Hands Up, Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 11)

by Hamilton Crane

  “A few more clips round the ear at the appropriate time might have stopped them ever reaching the stage when they needed one good look. But now the old man thinks it’s just high spirits, and his daughter makes no attempt to shut them up, and her husband never stops them when the old man’s around, which is most of the time, unfortunately. You’d think anyone as frail as he’s supposed to be would hate all that racket—and the parents,” said Juliana darkly, “seem to be actively encouraging the brats. I think it’s creepy, the way they hover round him waiting for something to inherit—like vultures, circling over a man in the desert.”

  “Or,” Dickie said with a chuckle, “rooks, perhaps, or do I mean crows?” Which made her laugh as she remembered the previous afternoon’s little lecture from Miss Seeton on the habits of birds. “That’s better, Juliana. You know I don’t like to see you so glum—let’s start looking forward to our night on the town, if you can call Plummergen a town, instead of worrying about other people’s problems. We’ve only just overcome our own, after all—we deserve a bit of cheering up.”

  He slipped her light summer coat around her shoulders, hugged her gently, and ushered her out of the room.

  The day of Miss Seeton’s adventure in London had heralded a band of short yet intense thunderstorms, but this evening the air seemed to be clear as Dickie and Juliana left the hotel and elected to walk the few hundred yards to Rytham Hall. Dickie would have happily driven the distance, but it seemed a shame, they both felt, to miss the chance for a gentle stroll down a country lane, in the deepening summer dusk. Dickie beamed as Juliana took his arm, and thought himself the luckiest man in Kent.

  “Sir George will be green with envy when he sees you,” he murmured, holding his lady close. “You look utterly gorgeous tonight.”

  “La, sir, such compliments!” replied Juliana, giggling. Mr. Nash had not been the only one to partake of a little liquid refreshment on their return to the George and Dragon after a day’s sight-seeing. “And you look especially handsome tonight, Dickie. Even if Sir George offered to carry me off to Gretna Green, believe me, I would refuse his kind offer,” and she gently squeezed his arm.

  They walked along in perfect companionship, admiring the view as it faded into the slow darkness of the night, smelling the heavy scents of hedgerow flowers, listening to the songs of drowsy birds as they prepared to roost.

  “Miss Seeton would know what they were,” Dickie said on hearing an especially musical trill. “Nightingales, maybe?”

  “Not vultures, anyhow,” said Juliana, and they laughed together as they walked.

  A young man appeared out of an imposing gateway which, as it came into view, they had assumed was the entrance to Rytham Hall. “Good evening,” said the young man in a welcoming voice. “Miss Popjoy—and Mr. Nash, I presume?” His eyes lingered in admiration upon Juliana’s black satin curves, and the creamy whiteness of the pearls against her throat. “I’m Nigel Colveden: my parents asked me to keep a lookout for you, just in case you missed the place. Not that you could, really, with there being nothing else along this road until you hit Stone and Wittersham, but it’s such a splendid evening I’m glad of any excuse to be out and about in it.” And his eyes settled wistfully upon Juliana again as he sighed a quiet sigh.

  By the end of dinner, during which Nigel demonstrated that, as a working farmer, he had certainly not lost his appetite, he had obviously lost his boyish heart to the charms of Miss Popjoy. When the time arrived for coffee to be poured, he came leaping to his feet to carry Juliana’s cup all of seven paces round the table, rather than have her make the effort to lean across and receive it from his mother’s hand. Lady Colveden watched in amusement as her son demonstrated his belief that she could not be trusted to arrange the bitter mints in sufficient elegance on their plate, adjusting the little display into a more perfect circle before handing it, with a reverent bow, to Juliana.

  “Port, brandy, a cigar?” suggested Sir George, looking on Nigel’s gyrations with as kindly an eye as his wife. The boy took after his father in his liking for an attractive woman, no doubt of that: a regular chip off the old block. No need, of course, for Nash to feel annoyed about it, or Miss Popjoy, either—seemed to be flattered by the boy’s attentions, the pair of ’em. And who wouldn’t be, having a good-looking youngster like Nigel dancing attendance? Miss Popjoy was a regular charmer—Sir George stroked his moustache with a thoughtful finger and smiled—and Nash was a very lucky man.

