Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Oh, you can smile,” scolded Martha, “but it don’t do no harm to watch out what you’re doing, and who you’re talking to when you’re doing it, whatever it is—and there’s another thing, dear, that smell in the kitchen. Awful’s not the word for it. If you’ve been pickling eggs, they’re addled ones and no mistake, which seeing they’re fresh every day I’m sure I don’t know where you’ve got them from.”

  Miss Seeton stared, then smiled again, as Martha hurried on: “And if it’s paint-stripper you’ve been making on the cheap, I’d’ve thought buying a bottle of turps would do as well, not to mention you should have told me or Stan and he’d have popped across with ours for your brushes and no bother, because if you can’t ask your friends, then who can you?”

  “How careless, I almost forgot.” Miss Seeton deposited her belongings on the table and trotted out to the kitchen, with Martha, suspiciously sniffing, at her heels. “Thank you so much for jogging my memory, Martha dear. Miss Wicks would have been very disappointed, for I promised to go in after school to tell her what the children said, because I cannot carry the bowl at the same time, and they will have, I fear, to wait until after lunch. The young are sometimes so impatient,” she enlarged, regarding a large bottle of murky liquid with some pride. “So eager for life—such intense enjoyment ... And the competitive spirit—in moderation, that is, and properly channelled—helps to strengthen their characters for the future. Teamwork ...,” mused Miss Seeton, unscrewing the bottle-top, then wrinkling her nose and gasping, while Martha sneezed, and pointed an accusing finger.

  “See what I mean? I’d’ve thought you’d had gassing enough with Mrs. Venning that time, touch and go for you it was, if you remember, and now mixing up lord-knows-what and smelling to high heaven ...”

  “Vinegar,” Miss Seeton informed her horrified friend, screwing the top firmly back on the bottle. “White, not malt, with saltpetre, and salt prunella, and ordinary table salt—because Mrs. Stillman had no bay-salt, and Miss Wicks said it wouldn’t matter too much—dissolved and left overnight ...” She gazed at the bottle, cloudy and of distinctly sinister appearance, and shook it gently. The screw-cap fizzed, and she set the bottle down again on the table.

  “One soaks them, for as long as possible,” she went on, recalling the detailed instructions of Miss Wicks as she hunted out a sturdy carrier bag. “After having drilled the central holes, of course. This is mainly, as I understand, to toughen the skins, although it is unfortunate that, with the contest only a few days away, it will probably not be long enough to affect the insides, which is why they should be baked afterwards in a slow oven to harden them properly—but there is no harm, is there, in trying? Particularly,” with a twinkle, “as you say dear Stan warns of likely cheating on the part of Murreystone, and while one cannot in any circumstances condone cheating, the hardening of conkers by various—various acceptable means has always gone on, has it not? Or at least Miss Wicks assures me her brother and his friends always did so, and even at Mrs. Benn’s school, when one would suppose girls to have little interest in such matters ...”

  As she slid the bottle carefully into the carrier, Miss Seeton heard Martha snort with laughter. “Conkers!” cried Mrs. Bloomer, laughing again. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day anyone’d make me believe Miss Wicks wasn’t born with rheumatics and a stick, but you could just have done that, dear—though it’s hard to credit, I must say.”

  Miss Seeton, sighing, agreed that perhaps it was, but they must remember that even the oldest among them had once been young. Miss Wicks had lost her only brother in the Great War, and naturally cherished memories of their youth together ...

  “Well, so long as it’s not eggs gone bad, I dare say it can’t hurt,” Martha said, opening the window with a flourish. “But if the kiddies ask for gas masks, talking of the war, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Miss Seeton smiled as she slipped the carrier on her arm, and promised she wouldn’t. Once more she collected her handbag and portfolio, then paused by the hall table to take an umbrella from the rack, and said goodbye to Mrs. Bloomer, who was still laughing as she waved her on her way. The sound of Martha’s amusement stayed with Miss Seeton as she walked steadily up The Street towards the school, holding the precious bottle of conker-cure so that it would not clank against anyone’s wall or gatepost, against any inconvenient telegraph pole or flagpole ...

