when he had stopped her in the Street and introduced himself. Now that she thought of it, she did remember that he had particularly asked her whether she had undergone a training course. Well, actually one had. Mrs. Benn, who had always proved so very thoughtful as a headmistress, had especially asked one to. And although one had, in fact, qualified and had, on several occasions, taken over classes from the other mistresses at the little school in London, one could not, one feared, feel it was one’s forte. Drawing—well, that, she hoped, she understood. Of history she had perhaps a certain knowledge. But geography … and, above all, mathematics … It was difficult to believe that children could derive any benefit from a lesson in which the teacher knew less than nothing of the subject.

  But teaching … If one were honest one had, one was bound to acknowledge, sensed a certain relief on one’s retirement as a schoolmistress; at no longer having to teach children who, for the most part—and quite understandably—had no wish to be taught. However, in this instance she could hardly refuse. After all, it would not be often and, there was no question, the money would be helpful. On Monday? That left very little time. She must reply this evening. Just so long as it was not mathematics.

  Miss Seeton picked up the second of three letters. The envelope was typewritten and addressed to “MissEss, Sweetbriars, Plummergen, Kent.” She smiled. Her code name, of course. It must be from Scotland Yard. But surely it couldn’t be a check. They owed her nothing. How very odd. Superintendent Delphick, she felt sure, would have addressed her as Miss Seeton. No, to be accurate—the superintendent was always meticulous in such matters—it would probably have been her full name and initials. How curious. It was quite a problem to imagine what anyone at Scotland Yard could be writing to her about. Miss Seeton finally resolved the problem by slitting the envelope and extracting the contents. She read with surprise and growing dismay. Really it was very kind of Sir Hubert. Most thoughtful. But no. It was quite out of the question. It would be most improper. For oneself, that was. Particularly at one’s age. Even if, as Sir Hubert suggested, one was only retained. She was perfectly willing, as Superintendent Delphick knew, to do occasional Identi-Kit drawings: indeed she had been most grateful for the work and the police had been more than generous. But this … She read the letter again. To join the police force? No. Really that would not do. She had neither the knowledge nor the experience for such work. How very strange life was: to be offered two posts in one day. In his letter Sir Hubert reminded her of their meeting on an occasion when she had visited Scotland Yard, and begged forgiveness for using the absurd nickname that the Yard’s computer had given to her: it would appear that this monster had its own foibles and among them was a childish dislike of being corrected; so to avoid tantrums and uphold the filing system it was simpler to continue to use MissEss, if she was agreeable. Oh, so that had been the reason. Well, naturally she quite understood. Like her bank in Brettenden when they had gone under—or was it over—to a computer. Sir Hubert also urged her not to answer his letter at once but to take her time and think it over. Sergeant Ranger, he informed her, was on leave and would be visiting friends in Plummergen. The sergeant would avail himself of the opportunity to call on her, with her permission, and discuss her reaction to the proposal. The sergeant … Such a very large young man, and so, one felt, reliable. The friends, of course, would be Dr. Knight and his family. The sergeant and Anne, although he was so big and she was so small, were, one felt instinctively, a perfect match. It was such a very real pleasure when two young people who were ideally suited met and recognized one another. Miss Seeton sighed with the pleasure of it.

  The third missive was a circular. It was headed “CURRENT CUTS.” “DO YOU,” it demanded in loud capitals, “KNOW WHAT THEY ARE SAYING ABOUT YOU?” Well, really. There must be some mistake. She looked at the envelope again. Yes, it was her name and address, but … She started to read the accompanying letter.

  Dear Madam,

  As someone who is constantly in the public eye, would you not be wise to take advantage of our Contemporary Cuttings Service? We cannot, alas, all expect universal praise, but is it not better to know the worst as well as the best? …

  Good gracious. In the public eye? It certainly couldn’t be meant for her. She had never, Miss Seeton reflected with mistaken satisfaction, been in the public eye. Nor was she likely to be so. It would be most unbecoming.

  Many people have the happy mental knack of banishing matters that do not suit them. Miss Seeton is capable of dismissing from her mind any occurrence in her life that does not conform with her conception of the life of a gentlewoman. Gentlewomen do not, in Miss Seeton’s estimation, become entangled in outlandish situations; therefore, in Miss Seeton’s view, neither does she. Miss Seeton’s view, however, is unique. In the village she is variously regarded as a heroine, as a villainess, as a gentle creature who does her best to avoid the troubles that beset her path, as a termagant who, wielding a lethal umbrella, is always in search of trouble. There is no denying that since her arrival in the locality trouble has frequently prevailed. In banner headlines the newspapers have dubbed her “THE BATTLING BROLLY,” though of this she herself is happily unaware. It is true that although crime followed her from London down to Kent, she has also unearthed or stumbled upon crime indigenous to Kent. Of this too she is unconscious, since crime holds no interest for her and she will always attribute where possible the best of motives to anyone she meets. It is in part the fault of the police that her reputation has continued to balloon. Asked by Superintendent Delphick to make one sketch in a case that was worrying him, before the case was finished she made many and went on a spectacular crime-busting spree which landed her back in the headlines; though not the headlines, not the crimes and definitely not the spree have ever been recognized as such by her. Even when forced by circumstances to admit the oddity of some predicament in which she finds herself, she can reject the oddity as an accident which might happen to anyone. In such circ
umstances she considers that it is one’s own behavior that counts: it is important to remain normal and correct. The fact that Miss Seeton’s normal and correct behavior in strange circumstances generally leads to chaos is unfortunate and she has always been loath to concede any sequence in the curious events that befall her. To do so would be to recognize a pattern of oddity, and a pattern of oddity in the life of a gentlewoman would not be normal and most certainly it would not be correct. For those around her the question will remain: is she an innocent, tempest-tossed, or does she toss the tempest?

  Miss Seeton got up and repaired to the kitchen. She had promised Martha to keep an eye on the jelly bag. Apparently the string and the bag were inclined to stretch during the first hour of hanging and would probably have to be retied a little higher. Yes. Martha had been right. The bag was lower. It was nearly touching the basin. She crossed to the window, dropped the Current Cuts circular on the draining board, reached up to the ancient meat hook set in the beam above the sink and hefted the string. Goodness, it was very heavy, and—she looked down at the liquid in the basin—of a most beautiful color, a wonderful wine red. One had always thought of bramble jelly as nearly black, but Martha had said that that was only when it was overcooked. Miss Seeton succeeded in retying the bag higher and stood back to admire the effect. It was so much larger than one had expected; it should make a lot of jelly. Now—had she done all that Martha had told her to? Yes, the bag was still directly over the basin, but it was swinging slightly. She steadied it. And it was dripping very slowly. Martha had said the slower the drip, the better the jam. So that was all right, she needn’t worry about it anymore, just leave it to hang there until tomorrow morning. The circular caught her eye. Ridiculous nonsense. And, when one considered, perhaps a little rude. She retrieved it, put her foot on the pedal of the waste bin and dropped in the folder. To suggest that people might concern themselves with her affairs. As if they would.