Miss Seeton Flies High (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 23)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Nonsense,” snapped Bill, as Crispin stabbed his pencil, breaking the point. “You’ve been building up that bookshop of yours year by year, haven’t you? You’re aiming for more than just a little left over, aren’t you? It’s only good business practice.”

  “Good for me, and for you two, but as for Val—could you honestly call her practical?” Octavia smiled as she put the question. “Was there ever a time, even when you three were children, that you boys weren’t chivvying the poor thing to keep up with you? Not from what I’ve gathered, over the years. The ruthless business brain of the Callenders just seems to have passed her by—and as I said, she’s happy enough.”

  “She is,” conceded Crispin, “a bit of a dreamer.”

  “She’ll need to buck up her ideas this afternoon,” Bill said irritably. “Or this evening, if we have to wait much longer—but she’s a shareholder, like the rest of us. She has to know and understand our plans—Dad’s plans—for expanding the business, and agree with them—or not—which would mean a different discussion about buying her out—but either way, she should be here so we can at least start to talk about it.”

  “And here she is,” murmured Crispin, who had caught a brisk footfall approaching the open door. “Hello, Val, better late than never.”

  All four Callenders had inherited their father’s greenish-blue eyes, and his flyaway hair with a hint of russet, but Valentine was the only one to resemble their father in build. While Eleanor had been tall and a little angular, her husband Guy’s farming ancestors had left their mark on his sturdy, almost barrel-shaped, frame. Val in her mid-thirties was short and plump; in middle age she would be tubby. “Muscles,” she would chuckle, if anyone spoke of a diet. “Stamina. It helps to have staying power, with a job like mine.” Val had for years been a spinner, dyer, and hand weaver, at first teaching herself from books, then at evening class. Only when she wasn’t afraid of wasting his time did she venture to approach Glastonbury’s noted expert, Job Haxey. Old Job had sniffed, watched her at work, and allowed that for a maiden self-taught she’d not done so bad. If she’d care to listen as he spoke, him not being of a bookish turn of mind, he might just share with her some of his lifetime’s knowledge of the weaver’s craft. She could even write his words of wisdom down so they’d not be lost to future generations.

  Valentine took this for the compliment it was, and planned one day to turn her copious notes into a proper book—when she had the time. As she enjoyed her work, the book was a long time coming.

  “Sorry I’m a bit late,” she apologised with a wide smile, “but something funny happened with the latest batch of dye. It looked so interesting I had to wait and see how it turned out.” She claimed a second visitor’s chair, and flopped comfortably down in a flurry of skirts woven from yarn spun on her newly imported Ashford wheel. Made in New Zealand, with its revolutionary nylon-and-graphite flyer bearing it was worth every penny she’d paid, as she would inform anyone who teased her for such unbusinesslike extravagance.

  “We won’t waste any more time asking,” warned Bill, as the other two displayed dangerous signs of interest in the dodgy batch of dye. “We want to get on.”

  “You’d better call the meeting to order,” suggested Octavia, with a wink for the others that Bill saw, but thought it better to ignore. “Is there an agenda? I see what looks like notes on that table over there.”

  “Cris and I had a chat before you two came long, and roughed out a few ideas to be going on with, but it’s hardly an agenda. This isn’t so much an official meeting as a put-you-in-the-picture briefing.” Bill picked up the sheet of paper with his younger brother’s neat notes, rustled it, and began to speak without consulting it.

  “We all know, or at least we should,” with a frown for Valentine, who had taken a sheet of Crispin’s doodles to fan herself, “that some of Dad’s affairs are likely to be a while in the sorting out because his death was so unexpected. Sixty-five is no age, and the insurance people will argue every inch of the way. But that’s not the point. The point is, in the weeks before the accident he’d been talking about the need to expand if we want to keep up with Morlands and Drapers. They both started out as small family firms, just like old Peter when he quarrelled with Ebenezer and set up on his own—and look at them now. World famous. Exporting Somerset sheepskin products all over the place. Mail order to select individuals. Made-to-measure gloves, coats, slippers. Dad said he knew he couldn’t beat ’em, but he certainly wanted to join them and give ’em a run for their money.”

