Miss Seeton was pondering her reply—she wished to be truthful, but one had to be fair-minded at the same time, which in the circumstances would be, well, difficult—when there came a discreet cough from a nearby throat. A tall, dark, stately stranger appeared from behind a potted palm. He looked vaguely familiar. As he drew near the two women, he inclined his head slightly.
“Excuse me, but am I correct in assuming that you are Miss Seeton—Miss Emily Seeton?”
Anne rushed in before Miss Seeton could admit that she was. The two of them were, after all, supposed to be here more or less incognito. “I’m Anne—Knight,” she amended, “and my aunt and I are here on holiday, looking for peace and quiet and privacy. If you’ll excuse us . . .”
The stranger smiled, and spoke very low, although there seemed no risk of their being overheard. “I merely wished to establish my, er, cover, if such a term is not considered melodramatic. My dear Mrs. Ranger, I know very well who you are—both of you. Quite apart from the fact that there is an efficient registration system in this hotel, I observed you, and your husband, and, er, your aunt together at the Abbey only this morning”—of course, the man in the hall who’d looked so pleased to see them join the guided tour—“and, moreover, recently became acquainted with Detective Sergeant Ranger at New Scotland Yard, on the occasion of my consulting Chief Superintendent Delphick. One of them may have mentioned the matter to you. My name,” with another bow, “is Faulkbourne: I am steward to His Grace the Duke of Belton. And you are, are you not, Miss Seeton?”
“I am,” she confirmed, with a worried smile: should one, or should one not, shake hands? One did not, she felt sure, when introduced in the house—but they were in the Arms, not the Abbey—but that might still be regarded as Belton territory—but Faulkbourne could be here in a private capacity, which meant that one perhaps should . . .
Faulkbourne spared her any further worry by indicating a secluded group of easy chairs, and suggesting that all three of them might sit down. Miss Seeton hesitated, but Anne had no doubts. Bob, with Delphick’s permission, had indeed told her something of Faulkbourne’s visit to the Yard, and how he had asked for Miss Seeton’s help, even if Miss Seeton herself had no real idea of the exact purpose behind her little holiday. She’d been told that a few sketches, if she could manage them, would be appreciated, but it had seemed better—as it always did—not to confuse her by explaining in too much detail.
Because, confusion was sometimes a definite understatement of what happened when Miss Seeton became involved in a case . . .
chapter
~15~
WHEN THEY HAD all settled themselves, Faulkbourne enquired of Miss Seeton, with a degree of emphasis, whether she had found her visit to the Abbey of any interest. Miss Seeton assured him that she had. Such a beautiful setting, was it not? And so very historical—so many interesting facts, and the guide so knowledgeable and amusing—which was only to be expected, in the circumstances . . .
“Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes twinkling at his start of surprise: or at what in another less stately would have been a start, but in Faulkbourne, steward to His Grace the Duke of Belton, was the raising of his eyebrows by a fraction of an inch. “Oh, yes, there could be no doubt, of course, when one had seen so many ancestral portraits. Heredity can be a remarkably persistent influence, Mr. Faulkbourne. The eye sockets, almost unique—and the structure of the nose, even if the colouring is quite different. But no doubt at all. He was obviously enjoying himself a great deal—just like Nigel,” she added, with a nod to Anne. “Don’t you think they share a similar sense of fun? Playing tricks—not that I know of Nigel’s ever pretending to be someone he was not, but one can easily imagine them both laughing about it afterwards—and when he was offered the tip, and accepted it, one knew for certain, of course, because that is exactly what dear Nigel would do, and tell everyone about it once the person who had given it was gone, for fear of hurting their feelings. Nigel is, you see,” she explained to Faulkbourne, “a very kind and considerate young man.”
“As is Master Eddie,” replied Faulkbourne. “I beg his pardon, Lord Edgar. One finds it hard to reconcile oneself to the thought that he is no longer a harum-scarum youngster—an inevitable reluctance to acknowledge the passage of years, no doubt. When one remembers him and his brother as urchin schoolboys . . . But those years have indeed passed. His lordship was deemed by his parents capable of caring for the Abbey during their absence—as one feels confident that he would be, in more normal circumstances. The circumstances, however, are far from normal, are they not?”
