Uncomfortable memories drifted into Miss Seeton’s mind, and her smile was slightly uneven as she quickly continued: “Are you staying here at the George and Dragon? Such an attractive building, I always feel—so symmetrical, and the creeper gives a charming effect, don’t you think?”
“The whole village is charming, from what we’ve seen of it so far,” Juliana said after everyone had finished shaking hands and trying to pass no more than casual remarks concerning that unfortunate cruise. “We were just going out for an exploratory walk, to search the shops for a large-scale map of the area. I forgot to buy one before we came—we left in rather a rush, you see, and Dickie’s too much of a gentleman to say it’s all my fault we’re not sure where we’re going.”
“Where are you going?” enquired Miss Seeton. “That is, if it is not an impertinence on my part to ask. But, as a resident of this area for some seven years now, perhaps I could be of assistance. My cottage is just over there,” and she turned, blushing with pride, to indicate nearby Sweetbriars. “You might care, perhaps, to join me for a cup of coffee—or tea, if you would prefer. I have just bought a fresh packet of Earl Grey,” and she brandished her brown-paper parcel under their noses.
Dickie raised a questioning eyebrow to Juliana, who said at once: “That would be lovely, thank you, Miss Seeton. And if, over the teacups, you could tell us anything about some little place called Murreystone, which I gather isn’t too far from here . . .”
Miss Seeton said faintly, “Good gracious!” and Juliana regarded her with curiosity but was too polite to press for an explanation. She looked at Dickie, who at once offered to carry Miss Seeton’s parcel for her, offering his escort instead when she reminded him that Sweetbriars was only a matter of thirty yards away, at most.
Fifteen minutes later the three of them were in the sitting room of the cottage Miss Seeton had inherited from her godmother and cousin, Mrs. Bannet. As they enjoyed Earl Grey tea and slices of Madeira cake, Miss Seeton talked of the Best Kept Village Competition and displayed the scrapbook of newspaper cuttings Martha Bloomer had compiled.
“I had no idea village life was so exciting,” Juliana said as the full tale of Murreystone’s duplicity came to its breathless end. “I’d always thought of the antiques world as being a fairly cutthroat business, but compared to what you’ve been telling us, it’s positively dull—and as for Dickie in his Cambridge cloisters, he doesn’t realise he’s born, does he?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” protested Dickie, a Fellow of King’s College. “If you read C. P. Snow . . .”
“Don’t be silly, Dickie.” Juliana shook her head at him as he railed off into silence and, to cover his confusion, helped himself to a further slice of Madeira cake. Intellectual honesty would not let him argue, even in fun, with what was clearly the truth. “The Masters is fiction—this is fact, isn’t is, Miss Seeton?” Juliana tapped the cover of the now closed scrapbook, smiling at her hostess. “I’m not surprised that you were surprised when I asked you all about Murreystone—and isn’t it lucky we met you? I might have gone blundering into the post office here and asked exactly the same question—and never have emerged alive!”
“Oh, come now, Juliana,” began Dickie, then spotted the appreciative twinkle in Miss Seeton’s eye and subsided into a mouthful of Madeira as she said:
“One must allow for a certain amount of what I gather is called journalistic licence, Miss Popjoy, yet it cannot be denied that the . . . what one must call, I suppose, the rival village, did carry matters to somewhat extreme lengths on this particular occasion. It may seem strange to outsiders such as yourselves, and indeed, when I first came to live here, I thought exactly the same as you, but most of the time, from my observation, everybody concerned appears to enjoy themselves a great deal. Not unlike houses,” said Miss Seeton, still twinkling, as she poured more tea; thus failing to observe the way her guests exchanged puzzled looks.
“Different colours,” Miss Seeton continued to reminisce happily while Dickie blinked and Juliana frowned. “So very childish, sometimes, and no amount of order marks would keep them quiet if they were in high spirits—the girls, I mean. Flour bombs, and throwing rolls of lavatory paper, and once, as I recall, someone hid all the right hockey boots—right-footed boots, that is to say—just before the House Final, which Miss Edmunds found extremely vexatious. She was the Games Mistress,” she explained as Dickie, understanding her at last, sighed with quiet relief, and Juliana hid a smile. “So you see, after a life spent teaching, I am not unaccustomed to these little rivalries. And is not a healthy spirit of competition thought to be good for the development of one’s character?”
