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

by Hamilton Crane

  “Unless it’s chimneys,” called Bert over his shoulder as he went back down the path. “She’d look a sight in a top hat and weskit, Martha Bloomer would!”

  “Cheek,” observed Martha, emerging from behind Miss Seeton to brandish her feather duster in his direction. “Now, dear, as he’s brought your letters I know you’ll be wanting to read them, but just you take them into the kitchen because then I’ll be sure where you are, and you won’t bother me.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Of course. I wasn’t thinking.” Miss Seeton, who had begun instinctively to head for the sitting room and her paper-knife, now began moving down the hall passage towards the kitchen, and to the cutlery drawer for a paper-knife substitute. She took from the drawer the metal skewer that had secured one of butcher Mr. Stacey’s finest rolled joints of prime beef, cooked (by Martha, who worried about waste) for a small family luncheon party hosted by Miss Seeton for Bob and Anne Ranger, and Anne’s parents Dr. and Mrs. Knight, to celebrate the registration of young Gideon Henry’s birth once his names had finally been selected.

  “Good gracious.” Miss Seeton turned pink with surprise and pleasure. “After almost twenty years.” While the envelope addressed by the Scotland Yard computer had held a cheque, as she’d expected, for the IdentiKit drawings she had not long ago supplied, the other official-looking letter announced that Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton had won a prize with her small holding of Premium Bonds. Back in 1957, Miss Seeton had weighed the arguments carefully, then decided at last that it didn’t really count as gambling if the government was behind the scheme. She hadn’t been able to afford to buy many but, hearing the girls at Mrs. Benn’s school talk of the one- or two- or ten-pound bonds given them for birthday or Christmas presents, she had in the end risked a modest sum that, disappointingly, had never until now reaped any financial reward.

  But now ...

  “Martha, dear.” Miss Seeton trotted back along the passage to interrupt Martha as she shifted furniture. “Such a surprise. I have won a little something with my Premium Bonds, and you shall have that special carpet machine if you would like it, for shampooing.”

  “Well, I never.” Martha paused in her labours to beam with delight at her employer and friend. “Congratulations, dear! My Stan once thought he’d won on the football pools, but so many other folk had the same numbers we ended up with barely enough for a new wheelbarrow, though better than nothing, bless him. All excited at first, he was, not that Stan gets worked up easy about things and what I told him then was, money’s useful but it isn’t the most important thing by any means, and if you’ve got your health and strength you’re a lot better off than many. But a shampooer, now. I’d have to think about that, unless they come with a fan heater built in. The shop would know.”

  “Indeed they would,” agreed Miss Seeton. “And should you perhaps wish for another vacuum cleaner, it would save having to carry it up and down the stairs—the old one, that is, from the cupboard under them. Of course one cannot approve of waste, and it does still work, but the more up-to-date models weigh rather less, to judge from their appearance in shop displays.” Not for worlds would Miss Seeton hurt Martha’s feelings by reminding her that neither of them was growing any younger. “And it is, I think,” she added to salve her conscience, “a little noisier than it once was, which could suggest—though I know nothing of motors or electricity—that it might in any case before too long require replacement.”

  “A nice little cylinder would fit away tidy in a wardrobe. Or under the spare bed, in its box. It would still look neat. But—”

  Martha was interrupted by the telephone’s shrill ring. “I’d best let you get that, dear.” She remembered that it wouldn’t be long before Stan arrived to carry carpets, and talk of upstairs had reminded her that she’d not finished downstairs yet.

  “Good morning, Lady Colveden.” Miss Seeton spoke brightly into the mouthpiece, and for some minutes thereafter just listened. “Why, yes, something,” she said at last. “And naturally I would be happy to help, but I know very little beyond the stories, and certainly have no idea of the scenery.” Lady Colveden’s voice came tinnily along the wires. Miss Seeton listened some more.

