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

by Hamilton Crane

  “I will have my umbrella—” she began, then remembered how the umbrella had been the cause of the original collision, and blushed for a third time. “Sticky tape,” she hurried on. “We really must find a stationer, or a newsagent.”

  “Oh, well, I can borrow a pencil, and it’s not far to where I’m staying. I’ll wrap what’s left of the bag round the books and put ’em under my arm. After yesterday I’ve had enough walking on hills, thanks. You’ll find the shop half-a-dozen doors along.” He pointed down the High Street. “Good luck—and enjoy yourself tomorrow!”

  He walked stiffly on his way before Miss Seeton had time to thank him.

  The evening, decided two Callenders as one, had grown too late to spend longer at the factory, poring over balance sheets and market forecasts. The directors had pushed papers and studied charts far beyond the usual clock-off hour observed by their workers. Their eyes were tired, their brains weary. Their local pub began to call to Bill and Crispin. Bachelors both, these dedicated businessmen held the view that fish-and-chip meals, scampi in a basket, or a pie and a pint at the end of a working day were more than adequate supplements to the wholesome food served in their small factory canteen. Northload Street and The Lamb & Butcher beckoned as stomachs that had survived since the middle of the day on no more than biscuits and cups of strong, sweet tea began to grumble.

  “Enough’s enough,” said Bill, stretching. “The Lamb?”

  “See you there,” agreed Crispin. He owned a car, Bill a motorbike, and both lived far enough from the factory to justify the expense, especially in bad weather. Valentine could not agree, and nagged them sometimes for not using bicycles, as so many people with far greater consideration for the environment did. Petrol (insisted Val) wasn’t eco-friendly.

  Her elder brothers naturally scoffed at their sister, but found a compromise by agreeing not to pollute the Somerset air by driving to the Lamb even if it rained. The daily exercise, they said, did them good. Changed from semi-formal to casual attire, in his leather biking jacket (a Callender line that sold very well) and denim jeans, Bill Callender pushed open the pub door and glanced about him.

  Crispin, who was a little more careful of his appearance and rated it almost above his comfort, rarely arrived first and had not now. Bill nodded to several acquaintances, grinned at a few friends, and waved to the landlord with a call for The usual, please while he found himself an empty table.

  With a glass of cider conveniently placed, he was skimming the tabloid newspaper for which he never found time during the day when the door opened again. A tanned, sturdy man of about Bill’s age trod in heavy boots into the public bar. He glanced about him. He nodded to several acquaintances, grinned at a few friends, and then froze as his glance fell upon Bill at his table, the newspaper half concealing his face.

  “Bill Callender, I bin wanting a word,” said the newcomer. He trod purposefully across the bare wooden planks of the floor. Glasses rattled on nearby tables. “And you’ll not hide from me behind that bloody paper!”

  “I’m not hiding, Jan.” Bill put down his newspaper. “I’m having a quiet drink and waiting for Crispin.”

  “Nothing to do with Crispin,” said the younger John Callender, son of that John known as Janner who was half-uncle to Bill and his siblings. “It’s you who’s the eldest, so it’s you who’s got the bloody authority to set letters from bloody solicitors on to my father. Don’t you go blaming it on the rest of your bloody family!”

  Bill’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his cousin. He spoke with slow emphasis. “No need to be so—bloody—rude, Jan. Our solicitor wrote to your father. Janner’s the one who signed that lease. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Nothing to do with me if you turn us off the land we’ve farmed since Dad left school and set up on his own account? It’s got all to do with me—and Susan, too, when you go sending letters to rob an old man and his children of their inheritance!”

  “Your father’s not yet sixty-five—and he’s not being robbed.” Bill crunched his newspaper into a ball and tossed it in the fireless grate beside him. He pushed back his chair, and stood up. “If anyone’s been robbed it’s our family, with your father paying the same rent since 1927 and never an increase. That’s almost fifty years, Jan Callender, all from a handshake between brothers and the trustees agreeing and nothing even properly signed until he came of age!”