  “I hope,” said Lady Colveden, “you aren’t proposing to send the pair of us away while you three males fill the room with smoke and tell smutty stories, George. Miss Popjoy and I intend to stay right here and drink port with you—don’t we, my dear?”

  “Certainly we do,” replied Juliana at once with a nod and a friendly smile in Nigel’s direction. Dickie, who had enjoyed his meal and the accompanying wines, grinned at his hostess and remarked:

  “Better beware of the pewter pots, then, Lady Colveden. But we’ll do our best not to embarrass you.”

  “Dickie,” Juliana warned her paramour, “you’re starting to talk nonsense—I don’t think you ought to have any port or brandy. Which people don’t drink out of pewter pots anyway, as far as I know.”

  Meg Colveden was frowning. “I’m afraid we only have ordinary glasses, Mr. Nash, so—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Dickie interrupted her with a chuckle which made Juliana glance at him sharply. “D’you mean”—he gazed round the table at the four puzzled faces—“you’ve never heard the real reason why ladies leave the room? It’s not simply, um, to allow the gentlemen to enjoy a spot of naughty talk. There’s more to it than that.”

  He paused and helped himself to a mint. Everyone gazed at him as he slowly unwrapped the silver foil, which seemed to be giving him a spot of bother. “Dickie,” said Juliana once more, in that admonishing tone. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Sideboards,” replied Dickie, sounding muffled as he put the mint, whole, into his mouth. “Sheraton sideboards, and Chippendale, and that other furniture chap in the eighteenth century . . .” He frowned and clicked his fingers.

  “Hepplewhite,” supplied Juliana, not sure whether to scold him or to laugh. “Of course, yes, pot cupboards—how silly of me.” She glanced at Lady Colveden, who was listening politely. “We’ve had one or two rather good examples in the shop over the years—mahogany, mostly. And all with a little cupboard door round the back, and”—she giggled, for she, too, had enjoyed her meal—“a little pewter pot inside. For when the men had drunk so much that, well . . .”

  “And the ladies left the room,” concluded Meg Colveden as Juliana allowed her explanation to fade away, “so the men wouldn’t be embarrassed. What a sensible idea.”

  “A simple matter of cubic capacity,” ventured Nigel, his eye on Juliana to see if she would be shocked by his worldly air: which she did not appear to be. “Shall I fetch the drinks over to the table, then?” he asked his father.

  Sir George nodded his assent, adding that it was interesting to learn about these old customs, but if anyone asked him you couldn’t beat twentieth-century plumbing, because apart from anything else it didn’t get woodworm. “Freezes up in winter, though,” he had to admit as he opened a box of Havanas and offered it to Dickie.

  “My goodness, how it does,” agreed Lady Colveden. “Last winter—do you remember, Nigel? Having to climb up into the roof with all those hot-water bottles and towels to thaw out the pipes?”

  “And Dad wanting to cut them with a hacksaw and hammer them flat, and you saying over your dead body,” Nigel said with a grin. “And the language that plumber from Brettenden used—oh, yes, I remember all right. Still, there’s no risk of having the pipes freeze for the next few weeks, is there, with the thermometer in the eighties. I’d say we’re in for a regular heat wave—I wouldn’t mind betting there’ll be some records broken before the summer’s out.”

  Dickie leaned forward, his eyes bright. “How high d�
�you reckon the mercury’s likely to go?” he enquired eagerly.

  “Oh,” said Nigel, who had merely been hoping to impress Juliana with the weather lore of a working farmer. “Oh, er, well, I’ll hazard a guess and say ninety-three before the end of the month—though that could,” he added honestly, “just be wishful thinking, I suppose. We need dry weather for the harvest, you see. We can certainly do without any more storms like the one this afternoon.”

  “But surely, after that little lot,” said Dickie, failing to spot the anxious expression in Juliana’s eyes as she sat and watched him grow more animated, “there can’t be anything left up there? I’ll wager you won’t see another drop of rain for two weeks, at least. When’s your harvest? Ten to one you get it in safely, Nigel.”

  Nigel, who hadn’t expected his casual comments to be taken so seriously, looked surprised. “Good heavens, I’d love to think you were right, but with the English climate as temperamental as it is, I’m not very hopeful. Still, I don’t mind risking a fiver on it—with odds like those, if you turn out to be wrong at least the fifty pounds will help to cheer me up while I stand and watch the fields trying to dry out.”

