It certainly was a peaceful and delightful place. “Only think, Aunt Em,” rapturised Anne. “Crinolines and powdered wigs and lovers’ trysts—I bet if this bridge could talk, it would have a few stories to tell.”
Miss Seeton gazed about her with pleasure, answering in an absent tone. “If only the skill of my pencil were equal to the view! It was most kind of his lordship to grant us the opportunity . . . such a very lovely day . . . take home such happy memories . . .”
“Do you want to go back now? You’re not tired, are you? We haven’t seen the Temple of Hiberna yet, and you said last night it would make a companion sketch to the bridge. But if the sun’s too hot, or anything—”
“Dear me, no, indeed. I have never felt better in my life. There is no need at all for you to concern yourself about me—it is your holiday too, remember. But, as long as you do not find it tedious to accompany me—”
“Don’t be silly, I’m having a marvellous time.” Anne gave her a quick hug. “It’s so restful here, apart from the odd occasion when you’re besieged by people wanting to buy your pictures. I’m a great believer in doing nothing, from time to time, and so’s Dad—he says half his patients could cure themselves immediately if they only stopped to breathe, once in a while.”
“Inner harmony.” Thinking of her yoga, Miss Seeton nodded. “Trataka, or do I mean samadhi? Your father is a most sensible man, my dear. It has certainly done wonders for my knees, over the years—breathing, I mean, although mostly I feel it must be due to the various postures—so relaxing.”
Anne murmured her agreement, and sat back to enjoy the sunshine. Suddenly, she chuckled. “It looks as if we spoke too soon—about relaxing, I mean. Could we be due for yet another invasion?”
Miss Seeton followed her gaze across the parkland in the direction of the house. A solitary figure was making its way towards them, walking with an easy, proprietorial stride which she and Anne recognised simultaneously.
“Now we’re going to have to sing for our supper, Aunt Em—that’s Lord Edgar coming to check up on us. Better have your sketches ready to show him, and I’ll make a point of saying how much we’re enjoying ourselves, which is perfectly true, of course. This must be a gorgeous place to live . . .” Anne’s eyes roved admiringly about the grounds, while Miss Seeton dropped her gaze absently to her sketch pad, and began to draw swift lines on a clean sheet as she remarked:
“Of course, romance is all very well, but one would miss the modern conveniences, particularly the plumbing, I fancy. My understanding of those days is that baths were somewhat infrequent, and as for washing clothes, silk and lace would take a very long time by hand—no central heating, you see, but one can certainly imagine, as you said earlier, all the gallant young men and beautiful girls who have passed over this bridge, and perhaps fought duels—the young gallants, I mean, all his lordship’s ancestors . . .”
“Here he comes,” murmured Anne, as Lord Edgar appeared at the far end of the bridge and waved to them.
And Miss Seeton looked up from her sketching block with a start. “Good gracious,” she said.
chapter
~20~
“GOOD GRACIOUS,” SAID Miss Seeton, “how very odd—but then I was only dreaming the other night, of course . . .”
She flipped the cover back on her sketchbook, set it to one side with a quick gesture, and smiled in greeting as his lordship drew near. “Good afternoon, Lord Edgar. Such a beautiful day, is it not?”
“Eddie,” he corrected her, and turned to Anne. “Hello, Mrs. Ranger. I’m glad to see you finally persuaded your aunt to sample some of the other delights of Belton besides the house—have you been here long? How much have you managed to see? I notice”—with a bow towards Miss Seeton—“you have your sketchbook with you. May I look? I promise”—as she blinked at him, and made a nervous movement towards the closed cover, “I won’t criticise. In fact, you’re probably as good an artist as at least half the johnnies who painted the family phizogs—ghastly likenesses, some of them were, weren’t they? That fashion for making people look a little green around the gills à la Reynolds . . .”
He had swooped, smiling, on Miss Seeton’s sketchbook before she could utter a word of protest, and began to leaf through it to examine the sheaf of drawings, studies, and notes she had been making since Bob had departed for London. Most were landscapes, routine and painstaking and instantly recognisable. Eddie admired them, and produced names for them where applicable, so that, as he put it, when she had the labels printed she’d be sure of getting them right.
