“The police,” he said, “have reason to believe he’s used the trick before: practice making perfect, as one might say. However, as it’s probable nobody here has had much practice at walking along windowsills, shall we just say that, if anyone would care to make this their first time, here’s your chance . . .” And when there were emphatically no volunteers, he chuckled richly before leading them out of the room.
As the guided tour came to an end back in the hall where it had begun, people thanked the young man for being such an entertaining and informative escort. One or two pressed odd coins in his hand, which he accepted with a smile and a bow; one or two asked him extra questions, but when Faulkbourne manifested himself impressively in the doorway, the young man murmured polite excuses, and ushered everyone to the door. Another party, it seemed, was about to arrive.
Once again, Miss Seeton and her friends were last to leave. Bob caught Faulkbourne’s eye, and the steward, very slightly, inclined his head. Anne glanced sideways to see what was going on, but with discretion: she wasn’t the wife of a detective for nothing. She hadn’t been the wife of a detective for very long, however: her glance was quick, but it made her step unsteady. She collided, though not heavily, with Miss Seeton, who dropped her handbag and umbrella on the flagstone floor.
“Oh,” exclaimed Anne, “Aunt Em, how clumsy of me. I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all, my dear,” Miss Seeton replied, even as Bob pointed out that she’d have been more likely to suffer hurt if it had been himself who bumped into her. All three of them bent to pick up Miss Seeton’s belongings, then realised just in time that their heads were now in danger. Whereupon all three of them stood up straight—and laughed to see one another’s confusion.
“Allow me,” came a voice, and the smiling young man who had been their guide reached swiftly between them, picked up the handbag and the brolly, and presented them with a bow to their flustered owner. “I believe, madam, these are yours? What a very handsome umbrella, if you will allow me to say so. Pure silk, would be my guess, although—surely—the handle can hardly be of real gold?”
“Thank you so very much. Most kind,” said Miss Seeton, accepting her property with a grateful smile. “And indeed it can be. That is to say it is. Real gold, I mean, though of course not solid. Or leaf,” she added. “Unlike the portraits, or the snuffboxes, as I recall. Valuable as well as beautiful, and also far easier to carry—the boxes, I mean, although naturally I find my umbrella easy to carry. It would hardly fit in one’s pocket, would it? Any more than the ancestral portraits would, unless one cut the canvases out of their frames, which would be such a pity, since they appear to be such excellent likenesses and, presumably, of even greater sentimental value than the snuffboxes . . .”
Bob and Anne, who were used to Miss Seeton, said nothing as she continued to chatter in her attempt to explain, but the young man’s smile looked decidedly strained by the time he had managed to usher her safely out through the main door as various groups of people were coming in. Bob and Anne joined her outside, and stood gazing about them.
“Let’s see how much of the grounds we’re allowed to look over,” suggested Anne. She turned to fish the guidebook out of Bob’s pocket, then stopped, and stifled a yawn. “Sorry—combination of sunshine and lack of sleep, I’m afraid. If we want to make a habit of sleeping in a four-poster bed, it really will have to be custom built.”
Bob grinned, rubbing the base of his spine as he turned to Miss Seeton. “I gave up the unequal struggle in the end. A bolster on the floor isn’t as bad as it sounds—but it won’t be too much of a hardship for me to be back in my own bed tonight, believe me. If I am back, that is. Which all depends on you, Aunt Em. If you can come up with one of your drawings for me to take to the Oracle . . .”
Miss Seeton knew what was expected of her, and had arranged all her sketching equipment ready for the return from Belton Abbey. She would do her very best, she assured Bob, to give dear Mr. Delphick some idea of her impression of the morning room, but she could not promise how long it would take.
“And one cannot help feeling,” she added, “something of a fraud, or at least false pretences—being under them, I mean. Being here, that is. Not that this unexpected little break is unenjoyable,” hastily, in case they should feel she found their company irksome, “but there was, after all, very little to see—if anything, indeed. Of the boxes, I mean, and the ropes—because of course there was a great deal to see, otherwise. And they had been taken away, had they not? By the police—and by Raffles, as well. Or, rather, not as well, but . . .”
