After a moment’s reflection, he picked up the phone again and dialed another Kent number. Whatever Miss Emily D. Seeton might be doing at that hour, she certainly wouldn’t be indulging in nooky.
“Hello, Miss Seeton? Good evening. Delphick here, Scotland Yard. I thought I’d just ring to find out how you are and have a bit of a chat. I do hope I haven’t chosen an inconvenient moment?”
“Mr. Delphick! Not at all, I was just amusing myself before cocoa time by making a few sketches . . . what a delightful surprise, and to think that we were talking about you just this afternoon, soon after I emptied the water jug on Miss Nuttel’s head. I had been explaining the difference between Cow-Face and Frog to her, you see, and then happened to notice—”
“Excuse me, what exactly had you been explaining to Miss Nuttel?”
“No, not to Miss Nuttel, to Miss Forby. She remembered Cow-Face from the first time we met, but there are of course at least eighty-four fairly well-known yoga postures . . .”
“Ah, yoga! Now I’m with you. At least, I think so. It wasn’t Miss Nuttel you’ve been discussing me with, then? I must admit I’m rather relieved.”
“Oh dear me, no. I’m afraid she and Mrs. Blaine do seem to avoid me rather. Which is why I was so surprised at what happened. I was practicing the Frog posture, and Miss Forby mistook it for Cow-Face, and then I happened to notice that last night’s drinking water was still there on the bedside table, so I emptied it out of the window on to the herbaceous border as usual, never dreaming that Miss Nuttel was outside. So as to economize, that is. During the dry spell.”
Delphick found himself floundering, by no means for the first time when in conversation with Miss Seeton, and, never a man to mix his metaphors, decided to let the unspeakable Erica Nuttel sink or swim, and himself cling to the only life belt that seemed to be floating in his vicinity.
“You must have enjoyed seeing Mel Forby again. Did she drop in for any particular reason, or was she just passing through?”
“Well, Mr. Delphick, if you weren’t a friend of hers, too, I’d hesitate to mention this, but I rather fancy that Mr. Banner might be the problem. Actually, she talked about Sir Wilfred Thumper a lot of the time. The judge, you know. It’s my belief she’s very fond of him, but he doesn’t seem to have shown the same sort of interest in her so far.”
Delphick screwed up his eyes, counted to five, and only then replied.
“Come now, Miss Seeton, I’ve known you too long to say the obvious thing. You aren’t really implying that Mel Forby’s in love with Wilfred Thumper, are you? You mean Thrudd Banner.”
“With Sir Wilfred? Good gracious, no, of course not. Though Miss Forby—and Mr. Banner, as well, I gathered from her—do seem to be deeply interested in Sir Wilfred. To have somehow or other got wind of some, well, guilty secret of his.”
Delphick gripped the telephone more tightly. For heaven’s sake, if that pair had somehow got on to the blackmail business, they might as well put out a general press release on the subject. With a considerable effort of will he managed to keep his voice on an even keel. “Indeed? What sort of a guilty secret?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Delphick. Miss Forby hinted at a possible indiscretion in his youth, but I cannot imagine why she should suppose that I of all people might be able to throw any light on such a matter. It so happens that I have recently been introduced to the judge—he is an old friend of Sir George Colveden—but can scarcely claim his acquaintance on the strength of taking afternoon tea in his company. Tell me, Mr. Delphick, when did you last taste old-fashioned lemon curd? I did suggest to the vicar that it might have some significance for Sir Wilfred. Like the madeleine in Proust, you know—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Delphick said, then had to swallow because the thought of lemon curd had made his mouth water, “but oddly enough, I was going to ask if by any chance you were acquainted with the Thumper family. The daughter has in the last year or so become quite famous as a tennis player.”
“Patricia, or Trish as she prefers to be called. Indeed yes, she was at Rytham Hall for tea with her parents. And she most generously arranged for Nigel to escort us, that is, the vicar and his sister and myself, to the Hurlingham Club at Fulham yesterday to watch her play. She was doing so well, too, when most unfortunately she seemed all at once to become unwell, and lost. It was cramp, Nigel said, but the poor boy was so disappointed for her that I expect it was the first thing that came into his head. To an American called Nancy Wiesendonck, I should have said. An uncommon name that made me wonder if there was perhaps a Wagner connection. Never mind, he’s very happy now that Patricia has been invited to stay at Rytham Hall. Nigel, that is.”