“The happiest days of your life,” murmured Dickie and pulled a face. Juliana chuckled.
“I’m not going to voice an opinion on that, but I still think it was just as well for me I didn’t start asking too many questions about Murreystone in Plummergen’s post office—and I’m very pleased we met you in time, Miss Seeton, with your being an expert on these parts. I’m sure you can tell us what we need to know, especially as Mentley Collier—the friend we’re looking for—is an artist, and so are you. Do you know him, by any chance? It’s the sort of happy coincidence that would be useful right now.”
Miss Seeton looked slightly overcome by Juliana’s statement of confidence. A faint blush rose in her cheeks as she said, “I would hardly call myself an artist in the sense in which I understand you to use the term, Miss Popjoy. I was a mere teacher of the subject—and there is the old saying, is there not? That those who can, do,” said Miss Seeton earnestly. “While those who cannot, teach. And in my own view there is more than an element of truth in the theory. And, as for being an expert on this part of Kent . . .”
“You’re bound to be more expert than either of us,” said Juliana. “Though perhaps it was a bit unreasonable of me to have expected you to know anything of Mentley. He’s rather a recluse, so I suppose it’s not surprising.”
“Recluse?” snorted Dickie. “According to Juliana, Miss Seeton, this leftover beatnik has the Inland Revenue permanently on his heels and spends all his time rushing from one address to another so they won’t catch him. The letter she has is a year out of date—the chap could be on the other side of the country by now. But if you did happen to have heard of a place called . . . called what, Juliana?”
“Filkins—it’s an old farmhouse, or rather one of the barns. The farm itself was burned down when the previous owner committed suicide, according to Mentley.” Miss Seeton shook her head and made regretful noises. “Mentley says,” continued Juliana, “that this farmer had delusions of being a bit of an artist himself and much preferred painting to raising sheep. He converted the barn Mentley’s living in and turned it into a studio—there are some of his canvases left, huge Turneresque daubs, Mentley says—not that Turner daubed, but you know what I mean, I’m sure—anyway, they’re good-size canvases, and Mentley’s been painting over them. He says they really aren’t much use for anything else, and the poor farmer had no chance at all. Apparently, it was when the Royal Academy refused his thirteenth picture on the trot that he decided enough was enough, and . . .” She made a little gesture of finality.
“How very sad,” murmured Miss Seeton. “Not to know the limitations of one’s own talent and to react to disappointment in so—so dramatic a fashion . . .”
“Dramatic it certainly is,” said Dickie. “I’ve told you before, Juliana, I think your old boyfriend is pulling your leg. Or he’s had his leg pulled by the locals. It’s just the sort of joke a gaggle of mischievous rustics would love to play on a gullible newcomer.”
Juliana chuckled briefly, then sighed. “I must admit he never was one of the quickest-witted people around—except when it came to keeping a step or two ahead of the tax man—but you’re right, he’d fall for anything plausible, and it’s such a splendid story it simply cries out to be believed. Don’t you agree, Miss Seeton?”
“I think it would depend,” Miss See
ton said after hesitating briefly, “on whether he had any particular reason to suppose the story to be true, or otherwise. These canvases, for instance. No doubt there could be some other perfectly good explanation for their presence in such quantities, and in such a very convenient location—but then again, one cannot exclude a considerable amount of dramatic licence, if that is the phrase I want, in the explaining. And if your friend, being artistic by nature, has sympathy with the more dramatic aspects of art, and, by association, with a similar style in, well, in narrative art . . .”
“He’d fall for anything plausible,” Juliana said again with a laugh as Miss Seeton fluttered to a halt. “Poor old Mentley. Yes, he was forever getting himself embroiled in all sorts of bother other people had started in the first place—he’s a confidence man’s dream. He’d be first in the queue to buy shares in the only diamond mine in England, if it looked like an even remotely good thing, so he’d lap up a suicidal farmer and an unlimited supply of canvas that gave him somewhere to paint in peace, because that’s really all he’s ever wanted to do.”