  “A handshake was good enough then, and if you’d not tried to threaten us wi’ solicitors we might’ve come to some agreement now and shook hands again—but letters is another matter entirely and distressful to family feeling, your father not even cold in his grave—”

  “Which has nothing to do with the case! Your father grazes sheep on land he said backalong would be for keeping geese, and my father from the goodness of his heart let him be when he made the change—and ever since—but there should have been an increase in the rent when that change was made, only Dad was too soft-hearted and it went on too long. But better late than never is what we say, the four of us,” which he knew was stretching a point, “and we’re only asking for what’s our due,” which he knew even Val would accept. “If your father’s not agreeable to a tribunal, as would be the fairest way, then we’ll have him and his sheep off the land as is our right, and make better use of it ourselves—”

  “If you’d not sent that bloody letter—”

  “If your father hadn’t refused to talk to me—”

  “Building on good grazing land—”

  “Taking advantage—”

  The argument had steamed to boiling point. Jan Callender snatched up Bill’s glass of cider, hurled the contents in his face and the container past his head into the fireplace. It smashed and splintered there while he seized the table and tossed it aside. He and his equally angry cousin stood face to face. Jan was a working farmer, but the office-bound Bill raced his motorbike most weekends and did the repairs himself, single handed. If it came to trading blows, the fight would be closer than an outsider might expect.

  “That’s enough of that! I thought you two was s’posed to be grown up now.” William Hoare, landlord of The Lamb & Butcher, had known the cousins since their childhood. “If you’m lookin’ for a place to break up you’d best go home. Or get out thik door and play yer damfool games in the car park.”

  “Games?” interposed another voice, as Crispin appeared behind him, the spectators to this family squabble parting to let him by. “Bill—Jan—what the hell are you playing at?”

  Bill, Jan, and several spectators all began to tell him at once. Deafened, he looked towards William Hoare. The landlord, moving to right the overturned table, rolled his eyes as he picked it up in one large hand. Crispin took his brother by the arm and firmly shook him.

  “Stop it. Stop! If it’s about the field, this is no place for business talk, and if it’s not then you still shouldn’t make such a display of yourselves. I’ll knock your stupid heads together if you don’t shut up this minute.”

  William Hoare grinned. “They’d make mincemeat of ’ee, lad, but should you ask it I’d be happy enough to knock ’em together on thy behalf—before I chuck ’em out.” William, despite his years, remained a fine figure of a man. “And chuck them out I will, you may be sure, if they go on upsettin’ folk with their bloody nonsense.”

  Bill and Jan stood and glared at each other. Neither spoke. Both breathed heavily.

  William Hoare knew human nature, as a successful landlord must. “Then—outside,” he commanded. “Car park—and the winner to come back and pay for that broken glass or I’ll ban the bloody lot of you for life!”

  “Sit down and shut up,” Crispin advised his brother and his cousin. They continued to glare. Reluctantly, he accepted the landlord’s better judgement of the situation. “Then—outside,” he echoed, with a sigh.

  “Nobody else, mind,” said William, glaring in his turn as the spectators began to shuffle. “’Tis nothing to the rest of you if a pair o’ fools chooses to make even bi
gger fools of theirselves.” He folded his arms and looked sternly around, so that as the three Callenders headed for the door they went alone.

  For relaxation, Crispin preferred books to newspapers and enjoyed, among others, the works of P.G. Wodehouse. With vague memories of the fight between Mike and Adair, as overseen by Psmith, he wondered about finding a stop-watch but guessed that such refinement would be thought unnecessary by his simmering relatives. They simply wanted to thump each other until one of them backed down. The Callenders, he reflected, stayed true to their heritage even unto the third and fourth quarrelsome generation.

  And this time around it was all because Guy Callender had left it too late to make his brother sign a new tenancy agreement when he decided to farm sheep instead of geese.

  The next morning dawned clear, sunny and bright. The rain-washed air almost sparkled. Dark shadows were cast by trees, houses, and garden walls across paths and roads. Miss Seeton was amused to watch, on the ground, ravens dancing along the roof and perching on the chimneys of the Farside Hotel.