  “You mean we owe it to his memory to follow through with his plans?” Octavia gave one of her faint, knowing smiles. “It’s a way of justifying an almighty family row, I grant you—and there’s bound to be a row the moment we tell them we want to build—but waving the flag of filial piety might just avert the worst of the fallout. I suppose.”

  Val shifted on her chair. She dropped the paper fan to grasp a handful of her billowing skirt. “Some of this wool came from Uncle Janner’s sheep,” she said thoughtfully. “Young Jan let me have a couple of fleeces on the quiet, after the shearing. He won’t like even to hear talk of building on our field—and I don’t think we should build there, either.” She looked at Octavia. “You joked about waving the flag of filial piety, but that’s what that field of ours is, if you go back far enough. A compliment to the family—well, to old Ebenezer, anyway, and as such it ought to be respected.”

  “But Ebenezer was about the only other teetotaller the squire knew,” objected Crispin. “Wearing a blue ribbon and both being churchwardens was good enough a century ago for the old fellow to put it in his will that Ebenezer should have it, but that was because there wasn’t anyone else.”

  “He could have arranged for it to be sold and the proceeds given to charity, like the rest of the manor,” persisted Val. “Only he didn’t. Great-granddad was proud of being singled out that way, and even Granddad used to say it was a compliment because he remembered the squire from when he was a little boy. I don’t think any of them would want the field built on for the sake of making money, when there must surely be more suitable land somewhere not too far away that isn’t such good grazing.”

  “Which,” said Bill heavily, “we wouldn’t own. The field is ours, outright, or it will be once the paperwork is finished. We can’t afford to buy, or even rent, anywhere else—all our capital’s either tied up in the business or going towards death duties.”

  Crispin signalled his agreement with a nod and a murmur; Octavia was silent; but Val was unconvinced. “If it’s money you’re worried about, we could start by asking Janner for an independent rent review. The family’s had the use of that field at a peppercorn rent since long before he and Dad quarrelled over Granddad’s tombstone. I wouldn’t want to see them turned off after all these years any more than have the land built on, but they should agree they’ve had a good run for their money and perhaps it ought to be referred to the National Farmers’ Union, or somebody like that, to set a more realistic amount.”

  “They’ve had a run for our money,” said Bill, as she drew breath. “The rent should never have been set so low in the first place, brother or no brother—but I take my hat off to you, Val. Maybe the family’s ruthless business brain hasn’t entirely passed you by. How did you come to think of that?”

  She turned pink. “Young Jan wondered if there might be changes after Dad’s accident, and mentioned something of the sort when he brought me round another fleece. He’d be willing to accept an independent rent assessment, I think, though he’s not able to speak for his father and he’s not sure Janner would agree anyway—but it could be worth a try. Anything, rather than build on good grazing land.”

  Octavia stirred. Being so much younger than her siblings and left a good deal to her own devices, she had a bookish, enquiring turn of mind and could, when she wished, look more deeply into things than many people outside the family might guess.

  “According to Farmers Weekly,” she said now, “if a landlord wan
ts to increase the rent it can only be with the consent of the tenant—but if the tenant won’t agree, the landlord can refer the matter to arbitration. And then it will take a couple of years for the increase to go through, assuming, of course, that there is an increase.”

  “There’s bound to be an increase,” said Bill, then shook himself. “No, this is all theory, for later, once we four can decide between us what we want to do, even if it means some of us having to buy some of the others out—Tavy? What is it?”

  “There’s more than one theory,” said Octavia, who had been shaking her head as her brother spoke. “I’ve been thinking about all this since Dad died, and once you two started on the expansion idea I guessed you’d want Janner and his sheep off our field. There’s certainly no more room for building here. And then I spotted something in the local paper ... So I checked in the library, and asked a few questions. How much later can we afford to leave it for us all to reach an agreement?”

  The other three regarded her in some confusion.

