Advantage Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 7)

by Hampton Charles

  A few yards along the corridor, Delphick was brushing the tailcoat of his morning suit. The creases it had acquired in transit had hung out nicely overnight, and he thought he would probably pass his wife’s inspection when she arrived later in the morning, in the care of the Brintons who were to pick her up at Ashford Station.

  While taking his bath and shaving, he had been musing about the funny way things have of turning out for the best sometimes. Had he been a religious man, rather than an agnostic who happened to love the language of the Book of Common Prayer and the King James Bible, he might have attributed Sir Wilfred Thumper’s change of heart to the workings of divine providence. Even accepting for the purposes of argument that God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform, however, it was altogether too much to credit the Almighty with selecting Mel Forby and Thrudd Banner as His agents in this particular bit of malarkey.

  For at a late stage during Bob Ranger’s stag party, an exuberant Thrudd had drawn him to one side, and muttering something about showing him some dirty postcards, produced a little pack of contact prints, cut roughly to the same size. It might have been that, having captured likenesses of Bob with his mouth open looking stupid, and Miss Seeton with hands upraised in genteel horror, as well as the drama of Thumper’s immersion in the lake at the hands of Harvey and subsequent rescue by the same, Thrudd merely wished to add to the innocent fun of the party.

  What he actually did was make Delphick feel much as Pythagoras must have done when he first worked out the truth about the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle. After seeing those pictures of Thumper, it was like taking candy from a kid to elicit from a high-spirited Nigel Colveden the information that yes, Mel and Thrudd had dropped in at Rytham Hall to have a chat with the old buffer the evening before Lady T. towed him back to London.

  Q.E.D., as Pythagoras himself might have remarked had he known Latin.

  “It’s just as well we picked up your morning suit from London on Tuesday,” Mel was saying in the dining room as she buttered her last piece of toast. “Bet you never thought you’d have to put it on again today. Nice of the Wrights to ask us to the wedding at such short notice.”

  “I hate weddings,” Thrudd grumbled. Of all the participants in the stag party, he had the worst headache. “Why do people get married?”

  “Darned if I know. The thought of marriage gives me the creeps.”

  Thrudd looked into her eyes. It suddenly struck him that it was a perfectly beautiful morning. “Does it really?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Um, Bob was saying that Miss Seeton’s guessed about us, Mel.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. She has X-ray eyes. Well, I don’t mind if you don’t. I expect she’s rather tickled about the idea, but I certainly hope she’s not kidding herself that I plan on marrying you, Banner.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope. Nyet. So it’s no use your asking.”

  “Oh. Right. I won’t, then.”

  “You might try to look just a wee bit disappointed, though. I suppose it could be fun to live in sin for a while, but on the whole I think we should settle for visiting rights in each other’s places.”

  “Don’t forget Anne’s new passport, Arthur. You only have charge of it until they’re married, so you must give it to her immediately after they’ve signed the register. Put it in your cassock pocket. It would never do for them to arrive at the ferry to Calais without it.”

  “Thank you, Molly. It had slipped my mind, you know. What with all the coming and going with the police, and the Archdeacon and everything. Whatever should I do without you?”

  Miss Treeves sighed and readjusted her hat. “Heaven only knows. At least you don’t have to worry about the Archdeacon anymore, not until the police return the silver, anyway. I’ve never seen a man so delighted as he was when he realized what a lot of money it’s worth, not to mention what was stolen from the other two churches. Mark my words, he’ll try to make you sell it. But I shall deal with him if necessary in due course.”

  “Eric, I do wish you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Blaine wailed, trying to keep up. “I understand how you feel—”

  “I doubt it. If you did, you would see how appropriate it is that I should make my statement in the church itself, in the presence of the principal culprits and so-called responsible senior police officers from both the Kent and the metropolitan forces.”

  “But it’d be so mean to spoil everything for Anne Wright. It isn’t as if it’s her fault . . .”

  Miss Nuttel stopped dead, turned on her companion, and withered her with a fierce smile. “If she chooses to ally herself with a man who seems to be constantly on hand to do That Woman’s bidding, that is her affair.”

  They had almost reached the church when a despairing Mrs. Blaine played her last card. “They won’t let us in, Eric,” she said. “All the guests must already be inside, and look, there’s a big hire car coming. It must be Anne and her father . . . they’ll never let us in now—”

  “Oh, yes they will,” cried Miss Nuttel, approaching the open doors.

  “Oh, no they won’t, you frightful woman!” thundered Sir George Colveden, superb in his wrath as he barred the way. Even Miss Nuttel fell back before the figure in the impeccable morning suit, eyes flashing and moustache bristling.

  “She’s overwrought, Sir George,” Mrs. Blaine faltered.

  “Poppycock! The pair of you are nothing but confounded, malicious nuisances. Now be off with you, or I shall summon Constable Potter and give you in charge for breaching the Queen’s peace!”

