Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10)

by Hamilton Crane

  “His favourite, possibly,” countered Miss Hawke, sounding as if she doubted it. “But hardly his best, I wouldn’t have thought, even for a—society photographer.” There was scorn, now, in her tone, as if photographing in society took one utterly beyond the pale.

  Sir George grew annoyed on his friend’s behalf. “Cedric Benbow’s a good man, knows his stuff. Very much in demand.”

  “Popular,” said Miss Hawke, who clearly felt popularity the ultimate condemnation. “If you like that sort of thing, all very well, I suppose . . .”

  Miss Seeton observed Sir George growing red in the face and had to confess that she, too, felt a little miffed on dear Cedric Benbow’s account. Not that she could count him, as could Sir George, as a close friend: it had been many years since little Emmy Seeton had attended the same college of art as the rising young star Clive Bennet; but after the excitement of the Lalique Lady photographs, and the stolen jewellery, she might, she felt, with some justification view him as an old friend. And Miss Seeton’s loyalty to her friends must never be in doubt.

  On the other hand, one should always extend courtesy to the stranger in one’s midst: which meant it had now become rather awkward, knowing what to say, and indeed, it might be better to change the subject completely.

  “Cedric Benbow’s photographs,” Miss Seeton found herself saying, “surely deserve to be popular, since they are so very clever in showing us aspects of life we might otherwise not have noticed. Which must be the aim, I feel, of true art—to make people see things more clearly.” And, flushed at her own abruptness in thus defending dear Clive, or rather Cedric, Miss Seeton excused herself and hurried away to the waiting school, whose children, for a guilty moment, she had entirely forgotten.

  In the pleasure of finding her class so receptive, she had forgotten her brief encounter with the guest from the George and Dragon. Dear Mel Forby had laughed, over tea, about how even her journalist’s skill had not been able to ascertain much more than the woman’s name, and certainly not what she was doing in Plummergen: as if, Miss Seeton had thought, it mattered. But reporters, one knew only too well (Miss Seeton sighed at the thought), had a different view of life to one’s own. Far less private and much more personal—the questions they sometimes asked, for instance. Not that Mel would ever, Miss Seeton supposed, be too personal in her questions—and one had to admit, now that one had spoken to the mystery woman, that it might be interesting to know just a little about her . . .

  Miss Seeton gazed down at her Accidental Drawing in the smoke, and behind the image of the hunting owl saw the face of Miss Ursula Hawke.

  chapter

  ~10~

  THIS TIME SUPERINTENDENT Brinton was not shouting. Things were far too serious for such self-indulgence. He looked at Detective Constable Julian Arbuthnott and sighed.

  “I hoped you’d get results, laddie. What’s gone wrong?”

  “I honestly don’t know, sir. I’m sorry—I thought they were coming to accept me as one of them, but, well, if any of the Choppers were involved, they’re not letting on about it where I can hear them.”

  “And your gut feeling is that this firebug business is nothing to do with them anyway, isn’t it?”

  Sleaze nodded. “I’d almost swear to it, sir. These are your typical yobs—talking big about what they’ve been getting up to, trying to impress the newcomer. I’ve heard all about Foxon’s grandmother’s gate, the smashed windows in the church hall, breaking into phone boxes and spending the cash on booze when half of ’em are underage—nicking cars, too—everything we suspected, in fact. We could pull them in on sus for the petty stuff several times over, sir. But, as nobody’s let a word out about the fire-raising . . .”

  “It means we could well have a kinky one on our hands—and the thought makes me very nervous, Arbuthnott. Could be that any night now he’ll go for the big time. I’ve made a check in my diary for the date of the next full moon, and it’s due next week. No doubt he’ll come crawling out of the woodwork then—but how likely are we to spot him when he does? That shop in Ashford last night drew a pretty large crowd of gawpers—he was probably right there gloating, laughing his fool head off. Of course, the fire people keep a lookout for anyone turning up at every blaze looking pleased about it, and we try to get a few plainclothes types to prowl around as well, but nobody’s reported anything or anyone suspicious yet.”

  “The shop was pretty badly damaged, wasn’t it, sir? And the contents almost completely destroyed?”

