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

by Hamilton Crane

  Torry Salt favoured him with a look that was close to pity. “If anyone has made such an effort in the first place, it must surely show that interest has already been kindled, and they are but taking the very first steps along the path. With further knowledge, understanding and acceptance will come.”

  “By paying for another of your tours.”

  “Possibly.” Torry spoke carelessly. “Or buying books, maps, magazines. Those who doubt and debunk, just as those who believe, read and research many sources. The Zodiac has a far wider influence than is generally realised. In time, the truth becomes known.” He favoured Sergeant Bloxham with another pitying look. “We have heard of the death of the man who scorned the Zodiac. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind—but it would the more greatly diminish me or, indeed, any of us who believe, to deprive a man of his life simply because he made fun of our beliefs. He had not, as yet, been welcomed on one of my tours, but he would have been welcome indeed had he chosen to attend. From what I have heard he showed a true spirit of enquiry and thoroughness in his researches. I feel sure that with time he would have come to, if not a full, but certainly a far deeper, understanding.”

  “Then, sir,” said Sergeant Bloxham happily, “you won’t mind us takin’ a look at your van, will you?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Farside Hotel,” said the taxi driver. Miss Seeton felt a thrill of excitement as she took out her purse to add a larger tip than usual. When the Hon. Secretary, Friends of the Abbey Ruins had telephoned to say her raffle ticket had won first prize, Miss Seeton could hardly believe her recent good fortune. First her Premium Bond, now this! The weather outlook (said the Hon. Sec.) was fine; the Friends on Miss Seeton’s behalf had booked a room with Miss McConchie, who had sold her the winning ticket and, sadly, won nothing for herself.

  “Don’t be silly, Miss Seeton.” Lyn McConchie brushed aside her guest’s tentative offer to retire. “You won it, fair and square. If I wanted, I’m sure I could ask Vince Weaver to take me up with him one day. He’s not allowed to ask people for money, but he often obliges his friends.” She chuckled. “If anyone wants to swap a few well-cooked meals or a week of free housework for a ride in the balloon, he says why should the authorities need to know about it, though of course he could pay for the licence easily enough, if he wanted.”

  Miss Seeton hesitated, but said nothing. Some form of tax evasion? But that would be wrong. Yet it was hardly her place to criticise the morals of complete strangers. No doubt she had misunderstood.

  The landlady failed to realise that it was the legal aspect of the flight that bothered her guest. “Remember, he’s the son of Weaver’s Consolidated Northern Industrials. Pots of money, as you can imagine.” Miss Seeton had no need to use imagination. The financial pages of her newspaper always referred to Weaver’s Consolidated as one of the century’s success stories. “A bit of a drop-out a few years ago,” Miss McConchie went on. “You know how they can be, at that age.” Miss Seeton, retired teacher, nodded. “Took off to California surfing and so on—learned to hang-glide—but he’s his father’s son and the hippy phase didn’t last long. When he came to his senses, his father told him to find a job and he turned up here. He says it’s excellent for photography—remember his photos?—and it was when he changed to a balloon that he could take really good wildlife pictures, because of the noise.”

  Miss Seeton’s hesitation this time resulted from her failure to follow the logic.

  “Hang-gliders make a noise all the time,” said Miss McConchie. “Hot air balloons don’t.”

  After the Hon. Sec. of the Friends had rung off Miss Seeton telephoned Martin Jessyp to ask what, if anything, he knew of hot air balloons. “There is a burner, I understand,” she now said. “Does the gas not make a noise as it burns?”

  “Roars like a lion, they say, only not all the time. When the wind’s right he drifts along so quietly you can hear the birds singing below you, dogs barking, even people talking if you aren’t too high.” Miss McConchie sighed. “It might be fun to see the world from above—except,” she added quickly, watching the guilt rise again in Miss Seeton’s eyes, “I don’t like heights. A friend of mine looked through the wicker floor of the basket and said it gave her quite a turn, watching the ground go backwards as the balloon took off. Don’t you do that, Miss Seeton!”

  The artist in Miss Seeton protested that the experience must give one a very interesting and different perspective on the world; but something still bothered her. “About the licence,” she ventured. Lyn McConchie laughed.