“Which makes him,” Dickie said, “the ideal copyist, as you’ve said before that he is without ever quite explaining why. But now I think I understand. If the chap’s already more than halfway to believing any old tale that turns up, he’ll believe that what he’s doing is the real thing, or near enough. And sincerity in art—as I think Miss Seeton will agree—isn’t going to result in rubbish. No wonder he can turn out what you say are near-masterpieces.”
“They always were before, so unless he’s changed a great deal, I imagine they still are,” Juliana said. “Which is why we want to see him, isn’t it?” She turned to Miss Seeton and smiled apologetically as she began to explain.
“It was all my idea, Miss Seeton, although Dickie tries to pretend he thought of it now that he’s realised how much it will improve our business.” She made a face at Dickie’s little cry of outrage and winked at Miss Seeton, who smiled benevolently upon them both. “Anyway,” Juliana went on, “it all goes back to Dickie’s Uncle Brummel, who died recently and left him some money—a real windfall, although it isn’t a fortune, by any means.”
“Quite unexpected,” Dickie chipped in, nodding. “Hadn’t shown any more interest in me when he was alive than I’d shown in him.” He chuckled. “Which is the reason he gave in his will for leaving me the lot—said I was the only one of his relatives with sense enough not to go badgering him for a share of the loot, and because I’d pleased him in the way I’d behaved, he felt he should return the compliment.”
“Absolutely batty,” Juliana said while Miss Seeton permitted herself a quiet smile humouring Uncle Brummel’s idea of suitable testamentary disposition. “But of course Dickie didn’t say no—money’s always useful. Especially . . . well, you know a little about that, don’t you?” For on the cruise where they had all met, Miss Seeton had played an indirect part in persuading Dickie Nash to give up gambling. “And he said, Miss Seeton, that—”
She broke off at an explosion of coughing from Mr. Nash, who clearly feared himself about to be embarrassed by an emotional expression of Juliana’s gratitude. She stuttered, collected herself, smiled at poor Dickie, and merely said:
“Anyway, we decided to blow the lot on a complete overhaul of the shop in Bath. Business seems to be improving, and if we can only bring in more customers, I’m sure it will go on getting better. We’re knocking through a wall and building on the back, and the entire stock’s been put into store while the decorators are in—the most gorgeous wallpaper, Miss Seeton, and we’re even having new lights . . .”
Juliana broke off and laughed at her own enthusiasm. “Well, you get the picture, I’m sure. Picture now being the operative word, because I thought we might get a marvellous effect if there were lots of old masters on the walls—the paper will set them off beautifully—but of course the cost would be astronomical. If they were genuine, that is.”
“Hence,” Dickie summed up as Juliana drew breath, “this hunt for Mentley Collier, crackpot but gifted copyist who’s always short of money, and—according to reliable information from the lady on my left—daft enough for his old girlfriend to be able to sweet-talk him into doing her a favour without charging the earth.”
“Dickie, you make it sound like exploitation, which is hardly fair. You know very well I checked with several galleries and dealers before we came away—I know what the going rate for good copies is likely to be, and I’ve no intention of doing Mentley down. Neither is it fair of you to talk as if he’s crazy. He’s just a little . . . eccentric, I suppose, and simply hasn’t grown up yet. And, as I have told you repeatedly, he is nothing but a very old friend,” laying particular emphasis on the final word.
“I’m not jealous,” said Dickie cheerfully. “I just hope you aren’t going to be disappointed when you catch up with him after all this time. If,” he added, “you ever do,” and he turned to his hostess. “Any idea of where the beatniks hang out in these parts, Miss Seeton? Or, if you haven’t, can you think of anyone who might know? The future of the antique shop,” he informed her in thrilling tones, “hangs upon your reply . . .”
chapter
~10~
MISS SEETON GLANCED up at the clock. “What a pity that Bert—such a helpful young man, and not the least hint of a bad temper—in fact, he is one of the jolliest persons I know, and such a great friend of my dear Martha, who is also a cockney, although of course she does not have red hair—but he has finished for today. His round, I mean. Because, you see, he has a van, not a bicycle. So good for fresh air and exercise—a bicycle, that is—besides saving on petrol, as I have found myself—not that I drive, of course, but then, one cannot carry parcels in safety on one’s handlebars, so a van is far more practical. In bad weather, especially, as well as being faster, so that one may cover more ground in the same time. And I understand that he delivers the post to Murreystone as well as Plummergen.”