  “Quite right.” Brinton eyed him sourly. “You’re thinking it could have been rather too convenient damage and destruction, are you?”

  “Well, sir, the insurance angle shouldn’t be forgotten.”

  “If you were Detective Constable Foxon, laddie, I’d damn your impudence for hinting that I’m an old has-been who lets the obvious solution escape him, but as you aren’t, I’ll just remind you that I’m the superintendent, not you.”

  Sleaze looked abashed, but only slightly. He permitted a faint grin to cross his face as Brinton scowled his most ferocious scowl, and wondered briefly how Foxon was coping with Inspector Harry, the Fiery Furnace, who on his bad days made Attila the Hun appear saintlike: it was good training.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. Brinton glared at him.

  “And so you should be. There’s life in the old dog yet, and I warn you now, if someone hasn’t already, that my bite and my bark are equally fierce. But for the moment I think I’ll save my energies for the firebug, when we catch him—or them. And if,” he added glumly. “If we don’t strike lucky soon, I’ll start to think we’ll never catch him . . .”

  Sleaze, who had cheerfully accepted the assignment which left him temporarily at the tender mercies of Superintendent Brinton, ventured to make the suggestion Foxon had warned him should never be made.

  “I suppose, sir,” he said, all seriousness now, “that it wouldn’t be worth asking what Miss Seeton thinks about things; would it?”

  As Foxon had predicted, Brinton turned pale and clutched at his hair. He viewed his seconded subordinate with a jaundiced eye. “Someone put you up to this,” he accused the young constable, who looked shocked.

  “No, really, sir, I’m serious. We’ve heard a lot about the Battling Brolly over in Hastings—not just the stuff that gets in the papers—and the lads here have told me how she was the one who really cleaned up the Dick Turpin affair—and, well, I thought that if she did one of her drawings, it might just give you a hint, sir—as we seem to be, well, stumped, sir.”

  “You mean you’re aiming to use Miss Seeton as an excuse for you not being able to come up with the goods? You must be desperate, laddie, and nothing like the good detective Harry Furneux, heaven help him, tried to tell me you were.” Brinton shook his head. “The reports from Plummergen assure me that everything’s quiet on the Miss Seeton front just at the moment—and that’s how we want it to stay, take my word for it. They’re all busy agitating about some strange woman who’s staying in the pub there and prowling round the place at night and rubbing everyone up the wrong way—not that it wouldn’t be easy to do that, in Plummergen—and Miss Seeton is teaching in the village school and in her spare time drawing a series of sketches of the main street. I’d like to leave her doing just that, if you don’t mind . . .”

  But from the thoughtful expression on the superintendent’s face, Sleaze suspected that he might, at a pinch, consider asking Miss Seeton for help, after all.

  Miss Seeton had enjoyed her outing to the Shire Horse Stud at Greatstone, and so had the children. She told them that the next art lesson would be another of the little class competitions they seemed to find so much fun, and that they must go home now to tell their families about the day’s excursion, and think about what had most impressed or interested them, ready for tomorrow’s pictures.

  Miss Seeton herself planned to return to Sweetbriars for a cup of tea and a slice of Battenberg cake, then to examine the photographs of The Street which Sir George, at dinner la
st night, had handed to her with a modest smile.

  “Leave it all to you now, m’dear,” he told her as she took the snapshots and murmured her admiration. “Capable hands, I’m quite sure.”

  Miss Seeton blushed and began to demur, but Lady Colveden was ready with reminders of how the Competition Committee had every faith in her, and that little Miss Armitage, for one, would be so disappointed if Miss Seeton at this late stage should feel unable to help. Nigel nodded in the direction of his mother and grinned at Miss Seeton.

  “I believe it’s called moral force,” he remarked, reaching politely behind him for the box of bitter mints which were Miss Seeton’s contribution to the evening’s jollity, and proceeding to hand them round. “You know my mother”—Miss Seeton smiled, and her eyes began to twinkle—“and how dedicated to improving the world she is. She lets nothing, and nobody, stand in her way or thwart her dire purpose.”

  “Nigel!” Lady Colveden looked horrified. “As if I’d ever try anything so . . . so impertinent.”

