“Will somebody second that?” Miss Treeves demanded, and Mrs. Potter shyly raised her hand. As the wife of PC Potter the village policeman, she felt it incumbent upon her to proclaim thus publicly her support for the law in all its manifestations, and perhaps particularly when it planned to get married in Plummergen parish church.
“I object!” Once more the ringing voice of Erica Nuttel was heard. “The police have a great deal to answer for in enabling your precious guest speaker and a certain person I don’t care to name”—she whirled round to glare in the direction of Miss Seeton—“to bring notoriety and disgrace down upon this village, and I’m not a bit surprised that a certain other person has thought fit to second this outrageous proposal to squander our funds on—”
“All those in favor?” Even Miss Nuttel’s words were lost in the splendid trumpeting sound the chairman produced, and hands were upraised all over the hall. Not having quite understood the motion, old Mrs. Wicks was rather slow off the mark, but joined in when her neighbor nudged her.
“Against?” Miss Treeves lowered the volume considerably, and smiled sweetly as she watched Erica Nuttel’s arm shoot up and Norah Blaine’s follow suit with less alacrity.
“Carried unanimously.”
“What? This . . . this is a travesty of democracy! The national committee shall hear of this day’s work—”
“Carried unanimously,” Miss Treeves repeated. “I am advised by the honorary treasurer that the subscriptions of Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine are three months in arrears. They are therefore ineligible to vote at this meeting. And come to think of it, you can’t speak either, not even under Any Other Business. What on earth—?”
Even Mel, who naturally enough was keeping a watchful eye on The Nuts, wasn’t quite sure about the precise sequence of events that accompanied the latter part of the chairman’s ruling. It looked as if Miss Nuttel had started waving her arms about so violently that Martha Bloomer tilted her chair backwards in order to keep out of harm’s way. But that unfortunately she overbalanced and fell to the floor, leaving a gap between Miss Seeton and the furious Nut, occupied only partially by Martha Bloomer’s sturdy legs as they waved about.
Then, in leaning over her floundering housekeeper, umbrella still in hand, in an attempt to pull her back up to the vertical, it seemed that Miss Seeton had somehow managed to get the handle lodged in the waistband of Miss Nuttel’s trousers. Which gave way audibly under the strain, slipped down her legs, and for a second or two afforded a number of fascinated members of the Women’s Institute a glimpse of the serviceable pink underwear that lay beneath. No more than a glimpse, for with a strangled yelp of anguish the unhappy owner of the trousers yanked them up again and fled from the hall clutching at them and followed by Norah Blaine, who was—and it was the only possible word, Mel decided—bleating.
Having finally restored Mrs. Bloomer to an upright position and been reassured that she had sustained nothing worse than a loss of dignity, it was Miss Seeton who broke the stunned but appreciative silence which had descended over the meeting following the precipitate departure of The Nuts.
“Oh dear. I do most sincerely apologize, Madam Chairman. For my clumsiness, that is. I cannot imagine how—”
“Inasmuch as what we appear to have witnessed was an unprovoked assault on Mrs. Bloomer—are you unharmed after that nasty tumble, Mrs. Bloomer? Good, but you must not fail to inform Constable Potter if you suffer any aftereffects. I am quite sure that Mrs. Potter will in any case independently describe to him what she has seen today. Where was I? Yes, well, I feel that we are all indebted to Miss Seeton for insuring that the meeting can now proceed without further interruptions. So without more ado, I call upon Miss Amelita Forby to speak to us.”
Mel rose and grinned. “Madam Chairman, ladies. As you know, this talk was arranged at short notice, so I’ve only had time to throw together a few notes. And do you know what I planned as a working title? “The Thrills and Spills of a Journalist’s Life.’ Well, I now realize that in comparison with you ladies, I have a very dull and uneventful time of it . . .”
chapter
~7~
“THAT’S ALL very fine and large, my dear chap,” Sir George Colveden argued, “but how can we keep the child from finding out what’s up if you fellers go trailing after her in your dirty great boots everywhere she goes?”
Chief Inspector Brinton looked miffed, for as a matter of fact he had surprisingly dainty feet for a man of his comfortable build. However, he held his tongue because the master of Rytham Hall was a golfing crony of his chief constable and therefore entitled to as many rhetorical questions as he liked.
