The next few paragraphs contained an amusing word-sketch of Mel, her crutches, her experiences as an emergency Out Patient (“Guess what my next exposure’s going to be, Miss S.? Got it in one—the National Health Service!”), and Thrudd’s limitations as a nurse. “But never say die, Miss S., you know me. I’ve been sending the boy out to work to stop him driving me crazy fussing around—we women can look after ourselves a darn sight better when the men aren’t cluttering the place up!!” And Miss Seeton, pausing for a brief spell of judicious thought, had to admit that dear Mel—poor Mel, she supposed, although it hardly sounded as if the young reporter was suffering too much—was probably correct.
“Anyway, he’s been working hard as well as (trying to!) look after me, and this week’s Anyone’s is running a Thrudd Banner exclusive we both thought you’d be interested to see, hence the enclosed. I know you don’t spend a lot of time reading the newspapers—and who’s to say you’re not right? Not Mel Forby!—so you’d more than likely miss this. Don’t you think the lad shows promise? But just wait till I’m out and about again—scoop won’t be the word, believe me!”
Miss Seeton looked again at “the enclosed,” which was an article bearing Thrudd Banner’s byline beneath the heading THE CROESUS COLLECTION! Crooks Suspected of Stealing Works of Art to Order. She sighed, shook her head for the sorrier aspects of human nature, and began to read once more.
The headlines really told the whole story, but no reporter worth the name will miss any chance to display his (or her) investigative skills in attention-grabbing paragraphs. Miss Seeton read Thrudd’s description of how he had come to recognise, then to pursue, a hitherto unsuspected connection between various art thefts which had recently occurred in Europe: thefts masterminded, or at the least instigated, by one man, to whom he gave the nickname “Croesus”; thefts of pieces so rare, indeed unique, that they could never be put on the open market. “Only someone as rich as that proverbial king could afford to keep these treasures in the conditions they need, special conditions which museums and art galleries can supply. They control the humidity, temperature, and cleanliness of the surrounding air . . .”
“Mind your feet, dear,” said Martha Bloomer, paragon of cleanliness, as she pushed the carpet-sweeper towards a few crumbs it wasn’t really worth fetching the Hoover out for. “Why don’t you go into the sitting room to finish reading that? I’ve done in there already.”
Miss Seeton obediently pushed back her chair, though she had just reached the last line of Thrudd’s article and would be unlikely to read it again—or not for a while, anyway. “But there is still my reply to be written, of course,” she murmured, stepping nimbly out of Martha’s way. “I must convey my thanks for letting me see this most interesting article, as well as my sympathy—for the broken ankle, that is.” She frowned. “I suppose it is in order to combine the two—or maybe I should send a get well card, and enclose my reply in the same envelope—or maybe,” and a sudden smile danced in Miss Seeton’s eyes, “I could draw a little sketch based on the descriptions in her own letter. So very vivid—which I suppose is only to be expected, though one might not have expected her to be so cheerful, making light of her misfortune in such a clever way—but it is her job, though with a broken ankle one must suppose she will be unable to work for a while, which must be most distressing—and then I should be sure of catching the post. Not having to go out twice, you see,” she explained, as Martha (who had been listening with half her attention while she hunted out crumbs with the rest) turned a puzzled face towards her. “Because I don’t believe,” Miss Seeton went on, “that I have one in the house—a get well card, I mean. Which is what I think I will do,” and she gathered up the sheets of Mel’s letter and Thrudd’s article, preparing to leave Martha in peace.
“Some poor soul broke their ankle, have they?” remarked Martha, who was used to her employer’s occasionally erratic trains of thought. “Anyone special? I didn’t recognise the handwriting when I picked it off the mat.”
Miss Seeton flourished the letter vaguely in Martha’s direction. “Poor Miss Forby, though I must say she sounds remarkably bright about it, and such an interesting copy of an article by Mr. Banner, too. So very kind of them both to think of me.”