“Are they?” Miss Seeton blinked. “Or rather, that is to say—aren’t they? My understanding of such matters is very limited, but I would have said that it was being run most efficiently, from the little I could observe as we toured it—the Abbey, I mean, or at least that is the impression with which one came away. That it was running very well. Which, after being open to the public for some years, is what one would expect—and you yourself must have learned a great deal in that time, Mr. Faulkbourne. I feel sure that in you Lord Edgar has a helpful and sympathetic friend on whom he could call, should the need arise.”
Faulkbourne regarded her shrewdly. “I have done my best to advise him, but the young—I speak in confidence, Miss Seeton—can be very headstrong, I fear. His lordship is . . . not easily advised. The Bremeridges are noted for their high and haughty spirit, Miss Seeton. To employ an equine metaphor, they prefer the freedom of the range to the discipline of bit and bridle. Lord Edgar listens, but takes no notice—and says nothing in return, or certainly not to myself. But did he, perhaps, speak to you at some time while you were at the house?”
“To me? Certainly not. Why should he? I beg your pardon,” said Miss Seeton, a gentle flush staining her cheeks, “but there were others present besides myself, and I cannot see why Lord Edgar should single out a complete stranger in whom to confide—and, indeed, it would be rather foolish of him to do so. As I explained, I have little knowledge of running a stately home—none at all, in fact.”
Faulkbourne had looked puzzled as she began her denial, then smiled with relief. “Others present—of course, Miss Seeton, I completely understand. The need for discretion—in my natural anxiety, I have been perhaps careless.” He glanced around the reception area. At one or two of the low tables, enjoying a quiet chat, a few groups of people were sitting. “Privacy, Miss Seeton, or should one say security, must be maintained.”
“Oh, yes, indeed.” Miss Seeton nodded. Her privacy, as that of any gentlewoman, had always been important to her—although why Mr. Faulkbourne should speak of security, when it was the Abbey which had suffered such a daring robbery—“Oh, yes—but mine was blown up by lightning recently, and I confess that I have been rather remiss in having it repaired. So much more peaceful, you understand. Bells and alarms whenever one forgot to turn the key—and the chief constable only intended it as a . . . a guinea-pig, I believe, or do I mean market research? For those with property of some value, such as yourself—I beg your pardon, His Grace—I would certainly recommend one, but I’m afraid I cannot even recall the name of the firm who installed it. It must have been two or three years ago, you see.”
Faulkbourne wasn’t entirely sure that he did, though he saw enough to realise that Miss Seeton, as he ought to have realised from everything the newspapers said about her, had her own way of doing things. He was certainly learning the truth of that . . . Obviously, she intended to keep her own counsel—or, rather, Scotland Yard’s, he supposed he should consider it. His visit might have prompted them to act, but in the end they must be regarded as the ones responsible for her presence here now. It might be a breach of etiquette for her to reveal what, if anything, she had found out, even to one who, over the years, had been proud to acknowledge himself the confidant and, indeed, the friend of his ducal employer. But Lord Edgar was not His Grace—and His Grace was far from home . . .
“These are difficult times for the Bremeridges—for all of us on
the Belton estate, Miss Seeton,” he said, and could not suppress a sigh. Perhaps it sounded theatrical: perhaps it did not matter. He must try his best to make her understand. “The Abbey, as you have observed, is an historic and beautiful place, but such places are, regrettably, expensive to maintain. Funds, I fear, are low. Much of the capital is tied up in the property, which is entailed to the eldest son—and Lord Pelsall, whom I still think of as Master Ivo, I fear”—with a rueful smile—“is far away from home at present, mountaineering in the Andes with his father . . .”