  “Oh, if they insist he’ll pay for one, but he’s still a bit of a free spirit at heart. He says if and when they catch up with him he’ll make it legal, but he does like to poke a bit of fun at the authorities even now, when really he’s old enough to know better. Nobody round here pays any attention, especially after the local paper ran a piece on him a couple of years ago and nothing happened when he said he sometimes took his friends up with him—and the Friends of the Abbey Ruins are certainly friends! But,” as Miss Seeton continued doubtful, “he can explain it all to you better than I can. If,” she added with a chuckle, “you’re up to it so early in the morning.” Miss Seeton looked a question.

  “I’ll have to call you at half-past four,” said Miss McConchie.

  Miss Seeton was so startled that the matter of the licence was driven from her mind.

  Concern for the legality of her prize-winning flight returned as the kindly taxi driver, refusing an even larger tip despite the hour, delivered Miss Seeton to the edge of a large field where a stout wicker basket squatted beside a steadily inflating heap of bright fabric. People moved about, being very busy and calling to each other. The taxi driver tootled a cheerful farewell, waved, and drove off. Miss Seeton hesitated, took firm hold of her bag and umbrella, and made her way over the dew-damp grass towards the bustle of activity.

  A sturdy young man with curly black hair, a flowered shirt, and a leather thong about his neck had stopped supervising the busy-ness at the sound of the car horn, and detached himself from the group, hurrying across to this final passenger. “Miss Seeton?” His smile held just a hint of doubt. “The one as won the raffle? Vincent Weaver, that’s me, and yon’s my balloon—and I’m right pleased to see your shoes. I forgot to tell them to warn you we might have to set down in a field of stubble.” His Lancashire—or was it Yorkshire?—accent seemed to come and go. “The ladies tell me that can come scratchy on the ankles.”

  Miss Seeton, shaking his hand, said that she had bought the soft alpine boots on her previous visit to Glastonbury, as recommended by the outdoor shop for climbing the Tor.

  Vincent blinked. “You climbed the Tor?”

  Miss Seeton could guess what he was thinking. “Yes, indeed. It is not something I would have dared to attempt, a few years ago,” honesty made her add. “But since I undertook a modest programme of yoga exercises my knees are so much more supple that I felt confident I could do it and—well, I did.”

  Vincent smiled with genuine pleasure and admiration. Like many in Glastonbury he knew the power of yoga, but had no intention of prying into a matter so individual to each practitioner. And this little duck was certainly an individual—that hat! He tried for a lighter touch. “Your brolly might come in handy if the wind should drop,” he told her. “We could always try it for a rudder, to steer us out of trouble—nay, only joking. Sorry, Miss Seeton. Not that funny—downright daft, in fact, if this is your first time aloft.”

  She continued to regard him gravely, doubting in her turn. One could hardly ask him if he were planning to break the law, but ... “Would it be legal?” she enquired, as they trod together through the dew.

  “A gamp used for a rudder? Never been tried before, so far as I know.” He saw that she was still doubtful, and addressed her seriously. “Are you worrying about this flight, Miss Seeton? You’ve no cause, believe me. Though I says it as shouldn’t, I’m pretty much an expert, after a lifetime. My Dad b
rought me up to it, see, being keen on aeronautics himself and teaching me in his own balloon when I was nobbut a nipper. Even called me Vincent, after the great Lunardi himself.” He grinned at her. “Mind you, me mam took on so about him forgetting her father, he agreed to pay extra to have granddad’s name added later.” He saw Miss Seeton’s doubt turn to bewilderment, and laughed.

  “Now, I know you’ll think the fifteenth of September’s Battle of Britain Day, and so it is, but to the likes of me and my Dad it’s also the anniversary of the day in 1784 when Vincenzo Lunardi took off in a hydrogen balloon from the Royal Artillery Ground in London, and flew twenty-six miles to Colliers End in two and a quarter hours, and made history!”

  Miss Seeton looked suitably impressed, though still doubtful.

  They had halted their walk across the grass as he tried to reassure her, and as there was nobody within earshot she felt she must try again.