  “I mean,” she went on, “that none of you seems to know anything of what’s been under discussion in parliament—the new legislation that will come into force some time next year, if it’s passed.” She paused. “And if it’s passed—well, if it becomes law in 1976, we might never be able to get Janner Callender’s sheep off our field!”

  Chapter Two

  When Louise came to take her place at the breakfast table she smiled in a conspiratorial manner at her mother-in-law and, for the first time in her married life, greeted Sir George with a fingertip kiss on his bald head as she passed him. Ignoring his start of surprise Nigel’s wife sat down, took an illustrated magazine from her pocket, opened it, and began to flick through the pages.

  “Paris Match,” cried Lady Colveden, who’d wondered why her daughter-in-law had been wearing a jacket so early in the day. “Is that the latest number? Where did you find it?”

  Louise lowered her magazine, but kept it open in her hands. Sir George, who had been pondering the unwonted caress, was stirred from his reverie by his wife’s exclamation and now gazed with quickening interest at his daughter-in-law. “Close to the cinema there was a shop selling tobacco and sweets—and journals,” explained young Mrs. Colveden. “It was a small moment only for me to enter, while everyone else formed the queue, to enquire if by chance they might have such a paper as Paris Match, and they had. So I bought it.”

  Sir George hesitated, then beamed at her, while his wife and his son exchanged swift, knowing looks. “Missing your native lingo, m’dear? A little homesick? Paris Match, eh? You’ll enjoy that.” With a deep, contented sigh he reached back to the sideboard, where the temptation of Farmers Weekly waited for him to succumb. He turned at once to the Letters page to see if his views on pigs had met with editorial approval. Oh, well. Maybe next week.

  Nigel mopped a dramatic brow, patted his wife’s hand, and took up his knife and fork. “We breathe again,” he said through eggs and bacon. “Normal service has at last been resumed. Isn’t she wonderful, Mother?”

  “Thank you very much, my dear,” said her ladyship in heartfelt tones. Sir George had suffered torments of courtesy ever since the young couple, returned from their honeymoon, had because of builders been unable to move into their new home as planned. Nigel might happily tease his mother about non-paying Paying Guests, but it had been his father who paid the price, good manners forbidding the baronet’s habitual disappearance behind his newspaper while there were visitors in the house.

  Louise, folding away Paris Match and accepting coffee, smiled back at her.

  “Did you have a good time with the Young Farmers?” her ladyship went on, passing toast and butter. “And how was the film?”

  Nigel speared another egg and forked it to his mouth. “Louise is too polite to say so, but I think it was all a bit much for her. The rest of us enjoyed it well enough.”

  “You are accustomed to such humour,” said his bride, “while I am not, and it is too often not possible to translate.”

  “You don’t need translation for a pair of coconuts and an imaginary horse. You laughed at that bit, didn’t you?”

  “For such jokes one does not require language,” said Louise. “One has but to observe. The illustrations—animations, yes?—they too were clever, although I think perhaps some mistakes were made in the words, for the evil black monster was of a decided green. But for me it was pleasant to see the castles of Scotland. They reminded me of my dear mother’s home, where I have so often stayed. Yet some of the voices—the accents—I found not easy to comprehend, even the wizard throwing fire with great horns upon his head, who was trying to sound Scottish.”

  “Tim the Enchanter,” supplied Nigel with a grin. “Reminded me of Tim Foxon—you’ve met him, Louise, detective from Ashford, nice chap, wears the oddest clothes—I thought you’d know who I mean—anyway,” he explained to his mother, “this chap with the horns had long black robes, and a livelier contrast to Foxon’s colour sense you’ve yet to see.” His grin widened as he began to laugh. “And those great curling horns made me think of the sheep that kicked me, even though our Romneys don’t look a bit like that.”

  He went on laughing, and Louise watched him fondly, though puzzled. “It is so English, is it not,” she said to Lady Colveden, “to make a joke of almost anything? Poor Nigel can this morning barely see from his swollen eye, yet still he laughs.”

  “Stiff upper lip, m’dear,” offered Sir George from behind Farmers Weekly.