“I mean, blue lights flashing, sirens, make way for the VIP type of thing, good Lord, she’s bound to twig. Not to mention the people in the streets. They don’t miss a trick, you know. Whereas if it’s just my son Nigel running her down in his MG to Eastbourne or Hastings or wherever it is she insists on going to practice, well, it’s just a young couple out for a spin, right? Mind you, I can’t for the life of me understand why her coach can’t come here. Our tennis court in the garden doesn’t get a lot of use and I seem to remember the net’s got a few holes in it, but—”
“No question of blue lights or anything like that, sir. I’m going along myself this first time. We’re in an unmarked car, in plain clothes. I’d be very surprised if your son notices us tucking in behind him. We’ll keep our distance all right. Chief Constable’s very insistent, sir, following a phone conversation with the commissioner at Scotland Yard.”
Sir George was duly impressed. “Really? My word, top brass intervening personally, eh? Well, that’s different, got to toe the line in that case, I s’pose. You’d better buzz off then, Brinton old boy, and lie in wait for the pair of ’em. I’m told young Patricia’ll be down in a brace of shakes. I say, you should have seen the breakfast she tucked away. Fine healthy appetite, good breedin’ stock by the look of those hips, if you want my opinion. That reminds me, goin’ to the weddin’, Brinton? Dr. Wright’s girl and that young feller Ranger?”
“Hope to be at the church, General. Looking forward to it. By the way, Chief Superintendent Delphick’s given Ranger a bit of extra leave beforehand to come down here and help his fiancée with the preparations. Be arriving later today, I understand . . .” Brinton paused, thinking that Sir George had something in his eye, but then realized that he was winking exaggeratedly.
“Nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse, Brinton. ’Nuff said. Extra pair of hands in case of need, what? Quite agree, can’t be too careful. All the same, we’re all well and truly on the qui vive here, you know. Had to let my wife and Nigel in on the secret just before Patricia got here, naturally, but they’ve promised to keep mum. Anybody trying any hanky-panky while young Thumper’s girl’s under my roof’ll regret it, take my word for it.”
“Do stop waffling, Nigel, there’s a dear. I’m trying to concentrate.”
Nigel Colveden flushed with pleasure and gulped. He was inured to being accused of waffling, and almost always shut up obediently when told to. Mind you, a person had good reason to waffle a bit when experiencing the high privilege and awesome responsibility of driving Trish Thumper to Hastings, there to deliver her into the custody of her coach. Especially in view of what Dad had told him and Ma the previous day, before that frightful old father of hers had driven her down to Rytham Hall and, thank goodness, beetled off again after being closeted for half an hour with Dad in the library.
But for her to say “there’s a dear” to him! To N. P. R. Colveden in person! While sitting in all her bounteous glory an inch or two away, smelling most deliciously of soap. Gosh, you can keep your Chanel Number Five. My Fabulous Pink Camay Girl, he thought to himself rapturously, fumbling the change down into third gear but slowing down to a crawl beside the church in good time to allow the driver of the brewery lorry outside the George and Dragon to pull away. Good to know the suppliers of Watney’s Fine Ales were on the job, and that, come opening time, thirs
ty patrons wouldn’t be disappointed.
“Well, well, well,” Norman observed to Harvey, who had just emerged from the church and joined him in the porch. “That, ’Arve, is what I call a turn-up for the book. See what I see?”
Harvey glanced in the direction indicated, and then hurriedly drew back into the shadows. “Horrors! Do me a favor, Norman, I’ve got a weak heart.”
“Got it in one, my son, dunno abaht yer ticker but glad yer eyesight’s all right. Three members of the Old Bill in an unmarked car, or I’m the Queen of Sheba, no offense intended, ’Arvey. Funny how you can always tell, innit? Honest, they might just as well stick a neon sign on top. Three big geezers like that . . .”
“It’s dreadful to behold. What the heck are they doing in a dreary little place like this?”
“Ah, you may well ask. But don’t get all of a doodah, me lad, I don’t think it’s ’cos they’ve rumbled us. It’s more intrestin’ than that. What I saw an’ you didn’t was the little red MG what went by just previous. Bet you a quid them fuzz is doin’ an escort job, ’Arvey, an’ you’ll never guess ’oo they’re mindin’.” Norman grinned at his companion, who winced and averted his eyes from the display of discolored teeth. “That bird.”
