Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12)

by Crane,Hamilton

  “All right, but don’t keep it too long, will you?” The key was handed over. “Is your aunt still in the bar with those nice Americans?”

  To which Anne murmured that she believed she was; and, heading a few minutes later in that direction, she wondered how she was to explain her unexpected presence—and that of the sketchbook, as well.

  In the end, it wasn’t perhaps as awkward as it might have been. When having duly returned Beverley’s passkey, she appeared in the doorway of the bar and stood scanning the crowd for Miss Seeton and her companions, Anne was almost immediately spotted, and beckoned across with welcoming smiles from all three at the table. The Warrens looked a little surprised, perhaps, on first seeing her, but concealed it well by the time she reached them; Miss Seeton looked delighted that she had changed her mind and decided to join them, though somewhat puzzled as to why she carried the sketchbook with her.

  “Oh, yes,” said Anne, as she took her seat. Howard had moved to the bar, buying her a drink; Shirley was hanging on every word. “Yes, well, I thought—as you said you were touring round, seeing the sights—neither my aunt nor I have a camera, but this might give you some idea of a few of the places we’ve seen while we’ve been travelling around on our own little tour. If you didn’t mind, Aunt Em, that is.”

  By the time Miss Seeton had finished her modest explanation that these were only very rough drawings—she had not, she feared, captured even half as well as she would have wished the atmosphere of the Belton area—Howard Warren was back with drinks all round, and displaying a flattering interest in Miss Seeton’s work. He would have removed the book from her hands to look through it himself, but Anne was firm in saying that her aunt must select just a few to show them. Somehow, it seemed important to her that the cartoon-type drawings she’d told the Oracle about should not be subjected to the scrutiny of strangers; Miss Seeton, she knew, would think so as well; perhaps the Warrens would consider it ungrateful, even rude, of their guests to be so secretive—but that, thought Anne, was too bad. These were, after all, not merely Miss Seeton’s, but police secrets . . .

  Anne really was tired. She stayed in the bar for about half an hour, but Miss Seeton caught her yawning more than once, and she began to fear that the Warrens would think her even more rude. She smiled, excused herself, and once again made for Room 25, and the promise of an early night.

  The Warrens at last allowed Miss Seeton to leave them, assuring her they’d enjoyed every minute of her company and if ever she came to the States she was to be sure to give them a call. Miss Seeton, who thought it unlikely that she would ever be able to afford a visit to America, accepted the invitation in the spirit she understood it to have been given, and in her turn went up to her room.

  But not to her bed. She barely glanced at the plumped bolster and embroidered counterpane before she crossed to the window, where she stood looking out into the limpid, black-and-white summer night, illuminated by a silver moon riding above in majesty, drowning out the stars. There was not a cloud to be seen; in the distance, the song of a nightingale could be heard above the squeak of bats as they darted past the window, swooping for insects. Miss Seeton gave a sigh of pleasure as she drank in the view; and her hands began to dance once more . . .

  The conversation tonight had been friendly—and stimulating. One would need to apply several of the most rigorous yoga techniques before one felt sufficiently calm to fall asleep—if, indeed, one wished to do so, even though the hour might be regarded as comparatively late. Mr. Warren had been so very kind—three glasses of sherry, so hospitable, and the compliments he had paid on one’s sketching skill . . . about which one could not help, well, wondering . . .

  Maybe if Anne hadn’t brought the sketchbook into the bar the idea would never have entered Miss Seeton’s head. But she had: and, as she was leafing through the book, it had—the idea. Come into her head. Probably because she had so much enjoyed watching the film, which she rather thought had inspired it in the first place—the idea—although looking at the sketches had reminded her of just how inspirational the scenery was—and of how much she had enjoyed today’s little excursion . . .

  One lived, after all, in the country. It was not as if one was unaccustomed to walking. A matter of two miles, had dear Anne not remarked once? Which, now that one’s knees were as fit as the remainder of one’s person, was no distance at all. And Lord Edgar—had he not said on more than one occasion that one was welcome at any time? And one had no intention of disturbing him by going to the house. Nor, of course, did one wish to disturb Anne, who was so sleepy, and had made such sterling efforts to converse. But it was well known that one needed less as one grew older—sleep—and really, on such a night it was a shame to spend any time at all in sleeping. The effects of moonlight . . .