  “Humour is hard to explain, because everyone’s sense of the ridiculous can be so different.” Lady Colveden smiled. “We watched the television news last night while you Young Farmers were Monty Pythoning in Ashford, and even your father was tickled by the Traffic Jam item at the end, because of Nigel’s wasp.” Nigel, munching toast spread thick with marmalade, raised his eyebrows in query. “It seems,” went on his mother, “that an unfortunate lorry driver taking a load of fresh plums to market had a wasp fly in and buzz at him just the way yours did, Nigel. He ducked out of the way too, and ended up in a ditch with plums all over the road.”

  She looked hopefully at Louise, who frowned, then smiled. “But of course, a traffic jam,” she said. “Was the poor driver much injured?”

  “He knocked himself out on the dashboard, they said, but by a stroke of luck a police car happened to be passing and stopped to help. Of course,” her ladyship added, “with the plums smashing everywhere like that they couldn’t have gone past anyway. I suppose they could have turned round and taken another route to wherever they were going ...”

  “Middle of nowhere,” supplied Sir George.

  “On the way to somewhere,” said his wife. “So they radioed for an ambulance, and he was taken to hospital and kept overnight for observation, because bangs on the head can be nasty. Otherwise there was nothing broken, and the television people were happy to have some fun with it all.”

  “I think,” decided Nigel after a pause, “Monty Python was funnier.”

  It was tacitly decided between the four Colvedens that everyone should find amusing whatever took his or her fancy.

  In the post office, tempers were running a little high. Postmaster Stillman had been forced to dart to and from his official cubicle to deal with ordinary customers, while his wife Elsie had to alternate general dusting and tidying with serving groceries at the other counter. Service was slower than usual; more erratic. The question had to be asked of her employers: where was Emmy Putts?

  “Late for work,” said Mrs. Stillman. “And no message to say why.”

  “They haven’t the phone laid on,” her husband reminded her peaceably.

  “And it’s her mother’s day for the biscuit factory,” said Mrs. Spice. “Clarrie will’ve caught the bus to Brettenden long before young Emmeline was out of bed.”

  “She would’ve checked the girl was awake, surely, before she left the house?” Mrs. Henderson felt that maternal instincts must always win through.

  �
��Emmy Putts is old enough to take care of herself,” countered Mrs. Skinner, who seldom missed the chance to disagree with Mrs. Henderson. Some years back there had been confusion and consequent Words Spoken over the church flower rota. The one thing on which the two ladies could now agree was that they never would agree on anything. “A great girl like Emmy, earning her way in the world ...”

  The bell above the shop door jangled, and the subject under discussion came in looking flustered, apologetic, and amused at the same time. It was rare to see Emmy Putts in an animated state. “You’re late,” said Mrs. Stillman, handing her a feather duster.

  “Take your coat off first,” suggested Mr. Stillman, retreating behind his official grille.

  “What happened?” demanded Mrs. Spice, pertinently.

  “Sorry,” said Emmy, as Mrs. Stillman wagged an admonitory finger. “Bin talking to Maureen, and we didn’t realise the time.”

  “You’re not paid to talk to Maureen on our time, Emmeline Putts,” said Mrs. Stillman. “What could she have had to tell you that was so important you’d be late for work?”

  “About her Wayne,” said Emmy, flicking feathers along a topmost shelf. “Ever so cross with him, she is. Dead furious.”

  The post office rustled in shock. Maureen, who waitressed at the George and Dragon at the far end of The Street—as Plummergen’s main thoroughfare is known—and her Wayne, with his Kawasaki motorbike and black leathers, had been going steady for so long that if either of them passed within a mile of a jeweller’s shop the village had them walking down the aisle within six weeks. A split between this young couple seemed impossible.

  “Why?” demanded Mrs. Spice. “What’s he done?”

  Emmy giggled. Decidedly, the girl was less dozy than usual. Had she hopes of Wayne if Maureen had indeed “chucked” him, as youthful parlance phrased it? “Took her to the pictures,” was all she could say, at first.