  “Mother darling, isn’t that precisely what you and your cohorts are trying to do with dear old Plummergen at this very minute? That hideous garden gnome The Nuts bought in Brettenden—don’t tell me Dad’s photo makes it leer like that entirely by accident. Once Miss Seeton’s produced a picture of some really smart, friendly looking chap with a fishing rod and a feather in his hat, even Miss Nuttel’s got to admit there’s room for improvement. And if somebody were to pinch the thing—”

  “Nigel,” said his mother in a warning tone, “don’t even dream of it. Excuse him, please, Miss Seeton, You know how frivolous men can be when they’ve been out in the sun all day long. They make it an excuse for talking nonsense.”

  Nigel helped himself to another mint. “Harvesting’s hungry work,” he remarked, “and tiring, too, but I strongly deny that I’m suffering from sunstroke. It’s just that my aesthetic sense, no matter what you and Dad may think, is as well-developed as the next person’s”—he grinned at Miss Seeton, who sat in the neighbouring chair—“and I’m really keen to see how the old place will look once our resident aesthetic expert’s had a proper chance to show her paces.”

  “I can only do my best,” said Miss Seeton, “although I would hesitate to regard myself as an expert. Fortunately, the list of suggestions your dear mother and her Committee have compiled is so comprehensive”—her hands fluttered over the neatly written sheet which Lady Colveden had given her—“that I am emboldened to hope that I might be able to draw, well, something along the lines of what is required.”

  “Of course you’ll be able to,” Lady Colveden assured her firmly. “We all have every confidence in you.”

  “And besides, we’re bursting with curiosity,” added Nigel, “to see how things might look if everybody joins in. Suppose Miss Wicks goes ahead and asks Dan Eggleden to put wrought-iron rails up the steps to her front door, and that marvellous little balcony along the front, too. My kind-hearted mother,” he told Miss Seeton, “has had a word with Dan about it already. Because it’s so close to the forge, he says he could use Miss Wicks as a sort of showcase, or do I mean guinea pig? Either way, he’d do it for her at a reasonable cost, he says.”

  Miss Seeton looked pleased, even as it became Lady Colveden’s turn to blush. The elderly spinster was a close acquaintance of Miss Seeton’s, and, though the two gentlewomen never discussed financial matters, it was clear to the younger that funds were barely adequate in the little white cottage three doors along from the bakery. The flowers in the balcony tubs were always bright; Miss Wicks and friends who were keen gardeners, forever taking too many cuttings and needing a good home for the surplus. The many panes of the sash windows sparkled bravely; Plummergen’s keen troop of Boy Scouts had long since managed to convince Miss Wicks that Bob-a-Job Week came around every month.

  But this afternoon Miss Seeton did not intend to begin her series of drawings with Miss Wick’s cottage, or, indeed, any of the buildings on the western side of The Street. The blazing summer sun, though still high in the sky, would soon begin to dazzle her if she faced that way. She would start, she decided, on the opposite side of the road, with the post office, over whose plain frontage the Committee were suggesting that Mr. Stillman might like to install an awning, maybe in red and yellow Royal Mail stripes.

  Sir George’s photograph was clipped to one corner of her easel, the Committee’s list to the other, and her umbrella was hooked over the wooden peg as Miss Seeton positioned herself just outside Lilikot and set intently to work. She was not conscious of the way The Nuts, from behind their net curtains, were peering out at her.

  “Eric, do come quick! That Seeton woman’s lurking right by our front gate,” Bunny had complained to her friend when she first observed the newcomer. “Blocking the path with all her painting gear—the nerve! Why should people have to walk on the grass to get past?”

  “Damaged enough already, with the heat,” agreed Erica Nuttel, “not to mention the virus.” For Plummergen’s rare Brown Wilt was spreading daily, ever wider. “Could all be subterfuge, of course.” Eric had come to join Bunny at the plate-glass peephole and was frowning in thought. “Casing the joint—liable to robbery, post offices.”

  “Oh, Eric, yes! Remember a few years ago, those motorbike people, and the cheese? And how Miss Seeton walked up and simply took the gun and started firing it at us? Everyone tried to make excuses for her, but I’ve always had my doubts—too suspicious, and too much of a coincidence.”

  Miss Nuttel agreed with her, and The Nuts settled to a long afternoon’s spy-holing through the white net curtains of Lilikot.