“Oh, your reporter friends.” Mrs. Bloomer’s attitude towards the Press was ambivalent. She enjoyed a good story as well as anyone, and would devour page after potentially libellous page with relish—unless her dear Miss Emily was involved, when she would become a flaming sword. Martha had heard about the Feudal System during school history lessons; her attitude towards her employer was part servitor, part overseer, part protector. The latter came very much to the fore whenever Miss Seeton was off on another of her adventures: but over the years Thrudd and Mel had earned Martha’s grudging respect. They never took the advantage of Miss Seeton’s innocence which others less scrupulous (as Martha knew well) would have done; if anything, they strove to protect it, as Martha always did, as the police who counted her a colleague tried to do. Since Chief Superintendent Delphick no less (who first co-opted Miss Seeton into the force, and thanks to whom she could afford the washing machine and other labour-saving household appliances which made Martha’s job so much easier) seemed to approve of Thrudd Banner and Mel Forby, Mrs. Bloomer felt she could do worse than follow his lead in permitting Miss Seeton to enjoy their friendship . . . and she wasn’t jealous in the least, of course.
“Your reporter friends.” Martha sniffed as she whisked her duster across the table on which Mel’s letter had lately been lying. “Sent you something to read, have they?”
Miss Seeton nodded. “Apparently, Mr. Banner has an article in this week’s Anyone’s, which as you know I never see, and they have kindly sent me a copy, about works of art from all over Europe being stolen, and how rich he must be—the man who is paying the others to steal them. The paintings and statues, I mean.”
Martha’s ears had pricked up at the mention of Anyone’s. “Oh, I saw that this morning—some funny name, he’s got, this rich man.” Not for worlds would she have admitted that she wasn’t sure how to pronounce it. “But I never knew it was Mr. Banner wrote it. Well!” And she looked suitably impressed. The journalistic credentials of Mel and Thrudd had always seemed slightly dubious before, but when what they wrote was printed in a paper read by half the households in the country . . . “And poor Miss Forby with a broken ankle,” said Martha, shaking her head. “Well, well. And you going to do her a little picture to cheer her up . . . She’ll like that, I’m sure. Just you pop along now to the sitting room, out of the way of the dust—and,” she added, “you might say I’m sorry, when you write Anyone’s, indeed. And Mr. Banner writing all about paintings and sculptures and things like that . . . Wonder what he’d make of that ugly great mess outside the biscuit factory?”
Miss Seeton tried to be fair. “It is modern art, Martha dear, and though I confess myself to be not as sympathetic towards Mr. Marsh’s ideas as perhaps I should be—teaching, after all, ought to broaden the mind of the teacher just as much as that of the pupil . . . but it does at least provoke thought. Modern art, I mean. Which must be considered as being the next best to sight—having sufficient knowledge, that is, to understand that it is necessary to think about where to start looking for what the artist intends us to see—his personal vision of the world. Though it is not always easy to communicate,” said Miss Seeton with feeling, “one’s ideas to others—which is why others must make the effort to see what was intended—if they can,” she added, for she was an honest woman. “Sometimes, of course, they can’t. Which has to be a failure on the artist’s part . . .” And she sighed, thinking of her own limitations.
Martha snorted. “I’ll say it’s a failure! There’s that clutter, for clutter’s what it looks like to me, large as life and twice as expensive, from what the Beacon said last week—remember I brought it over to show you—and neither rhyme nor reason to it at all, say what you will. If people are paid good money to, to vision what
looks like somebody squashed a couple of old tin cans and a sewing machine together, then I’m taking my dustbin up to Brettenden on the next bus, and ask what they’ll give me for it. Food Chain, indeed! What’s it supposed to mean?”
“Mechanisation,” replied Miss Seeton after some thought. “The factory—conveyor belts, or do I mean production lines—and the biscuits, which of course are intended to be eaten and which used to be made by hand . . .” She frowned. Surely there had been a far better explanation than that in the interview which Humphrey Marsh had given to the Beacon? Who, for so young a man, seemed to have very decided views . . .