  Moonlight was not alone in having its effect on Miss Seeton; the effect of three glasses—generous glasses—of sherry should not be underestimated. She was hardly intoxicated—not even tiddly—but she was, perhaps, rather more exalted than she might otherwise have been. She would not normally have entertained the idea of going by herself for a two-mile walk in the middle of the night, bewitching with birdsong and moonlight though it might be . . .

  Miss Seeton’s dancing hands were quickly put to practical use. Sketchbook, pencils, eraser; torch—since one had become a country dweller there was always a flashlight in one’s bag; the key to one’s room, of course. One’s umbrella, naturally. The sky might well be cloudless now, but in an hour or two the weather could alter quite dramatically—one had missed the forecast this evening while talking with the Warrens, but it was safe to assume that it was as changeable as ever. But, in summer, never cold. A warm summer shower might be rather pleasant—refreshing—and the play of light and dark among the falling drops . . .

  Miss Seeton, smiling happily as she dreamed of the miracle which moonlight was to work upon her sketching skills, let herself out of her room and passed quietly down the carpeted stairs, through Reception, and out of the main door of the Belton Arms without anyone noticing her.

  And set off for Belton Abbey, and the Palladian Temple of Hiberna.

  chapter

  ~23~

  MISS SEETON WALKED dreamily along the country lanes, drinking in the song of the nightingale and the scents of summer blossom. She rejoiced at the way moonlight mingled with shadow, at the faint gleam of stars in a soaring sky, and the turning of the world before her to pewter, pearl, and silver. She stopped, and looked about her, and breathed in with pure delight.

  All at once, there arose in the distance a sudden, mechanical spluttering and choking as someone tried to start a car engine. Rather a discordant note, one could not help but feel, on such a night—the fresh, sweet summer air . . . the petrol fumes, the clouds of blue smoke, the noise—the glaring beams from the headlights as they swept across the horizon . . .

  The car, mercifully, was gone, although so still was the night that the sounds of its engine continued to intrude for some minutes. Miss Seeton sighed. One recognised, during the hours of daylight, that what dear Sir Winston had called the infernal combustion engine had its right and proper place—but on a night like this it felt more like wanton destruction . . .

  As Miss Seeton turned in at last through the gateway to Belton Abbey, her feet began to make a crunching sound as they trod the gravel of the long, curving drive. How very loud, and carrying, and embarrassing! One would infinitely prefer not to rouse the household . . . Miss Seeton glanced at her watch: no difficulty in making out the dial, on such a night. Or, rather, morning—it was well past midnight now. And, as Scarlett O’Hara had said, tomorrow was another day. Or, rather today, which had been tomorrow, and . . .

  And Miss Seeton suddenly realised exactly what time it was, and where she was, and what she was doing, or planning to do. And wondered why on earth she had thought of doing it. She didn’t remember the sherry: she supposed she must have had a brainstorm of some sort. Her advancing years . . . the yoga, one very much feare
d, could only achieve so much—if only dear Anne, with her nursing knowledge, had been with her. She might have warned her—but Anne had been so tired last night, and it had seemed a kindness to let her sleep, not to ask her to be one’s companion on what was, now one came to consider it fully, such a . . . an unusual excursion.

  But it had been a beautiful night for a walk—so many sights to admire. And, having come so far, it seemed, well, rather a waste not to complete the last few hundred yards of the walk, to reach one’s planned destination—just for one’s own satisfaction—no need to draw or sketch, but one could at least study the temple and make mental notes for whatever one planned to draw or paint in the future . . .

  Miss Seeton hesitated. She moved from the gravel to the grass verge, gazing up the drive towards the house and feeling, now that her sherried flush of enthusiasm had been well and truly exhausted, somewhat foolish. It would be a great pity, she acknowledged, not to see the Temple of Hiberna by moonlight: but it would be an even greater pity if wakeful eyes should peer from any of that multitude of watching windows in the Abbey, and notice her, and wonder . . .