Delphick counted to five again; and then added three more for good measure. “Er, Miss Seeton, did I hear you aright? You know that Trish Thumper is going to stay with the Colvedens? How?”
“How, Mr. Delphick? Why, it will be very little trouble for them, surely. There must be several spare bedrooms in such a huge house, and as the daughter of one of Sir George’s oldest friends, I feel sure—”
“I mean how did you know?”
“Well, Nigel came and told us, this afternoon, as soon as he found out himself. It was rather touching. He was bursting with excitement. I do so hope that he won’t suffer yet another disappointment. Perhaps this time the two young people might—”
“Miss Seeton, I’m sorry to interrupt you again, but you spoke of ’us’. Do you mean that Nigel Colveden told Mel Forby as well as yourself?”
“But of course, Mr. Delphick. Why ever shouldn’t he?”
Delphick stifled an impulse to groan, and thought fast. It was bad enough that Mel Forby and Thrudd Banner seemed to be on to something or other about Thumper senior, though thank goodness it seemed to be connected with his past rather than the present. It would be interesting to know what it was, but that would have to wait.
That Mel Forby had now been handed on a plate the information that Trish Thumper was to be holed up at Rytham Hall was little short of disastrous. These were no run-of-the-mill hacks, but clever, persistently inquisitive people. It was going to be very tricky indeed to keep them on a leash. “Oh, um, no reason, I suppose,” he said eventually. “It’s just that my own impression was that the young lady wanted her visit to go unnoticed if possible. You know, avoid the attentions of the press while training for her big moment at Wimbledon.”
“Oh dear.”
“Never mind, I might have a word with Mel Forby myself. By the way, Miss Seeton, there’s no need to mention to her that we’ve had this conversation. Well now, I’m looking forward to coming down to Plummergen myself and seeing you soon, at the wedding. Talk of the village, no doubt . . .”
Ten minutes later Delphick finally put the phone down and rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust himself to the new situation revealed by Miss Seeton. There was no point in worrying too much. Mel Forby and Thrudd Banner might, given the right kind of inducements, be persuaded to collaborate, at least for a time. As for Miss Seeton, well, with her head full of the local gossip about the forthcoming nuptials of Bob Ranger and Anne Wright the Plummergen doctor’s daughter, she might not recall anything odd about their conversation. Not consciously, anyway. She was welcome to give her subconscious something to do. That was what Scotland Yard paid her for.
chapter
~6~
EVEN BEFORE Nigel Colveden dropped in at Sweetbriars for a cup of tea and a slice of Mrs. Bloomer’s renowned fruit cake, Mel Forby had been in the process of deciding that there were, as usual, quite enough interesting vibes around Miss Seeton to make it worth her while to stop over in Plummergen for a day or two. The news Nigel conveyed so enthusiastically left her in no doubt where her place was. Later that afternoon she therefore booked herself into one of the better rooms at the George and Dragon, and made a couple of phone calls.
The first was to the editor of the Daily Negative, a man of whom most of her colleagues stood in awe. Having originally thought him formidable,
Mel now knew exactly how to handle him. The editor, for his part, had learned to appreciate her and not to ask too many questions about her plans. It was enough for him to know that with a bit of luck Miss Emily D. Seeton, alias The Battling Brolly, would before long be back in action and the subject of an exclusive story by his star feature writer. Mel’s expenses were guaranteed for as long as she cared to stay in Plummergen.
Her second call was brief: a matter of leaving a message for Thrudd Banner at his hotel in Bonn. Mel noted that the telephonist spoke very respectfully of Herr Banner; who hadn’t returned her call until quite late in the evening, but it was worth the wait. It seemed that the German chancellor had been very forthcoming, that Thrudd expected to make a lot of money out of his article, and that he had wined and dined very well to celebrate the fact. In uninhibited mood he had said one or two things that made Mel go quite pink in the privacy of her room, and look forward more than ever to seeing him again. And this was to be in Plummergen, for Thrudd vowed to be in on whatever action seemed to be in prospect on his return to England in a day or two.