As Martha snorted again, and muttered of rolling pins, pastry boards, and a good dose of common sense, Miss Seeton broke into a smile. There was a twinkle in her eye as she said, her voice quivering:
“I’m sure the fault is mine, Martha dear, for being so blind to Mr. Marsh’s talent, but I have to confess that I was not at all sure, when I first saw the sculpture, of what he was trying to show me. It reminded me, indeed, of nothing so much as one of dear Cousin Flora’s stories—no doubt you remember? About her young days as a member of the bicycle club, and how they tumbled together into a ditch when the president’s machine was frightened by a horse—or, rather, the horse was frightened, and bolted. I was riding it at the time, which made me recall—the horse, that is—or rather, my bicycle. Past the factory. Which of course is another sort of machine, or at least has machines inside—to make the biscuits.” Miss Seeton looked surprised. “Why, perhaps I am not so unsympathetic to the work of Mr. Marsh as I supposed . . .”
And, much cheered by this evidence of her ability to see at least something of what had been intended, Miss Seeton hurried off to write her letter, leaving Martha to wage war to the death on every last particle of dust.
Miss Seeton read Mel’s missive through once more before composing her reply, in the final paragraph of which she reminded Miss Forby of the first time they had met, and how the young reporter had suggested that the art editor of her newspaper might be interested in a few Seeton sketches. Not that she was suggesting for one moment that the enclosed was anything other than a personal greeting, but since Mel had been kind enough to express that interest, she might find Miss Seeton’s attempt at a get well card amusing, in view of her own clever words, and the crutches . . .
Miss Seeton drew her sketching block towards her, worked out in how many sections the sheet would have to be folded to fit in the envelope with her letter, and closed her eyes as she tried to rough out a little cartoon strip, perhaps, of poor Mel’s adventure: something she could read in different ways, depending on how it was folded. Which would take rather a lot of thought, to make the lines of various parts of the drawings match up . . .
Good gracious. Miss Seeton blinked. Her eyes had been open for longer than she’d realised, because she’d managed to fill the entire sheet of paper—but not with a picture that would mean anything to Mel Forby, unless she’d had her accident while riding in a pony and trap. One of the people in the trap was definitely female in form—but surely Mel, no matter that one knew young people of today to be so very liberated in their views, would never go out so scantily clad? For the female figure appeared decidedly lacking in dress: a few draperies, nothing more. And the pony—or was it a horse? “Hands,” murmured Miss Seeton, recalling conversations with earnest young members of the Pony Club, and the measurements which could bar one from entering certain competitions. “Four inches, I believe, or was it six . . .”
But she had other matters to puzzle over than the height of horses and ponies. There could be no possible connection between Mel Forby and this sketch and anything that made any sense—unless . . . Of course. She had been talking to dear Martha about making biscuits by hand—and Cousin Flora’s story of the bicycle (the wheels of the trap were so very clearly drawn) and the horse that had startled the president of the club. Her subconscious had jumbled together the conversation just past with poor Mel’s present predicament. No doubt the obviously female form was a representation of Mel in her hospital robe, being prepared for the operation when her broken ankle was to be set. And the other figures in the trap must be the nurses, or the hospital porters, escorting her to the theatre . . .
But Miss Seeton decided that it was perhaps a little too obscure for an invalid’s bedside; and certainly not amusing, as she’d intended it to be. She tore the drawing from the top of her pad and pushed it to one side before settling down to start again.
And she did not stop to wonder, as she put everything back in her portfolio and fastened it neatly, whether there might be another meaning in that pony-and-trap picture which would be of interest to others of her acquaintance besides Mel Forby . . .
Such as, for instance, the police.
chapter
~3~
IT SHOULD BE explained that around half the population of Plummergen are avid readers of Anyone’s; the other half will learn of anything of particular interest contained in that popular periodical by hearing everyone else talking about whatever-it-is—usually in the post office. But, as it was still too early this morning for Lady Colveden to have gone out shopping, at Rytham Hall the conversation was of a more general nature.