Miss Seeton’s incoherent thoughts had finally careered to what, Juliana thankfully realised, was a comprehensible conclusion. At least, she hoped she’d comprehended it. She took a deep breath. “You mean that Bert, who is the village postman, could have told us where Filkins is, if only he’d still been at work? And as he doesn’t come from Plummergen, he wouldn’t have minded too much if we’d asked him about Murreystone?” She gave Dickie a quick look which hinted that he’d better leave all further interpretation to her: he looked as if floundering would be a generous description of his mental state.
Miss Seeton smiled at her and nodded. “Oh, yes, but it is still morning, even if a little late, which means that we may be fairly confident of finding dear Mr. Treeves at home—not that he will necessarily be indoors, you understand, as he is a very keen gardener, and most knowledgeable. He” —and from Miss Seeton’s lips a faint sigh drifted— “has no need of Greenfinger to point his way—but then, I am so fortunate in having dear Stan to tend the garden for me. And as it is in the afternoons that he mostly goes about his pastoral duties,” she concluded, looking pleased, “I could telephone him now.”
Juliana missed half a beat before saying quickly: “Don’t let us interfere with your plans for the day, Miss Seeton, please. If you want to ring this Mr. Greenfinger, or any of your friends, we’ll be on our way—won’t we, Dickie?”
But before Mr. Nash had time to agree, Miss Seeton said quickly: “Oh, I don’t believe it can be his real name, Miss Popjoy—-so unlikely, don’t you think, and I had always been of the opinion that it must be a pseudonym, for professional purposes, and not in the least like, ahem, James Bond.” And a delicate blush rose in Miss Seeton’s cheeks. “One could not help, you see, noticing the posters—for the cinema—and then there were reviews, and people speaking about the films on the wireless—yet I hardly think that anyone who was fond of gardening would care to paint a young woman in such a—an unusual fashion, do you?”
Juliana hesitated, and this time it was Dickie who came to the rescue. “Goldfinger,” he s
aid, nodding. “Rather a good yarn, I thought, although not much like the book. But then I gather that’s often the case—sometimes they alter things so much the plot hardly makes sense any more.”
Miss Seeton smiled. “Books can be such a blessing, can they not? Although, as Mr. Nash says, not always entirely clear. When I first knew I was coming to live in my little cottage in the country, I went straight round to the local shop and asked the owner for his advice, and Stan has told me more than once that he agrees I could hardly have done better. Greenfinger,” she said happily, “has pointed the way for me most knowledgeably ever since my first days here, although I confess that sometimes I find what he says a trifle confusing, but then, I have dear Stan to consult, and when he is at work there is always Mr. Treeves, when he is at home. Would you like me,” she enquired, half-rising from her seat, “to telephone the dear vicar now?”
Dickie looked at Juliana. Juliana looked at Dickie. In a quick pantomime of bewilderment, they indicated to each other that they hadn’t a clue what their hostess was talking about. They found it hard to credit that a sudden attack of moral fervour had made her realise some desperate need for clerical guidance: Miss Seeton, after all, was hardly the interfering type. She’d accepted their unorthodox relationship without a murmur during that cruise on the Eurydice—and afterwards, as well. Or did she feel that shipboard romances were one thing and dry land quite another? Would they next be asked if they wanted the banns called?
“Er,” said Dickie at last, words tangled in his throat. He went red and stared at his lady. “What do you think?” he weakly enquired, while Miss Seeton murmured of being sure she knew the number, but she’d better look it up, to be on the safe side. “Although,” she added as Juliana wondered what on earth to say, “it must perhaps seem slightly extravagant, as he lives just across the road. One could almost call the request to him over the garden wall—but then, he might not be in the garden, and there is always the chance,” she added honestly, “one might not completely understand the reply. One hesitates to criticise the cloth,” she concluded, “but it has to be admitted that there are times when the dear vicar is, well, a little muddled about things . . .”
Hands Up, Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 11) Page 7