She paused, and looked uneasy. Anne smiled at her, and patted her arm. “You’ll come up with something, just as you always do, so there’s no need to worry—Bob’s not worried, are you, darling? And, just to prove he isn’t, he’s going to stay down here and have a drink with me, while you’re in your room in peace and quiet, sketching whatever comes into your head in your own good time. Isn’t that right?”
Bob grinned as he hastened to reassure Miss Seeton. She hadn’t really needed to pinch him quite so hard—Anne, that was—good lord, he was starting to think like MissEss now. Spend too much time in her company, and . . .
Whatever he’d said, it’d made her almost happy, from the look on her face as she prepared to trot upstairs. But even the Oracle, when she was in one of her worrying moods—that conscience, those incoherent trains of thought—could never make her absolutely happy about what she did. She was still that little bit ashamed of her remarkable talent, and—
No. Or rather, yes, to a certain extent it was still the same old worry, but wasn’t there, surely, something else to make her hesitate like that?
“A matter of the light, you see,” murmured Miss Seeton at last, twisting her fingers together to subdue the dance they nearly always started when one of her idiosyncratic sketches was on its way. Nearly, not always, because this dance was different . . .
“The light?” Anne was quicker than he was. “Which way do the windows in your room face? Southwards, of course, if ours is north. And I’m sure you’ve told me more than once that an artist prefers a north light, so—think how much better your picture might be if you drew it in our room, Aunt Em. We won’t be in it with you, after all, to upset your concentration or spoil your mood.” She fumbled in her handbag. “Here’s the key, and off you go—and take your time, darling. If the Oracle thinks one of your drawings is worth having, which of course it is, then he also knows it’s worth waiting for . . .”
Her eyes, fondly following Miss Seeton as, after further coaxing, she allowed herself to be persuaded, had a touch of moisture about them. “She’s such a dear, isn’t she? Simply longing to make believe it’s her room, and her four-poster, just for a little while—not wanting to make a fuss by saying anything, but glad we worked out what she really meant—and so am I,” she added. “Not simply because it pleases her, but because if she’s pleased, she’s likely to be more relaxed—which ought to mean she’ll find it easier to draw exactly what the Oracle’s hoping she will . . .”
“Whatever that is,” said Bob.
chapter
~14~
IT WAS STILL early evening when Miss Seeton, clutching three sketches in a cardboard portfolio, reappeared with the usual embarrassed look on her face; and she made the usual protestations as she handed over the products of her half hour’s labour. She was sure the sketches could hardly be what dear Mr. Delphick had expected—they were personal impressions, personal to herself, she meant, which Bob must make sure the chief superintendent understood, because the retainer which the police paid was so very generous—of course one could not refuse—it was nothing more than her duty to let them see her work if they asked, but . . .
“I wouldn’t say there’s much wrong with these,” said Bob, as he opened the portfolio for a quick peek. “Would you, Anne?” Leave it to the Oracle, of course, to make sense of the sketches: he seemed to talk the same language as MissEss—well, perhaps not that
exactly, nobody could, but he did seem better than most at working out what she was really getting at, in the end. The end, of course, could sometimes be a long while coming . . .
“He’ll be delighted to have them, honestly,” he assured Miss Seeton, who looked as if she might be about to ask for them back, given sufficient encouragement. Anne hurried to admire the drawings, then changed the subject by asking how Miss Seeton had found the north light.
Miss Seeton had found it excellent. And such a charming room—the view—such elegant velvet curtains, and the lace—the beautiful brocade of the canopy, too—
“Don’t remind me,” groaned Bob. “My back’s never going to be the same again. Thank goodness I’m heading home to London tonight—or rather, thank you, Aunt Em, for coming up trumps, though we knew you would, because you always do. And this time you’ve made my day. Not that I want to leave you and Anne, of course, but it’s all in a good cause. I’ll kill two birds with one stone—take your drawings to Delphick at the Yard, and make sure of a decent night’s kip first—and it isn’t funny,” he said to Anne, who had giggled. “A bloke my size needs room to breathe when he’s asleep.”