  Hodge, on the window sill, lashed his tail and emitted little creaks of irritation, knowing from experience that the ravens, no matter how close to his hopeful claws they might appear to be, were in truth far out of reach. Lyn McConchie smiled as she loaded a faintly protesting Miss Seeton’s plate with scrambled egg into which more than a taste of smoked haddock had been stirred, because she had decided to climb the Tor that morning.

  “Then you’ll need something to keep you going,” said Miss McConchie, “and what’s left I’ve put in Hodge’s bowl, so there’s nothing wasted if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. You are very kind, but ...” It would be ungrateful and, indeed, rude to refuse such kindness, but when one was accustomed to no more than a single boiled egg, a little toast with jam, or a small bowl of porridge for breakfast, this breakfast seemed more like luncheon. Miss McConchie produced a generous rack of toast. Oh, dear. Like lunch and afternoon tea together.

  “It’s a fair old haul to the top,” said the landlady, seeing her guest about to protest again. “We can’t have you fainting from hunger halfway there—nor halfway back, either. Protein’s what you want, so you eat it all up now. And you’re doing the right thing giving the Abbey a miss for later. There’s no arguing with the weather, and it’s the best day for viewing we’ve had for some time. When conditions are this good you can see forty miles all round, across the Bristol Channel into Wales and right down into Devon.” She chuckled. “Pity not to give those smart new boots of yours an airing!”

  Miss Seeton, struggling to the end of her kedgeree, smiled for Miss McConchie’s encouragement. They were an extravagant purchase, but the shop assistant had been most persuasive and, indeed, these unusual alpine boots were so very comfortable, soft yet supportive, that although one would probably have little need for them at home, for more energetic excursions they might even outdo the walking boots she had taken north with her for tramping the Scottish Highlands.

  She sipped tea and realised, from the landlady’s expression, that she must eat at least one slice of buttered toast to reassure her that she would not faint from hunger halfway up or down Glastonbury Tor.

  “There was much of great interest,” she began, as she reached for the smallest slice, “in the books I purchased from your friend Miss Callender, although there was so much that in the end, I fear, I could only dip into them rather than read every word.” Sternly, Miss McConchie pushed the butter closer. Oh, dear. A few moments for the scrambled eggs to settle would have been welcome. “But all most interesting,” persisted Miss Seeton. “And she was so entertaining about her family names.”

  “She tells a good tale, does Octavia.” A silver dish with a blue glass lining, filled with strawberry jam, was set firmly beside the butter. Miss Seeton drew a deep breath, rallied, and sipped more tea.

  “Her cousin, she tells me,” she went on, “is writing a book on King Arthur. When she showed me the pamphlet I bought it, as well as the guide books and, of course, a map from the outdoor shop where I found my new boots. They will be most useful, I feel sure.” Miss McConchie, who already knew of her guest’s particular interest in King Arthur, suspected her of diversionary tactics and fixed Miss Seeton with a warning eye. Miss Seeton drained her cup and meekly buttered her toast. Miss McConchie smiled ...

  Miss McConchie laughed out loud. “You’re never taking that umbrella with you on a lovely day like this! There’s not a cloud for miles, Miss Seeton!”

  Miss Seeton smiled back, but said nothing. She patted the crook-handled brolly over her arm and slipped her capacious handbag to rest beside it. “I have here my sketchbook and pencils,” she told the landlady, “though not my binoculars, which I did not bring. One does tend to think of them for watching birds rather than scenery. My eyesight is excellent, and I shall of course make copious notes. One of the books mentions King Arthur as having some connection with Wales, and Miss Callender spoke of the Tor as a gateway to the Celtic underworld, although forty miles does seem rather a long way to tunnel ...”

  As she left the hotel she looked up and blinked at the bright clarity of the sun-filled blue, smiled once more at the row of dancing shadow-ravens on the road. Black birds, black shadows. Darkness as dark as the underworld tunnel—or was it, she wondered, red with fire, grey with smoke? Her dipping into various books had not made this entirely clear.

  In the deepest of the dark shadows the still, silent watcher emitted a gasp that he tried to stifle with a swift hand. The sudden careless movement cracked his elbow on the lamp-post beside which he had concealed himself. He cursed out loud and fell back against the wall, falling from shadow to sunshine.

  In the house he had been watching, curtains twitched.