All in all, the following afternoon Amelita Forby looked upon life and found it good, even in the less than glamorous setting of Plummergen Village Hall, which had seen better days, and those a long time in the past.
The boy scouts no longer used it twice a week: their own hut had been completed three years earlier, and their gear transferred to it. They had however left behind them a slight but pervasive reminiscence of stale sweat, and their old plywood sign was still in place, mainly because it was mounted too high up on the dingy, brownish custard-colored plaster wall to be got at conveniently. In any case it was warped and tatty. 14TH PLUMMERGEN SCOUT TROOP, the curve of its faded, poorly executed lettering still proclaimed, forming a sort of halo round the top half of the fleur-de-lis badge with its BE PREPARED scroll underneath.
Mel Forby would have liked to ask somebody what had become of the other thirteen scout troops whose existence in or near the village was clearly implied. It seemed an extraordinary number for such a small place. Never during any of her numerous visits to Plummergen since Miss Seeton had taken possession of Sweetbriars had Mel knowingly come across so much as a lone boy scout, much less hordes of keen-as-mustard knot-tiers in khaki uniforms improvising bridges, lighting campfires, or helping old ladies across the street.
It occurred to her that the last-mentioned service would certainly be welcome in Plummergen, judging by the apparent age of some of the members of the Plummergen Women’s Institute, now gathered for their quarterly business meeting under the chairmanship of Miss Molly Treeves. Among the senior citizens Mel recognized old Mrs. Wicks mumbling through her ill-fitting false teeth, and wondered whether she still told fortunes with the aid of playing cards. Others she remembered only vaguely, dodderingly functioning as a kind of Greek chorus in the background whenever events took a dramatic turn in Plummergen.
True, it would be hard to envisage Miss Treeves either needing or accepting assistance in crossing the road, or indeed in any other context. For she was in her full-figured, firmly corseted prime, resplendent that day in a flowered silk dress, her sash of office, and a quite dashing straw hat. And in fine fettle, too, nostrils flaring as she surveyed her audience of about three dozen women and then called the meeting to order.
“Good afternoon to you all. Before calling on the secretary and the treasurer to give us their reports, I want to say how happy I am to welcome a guest speaker, a very special guest speaker.” Miss Treeves turned toward Mel, sitting alongside the institute’s officers facing the rank and file, and bestowed a busy, rather menacing smile upon her. “As some of you know already, Mr. Windrush of the Easigro Nurseries who was to have addressed us today has, it seems, other more urgent business to attend to. But we are very far from being left in the lurch, for the famous Miss Amelita Forby of the Daily Negative, whose articles are read by millions, has most kindly and at very short notice agreed to allow us to take advantage of her . . . I mean of her being in Plummergen at this time, and we’re all going to enjoy her after the business—”
“On a point of order, Madam Chairman!” The interruption came from Erica Nuttel who had just bustled into the hall with Norah Blaine in her wake. Pausing dramatically near the door, she stood like a figure of doom, one arm extended and with her index finger pointing toward Mel. “That woman—”
“You can’t make a point of order. You haven’t taken your seats, and in any case we haven’t started yet.” Miss Treeves’s bosom heaved, and the light of joy in battle glinted in her eyes.
“Oh yes I can. I have consulted the copy of Robert’s Rules Of Order they keep in the reference section at Brettenden Public Library and—”
“Be that as it may, Miss Nuttel. I possess a copy of the book in question—the latest edition—and my ruling is that you are out of order. Bursting in like that! You can jolly well sit down and wait until Any Other Business. Nowcallponsecretaryreport. Come along now, Mrs. Stillman.”