  Miss Seeton shook her head. Goodness only knew what had come over her, but she was (she was pleased, and relieved, to be able to say) now fully recovered. She would turn on her tracks and head back to the hotel this minute . . .

  She stopped. Surely—as she was turning—a flash of light in the distance, through the trees . . .

  She stood and stared. She saw nothing. She rubbed her eyes. One’s blood pressure, perhaps—a seizure of some sort—the sooner one could consult dear Anne, the better. Miss Seeton shook her head, took a deep breath, and stepped out boldly—and carelessly.

  “Drat,” muttered Miss Seeton, her ankle turning under her as she moved from the gravel down to the grass. Trying to keep her balance, she dropped everything she carried: including her torch. Not, she reflected as she steadied herself, that one had any particular use for a torch, when the moonlight was so clear . . .

  But someone definitely had. As she stumbled, she had twisted round so that she was once more facing that clump of trees through whose branches she thought she’d seen . . . and she had. Seen it. A torch—

  Or, rather: “Several torches,” murmured Miss Seeton, and felt decidedly more cheerful about things. It was plain that the night’s charms had worked upon others than herself. No doubt Lord Edgar and some of his cronies were enjoying a moonlight picnic in the Temple of Hiberna—and they might, she thought, as she rubbed her ricked ankle, possibly have a bandage, or something similar. Now that she’d tried putting her weight on it, she realised that her ankle wasn’t in such good shape as she had at first thought. A bandage—a cold compress, perhaps, mused Miss Seeton, with thoughts of iced champagne in her mind. If she could walk that far, of course.

  She tried her weight again. She winced. Yes, she could walk—but with an effort. She bent down to collect her scattered belongings, and gratefully seized on her umbrella. How fortunate that one had always insisted on the crook handle, and the full-length shaft instead of one of the more modern collapsible models . . .

  Limping slightly, leaning on her umbrella, Miss Seeton made her slow way across the grass in the direction of the moving torches in the trees near the Temple of Hiberna.

  She wasn’t halfway there before her knee, as well as her ankle, began to ache—the one opposite her ankle, the bad one—or, rather, the good one, except that it wasn’t anymore, because with her weight being thrown upon it, despite the umbrella, it was no surprise that it was aching. People were meant to walk with their spines straight, reflected Miss Seeton: Yoga and Younger Every Day made a point of saying that one’s posture should be relaxed but upright, if not positively stretched, as much of the time as possible . . .

  Miss Seeton found a convenient tree stump, and stopped to rest for a while. Knee, ankle, and even (she sighed) hip were aching now—it had been foolish of her to forget that grass, no matter how smooth it may seem in daylight, isn’t. Unless, of course, it happened to be a bowling green, or something of the sort—a quadrangle in one of the Oxford or Cambridge colleges, for instance, although at college, she knew, one was not permitted to walk on the grass, except in rags. Or should that be “during” rags? In Rag Week, anyway. Such festivities had been unknown at the London art school which she had attended, so many years ago. But perhaps that was what Lord Edgar and his friends—she could still see the torches moving about—were planning now, and not a picnic, after all. The young. Enjoying life so much, with such a sense of fun . . .

  Miss Seeton’s own sense of fun made her chuckle at the thought of the strange picture she would present, if any of Lord Edgar’s friends chanced to notice her hobbling quietly towards them across the grass. Might they, she wondered, think her the ghost of that unfortunate young woman who was supposed to have killed hers— No, of course not. That had been inside the temple, which she was not. Unlike his lordship and his friends, although they appeared to be leaving the temple now, from the way the torches were bobbing down the slope of the temple knoll. The picnic must be finished. And how considerate of him not to let his friends make too much noise throughout their celebrations. Even though the temple was a little way from the house, on such a night the noise was bound to carry . . .