  Miss Seeton did not notice them, and would have taken it as mere neighbourly interest if she had; nor did she hear the giggles of the small group of children on their way from the council houses at the top of the village to catch tiddlers in the Royal Military Canal, who stopped behind her to stare. Miss was busy drawing—the post office, it was, and she’d got her paints with her, and after she’d done drawing, she might paint it to look real nice, and maybe if they asked her tomorrow, she’d let them use watercolours, too.

  Miss Seeton was absorbed in her task of delineating the basic view, leaving until later the addition of the little extra touches the Committee hoped would be improvements. She smiled to herself as she thought of dear Lady Colveden, and how amusing young Nigel could be, and the number of mints he could eat without putting on weight; she brooded on the box of chocolates Miss Maynard had given her, and how few were left, and how much she’d enjoyed eating them and sharing them with various visitors. Miss Wicks, with those so unfortunate false teeth, had whistled her delight in the confectionery through a mouthful of caramel, and for one dreadful minute Miss Seeton had feared that the old lady would clamp her jaws to an embarrassing standstill, requiring the services of a dentist.

  Miss Seeton paid no attention to the arrival of the bus back at its home base of Crabbe’s Garage, a few doors along from the post office; one or two interested parties crossed the road to watch what she was doing, but nobody liked to disturb her while she was clearly so busy. Plummergen has a healthy respect for Miss Seeton and all her works.

  “Why an umbrella?” came the sudden query from behind. “Doesn’t look at all like rain.” Miss Seeton slowly turned. “Good light, with no clouds,” continued the voice, a voice she did not quite recognise. “Going well?”

  “Miss Hawke,” murmured Miss Seeton, dragging herself out of her creative mood with difficulty. “Er—good afternoon. Yes, I believe I may say it is going reasonably well, thank you. I, er, trust that you are enjoying yourself? This is a delightful part of Kent for a holiday, is it not?”

  Mel Forby had, some time ago, decided to throw herself wholeheartedly into her Rural Revival series; she gave up the struggle to learn more about her fellow guest at the George and Dragon, saying she believed the woman to be no more than someone on holiday who took midnight walks for the freshness of the air and the privacy. “Guess you and I know only too well, Mi
ss S.,” said Mel, “how valuable a spot of privacy can be in a place like Plummergen . . .”

  Oh, dear. Miss Seeton blushed. She had almost forgotten dear Mel’s comments about privacy, so absorbed had she been in her work. How unforgivable, to appear to have been prying! “I do beg your pardon, Miss Hawke,” Miss Seeton said as Miss Hawke now fixed her with a suspicious stare. “That is to say . . . I do beg your pardon.”

  Miss Hawke uttered a barking laugh and patted the bulky shoulder bag which not a soul in the village had seen her open. “Holiday?” she echoed briefly; then at once changed the subject. “Odd perspective,” she remarked, peering over Miss Seeton’s shoulder at her pencilled outlines. “Wider panorama,” and she waved her free arm towards the southern end of The Street. Miss Seeton’s glance drifted along and fell upon Sweetbriars, standing full-square on the corner where The Street narrowed, facing the whole village and, she felt, welcoming her even at a distance. “Insufficient focal interest,” Miss Hawke dismissed Miss Seeton’s study of the post office and strode off in the direction of the George and Dragon.

  Miss Seeton felt duly rebuked—deservedly so, perhaps, for she had (without meaning to, certainly, but she had), or so it must have seemed, been attempting to pry into Miss Hawke’s business in the village. Which could be regarded as an impertinence, even though it had been merely polite and idle chat, after being unexpectedly interrupted at one’s work. Miss Seeton felt rather upset and decided that she had done enough sketching for today. Flustered, she folded her easel, collected her bits and pieces, hooked her second-best umbrella over her arm, and headed homewards.

  “Did you see, Eric?” Norah Blaine was still keeping watch. “That woman who’s staying at the George and Dragon got off the bus and came over to talk to her, and as soon as they’d made contact, Miss Seeton stopped even pretending to draw a picture and followed her back down The Street! Mark my words, she’s up to no good in Plummergen . . . either of them,” concluded Mrs. Blaine darkly.