  Chapter Eight

  In her neatly-laced new boots Miss Seeton, having consulted the map in the middle of her town guide, arrived safely at the foot of Dod Lane. Here she paused to reflect on the fate of Richard Whiting, last abbot of Glastonbury. Having displeased Henry VIII (something all too easy to do) the elderly abbot had been arrested on a trumped-up charge and, found guilty after a show trial, strapped spread-eagled to a rough hurdle that was dragged by horses through the town to the very summit of the Tor, where he was hanged in the unpleasant manner of the time, with two other monks beside him.

  They might, mused Miss Seeton as she set off again, have come this way, though it seemed from the map more likely they had not. It was possible to climb one side of the Tor and descend the other; she had chosen to make the shorter, steeper ascent first while her knees, as one might say, were still fresh. Coming back down past Chalice Well would lead her towards the Abbey, so it was probable the unhappy abbot and his followers would have made their final journey along that more straightforward route. But longer, according to the map, and therefore slower. Miss Seeton shook her head for the misfortunes of history, and trod onward as the steepness of the path steadily increased.

  As she climbed she would pause, not to catch her breath—how thankful she was for the Yoga and Younger Every Day regime she had followed for so many years—but to sketch the swift likeness of a windswept tree, a gleam of water on the moors below, a bird lazily riding the currents of air rising with the warmth of the sun. This was where King Arthur had come to be healed of his wounds. She breathed deeply, savouring the glorious freshness. The Isle of Avalon. Yes, in King Arthur’s time the Tor would indeed have been an island retreat. As for his castle—would she be able to see Camelot once she reached the top, or would the distant hills beyond blur the castle into their own misty blue?

  She thought again of Abbot Whiting. Small consolation to a condemned man that the last he would see of the world would be a view of the countryside for forty miles around. But it was a splendid view. Miss Seeton arrived at the ruined tower of St Michael’s Church, and saw that she was not alone. Ignored by grazing sheep, people were taking photographs, looking through binoculars, even sketching or making notes as
they studied maps. A group of enthusiasts in long robes walked barefoot around, then through, then around the tower again, flowers in their hands and a muted chant on their lips.

  “Take no notice,” said a scornful voice behind her. “The sunshine brings them out—these last few days must have driven them crazy! They’d never have got themselves properly clean of the mud and the grass-stains, living in caravans as they do.”

  Miss Seeton turned towards the voice. It belonged to a small, thin, bespectacled girl wearing denim jeans and a shirt of some flimsy cream fabric, patterned with flowers. Miss Seeton smiled politely and said good morning.

  “Oh, isn’t it?” The girl flung out her arms to embrace the sunshine. “ Such a morning—you can see for miles!” She beamed at Miss Seeton. “Did you climb all this way by yourself? My goodness,” as Miss Seeton nodded. The girl, intent on friendliness, rushed on. “Have you been up here before?” Miss Seeton shook her head. “Do you want to know what you can see?” Her voice throbbed suddenly, and deepened. The rush of words slowed, and her spectacles shone. “Are you looking for ... the Zodiac?”

  “I have heard of the Zodiac,” admitted Miss Seeton, who from the corner of her eye had observed the barefoot chanters cease their procession and begin to seat themselves in a circle at the base of the ruined tower. Miss Seeton approved the elegance of some of the lotus positions, but hoped nobody would sit for too long on such damp ground. So unwise, even if the sun was shining.

  The old lady had heard of the Zodiac. It was enough. “Let me show you! My name’s Grace, by the way. Grace Howe.” She gave Miss Seeton no time to reciprocate. “I come up here most days when it’s fine, just to—to feel, and to be here.” She took Miss Seeton’s arm. “Come away from those unbelievers!”

  She led her startled captive a few yards down the slope. With an eager pounce she unhooked Miss Seeton’s brolly from her arm and, holding it as a pointer, began her lecture. “We’re right in the centre of the Phoenix of Aquarius here.” The ferrule of the umbrella described a series of vital movements. “Chalice Hill down there is part of the body—the Abbey ruins are on the tail—the Pilgrims’ Path is the edge of the beak—just look towards Wells, and see how the two ancient tracks make one wing ...”