  Another—indeed, almost the only—noise came upon Miss Seeton’s listening ear: a rattling of wheels, accompanied by a wooden, creaking sound and the jingling of harness. Lord Edgar and his friends, it seemed, had also heard it. There came a sudden muttering from the temple knoll—the torches moved faster—Miss Seeton hurried to catch them, and found herself tumbling again. Drat. This time, it seemed to take longer to retrieve one’s belongings. Being in the shadow of the temple mound, of course; and a few clouds had appeared in the sky, from time to time drifting across the moon. The remarkable, uneven quality of the light—and how fortunate that one had brought one’s umbrella. Which was, naturally, near to hand, though the sketchbook seemed to have vanished. And one could hardly abandon it. Quite apart from the notes and drawings it contained, should a strong breeze arise the sheets of paper would be torn out and scattered in all directions. One certainly had no wish to reward Lord Edgar’s kindness by acting like a . . . a litter-lout . . .

  The sound of harness and wheels drew nearer. Good gracious. On grass, not gravel—a pony and trap was approaching, and at speed. Surely that was rather reckless? Miss Seeton tried to imagine what Stan Bloomer, who tended her garden, would say if the hooves of a well-shod pony were to trample across her lawn. Maybe the grounds of an abbey were different. Not so smooth and even, certainly—which was why she’d tumbled for a second time—the moonlight was very deceptive—she still couldn’t find her sketchbook, and the party from the temple were—

  Good gracious. Another pony and trap. Moving away from the temple knoll. With . . . with . . .

  “It can’t be the ghost,” said Miss Seeton firmly. “That poor girl killed herself inside the temple, not outside, and certainly not in a pony and trap . . .”

  But it was strange. More than strange. Where had she seen this before? The pony and trap, the figures of men in the front and—good gracious. She hadn’t supposed that his lordship and his friends would be quite so, well, uninhibited—young women nowadays were, or so she’d been given to understand, rather less willing to become the playthings of men than they had been in the past. Hellfire clubs and . . . and episodes of that nature. Miss Seeton hoped that this was merely another trick of the moonlight . . .

  But there definitely appeared to be a naked girl, or one wearing very few, and flimsy, clothes, in the back of the trap. The trap being pulled by a pony about whose shoulders—was that the correct term? Miss Seeton thought not, but didn’t know what else to call that part of the poor creature—a whip was being laid . . .

  “Stop!” A man’s voice, loud and sudden and insistent. There came a rattle and a rush as the second pony and trap sped past her in pursuit of the first, which hadn’t got very far. Miss Seeton, who ha
d been almost on her feet, stumbled again—then stood upright, forgetting her lost sketchbook. Good gracious. Surely this was taking a sense of fun rather too far? How could anyone find it amusing to pretend to be fighting with their friends?

  And, oh dear, it sounded very, well, realistic. Oblivious now to the loss of her sketchbook, grasping her bag in one hand and her umbrella (for support) in the other, Miss Seeton hurried to intervene in what, it seemed, had degenerated into genuine fisticuffs . . .

  The first pony and trap had moved hardly any distance before the second, driven by more skillful hands, drew close behind it. The first driver tried to pull the pony’s head round in an attempt to block the second, and move away; the trap began to turn; but too slowly. From the second trap a fast-moving, four-legged, lean form came leaping, followed by four large and vigorous men, who proceeded to drag down to the ground the driver of the first trap, with his companions—all but the young woman. Who remained silent and still in the trap . . . frozen, no doubt, with fear.

  Miss Seeton was shocked. This was carrying things too far. The swift and streamlined shape revealed itself by growls and barks to be a dog, which rushed in furious circles about the fight—for the seven men were fighting now. Such colourful language, if a little, well, forceful for a lady’s ears—if one could, indeed, so describe that rather immodest young person in the trap—

  The trap which, while Lord Edgar and his friends were so busy with other matters, was continuing to move in the slow circle which it had already begun—moving, though that poor young woman was still rigid with shock—the dog’s growling seemed to upset the pony, for the trap started to pick up speed . . .

  Miss Seeton did not hesitate. She recognised that duty called her to stop the trap, if she could, and rescue that poor girl being carried away against her will. The pony was moving steadily, but not yet speedily—and almost in Miss Seeton’s direction. With luck . . .