  “Oh, Dickie,” said Juliana in reproachful tones. “Sir George—Lady Colveden—”

  Sir George, responding with characteristic gallantry to the unspoken plea of a lady, shook his head warningly at his son. “A joke’s a joke, Nigel, but Nash is no farmer, as I’m sure he won’t mind my saying. Hardly fair to take advantage of him—specialist knowledge, you might say.”

  Lady Colveden was nodding agreement with her husband’s views, and Nigel, who knew nothing of Dickie’s unfortunate habits, was puzzled but perfectly happy as he said:

  “Oh, well, it was just a bit of fun, after all. I mean, how annoying for you if I turn out to be right, and it rains on you both on your way home—”

  “Then I,” Juliana said grimly, “will borrow an umbrella, and Dickie will just have to get wet—because, in any case, he seems convinced it isn’t really going to rain. Never mind the thunder we’ve been hearing on and off for the past half-hour.”

  “Oh, Miss Popjoy,” Nigel said at once, “I’d be only too happy to drive you back to the hotel—both of you, that is, if you don’t mind the squeeze. It’s only a little MG.”

  Juliana directed the full force of her beautiful smile towards him. “Nigel, you are a perfect sweetie, and thank you in advance for your kind offer—which I, for one, know I’m going to be delighted to accept. Dickie, however”—with a frown—“will be only too happy to walk—because in that way,” she said sternly, “he can find out for himself whether his bet was worth making or not.”

  And, as she finished speaking, in the warm distance of the summer night another roll of thunder sounded low.

  chapter

  ~15~

  WHEN THE PARTY eventually broke up, it was a rapturous Nigel who opened the passenger door of his sports car for Juliana to take her place. Despite the now steady downpour which had followed inevitably upon the thunder, Dickie, a sheepish expression on his face which only Nigel failed to comprehend, elected to walk the half-mile or so from Rytham Hall to the George and Dragon: insisted on walking, in fact.

  “Too much of a squeeze for the three of us in there, old chap,” he assured Nigel, who had to agree with him. “Better let the lady ride in style—a spot of rain won’t do me any harm, honestly. It’s not as if I’m made of marshmallow.”

  Juliana muttered something which sounded—to the adoring Nigel’s bewilderment—like a reference to the consistency of Mr. Nash’s brains, but before he had time to ask what she meant, she had smiled graciously upon the young man she now addressed as her knight-errant and said that she felt utter confidence in his ability to take care of her. Nigel, delighted, did not see the guilty flush which stained the already glowing cheeks of Mr. Nash; while his parents, in some discomfort, met Juliana’s magnificent eyes with apology in their own.

  Since he seemed bent on making amends for his lapse by this martyrdom, Lady Colveden offered Dickie the loan of her torch, which he accepted; less acceptable, however, was Sir George’s offer of his golfing umbrella. Maybe Mr. Nash felt that his suffering should not be eased too far—or maybe, in his subconscious, memories of Miss Seeton, and the Greek cruise, lurked to increase his guilt.

  Whatever the reason, Dickie plodded resolutely off into the storm as Nigel panted back down the stairs with a large plaid travelling-rug normally used on picnics. “You mustn’t catch a chill, Miss Popjoy,” he said as he wrapped the rug about her elegant knees. “The old bus doesn’t have a very efficient heater, I’m afraid. We’d have to drive a lot farther than the pub for it to start warming up.”

  Juliana was too flattered by his chivalrous intentions, and too annoyed with Dickie, to remind Nigel that the distance to the George and Dragon was hardly enough for the most sluggish circulation to freeze to a halt: and so young Mr. Colveden was rewarded by a smile of thanks that made him want to snatch up spear and shield and gallop off to glory. The drive along Marsh Road seemed very tame, compared with the Galahad-like visions before his eyes, and all too short.

  They passed Dickie quite early on: the beam of his torch seemed very feeble through the driving lashes of rain, but Juliana hardened her heart as she remembered her paramour’s broken promise, and urged Nigel to drive on. Which Nigel duly did, though he resolved that, on his way back, he would collect Mr. Nash to spare him the rest of his soaking.