“Really, Norman, you can be absolutely maddening sometimes, you know. What bird?”
“Ol’ Thumper’s kid. The tennis player. I seen ’er play the other day, thought I reckernized ’er. Seein’ the Old Bill trailin’ along be’ind makes it a cert.”
“Really, such imagination! Out of the question. I’ve heard of her, but she’s not all that famous, not enough to rate a police escort.”
Norman winked conspiratorially. “Oh, I dunno. Bet you somethin’, my gloomy ol’ pal Bill Parsons’ll crack a smile when I tell ’im.”
“Never. He’s incapable of such a thing. Why should he, anyway?”
“Never you mind. You finished in there?”
“Yes. It’ll be a doddle. The lock on the silver cupboard in the vestry’s a joke, ditto the one on the side door. I tell you, if we had a couple of suitcases and some old newspapers handy, I’d be tempted to do the job here and now.”
“More ’aste less speed, ’Arvey. Never know ’oo might be in an’ out this time o’ day. Nah, ternight’s the night, when ev’rybody’s ’ome watchin’ the telly or in the pub an’ we can button up all three jobs nice an’ tidy. Bill’s comin’ on parade at ’arf past eight.”
• • •
Miss Seeton was ever so slightly tipsy, and pottering about in her little kitchen in the twilight, clearing up after her visitors. How good it had been of Anne and Mr. Ranger to drop in to see her, and how very fortunate that she had a nearly half-full bottle of sherry in the house and could drink their health with them. They’d gone slightly soft and limp, the cream crackers, that is, but they were more suitable to accompany sherry than the Bath Olivers in the biscuit barrel would have been. Who had Oliver been, one wondered, and what had been his connection with Bath? Not Cromwell, surely, he had scarcely been the sort of man one would presume to name a biscuit after.
Whereas Sally Lunn, though perhaps a little immodest in doing so, had been perfectly entitled to apply her own name to her recipe. Like seedsmen who produce new hybrid roses, or clematis, or . . . oh, all sorts of things. Perhaps Sally. Lunn had invented Bath buns, too. But presumably not Bath chairs, or those funny little ham things. Bath chaps.
Interesting that men were often referred to as chaps, too. Mr. Ranger—Bob, one really must try to get used to calling him that, now that he was about to become dear Anne’s husband—had used the expression on looking at the sketches she had made after watching the tennis at the Hurlingham Club. Peculiar looking chaps, he had said about her cartoons of Sir Wilfred Thumper and the St. John’s Ambulance man. Then, how typically of dear Bob, explained that he hadn’t meant to be impolite about her drawings, which he thought were jolly good, of course.
Miss Seeton looked at the sherry bottle, in which less than half an inch remained. She was almost sure she had taken only the one small glass herself, though in the excitement of talking about the wedding next week it might possibly have been two. Anyway, it seemed rather silly to keep such a small amount. With careful deliberation she poured it into her glass and to her own surprise disposed of half of it in a single gulp. Then the phone rang in the living room, and she made her way a little unsteadily toward it, sinking gratefully into an easy chair and blinking at the receiver which was making little squawking noises.
“Wrong number,” she said to it eventually. It seemed the simplest thing to do in the circumstances.
“Miss Seeton? That is you, surely? This is Molly Treeves. At the vicarage.”
Miss Seeton was not so far gone as to be beyond recall, and Miss Treeves’s crisply authoritative tones acted upon her like a cold damp towel. She continued to have a little trouble with her tongue, but otherwise pulled herself together very creditably.
“Oh dear. Do apologize, Mystery. I mean Miss Treevzer.”
“You are quite well, are you? I haven’t interrupted your yoga practice?”
“No, no, no,” Miss Seeton assured her, and then, to make herself absolutely clear, added a few more nos.
“It’s about the church flowers this week, you see,” Miss Treeves went on, somewhat hesitantly for her. “It’s your turn, as I’m sure you know.”
“Flowers? My turn? If you say so, must be so.” In spite of becoming dimly aware that a headache was flexing its muscles somewhere not far away and getting ready to pounce, Miss Seeton still felt euphoric enough to tackle this unexpected hurdle.