“More coffee, anyone?” Lady Colveden gauged the weight of the silver pot. “Yes, Nigel, I know about you, but would you mind just taking a quick look behind the paper first, to see if your father’s finished his?”
Nigel pulled a face at his mother. “I know you can’t help subscribing to the view that your spouse comes before your offspring—it’s the way your generation was brought up—but may I just point out that I work twice as hard as Dad thinks he does, if not harder.” The newspaper concealing Major-General Sir George Colveden, Bart, KCB, DSO, JP rustled in a pointed manner. Nigel grinned. “And when the weather’s as hot as this, a working farmer really needs to replenish his fluid intake before he dehydrates . . .”
He withdrew from behind The Times an empty cup, and held it, with his own, across for his mother to fill. “Perhaps I ought to add a pinch of salt,” he suggested. His mother shook her head at him.
“You shouldn’t make fun of your father,” she reproached him. “Though I must admit, it would sometimes be nice to have him properly with us—yet it does seem rather a mean trick to play, just to wake him up . . .”
The Times rustled even more, and Sir George cleared his throat as Nigel was about to speak. “Boy’s talking sense, Meg. Saw it in the desert, many a time—pinch of salt for heat stroke. Two spoons, please.”
Lady Colveden opened wide eyes in silent apology to her grinning son, who reached for the salt cellar and plunged in his spoon. She shuddered, and pulled a face, turning to the window so that she wouldn’t have to watch. There were times when her menfolk teased her beyond belief, and she was never entirely sure how far they meant what they said. It made for an exasperating, if interesting, life on occasion.
“Oh look, here comes Bert. He’s late today,” she said, above the brisk rattle of Nigel’s spoon.
“You mean oh listen,” he corrected her with a chuckle, then a choke as he sipped his coffee. Maybe he’d risk heat stroke after all. “I do think the Post Office ought to buy him a van with a more reliable engine. I wonder if he’d like me to take a quick look at it for him?” After years spent with a spanner either under the bonnet of his little MG or inside the farm tractor, Nigel thought himself (with some justification) reasonably expert on most matters of internal combustion.
There came a series of cheerful pips on the van’s horn as the village’s favourite redhead, the young postman who had the Plummergen round one week in three and was trying to make it a full-time appointment, rattled his way up the rest of the drive and juddered to a halt by the main door.
“Might be something exciting in his little brown sack,” said Nigel, “and not just bills. Shall I go?”
As he pushed back his chair, his mother looked anxious. “It’s sure to be against the union rules, or something—for yo
u to start tinkering with the motor, I mean. And suppose you make it worse?”
“Can’t have you blamed for bringing the entire GPO out on strike,” agreed his father, above Nigel’s protest that he could hardly make it worse than it already was, and in any case he knew perfectly well what he was doing. “Remember what they say in the Army,” he added. “Never volunteer.” Nigel stopped in his tracks.
“Perhaps I’d better not,” he said, sounding regretful but resigned. There came a clatter from the hall, followed by a dull thump. Nigel chuckled. “I could always fix that wire basket back on the letter box,” he remarked, with one eye on The Times and the other on his mother.
Lady Colveden flashed him a warning glance as the newspaper trembled in his father’s hands. Sir George’s balding pate had, on a recent occasion when he stooped to tie a shoelace and stood upright without thinking, borne the brunt of a sneak attack from one of said wire basket’s well-meshed and uncomfortable corners. The baronet, after cursing with some of his fine old Forces epithets, had wrenched the offending basket from its hooks and hurled it down the hall. Martha Bloomer’s comments upon seeing the scratches she’d have to spend hours polishing away had been almost as pithy as those of Sir George . . .
Nigel caught his mother’s eye, spluttered, then headed out to the hall to collect the little bundle of letters. He was vaguely disappointed to see that there was nothing for him, but he hadn’t really expected any envelopes addressed in a feminine hand. He was between girlfriends at the mo—No, here was an envelope addressed in a feminine hand, all right—but it wasn’t addressed to him.
Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12) Page 2