The generality of members sighed, and shifted in their seats with pleasure. Round one to Miss Treeves in what promised to be a more than usually satisfying encounter, and one they wouldn’t want to end too soon. Though temporarily silenced, Miss Nuttel continued to point a quivering finger at Mel Forby for a second or two longer. Then she spotted two vacant chairs in the back row, towed Mrs. Blaine toward them, and sat down, realizing too late that the seat she had chosen was next to Mrs. Bloomer’s and next but one to Miss Seeton’s. Miss Seeton leaned forward and nodded a kindly greeting across her neighbor, while The Nuts affected not to notice her. Meantime Mrs. Stillman from the post office, who was able to be present in her capacity as honorary secretary because it was early closing day, rose as instructed to her feet, pushed her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose, and rustled her papers.
“Madam Chairman and members, it has been a busy and happy spring. Soon after our last meeting we celebrated the eighty-fifth birthday of one of our stalwarts, Mrs. Morgan, better known to most of us as dear Flo. On that occasion we all admired the way she blew out the eight big candles and five little ones on the splendid cake made by Mrs. Bloomer with materials kindly donated by Lady Colveden, and won’t easily forget the way dear Flo regaled us over our chairman’s homemade lemonade with the side-splitting story of how she mislaid her pension book a few years ago. On a more sober note, I must report that the Brettenden Town Clerk has acknowledged our representations about the improper nature of some of the private advertising postcards on display outside the tobacconists near the bus stop in the High Street there—”
“Disgusting! Will Pose in Traffic Warden Uniform indeed!”
Miss Treeves braced herself to deal with the irregular comment from the floor, but failed to identify the culprit and decided to let it pass as a permissible expression of outrage. Some of the cards—which she had made a special journey into Brettenden to inspect—indeed advertised photographic and massage services of a very suspect nature.
Others puzzled her rather. Dover with its cross-channel ferry services was not far away, but it seemed odd that so many ladies with Ashford, Canterbury, and even Brettenden telephone numbers could make a satisfactory living by giving French lessons privately. Especially when they stated their ages, which suggested that they must have qualified only quite recently as language instructors, yet went out of their way to stress that they were strict disciplinarians.
“—but regretted that there appeared to be no legal grounds for intervention on his part. The competition for the best arrangement of fresh and dry foliage attracted a record number of entrants—” Mrs. Stillman hastened on, for there had been ugly scenes after the judging—“and we take great pride in the fact that Miss Armitage’s lovely display of white, cream, and yellow flowers, depicting the stages from milk to butter, has just walked away with the second prize at the regional WI show in Canterbury!”
Miss Armitage was a quiet soul who seldom offended anybody, and the news of her triumph provoked a ripple o
f applause, which Miss Treeves indulgently allowed to run its course.
“A well-attended meeting had as its high point an amusing talk by Mrs. Threlfall of the Embroidery Group, called ‘In Stitches With Church Kneelers’, and . . .”
I don’t believe this, Mel reflected as Mrs. Stillman pressed on. They’re all raving mad. And I’m crazy to have let La Treeves bulldoze me into facing them. Just because I walked slap-bang into her on the way out of Miss Seeton’s garden gate. And then with my head full of the news about Trish Thumper, hardly paying attention while she was rabbiting on. About it being Miss S.’s turn to do the flowers, and some con man who’d promised what sounded like a real nail-biter of a talk on “Handy Hints on Re-potting” and then let them down at the last minute. Hadn’t seemed such a big deal at the time, and I was still feeling pretty good right up until The Nuts showed and the butch one in the trouser suit started hollering . . .
It was all right for Miss S., sitting there as quiet as a mouse beside Martha Bloomer with nothing to do but nurse the famous umbrella that went everywhere with her. The maniac Nut was obviously winding herself up to go on the rampage again, and this could turn out to be a bumpy ride for you, Forby . . .
“. . . and finally,” said the honorary treasurer, who owned the drapery shop, had succeeded Mrs. Stillman at the lectern, and reported an encouraging credit balance of thirty-four pounds sixty-seven pence, “your committee have noted with pleasure that Anne Wright is to be married to Detective Sergeant Bob Ranger in the parish church next week, and I recommend that a telegram be sent on behalf of us all conveying our congratulations and best wishes to the happy couple. To be read out at the reception at the George and Dragon. The cost to be met out of institute funds.”
Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7) Page 5