  Miss Nuttel flung her head back and her arms out, and in a banshee voice screamed “There is no justice!” It was an impressive performance, generating enough decibels to startle the pigeons that lived in the church belfry. Several of them fluttered out and one scored a dead hit, right in Miss Nuttel’s eye.

  “Oh, it was such a beautiful wedding,” Miss Seeton sighed contentedly. It was just after five and she was at Rytham Hall, having been swept off there by her friends after the reception, for what Lady Colveden described as a cup of tea and a wind down. “Anne looked so radiant, and Bob cut a fine figure in his morning suit, didn’t you think? Such a beautiful gray silk tie.”

  “Oh, rather. We had a lovely cry, didn’t we?” Meg Colveden said. “I noticed you get your handkerchief out too when they were taking their vows, George, you sentimental old darling.”

  “Tommy rot! Speck of dust in my eye. Delphick did his stuff very efficiently, I thought. Witty little speech at the reception, too. Short and sweet. And Brinton there as well, must say the police rallied round splendidly.”

  “And Nigel, dear. Sending those two telegrams from Hastings and then ringing up to tell Mr. Delphick which one to read out at the reception.”

  “Two telegrams, Lady Colveden?”

  “Yes. Just in case Trish lost. That one just sent love and best wishes.”

  “How thoughtful. Instead of—”

  “What was it, TRISH WON A CUP TODAY BUT YOU TWO ARE THE CHAMPIONS LOVE AND BEST WISHES FROM US BOTH NIGEL. Neatly put. Good lad, Nigel. Proud of him.” Sir George hurriedly pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously. Then he cleared his throat.

  “To change the subject, got a bit of news for you, Miss Seeton. Brinton passed it on at the reception. Charges against all three of those fellows been dropped, on condition the burglars do a hundred hours voluntary community service apiece. And the other chap, your Tintoretto character. Agreed to accept, what is it, one of these damnfool new words, psychotherapy? Think that’s it. D’you suppose that’s what he needs, Miss Seeton?”

  “Not really, but it will do no harm provided he is allowed to keep his job.”

  “That’s been taken care of. Employers have said he can.”

  “Good. Then I shall go to see him regularly, and try to persuade Trish to go with me. He’ll like that. He misses his own daughter so much, you see.”

  Meg Colveden smiled. “Another cup of tea?”

/>   “How kind, I should love one. Sir George, do forgive my curiosity, but what exactly was that disturbance outside the church just before the bride arrived?”

  “That? Oh, just The Nuts up to their usual nonsense. Shooed ’em off the premises in double quick time. If they’d given any real trouble I’d have come and asked you to take your umbrella to ’em, but they got a message from on high instead, and made a strategic withdrawal, as we used to say in the army. In other words, they ran away.”

  Note from the Publisher

  While he was alive, series creator Heron Carvic had tremendous fun imagining Emily Seeton and the supporting cast of characters.

  In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her lead . . .”

  You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr

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  COMING SOON

  Something was Wrong . . .

  “There’s something very odd about the atmosphere on this ship this evening,” George said. “Miss Seeton agrees with me.”

  “Stop looking around you so furtively, sit down and tell us what is going on.”

  “Oh, very well. You’re bound to find out pretty soon anyway. I was just wondering how to put it, as a matter of fact. You know that bounder Witley?”

  “Really, George!” said Meg. “Of all the idiotic questions—”

  “Course you do. Silly of me to ask. Well, he’s, um, well, not to put too fine a point on it, dead, actually.”

  “Oh, dear, I had a feeling that this day would end badly,” Miss Seeton said, not sounding in the least surprised. “I was quite unable to achieve the proper frame of mind for my yoga practice . . .”

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  The Fox Among the Chickens …

  The squawking from the hen-houses continued unabated. Miss Seeton arrived at the runs. She beat the wire door with her umbrella.

  “Stop that,” she called. “Stop that at once, do you hear me?”

  “Sure, lady. I hear you.”

  She gasped. A shadow moved forward, reached through the wire and unhooked the door. With the moon behind him Miss Seeton could see little but a dark shape muffled in a coat, a hat pulled low. But the moon shone on the barrel of the pistol he held.

  “Now, just take it nice and easy, lady. Back to the house and no noise, see.”

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  About the Miss Seeton series

  Retired art teacher Miss Seeton steps in where Scotland Yard stumbles. Armed with only her sketch pad and umbrella, she is every inch an eccentric English spinster and at every turn the most lovable and unlikely master of detection.

  Reviews of the Miss Seeton series:

  “Miss Seeton gets into wild drama with fine touches of farce . . . This is a lovely mixture of the funny and the exciting.”

  San Francisco Chronicle

  “A most beguiling protagonist!”

  New York Times

  “This is not so much black comedy as black-currant comedy . . . You can’t stop reading. Or laughing.”