  “Perhaps,” she suggested after further details of the proposed Camelot production had been supplied, “as Mr. Jessyp is always so interested in history, he might be able to lend me some books, should he have any with suitable illustrations, even if King Arthur did not really exist, for he is just as real to us all as the Loch Ness Monster, and I understand there are even photographs of that.” Then she frowned. “Or should one more properly say photographs '‘of her’? Nessie,” she enlarged, recalling her recent holiday in the Scottish Highlands. “Of course he will be busy at the school just now, but I could telephone at morning break to discuss the matter with him. He is happy to lend books to those who promise to take care of them, as naturally I always do.”

  Lady Colveden, knowing Miss Seeton so well, was easily able to disentangle King Arthur, the Monster, and the headmaster. She expressed due gratitude for Miss Seeton’s assistance; and the two friends said goodbye.

  Miss Seeton then went out to the shops, her mind a happy confusion of King Arthur’s knights on horseback, their lances couched, their plumed helmets proud, and the feather duster Martha had asked her to buy. To celebrate her Premium Bond win she brought back not one, but two, dusters on their slender bamboo sticks, and Martha scolded her gently for extravagance before the happy circumstances returned to mind.

  At the hour when she knew Plummergen’s Junior Mixed Infants would be enjoying their morning playtime under Miss Maynard’s kindly supervision, Miss Seeton telephoned the school office and began to put her Arthurian Background Books request to Mr. Jessyp, who laughed. “They didn’t waste much time roping you in,” he said cheerfully.

  “As you know, Mr. Jessyp, I am always ready to help in a good cause, and with so ... so ambitious a project,” said Miss Seeton, trying to express her unvoiced doubts with as much tact as she could, “I do feel that the earlier one makes a start, the better, if the performance is to be instead of a Christmas pantomime.”

  Martin Jessyp seized with relief on her words. Miss Seeton, now some years retired, would still help out at the village school if asked. Mr. Jessyp had the highest opinion of any qualified teacher’s common sense.

  “I’m glad you said that, Miss Seeton. I’ve been thinking it over and, really, for a place as small as Plummergen I’d say ‘over-ambitious’ more accurately hits the mark. For one thing, we haven’t enough people who can really sing—though the film is no shining example—and it’s undeniably long. To suit a village audience we’d have to make pretty drastic cuts to bring it down to an hour and a half, two hours at the most, and I doubt if the writers would be happy to let us chop it about quite so much.”

  Miss Seeton replied that, although of course she could not speak from personal experience, being merely one who taught as opposed to one who created, as she had always understood it creative persons tended to be protective of their work.

  “Yes,” went on the headmaster, “and when it’s such good work they’d expect a lot more money than we could rustle up, for the performance rights.”

  Miss Seeton’s unexpected windfall flashed into her mind. She wondered guiltily if perhaps she should offer—

  “So I think,” went on Mr. Jessyp, “we’d be better off with an original Arthurian script based, like Camelot, on Malory and T.H. White but without in any way risking copyright infringement. That way, we’d have nothing beyond the usual routine expenses. Especially,” with another laugh, “as you have—aha—been volunteered, Miss Seeton, to design the scenery.”

  “Of which,” said Miss Seeton, willing conscript to her dear village’s concerns, “I know very little, except that there must be a castle, of course. With pinnacles, and flags, and turrets. The river winds down to tower’d Camelot, as Tennyson tells us—a lake for throwing Excalibur away at the end—and should there be need of a forest
through which the knights of the Round Table may ride in order to encounter dragons, and maidens in distress, there might be something suitable from when the Padders acted Babes In The Wood, which would leave me more time to spend on other details.” An idea for making far better use of her good fortune than subsidising the performance rights of a three-and-a-half-hour musical had occurred to Miss Seeton.

  “Tintagel, of course,” she said happily, thinking of Cornish sands and sunshine.

  Martin Jessyp tutted in pedagogic fashion. “That’s not Camelot, Miss Seeton, that’s merely where Arthur was born. All that towers at Tintagel is the cliffs, and while the scenery is admittedly dramatic, it’s hardly Christmassy. What people want to see at Christmas is bright costumes, pageantry, adventure—but I’m sorry, the bell is about to ring.” Miss Seeton in her turn began to apologise, but he courteously interrupted. “May I suggest that I look out one or two background books, with suitable illustrations, for you a little later? During the lunch break, if I’ve time. Nigel Colveden can drop them off at Sweetbriars for you this afternoon, once he and young Len have delivered the straw bales Sir George promised for the children to construct a small labyrinth. Miss Maynard wants to encourage the development of their spatial awareness, and the application of mathematics to real life.”