  “Forgive me,” she began, “but—though I may have misunderstood, of course, but—that is, I have been told of the—the need for a—for a licence, and I cannot help wondering—”

  Vincenzo Lunardi’s namesake burst out laughing, then thumped rather than patted her on the shoulder. “Been tattling about me in town, have they?” Miss Seeton, pink-cheeked, had indeed been so discourteous as to discuss him behind his back. Vincent gave her no time to explain or excuse, but thumped her cheerfully once more. “Can you keep a secret, Miss Seeton?” She nodded again. He looked towards his friends. They were all too occupied about the balloon to pay any attention.

  “I’ve had my Commercial Pilot’s licence ever since they told me I should get one,” he confided. “Everything fully paid up, properly insured, the lot. But it doesn’t fit the image, sticking to the letter of the law when Glastonbury’s that full of free spirits every other person you meet is floating higher than the clouds.” He winked. Miss Seeton relaxed. The young. So mischievous; taking such delight in their teasing. A little naughty, at Mr. Weaver’s age—he must be nearly thirty—but how he reminded her of Nigel Colveden, whose own sense of humour still held more than a hint of mischief. She wondered, briefly, if Mr. Weaver, like Nigel, was married.

  Vincent’s smile was so infectious that she found herself smiling happily back, and they resumed their walk to the centre of activity, the balloon’s owner continuing his exposition on the unspoken benefits of being seen as a free spirit. “That was grand publicity they gave me in the local paper a year or so since. Everyone wanted to know about my photos, and folk started buying them. My dad, see, told me to get a paying job and earn for myself, and so I have. Now I even get commissions for people’s homes and farms at the right time of day, when the shadows, and the shine of the water in the rhynes—” like Lyn McConchie, he said reens—“and drainage ditches criss-crossing the moors look like a great net laid over the landscape, made from black lace and silver cobwebs.”

  Miss Seeton caught her breath at this picturesque imagery. Somehow, she knew just what he meant. “I have brought my sketching block with me,” she said as they drew near the slowly burgeoning balloon. “What a splendid experience it will be!”

  They reached the giant basket, where several people, by means of ropes, now stood guiding the rising canopy into position. “Now, listen up,” said Vincent. “Some of you’ve flown with me before, but Miss Seeton, here, hasn’t—Alison Midney,” he waved a further quick introduction, “Susan—sorry, Brenda, Callender—” Miss Seeton recognised the name, and knew why Susan wore a long white robe—“but you’ll have the safety talk same as if none of you’d been near a balloon in your lives. It might just save your lives if owt should go wrong. Not that it will, of course, but you can never be too careful. Right?”

  He was especially proud of the basket, which he had himself designed and woven from scratch and Somerset willow. “Some folk use steps to climb inside. See how I’ve made me own steps, by them foot-holes?”

  Miss Seeton, recalling some of the Art and Handiwork classes she had attended, was impressed. Susan Callender remarked that her cousin Valentine was likewise a self-taught weaver, although wool wasn’t so hard on the hands.

  Alison Midney added that wool was also easier to dye, and in rather more colours than the three basic willow shades of stripped bark, boiled, or with the bark left on.

  “... canvas pockets on the sides,” concluded Vincent. “Alison’s Dave’s staying behind wi’ Tracy and Trevor to finish up today, while Ned and Dylan follow us with the champagne. I’ll not travel with owt made of glass in case we tip too far on landing and things get broken. But I’ll remind you all of what’s to happen at the appropriate time. Any questions?” There were none. “Then, as we’re almost ready ...”

  Vincent went first and, knowing of her yoga, was unsurprised to watch Miss Seeton step nimbly from one foot-hole to another and, balancing herself with her umbrella, jump down to join him in the basket. The other watchers, who had been waiting for this little old lady to request at least a little help, were open-mouthed with admiration.

  Susan struggled with folds of white fabric; Alison was an elegant last. At some point in the proceedings the balloon guiders had set their free hands firmly on the leather-bound rim of the basket, released their guide ropes, and gripped the basket with both hands, holding it fast.