“Blame it all on the government,” Anne replied promptly. “Good wholesome food, decent drains, and the National Health Service—what else can you expect? Just remember that most people’s ancestors were weedy little specimens who lost all their teeth by thirty, and were probably dead of bubonic plague or smallpox five minutes later. Be thankful for the twentieth century!”
As Bob grinned, Miss Seeton said: “Perhaps a great number, but surely not most, Anne dear, if you will excuse me—dying so young, I mean, when one considers the evidence. There were so many, remember, and of various ages, as well. Some may have been the same people, of course, throughout their lives, but certainly not all—the costumes, you see—and, although indeed some appeared rather unhealthy, no doubt that could be the fault of the varnish. Because it is most unlikely one would be prepared to sit when ailing or, indeed, dead. For one’s portrait. Except in wax, that is, although I believe she had no choice, any more than the poor unfortunates who had been guillotined—Madame Tussaud, such a distressing occupation, so many of them so young. But the Bremeridges do seem to have lived to ripe old ages in many instances—just as, indeed, one may observe in others, and not necessarily aristocratic. Tombstones,” said Miss Seeton earnestly, “as well as vaults, and marble plaques—although one cannot deny, of course, that there were a great many who had nothing—but even in the humblest parish church . . .”
As one of her sketches had obviously been influenced by the Belton portrait gallery, Bob and Anne nodded as she drifted to a confused halt, and murmured (without committing themselves) that they supposed she was right. Then Anne became brisk.
“If you’re going to catch that train, you’d better check you’ve packed everything while I fetch the car. Coming for the ride, Aunt Em? We could do a quick tour to admire the evening scenery once I’ve dropped Bob off, if you like.”
After Bob had been duly dispatched on the London-bound train, Anne and Miss Seeton headed for the countryside and their scenic tour. There were no breathtaking views around Belton: no soaring mountains, no precipitous cliffs, no pine forests dark with whispers, no spreading oaks which had been spared the shipwright’s axe. Instead, there were rolling hills, woods and spinneys and well-hedged fields, sheep and cattle grazing on pastureland, haystacks and stooks from the arable harvest. It was typically English, and Miss Seeton’s fingers longed to capture it all on canvas.
Although she enjoyed the scenery, Anne was more taken with the villages through which they drove. She earmarked one or two junk shops which looked promising, and a cottage for sale which, she said, she’d buy like a shot if she and Bob had the money. “It’s really rather a shame that Sibyl Crockerton never existed, isn’t it? Mel Forby’s done such a good job, I’ve almost come to believe in the auction myself—but then, if things go according to plan, we’ll never know how much the painting’s worth, because Croesus will have had a go at it, and been nobbled, and it’ll be back over your fireplace with no harm done.”
Miss Seeton smiled, but was silent. One understood, of course, that such deception was necessary—but it had all seemed so, well, so unreal at first, as if it were a joke—and now, with dear Mel’s story in the newspapers, and Anne’s photograph, although she did not appear to mind . . . it was hardly a speaking likeness, which was fortunate (Miss Seeton had no idea of how hard they’d tried to make lucky little Mrs. Ranger look ordinary)—but dear Anne was the wife of a policeman, and any serving officer’s wife must, of course, expect to be called upon to do her duty—just as she herself was proud to do, of course, even though her sketches were really not . . .
Miss Seeton sighed. Anne said at once: “Tired or hungry—or both? Both, probably, because I know I am. We’ll get back to the hotel and have something to eat, and then, well, I noticed it’s Wuthering Heights on television this evening. I don’t know if you’d be interested, but . . .”
Miss Seeton was. Merle Oberon, so strikingly lovely—Laurence Olivier, so handsome and vital—dear David Niven, whom one admired for being so very English . . . Emily Brontë had written a masterpiece; she remembered going to the cinema to see the film when it first came out in London, and being so impressed by its power. She had always urged her girls, when it was their set book at school, that they could do far worse than use it—the film, that was—as the basis for their painting, although few had ever succeeded in capturing the spirit of the original—but there had been, she thought, several whose imaginations, which she had tried so hard to stimulate, had finally been released by Wuthering Heights . . . such a sad, romantic story . . .