He wavered a little when he turned a page and came upon the pony-and-trap drawing which had startled Anne, but after a quick look at Miss Seeton spoke of it briefly as “an interesting concept,” then turned tactfully to the next drawing as she blushed and laced her fingers together. Really, she had tried to explain that these were mere sketches—personal impressions—but one could hardly have refused, when it was, after all, by his lordship’s kindness that she was enjoying these views on such a glorious afternoon, but one would so much have preferred to keep one’s private thoughts, well, private—except, of course, when it was a matter of one’s duty to share them with . . .
“The police,” murmured Miss Seeton, as Lord Edgar found himself looking at her final sketch: the one she had dashed off just as he came over the bridge towards her, reminding her so much of his ancestors . . .
“The police? I’m not entirely sure,” said Lord Edgar, with a frown, “when the Peelers were invented, but if you’ll forgive my saying so, Miss Seeton, I’d have said Bow Street Runners were more historically accurate, in this particular case. Wouldn’t you, Mrs. Ranger?”
He held the sketchbook across to Anne, who noticed the embarrassment in Miss Seeton’s eyes but found it difficult to pretend his lordship wasn’t there. She flashed an apologetic smile, and took the book. She studied the sketch.
It showed a couple in Regency costume, the lady with her hair in ringlets and her fingers, throat, and arms bedecked with jewels; her clothes were stylish and richly adorned, her face finely featured and bearing, Anne suddenly noticed, a marked resemblance to Beverley, the receptionist from the Belton Arms. Her escort, clad in silks and ruffles, carried a sword at his side and had a proprietorial air about him—and a face which bore a distinct likeness to Bremeridges of bygone ages, as anyone who had visited the portrait gallery would have agreed.
“Bow Street Runners—yes, I suppose so,” said Anne, in a rather breathless tone, as she handed the sketchbook back not to Lord Edgar, but to Miss Seeton, who received it discreetly with a blush and a thankful sigh. “Mind you, this whole place is crammed with history, isn’t it,” she went on, as Miss Seeton set the sketchbook firmly to one side, laid her umbrella—not too pointedly, she hoped, for one did not wish to appear rude, but it was all so embarrassing—on top of it, and tried not to blush even more. “You can’t help thinking of—oh, all sorts of things, like the Dissolution of the Monasteries, for instance, even if it was all hundreds of years earlier—we were saying so just before you arrived, weren’t we, Aunt Em?”
“Indeed we were.” Miss Seeton beamed upon Lord Edgar, happy now that an uncontroversial topic of conversation had been introduced. “Except that this is an abbey, of course, which means that it would not be . . . Unfortunately, I cannot feel that my poor efforts have done justice—such splendid scenery, wherever one looks—such a strong sense of history—and, while one tries one’s best, it is not . . . But one can never stop thinking, Lord Edgar. Which is the basis, is it not, for the imagination? As I am always telling the children. Clearness of thought is essential, I believe, for accuracy of sight—and to see clearly is, surely, the essence of art. Communicating one’s vision. Once I am home again, I plan to undertake a composite painting of the area—for which your comments, of course, will be most helpful. Perhaps a panorama, to give something of the atmosphere, though I am not sufficiently talented to do it justice, I very much fear. The labels—not that I would go so far as to have brass p
lates engraved as your ancestors did, but one does like to be accurate concerning where, and what, and, indeed, who, one has drawn, does one not?”
He blinked. “Yes, of course, but . . .” Then he rallied nobly. “But you haven’t drawn everything of interest around here by a long chalk, Miss Seeton. There’s the Temple of Hiberna, for instance. I’m sure you’ve heard all about the ghost of that poor maidservant—simply bags of atmosphere there, you know. You can’t leave without visiting the temple. It isn’t far—in fact, it’s nearer the house than we are at present, round the other side. One of the showpieces of the place, especially the statue of Hiberna, or rather what’s left of her. If you ask me,” and he uttered a deprecating laugh, “the Venus de Milo does it better. Familiarity breeding contempt, I suppose. When you’ve had picnics since you were a kid with a goddess goggling down at you, it’s hard to take her all that seriously. We call her Armless Arabella, I’m afraid.”