“Splendid. It’s just that Arthur was hoping you might be good enough to get them done fairly early tomorrow. By about ten, perhaps? The Archdeacon’s due to arrive to carry out his visitation at eleven, so naturally Arthur wants the place to look its best.”
“Quite understand. Quite. Quite. Wouldn’t dream of letting vicar down. Got to marry Anne and Bob next week, after all.”
By the time she finally put the phone down, Miss Seeton had sobered up almost completely, it having dawned on her that she had planned to catch the early bus to Brettenden the next morning, in order to buy a couple of sketching pads and some more charcoal at the little shop where they sold basic artist’s materials as well as simple sheet music, cheap plastic recorders, and “kits for creative craftspersons.”
Never mind. One would simply have to get up an hour earlier than usual, that’s all. And though one could hardly gather from the garden and arrange the necessary flowers and greenery in the dark, there was no reason why one shouldn’t do a little planning in advance, by just popping along to the church with a flashlight and reminding oneself of the size, number, and location of the vases to be filled. Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today, had been one of the admirable Victorian precepts drummed into her in childhood, and Emily D. Seeton decided that she was perfectly capable of doing that much before bedtime.
chapter
~8~
“THERE’S ICE cream,” the lone waitress announced, inopportunely appearing at their table just as Mel thought she had detected an encouragingly fond, even speculative look in Thrudd Banner’s eye. Since the failure of Mr. Pontefract’s quick-snack bar, an ill-conceived enterprise save for its catchy name Bits ’n’ Pizzas, the George and Dragon’s own dining room was Plummergen’s sole restaurant. It was hardly a mecca for gastronomes, but Mel was enjoying herself all the same.
Thrudd had turned up around six as promised, and joined her in the bar for a couple of drinks after checking in and taking a shower: an experience he described most amusingly. Speculation as to why British showerheads never seemed to produce more than a dismal trickle in comparison with the Niagara-like torrents of the American version carried them through the first drink, by which time the alcohol had loosened Mel’s tongue sufficiently for her to embark on a spirited account of the afternoon’s eventful Women’s Institute meeting that lasted through the second.
Chatting
about Thrudd’s visit to Bonn had helped to soften the impact of the George and Dragon’s prawn cocktail followed by overdone beef and soggy vegetables, but the bottle of eminently drinkable claret Thrudd ordered had done much more toward generating their present expansive mood.
“What kind?” Thrudd inquired of the waitress, genially enough. The girl, whose name was Maureen and who was anxious to get rid of them, clear up, and join her boyfriend Wayne who had a Kawasaki motorbike, gazed at him in bafflement.
“Beg pardon?”
“I mean, what flavors do you have?”
Maureen shrugged. “Just ice cream. Ordinary ice cream. You know, no flavor.”
“Ah.” Thrudd nodded sagely. “No flavor. Sounds delicious. Could be vanilla, Mel. Want some?”
Mel shook her head with a grin. “Better not. Two scoops of vanilla ice and I’m anybody’s. Just coffee.”
“Okay. No ice cream, thanks. Just two coffees. Bring them to us in the saloon bar, would you?”
Judging by the expression on Maureen’s face, she regarded such an unconventional request as being positively Babylonian in its outrageousness, and with tightly compressed lips she disappeared through the service door. Soon Thrudd and Mel were ensconced once more in the bar, each with a double cognac, and not really interested in the coffee Thrudd had ordered. This was as well, because after thinking about it Maureen had decided that life was quite complicated enough as it was, and had gone off duty.
“So. Apart from Miss S.’s heroic achievement in revealing Erica Nuttel’s scanties to the world, what else is new in swinging Plummergen?”
Mel pondered briefly before replying. “Hard to know where to start, really. Anne Wright and Bob Ranger are getting married here next week, and that’s the main topic of interest in the village.” Her eyes glistened reminiscently. “Or was, at least, until the row this afternoon. Oddly enough the word about Trish Thumper staying with the Colvedens doesn’t seem to have got round yet. Even though young Nigel’s floating around grinning like an idiot at everybody he meets. He looks like that character in Mad magazine. Alfred E. Neumann, isn’t it?”
Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7) Page 6