  Vincent gazed up at the balloon’s wide mouth as it gulped the hot air roaring from the burner. He waited; then he ordered, “Hands off!” and those who had been holding down the basket raised their arms. The balloon immediately rose to bump against their palms. “Stand back!” cried Vincent, and the balloon was free.

  Cheers came from Dave, Tracy and Trevor, while the other two basket holders turned as one and ran to an estate car parked, with a large trailer attached, about a hundred yards away. “The retrievers wi’ the champagne,” said Vincent, once he had checked his watch and made some quick calculations in a pocket-book. “You need one to read the map and one to drive the car, when you follow a balloon. They’ll help us pack everything up once we’ve landed, and squash in the back when we drive home again.”

  Already the three cheering and waving on the ground were far below the quartet in the balloon. Miss Seeton had been so interested to watch all that happened that looking down through the wicker floor had quite slipped her mind. She felt soft air brush her cheek as the basket continued to rise, then with the sudden silence as Vincent turned down the burner she felt, surprisingly, a gentle warmth, and absolute stillness—apart from Vincent’s unexpected action in tossing over the side two stout canvas bags that joined the array of cloth and leather pockets already slung against the wickerwork.

  “There’s clutter enough in here that has to stay in here,” he told Miss Seeton, observing her interest. “Four gas cylinders and the four of us, for starters! So once we’re airborne, I clear the decks.” He pointed over the side. “Yon’s the trail rope, in the largest bag. Useful to slow us down and hold us steady, if needful. T’other bag’s the handling line. If the wind should drop and there’s a dead calm holding us over a place it’s not safe to come down—high voltage cables, a river, a busy main road—then I give a blast on my bugle, there, to attract attention. There’s always someone as comes out to gawp as we go by. I shout down to ask if they’ll take the end of the rope and pull us clear—and once we’re safely down they get a share in the champagne.”

  Miss Seeton dug in her capacious handbag for sketchbook and pencils. Every moment of this unique experience must be captured. Her friends would hardly credit her adventures, and she, herself, would fear to miss or risk forgetting a single moment. In the drifting hush, the whole world was somehow ... intensified—smells and scents rising from the earth, the rich colours of sky, clouds, trees, fields; the brightness of the light, the clear song of birds, the barking of dogs, even the hum of a distant tractor as the balloon traversed a stubble field of bronze-dark gold, where the harvest had been safely gathered in.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but we’re going up a bit more.” Vincent broke apolog
etically into Miss Seeton’s silent rapture as she dashed off lines, shapes, forms of vivid concentration. “Susan, sorry, Brenda wants to try flying over her Sword. Mind your ears!”

  There came a thunderous roar from the burner; the balloon rose and, again to Miss Seeton’s surprise, slightly changed direction. She had taken Mr. Weaver’s earlier remark about using her umbrella as a rudder for a joke. Mr. Jessyp, discussing her raffle prize after he had checked his encyclopaedia, had explained that without a motor it was not possible to steer a balloon—ah. He had also explained that at different heights, the currents of air might flow in different directions ...

  “Yes,” breathed Susan in a rapture of her own. “Thank you, Vince—look, there it is!” Standing beside Miss Seeton, it was Miss Seeton’s arm she grabbed to turn her to gaze down and follow the direction of her pointing finger. “See that long, straight road? Where the railway line used to run before Dr. Beeching wielded his axe. But the railway would have taken the most obvious route—an old, an ancient path—the path marked out by our Dark Age ancestors to celebrate one of the Three Swords of Arthur!”

  She regarded her captive with an almost challenging look, then relaxed her hold as Miss Seeton did no more than nod, and smile, and say: “I have studied your little pamphlet with some interest, Miss Callender.”

  Susan blinked in surprise, then laughed. “You’ve been to Bedivere Books, of course. And our Tavy would never miss the chance of making money, even if the family’s not exactly on speaking terms at the moment.” Alison chuckled; Vincent uttered a meaningful snort. Susan ignored them both. “Did you understand what I was trying to tell you—to tell the world?” she asked, her eyes glowing with belief.

  “Until reading your book I had certainly not known—understood—that King Arthur had more than one sword,” temporised Miss Seeton.