Miss Seeton wasn’t sure how she was supposed to reply to this. One’s acquaintance with mountains was (apart from the films, television, and of course paintings one had seen over the years) limited to the trip she had taken when (and Miss Seeton blushed at the memory) she had flown by mistake to Genoa, in Italy, instead of Geneva, in Switzerland. She had arrived in the right place eventually, of course, and remembered that she had crossed the Alps somewhere along the way—but crossed them by air, or perhaps one should more accurately say passed over, except that this term could so easily be open to misinterpretation . . .
“From an aeroplane,” said Miss Seeton, rather sternly, “one really cannot be expected to gain any detailed knowledge of mountains, except that they invariably seem to be covered with snow. And, in my opinion, it is far better to entrust these matters to one’s bank manager—investments,” she explained, as Faulkbourne’s eyebrows looked startled again. “My dishwasher and automatic washing machine, for instance, so very useful. Martha was delighted. One saves so much time—but as for saving money, or rather making any more, I regret that I am quite unable to suggest anything—I retired from teaching, you see, some time ago. My bank manager recommended it—that is to say, when he advised me to invest, I felt it sensible to expend a certain sum on labour-saving devices before investing the remainder—one’s pension, of course, as well as the retainer fee from Scotland Yard.” Really, one found it awkward to discuss finance when one was hardly an expert. In happier times, money had been considered one of the topics which no gentlewoman ought to mention—but times, although still happy (indeed, one might even say they were happier since one had been living in Plummergen) were very different. If Mr. Faulkbourne had come especially to ask for advice, it might be thought rude to dismiss his anxieties out of hand, although one must certainly make it plain that one was unable to help. Which it seemed that he had understood, for there appeared to be what one might call a smile in his eyes . . .
Faulkbourne heard Miss Seeton’s use of the Scotland Yard name with resignation. She was being very polite about it, as might be expected, but she was making it absolutely plain that, so far as she was concerned, she would be dealing only with the police. Which was understandable, of course, even if one had hoped to persuade her otherwise . . .
Miss Seeton, still feeling somewhat guilty at dispossessing dear Anne from her room, nevertheless felt sure she would relish every minute of her night’s repose in that glorious four-poster bed. She cleaned her teeth, closed her eyes, and coiled herself down to the floor into one of her most relaxing yoga postures, revelling in the luxury of the carpet, and the lace, and the age-dark timbers. She climbed at last into bed—and one did indeed have to climb, so thickly was the mattress feathered—and cuddled down beneath the embroidered counterpane. Had it, she wondered, been made for this very bed when it was first built? And when might that have been? How many generations of Bremeridge (ought one, perhaps, to say Belton? One did one’s best to observe the courtesies, but it really was a trifle confusing) dependants—or did one mean vassals, or villeins—or would followers do?—had been born in it; or (and Miss Seeton sighed) spent their married lives in it? Poor dear Anne. How generous of her to humour one’s little fancies, though one was far from being one of the silk-clad beauties so often portrayed on the cinema screen. Rather impractical, nowadays, of course, when it seemed that laundry maids were as out of date as gentlemen who fought duels, or took snuff—and it needed so much care, or so one had been led to believe. Silk, that was to say, although one could only be glad of such modern conveniences as automatic washing machines . . . the romance, mused Miss Seeton, had somehow gone from so many aspects of life, even if it had been, from what one had read, rather a dangerous pastime, and hardly romantic, in the true sense of the word, at all. Fighting duels, not taking snuff . . .
Miss Seeton closed her eyes, and drifted off into dreams of duelling gallants with ruffles at their wrists, pistols in their hands, and snuff-stained nostrils which flared in fury at honour impugned or character maligned. She dreamed of crinolines . . . and sedan chairs . . . or was that from an earlier age? . . . and black-browed young men with rapiers, and masked highway robbers . . .