  Down the telephone wires Miss Seeton heard the distant clangour of the hand-bell generations of Plummergen’s Junior Mixed Infants had in strict and fair-shares turn been permitted to ring as a signal that playtime was over and they must resume their classroom activities. She hurriedly thanked Mr. Jessyp for his kindness, hoped he would not put himself to too much trouble, and rang off. Then she went to ask Martha if she might just slip out to the shops again and be permitted to buy a cake from Mrs. Wyght’s bakery across the road, because it seemed likely that dear Nigel Colveden would be dropping in for tea.

  “Ah,” said Martha, with a grin that went unnoticed.

  “And maybe some chocolate biscuits,” Miss Seeton added wistfully. Mrs. Bloomer, whose cakes were renowned in Plummergen and beyond, at once forgave Miss Emily her support for commercial baking. Dark chocolate thins were an indulgence her employer seldom allowed herself.

  When Nigel appeared on the front doorstep he had a carrier bag of books, and a most colourful and startling appearance. “Good gracious,” said Miss Seeton faintly. “Nigel, what can have happened to you? Does it hurt? Do come in.”

  Nigel grinned as he dusted his shoes on the mat. “Hasn’t Martha told you? I know it’s one of her days with you. She laughed quite as much as the rest of the family when she heard I’d been kicked by a sheep.”

  Miss Seeton regarded him doubtfully. She knew Nigel’s sense of humour.

  “Honest Injun,” he assured his hostess as he followed her into the sitting room, restored now to its usual neatness. He set the books down and headed thankfully towards a chair, rubbing his back as he went. “Martha’s been busy beating all your carpets, I know, but she should just try shifting bales of straw. Ugh!”

  “And with only one eye,” said Miss Seeton faintly. That purple, black and orange swelling held swirls of vivid red and yellow in its depths. Psychedelic, she believed was the term. “Do sit down, Nigel, and I will make the tea. It will help to restore you.”

  “Thanks, I could do with a cup or two, or even three if you can spare them. Tea and sympathy—but does anyone offer them besides you, Miss Seeton? And Louise,” he added quickly. “Louise, of course, but even she giggled once she was sure I was okay really.”

  Nigel was so obviously preparing to make a lengthy and humorous anecdote out of his experience that Miss Seeton happily played along with her guest as he drifted behind her into the kitchen.

  “But how could you be kicked in the eye by a sheep, Nigel? You are over six feet tall.”

  “September,” said Nigel. Miss Seeton studied him thoughtfully. “Annual sheep-cull,” he went on. “And dozy wasps.”

  Miss Seeton believed that part, at least. The growing sluggishness of wasps as autumn drew near meant that one must keep a closer watch than usual on fruits in the garden and jam in the jar, for fear of stings, and be wary about window sills and curtains.

  “Vinegar for wasps,” she murmured.

  Nigel grinned. “Bicarbonate for bees—though it wasn’t a bee that did this, any more than it was Louise, in case you wondered.” Miss Seeton looked startled. “Oh, yes, after they’ve finished laughing quite a few of my nearest and dearest have suggested my wife has found me out and taught me a stern lesson.”

  “I’m sure there is nothing for dear Louise to find,” said the loyal Miss Seeton. “Indeed, if there were, not that I can believe for a moment there would be, but if there were, it would be in your past, which is, after all, another country ...” With dismay she remembered where this quotation led, but Nigel knew nothing of dead wenches and merely nodded.

  “Louise is wonderful,” he said with pride. “Did Mother tell you how the breakfast newspaper problem was solved?” Lady Colveden had; Miss Seeton was duly complimentary.