She and Anne sat in the residents’ lounge and watched in tearful delight as Cathy breathed her last in the huge bed, and Heathcliff swept her up in his arms to show her the moor where they had run free as children, the curtain stirring in the wind. Miss Seeton blew her nose as the ghosts walked together before the final credits, and Anne cleared her throat with vigour. Miss Seeton, above the theme music for the Nine O’Clock News, collected herself sternly and said:
“Of course, if any of one’s class had behaved in so very wayward a fashion . . . children, after all, need discipline—but . . . It is a great book,” said Miss Seeton simply, “and a most enjoyable film.” She brightened. “So very well made—such attention to detail. The costumes, the setting—even the furniture . . .”
“Including the four-poster bed,” supplied Anne, with a smile, and in a tone low enough not to disturb the other residents. “I’ve been thinking about that, Aunt Em. Now that Bob’s not here—and of course he didn’t really use it, in the circumstances—how would you like to swap rooms? Your chance to sleep in a piece of genuine history—and,” she added, as Miss Seeton’s obvious pleasure at the offer was swiftly suppressed under a cloak of heroic self-denial, “it would stop me missing him so much if I was in a different room, you see. Do say you will,” she begged, trying to look like a lovelorn bride. And Miss Seeton, who could only suspect that Anne was acting, gladly allowed herself to be persuaded.
“. . . Brettenden, in Kent,” came the newscaster’s voice. The Kentish exiles at once turned their attentions back to the television screen, which showed the front aspect of the biscuit factory, with a figure wearing a beret, a beard, and a smock posing glumly beside the empty plinth. The camera closed in on the figure’s face as the voice continued: “The sculptor Humphrey Marsh is angry that police seem reluctant to carry out any serious search for his stolen masterpiece, Food Chain.” A brief still of the sculpture (which to Miss Seeton’s eyes resembled, more than ever, two angry bicycles) was shown, and then Humphrey Marsh appeared.
“I think it’s utterly disgraceful that so many works of art have been disappearing from sites throughout Europe for so long. Everyone, except the police, agrees the thefts are being organised on behalf of this man they call Croesus, yet nobody is doing anything. And I’d like to
know why. Either the police are simply a bunch of Philistines who don’t care about Art”—the capital was evident from the way he paused—“or, one can’t help it, there has to be a suspicion of something more serious than plain inefficiency. Food Chain is irreplaceable—and priceless. It won three awards. The critics say it’s in a direct line of spiritual descent from the genius of Marcel Duchamp”—Miss Seeton uttered a little squeak as she recognised her bicycle vision had been correct—“and certain of the Bauhaus Movement, though naturally one has developed one’s own unique style.” He tried not to, but he smirked as he went on, “And for a work that is generally accepted as a masterpiece to go missing like this—and for nobody with the power to do anything seeming to care—well, I’d very much like to know whether anyone might have been persuaded not to care, that’s all.” His eyes glittered out of the screen at an audience of millions, and the invisible newscaster concluded:
“Fighting talk from sculptor Humphrey Marsh. We asked Scotland Yard’s Art Squad to comment on these controversial suggestions, but a spokesman declined our offer. Next, the Test Match . . .”
Anne was fuming as she and Miss Seeton left the others to watch highlights of the day’s cricket. She talked of boiling oil, and the overworked police, and the ungrateful public; then she stopped as suddenly as she had started, and laughed. “This is doing my blood pressure no good at all! Mind you, I bet I’m not the only one seething. The Oracle and his chums are sure to be hopping mad as well, and you can’t blame them. Fancy that ghastly Marsh creature insinuating that someone’s been getting a backhander! As if anyone in their right mind could possibly want that ugly mess of scrap metal, and as for paying for it . . .” She looked at Miss Seeton, and grinned. “You’re the expert, Aunt Em. Is it really great art, as he was making out, or am I right in thinking it simply escaped from a junkyard and rusted to death outside the factory when it stopped rolling? Doesn’t it remind you of a fight between two bicycles?”
Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12) Page 11