Miss Seeton slept. And woke, with a smile on her lips, and stretched luxuriously under the heavy brocade canopy of the four-poster bed. Dear Anne. How very kind. But enough was most certainly enough—she must not repay that kindness by wasting time. She hopped out of bed, resolving to banish all visions from her mind’s eye by the calming influence of her yoga routine. While a reasonable amount of daydreaming did no harm, and indeed could be regarded as beneficial to one’s imagination, too much (she reminded herself) was an indication of weakness of will—and, moreover, might in the circumstances be viewed as extremely selfish. Hadn’t she agreed last night to go sightseeing today with dear Anne on a little tour of all those secondhand shops into which she longed to look? Married life, reflected Miss Seeton as she closed her eyes and began her rhythmic breathing, seemed to be an expensive matter. Especially when one had not been married very long, and was still settling into one’s new home. She herself had been so fortunate, with her little inheritance from Cousin Flora, and in her financial affairs generally (the retainer from the police, so very useful)—even if she had been unable to advise Mr. Faulkbourne as he had appeared to wish—that it was not only her clear duty, but also a true pleasure, to help those of whom she was fond to save as much money as they could. If one could.
One could not, of course, offer detailed advice about savings accounts, as one had tried to make clear to His Grace’s steward, except that it was a good idea to have one—a savings account, that was to say, not a steward. Unless of course one had a large house, which must need many servants to take care of it—which one would only have, surely, if one could afford them. Yet Mr. Faulkbourne had said that he and his family (the Bremeridges, or did she mean the Beltons?)—the duke, not Mr. Faulkbourne—were also short of money. One doubted, however, whether he would care to be considered a servant, any more than Martha would—Mr. Faulkbourne, not the duke. She had been so pleased about the washing machine, dear Martha . . . twin-tubs and washboards and old-fashioned coppers, mangles, and soap suds and aching backs . . . one wondered how many laundry maids would have been required by a household the size of the Abbey . . .
Miss Seeton had a sudden vision of the Belton portrait gallery, that long line of faces characterised by their remarkable eye sockets and the distinctive structure of their noses, all demanding clean clothes at exactly the same time; and of a laundry maid who looked very much like Martha, with a wooden stirring stick in her hand which she brandished at these thoughtless aristocrats, ordering them to wait their turn. Miss Seeton smiled. How very like dear Martha that would be, to stand no nonsense. The faces thought so, too: they flickered, and faded, and merged into one face—that of the smiling young Lord Edgar Bremeridge, who’d had such fun pretending to be an ordinary guide, enjoying his little joke at the expense of the Abbey’s guests . . .
When Miss Seeton had completed her yoga practice, she glanced at her little travelling clock in sudden realisation and dismay. Had she truly spent so long in idle reverie? How late she was going to be! Dear Anne, of course, would utter not one word of blame, but this had indeed been a selfish way in which to repay her kindness. Miss Seeton jumped nimbly to her feet, completed her toilet, and hurried from the room, resolving to leave the Bremeridges behind her.
And she
was so sure she had done this, their distinctive features dismissed to the limbo of her imagination, that, as she trotted across Reception towards the dining room and breakfast, she was decidedly startled to observe, talking to Anne near the doorway, an unmistakable Bremeridge.
chapter
~16~
“GOOD GRACIOUS.” MISS Seeton stopped dead in her tracks, and stared. She shook her head, blinked, and then smiled. “Oh, dear, how very foolish of me—you’re real, of course.” The Bremeridge eyes, in those distinctive sockets, widened, looking startled in their turn. “That is,” went on Miss Seeton, “I do beg your pardon, Lord Edgar, but I was only thinking just now . . . and coincidences, of course, occur in real life much more often than one would ever accept in fiction—but it was so vivid, you see. Your face . . .”
“My face,” he repeated, as she drew near. “My face! So that was what . . .” His startled expression turned to one of sudden relief. “Yes, I suppose there would be absolutely no point in trying to deny that I was Lord Edgar Bremeridge,” and he bowed, “at your service, would there?”
“None at all.” Miss Seeton twinkled up at him. Such a charming smile, and so like dear Nigel. “Once we had come to the portraits, there could really be no doubt—so strong a resemblance, you see, especially the sockets and the nose—although I had begun to wonder about you earlier, if you will forgive my saying so.”
Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12) Page 12