Miss Seeton nodded, and smiled, and murmured understandingly. Eddie looked pleased. “I was afraid an expert like you would rather despise me for being a Philistine, Miss Seeton, and I’m so glad you don’t—but honesty’s the best policy, wouldn’t you say? If I’d tried to pretend I adored the thing, you’d have been bound to catch me out. Besides, perhaps when you see it you won’t like it, either. Let me escort you both round there now—and, talking of picnics, I’ll have Faulkbourne bring you out some refreshment once I’m back at the house doing my duty by the next tour.”
“That is most kind, Lord Edgar, but—”
“Eddie,” he reminded her, with a laugh, as he picked up her umbrella and sketchbook and offered her his arm. “Don’t thank us—indeed, I imagine Faulkbourne may very well thank you. He’ll be spared having to take the next tour—he does hate it, poor man, and especially since . . . he’s convinced Raffles came on an Open Day to case the joint, you see. He doesn’t really approve of the lengths to which the parents have had to go to restore the fallen family fortunes . . .”
Half an hour later, Anne lazed on the grass beneath the Temple of Hiberna on its gently sloping mound—man-made, as Eddie had explained—watching Miss Seeton at work over her sketchbook. A summer breeze rippled the leaves in nearby trees, from whose branches the clamour of birdsong mingled with the chatter of tourists from below. Nobody, it seemed, on so hot a day had enough energy to climb the slope, even to see the legendary bloodstains (which Eddie insisted were the result of youthful orange squash). Miss Seeton’s knees had been equal to the challenge, of course, but Miss Seeton, as Anne reminded herself, was unique.
“Isn’t that Faulkbourne coming from the house?” asked Anne, as a distinguished figure threaded its way through the chattering throng with a tray in its hands. “Yes, I’m sure it is. Do you suppose,” and she giggled, “that Lord Edgar’s arranged for us to have smoked salmon sandwiches and champagne, like the gentry—or will it be sardines on toast and a flask of tea?”
Miss Seeton smiled at dear Anne’s whimsy, and watched as Faulkbourne, dignity in every inch of his bearing, trod his stately measure towards them up the knoll. “His lordship is most kind,” she murmured, “such a hot day . . . of course, one could not refuse his offer, though we may find it rather awkward explaining to the hotel, but . . .”
“Don’t worry. I could eat a horse, I think, despite the heat. There won’t be a crumb of either picnic left by the end of the afternoon—and we could always feed the hotel sandwiches to the ducks, or something, if we have to. Blow being extravagant, for once—we’re on holiday!”
Miss Seeton couldn’t decide whether to be shocked at the idea of wasting the Belton Arms offering on the birds, which at this time of year really didn’t need to be fed—though it was, she admitted, delightful to do so—or whether it was a sensible idea, and so like dear Anne, but then a nurse had to possess a strongly practical side, whereas an artist . . .
She found herself doodling again as the steward drew near, and turned pink as she dropped her sketchbook on the grass and jumped—silently blessing her yoga-nimble knees—to her feet. “Mr. Faulkbourne,” she fluttered, “this is such a very . . . so kind . . . his lordship . . .”
Neither she nor Anne, even standing, could see what the steward, so much taller than they, carried on the tray he held in his gloved hands. Having greeted them with a bow, he indicated to the ladies that they might care to partake of their modest refreshment in the temple, where it was far cooler. “And where the insects,” he added, “may possibly be less of a problem,” although from his tone it was clear that he felt the field would be open to all manner of onslaught from ant, mosquito, and wasp the instant the restraint of his distinguished presence was removed. “If you would care to follow me?”
It was a princely picnic he set before them: cucumber sandwiches, Madeira and rich fruitcake, scones with jam and cream, thin rolled slices of bread and butter, and tea in an elegant silver pot with paper-thin porcelain cups. “I trust that, should you feel this to be insufficient, you will tell me at once,” said Faulkbourne, bowing again as Anne and Miss Seeton exclaimed with surprise and pleasure. “This is the very least we—I mean the Family, of course—could do for you, Miss Seeton, after all your help in the past. And your courtesy and cooperation in the future, perhaps,” he added, with yet another bow. “Have you—excuse me—been Drawing again, by any chance?”