  “It’s certainly a night for staying indoors,” he said as the car, windscreen wipers frantically a-flick, neared the end of Marsh Road. “I see Miss Seeton’s gone to bed—can’t say I blame her, can you?” This last, as they passed beneath the windows of Sweetbriars. Ahead of them, through the rain, they could just make out the lights of the George and Dragon. “If I drive up to the door,” said Nigel, “would you mind making a dash for it? If Miss Seeton hadn’t put her light out, I’d pop across and borrow an umbrella, but I could slip my jacket off for you to throw over your head, if it didn’t matter too much about your hair—”

  “Nigel, dear, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine—it’s not as if it’s all that far. I’ll survive.”

  “You must be sure to change your wet clothes as soon as you get in,” insisted Miss Popjoy’s knight-errant, thinking that Sir Galahad would rather have slaughtered dragons than hint of damp underwear (in the darkness, Nigel blushed) or waterlogged shoes. Still, people had to adjust themselves to the times they lived in, and it didn’t seem that Miss Popjoy had been offended, thank goodness . . .

  For, even as Nigel manoeuvred the MG so close to the steps of the George’s main door that any closer would have seen him on the mat, Juliana leaned across and pecked him on the cheek, very kindly. “What a nice young man you are, my dear,” she said. “Thank you for being so sweet to me—and do thank your mother again, won’t you, for such a delightful evening? I enjoyed it so much.”

  “Oh, gosh,” said Nigel, before collecting his wits sufficiently to rush round and open the car door. He had quite forgotten his offer of a sheltering jacket, but as it took only five careful steps before Juliana was standing in the tiny porch of the hotel, it hardly mattered. Nigel pressed the doorbell, greeted Charley Mountfitchet with effusion, and bade Miss Popjoy a devoted good night.

  Such was his state of rapture as he drove homewards that the sight of Dickie Nash, still struggling through the storm and wishing his smart shoes were better adapted to country life, failed to remind him of his intention to offer a lift. Nigel drove homewards with an uplifted heart; and Dickie, who was by now beginning to regret his self-imposed penance, trudged onwards without a dry or comfortable square inch to his unhappy self.

  Juliana had warned Charley Mountfitchet that his second guest would be arriving before too long, so the landlord of the George and Dragon was ready for the anguished tintinnabulation which heralded poor Dickie’s dripping manifestation on the front step. Mr. Nash tried to carry off his squelching and solitary appearance
with an air of insouciance, but Charley was not fooled.

  “Miss Popjoy got in ten minutes or so ago,” he advised the wretched Dickie. “I offered her a hot toddy to keep out the cold, but she said no—said as how you might fancy one, though. Walked down from the Hall, haven’t you?” Charley’s grin was knowing. “A nasty night for a stroll, some might say, but Miss Popjoy tells me you’re . . . fond of fresh air.”

  Dickie sneezed. As water trickled from his hairline to drench his eyebrows and drip to his cheekbones, he felt more sorry for himself than he had in years. Regret and guilt for the bet he had made with Nigel were overlaid by physical misery—of which, he told himself suddenly, Juliana seemed to be well aware. As long as she was prepared to accept his soaking as reparation for the broken promise . . .

  “A stiff whisky, that’s what you need, Mr. Nash,” Charley told him as Dickie sneezed again. “On the house—come on through, and I’ll pour you a double.” And Dickie, brightening at the thought that Juliana would forgive him the moment she realised how he had suffered, gladly followed the landlord through into the bar.

  It was several double whiskies later that Mr. Nash made his eventual way to bed. He still felt wet, decidedly so, but at least he could accept the fact with equanimity, he told Charley Mountfitchet as the latter followed him up the stairs and made sure he put his key in the correct lock. The landlord bade his guest good night, then hovered in the corridor for a few moments in case Miss Popjoy’s greeting of her sozzled, still-soaking paramour would be lively enough to make a good Plummergen story once the participants were well out of the way; and also in case the nearby Standons should wake, disturbed by a tumult which would be, for once, not of their making.

  However, nothing but a stony silence resounded through the walls of the Blue Riband Suite—apart from a clatter and a curse, as Mr. Nash tumbled over some piece of furniture—and, keeping his fingers crossed that nothing else would happen, Charley went away.