  The Sun

  “She’s a joy!”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Not since Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple has there been a more lovable female dabbler in crime and suspense.”

  Amarillo News

  “Depth of description and lively characters bring this English village to life.”

  Publishers Weekly

  Further titles in the series:

  Picture Miss Seeton

  A night at the opera strikes a chord of danger when Miss Seeton witnesses a murder . . . and paints a portrait of the killer.

  Miss Seeton Draws the Line

  Miss Seeton is enlisted by Scotland Yard when her paintings of a little girl turn the young subject into a model for murder.

  Witch Miss Seeton

  Double, double, toil and trouble sweep through the village when Miss Seeton goes undercover . . . to investigate a local witches’ coven!

  Miss Seeton Sings

  Miss Seeton boards the wrong plane and lands amidst a gang of European counterfeiters. One false note, and her new destination is deadly indeed.

  Odds on Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton in diamonds and furs at the roulette table? It’s all a clever disguise for the high-rolling spinster . . . but the game of money and murder is all too real.

  Advantage, Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton’s summer outing to a tennis match serves up more than expected when Britain’s up-and-coming female tennis star is hounded by mysterious death threats.

  Miss Seeton at the Helm

  Miss Seeton takes a whirlwind cruise to the Mediterranean—bound for disaster. A murder on board leads the seafaring sleuth into some very stormy waters.

  Miss Seeton, By Appointment

  Miss Seeton is off to Buckingham Palace on a secret mission—but to foil a jewel heist, she must risk losing the Queen’s head . . . and her own neck!

  Miss Seeton Cracks the Case

  It’s highway robbery for the innocent passengers of a motor coach tour. When Miss Seeton sketches the roadside bandits, she becomes a moving target herself.

  Miss Seeton Paints the Town

  The Best Kept Village Competition inspires Miss Seeton’s most unusual artwork—a burning cottage—and clears the smoke of suspicion in a series of local fires.

  Hands Up, Miss Seeton

  The gentle Miss Seeton? A thief? A preposterous notion—until she’s accused of helping a pickpocket . . . and stumbles into a nest of crime.

  Miss Seeton by Moonlight

  Scotland Yard borrows one of Miss Seeton’s paintings to bait an art thief . . . when suddenly a second thief strikes.

  Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle

  It takes all of Miss Seeton’s best instincts—maternal and otherwise—to solve a crime that’s hardly child’s play.

  Miss Seeton Goes to Bat

  Miss Seeton’s in on the action when a cricket game leads to mayhem in the village of Plummergen . . . and gives her a shot at smashing Britain’s most baffling burglary ring.

  Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion

  Miss Seeton was tending her garden when a local youth was arrested for murder. Now she has to find out who’s really at the root of the crime.

  Starring Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton’s playing a backstage role in the village’s annual Christmas pageant. But the real drama is behind the scenes . . . when the next act turns out to be murder!

  Miss Seeton Undercover

  The village is abuzz, as a TV crew searches for a rare apple, the Plummergen Peculier—while police hunt a murderous thief . . . and with Miss Seeton at the centre of it all.

  Miss Seeton Rules

  Royalty comes to Plummergen, and the villagers are plotting a grand impression. But when Princess Georgina goes missing, Miss Seeton herself has questions to answer.

  Sold to Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton accidentally buys a mysterious antique box at auction . . . and finds herself crossing paths with some very dangerous characters!

  Sweet Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton is stalked by a confectionary sculptor, just as a spate of suspicious deaths among the village’s elderly residents calls for her attention.

  Bonjour, Miss Seeton

  After a trip to explore the French countryside, a case of murder awaits Miss Seeton back in the village . . . and a shocking revelation.

  Miss Seeton’s Finest Hour

  War-time England, and a young Miss Emily Seeton’s suspicious sketches call her loyalty into question—until she is recruited to uncover a case of sabotage.

  About Heron Carvic and
Hampton Charles

  The Miss Seeton series was created by Heron Carvic; and continued after his death first by Peter Martin writing as Hampton Charles, and later by Sarah J. Mason under the pseudonym Hamilton Crane.

  Heron Carvic was an actor and writer, most recognizable today for his voice portrayal of the character Gandalf in the first BBC Radio broadcast version of The Hobbit, and appearances in several television productions, including early series of The Avengers and Dr Who.

  Born Geoffrey Richard William Harris in 1913, he held several early jobs including as a interior designer and florist, before developing a successful dramatic career and his public persona of Heron Carvic. He only started writing the Miss Seeton novels in the 1960s, after using her in a short story.

  Heron Carvic died in a car accident in Kent in 1980.

  Hampton Charles was a pseudonym of English crime writer Peter Martin (1931–2014). Born a London cockney, he preferred for a number of years to live and write his books in a remote village even smaller than Miss Emily Seeton’s Plummergen.