For the second time that day, Miss Seeton’s sketchbook—it would, she reminded herself unhappily, be so churlish to refuse, when one had been so kindly welcomed—was subjected to interested scrutiny from a stranger who, one knew, meant no harm, but really . . .
“Most interesting,” said the steward, having raised his eyebrows on seeing that last picture which she had drawn as he made his way across from the house. “Thank you for permitting me to see your work, Miss Seeton.”
And, with a final bow, he walked away.
chapter
~21~
ANNE WAS SPEAKING on the telephone. At the other end of the line, far away in London, she held enthralled an audience of two: her husband, Bob, otherwise known as Detective Sergeant Ranger—and Chief Superintendent Delphick, whose office Bob shared at New Scotland Yard.
Nightclubs function, as the name makes clear, during the night: thus it had been not in a dawn raid, but in what Delphick was pleased to call a noon swoop that the protection racket had been wound up that day. Assorted heavies, roused from their (or, more frequently, others’) beds, kicked their no-longer-booted heels in prison cells, and demanded to talk to their lawyers. Delphick, Bob, and the rest of the posse, pardonably pleased with the results of their labours, yielded the inevitable paperwork to the Yard’s administrative team, and went off to celebrate their victory over pies and a few pints in a nearby pub.
On their return to the Yard, there was a message from Anne. Mrs. Ranger would be glad of a few words with Mr. Delphick at his earliest convenience, and she would be waiting at the hotel for his call. “Something about going to the pictures,” added the switchboard, in a puzzled tone.
The Oracle frowned. “I know your wife shares with Miss Seeton a fondness for the cinema, Bob, but somehow I don’t believe that’s quite what she meant to say. Let’s hope it doesn’t mean someone’s rumbled the Winter Wonderland business as a put-up job—or,” frowning even more deeply, “that MissEss has got herself into any sort of trouble . . .”
Delphick allowed Bob to exchange a few fond words with his spouse before picking up the extension.
“Hello, Anne. I gather from Bob’s end of the conversation that it’s nothing too serious, thank goodness. We were imagining any number of things having gone wrong.”
“It’s just that you wanted to know if there were any more drawings,” came Anne’s voice in explanation, “and there are—two, of the kind you’d be interested in. I’ve got her sketchbook in front of me—she’s in the television lounge,” rather wistfully, “watching Dangerous Moonlight. I’ve never seen that . . . Still, you’d like a description. The first is one she dashed off when
Lord Edgar was walking over the bridge towards us,” and she described, in as much detail as she could, the Regency couple, and mentioned Lord Edgar’s words on the topic of Bow Street Runners. Delphick closed his eyes and tried to visualise what she was saying; but it was impossible for him to know how closely (or otherwise) his visualisation resembled what was on the sketching block in front of Anne, far away at the Belton Arms.
“The second is what she did this afternoon, when we were up on the temple knoll and the steward was bringing us our picnic tea, except that it was far grander than that.” Anne stifled a giggle. “She was looking right at him as she drew it—and it looks just like him, it really does. He’s walking along with an incredibly snooty look on his face, and carrying a tray—but the odd thing is that she hasn’t drawn any tea things on it. I know that, at the time she started to draw, she couldn’t see him clearly—he’s pretty tall—but you’d expect her to show cups and saucers on the tray, wouldn’t you? Instead of—well, what looks like heaps of little bricks, only they aren’t regular enough in shape to be bricks. The corners are rounded off so that they’re more oval than oblong, if you see what I mean, and there must be a couple of dozen of them.”
There was a thoughtful pause. Delphick said at last: “Little bricks with rounded corners. A fair number of them, if that’s what they are, which they probably aren’t, on a tray carried by a butler . . . Anne, what were you talking about when Miss Seeton was drawing?”
“I’ve been trying to remember, in case it was important. Mostly, I think, it was about the history of the place—the Dissolution of the Monasteries and so on—and people fighting duels, and—oh, yes, and Miss Seeton said she’d been dreaming the night before, and how odd it was—I gathered that what she’d dreamed somehow resembled the sketch, so I suppose—” She stifled a yawn. “Sorry—it’s been such a lovely lazy day, I’m half-asleep. Anyway, I suppose . . . it might just be that she’s, well . . .”
Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12) Page 16