  They carried the tea-things through to the sitting room and Nigel, with little encouragement, accepted his first cup and continued his thrilling narration.

  “Every year we check the ewes to see if they’ll be up to producing good lambs next spring. And if they aren’t, that’s them for the chop,” began the young farmer briskly. “We cull about a quarter of the flock each time, and Mr. Stacey has first pick of the bunch before they’re sold on the open meat market.” Miss Seeton nodded. She knew the basic facts of living and working in the country.

  “But how,” she prompted, “do you decide which sheep to cull?”

  “Teeth.” Nigel used his own fine specimens to bite into Mrs. Wyght’s plum cake. “The older the sheep, the fewer the teeth, or at least the poorer the condition of their snappers. Did you know sheep have no upper front teeth? Just molars and so on, for chewing. Lambs are born with enough to start with, and the adult teeth come along gradually, two a time. A sheep isn’t full-mouthed until she’s around four years old, then after a few more years she starts to lose them the same two-by-two way. Once all the incisors are gone or damaged she can’t bite or eat properly, she can only chew. So in general, when a ewe is too broken-mouthed, off she goes to the butcher.” He grinned. “Unless she’s a good breeder.”

  Miss Seeton poured another cup of tea, cut a second slice of cake, and continued to look and listen with interest. Enthusiasm always pleased her, expertise even more so.

  “A good breeding ewe is worth keeping, Miss Seeton. Always drops healthy lambs, looks after them properly—you’d be surprised how many don’t—gives good fleece as well as good flesh. You know the sort of thing.” Nigel gave her no time to admit or deny such knowledge. “Before we run the flock through the sheep-dip, we grab ’em one by one and tip them on their backs to give their hooves a thorough check, and the same goes for their lower incisors—well, their only incisors, if we’re being accurate.” The teacher in Miss Seeton approved of accuracy, but Nigel took her nod of approval as one of shared knowledge, and pressed on. “In the not-so-distant past a farmer might even pay a vet to fit his best breeders with dentures so they wouldn’t find it so difficult to eat, but these days most people will take extra care to chop the feed into small enough pieces that nobody needs to pay for false teeth at all, which is just as well because they come pretty expensive.”

  False teeth for sheep. Miss Seeton favoured Nigel with her best teacherly gaze. The Colveden sense of humour. She smiled, politely.

  “Honour bright, Miss Seeton. There was something in Farmers Weekly only the other day.” Nigel grinned once more at her expression. “Louise didn’t believe me, either, until I showed her the ad proving it was far cheaper to buy one particular machine for shredding hay and root crops than to hunt high and low for a vet who still specialised in dentistry.”

  Miss Seeton hesitated, then frowned. “I am still a little unclear, Nigel, as to how looking at the teeth of a sheep would l
ead one to kick you. Surely it is a painless procedure? Or,” with memories of a troublesome wisdom tooth, “do you have to give an injection?”

  “If a wasp flies straight at your face, and you duck down out of its way, if you’re holding a sheep—and they hate being on their backs—it will wriggle, at the very least, and the one I was holding did more than wriggle. Hence,” concluded Nigel as a third slice of cake was put on his plate, “this magnificent shiner.”

  Miss Seeton recalled the recent amusing television item about the lorry-driver and the Traffic Jam. She had not until now realised the extreme threat posed by wasps to general life and limb. Farming must be rather more dangerous than she had ever realised.

  Nigel drank tea, and chuckled. “Dangerous for some of the animals, too. Did you know there’s a breed of pig so obese it can barely walk? And it needs a pillow?” Once more a doubtful gaze met him across the table. “To stop it suffocating,” he explained. “Thick wooden sausages to hold up its head, poor thing—the Dorset Gold Tip, it’s called.”

  Miss Seeton once more gave her young friend the benefit of the doubt. “A charming name,” she murmured non-committally.

  “Names can be fun,” agreed Nigel. “We learned lots at college about various breeds of sheep, and of course you wouldn’t expect us to have anything here but Romneys or Romney crosses, but I always had a secret hankering after a Lonk or two, just because of the name. Or even a Beulah Speckled-face.”