  Flagpole. Miss Seeton paused, smiling at the thought, and glanced across the road into the garden of Ararat Cottage. Not, of course, that the bag could possibly have bumped, the bottle been broken, on the admiral’s flagpole—it was set safely back from the public path, on his private property, well behind the fence. Even walking up his path to the front door one would need to swing it with some considerable effort to make it go anywhere near.

  “Good gracious.” Miss Seeton’s glance had made her blink. Her pause became a definite halt. “It must,” she concluded, “be a celebration of some sort. The admiral’s birthday, perhaps, though as a single gentleman it would be perhaps a little over-familiar to enquire. The Colvedens, no doubt, would know. October the twenty-first ...”

  October the twenty-first always saw the Buzzard out of bed well before the nearest lark, breaking his fast as the first hint of sunrise glimmered on the horizon. By half-past six he was out in his garden at the foot of the flagpole, the halyards in his hands, ready to hoist a six-flag signal with as much ceremony as he felt his neighbours—none of them early risers—could bear. There were no bugle calls, no fanfares, no salutes from rifle or (had he thought to borrow it from headmaster Martin Jessyp) starting pistol ...

  “Eric!” Mrs. Blaine banged once on Miss Nuttel’s bedroom door and galloped in without waiting for a reply. “Eric, do wake up—after yesterday, and Miss Seeton buying all those dreadful poisons, it’s too much! He’s signalling again, and in full view of everyone this time!”

  Miss Nuttel groped for her dressing-gown, and teetered sleepily on slippered feet to the window, which was still curtained. Mrs. Blaine, wide awake, was there before her, her nose already poking warily through the central crack, her eyes fixed on the hostile world outside. Miss Nuttel grunted as Bunny showed no sign of moving and she, perforce, must peer round the edge, which was far more inconvenient. Her own window, as well!

  “You see?” crowed Mrs. Blaine, as a sharp intake of horrified breath from the curtain’s edge confirmed that the dreadful sight was no trick of the imagination. “You see? I heard him open his door, you know what a light sleeper I am at the best of times, and after the upset yesterday I’m sure nobody could say this was—and I couldn’t help wondering if something was wrong, for him to be up and about so early—and you have to admit I was right! All those flags—what on earth can it mean?”

  “Trafalgar Day, of course,” said Admiral Leighton, astounded that anyone—especially anyone calling himself a reporter—should need to ask.

  Roy Roydon (his real name was Rodney, but this, he suspected, would not look well as a byline) stood on the Buzzard’s doorstep, and stared. “Trafalgar Day? Er—oh, yes. Of course.”

  He did not fool the admiral, who sighed. Were the English still an island race with salt water in their veins? There were times when he had his doubts. “The Napoleonic Wars,” he said. “Eighteen hundred and five—the Royal Navy against the combined fleets of France and Spain. Nelson’s greatest victory—a glorious victory! Lost his life in the thick of battle, but he’ll have died a happy man. Kismet, Hardy ...”

  With a muttered cough, the admiral cleared his throat, blinking in the direction of the flagpole as he tugged at his beard and tried to look stern. Rodney, failing to recognise the Buzzard’s correct quoting of the “Kiss me, Hardy,” deathbed utterance attributed to Horatio, Lord Nelson, looked merely bewildered.

  “His signal,” said the admiral, recovering himself and indicating the flagpole with a proud finger. “Of course, I can’t manage all thirty-two flags. No room, more’s the pity—still, there’s room enough fo
r those six. The first two words: England expects. Old Horatio meant to say confides, but Pasco—his signals officer—told him it’d be quicker not having to spell it out letter by letter. Popham system, of course. Had to spell duty, oddly enough, but ... England expects that every man will do his duty.” He cleared his throat again. “Didn’t need to say it at all, mind you, dealing with the Senior Service—you can’t say better than that.”

  “Oh,” said Roy Roydon again; and again the admiral sighed. Sometimes he wondered what the younger generation was coming to.

  “None of this going into committee and gabbing for hours telling everyone what they knew already, wasting time—he got on with the job, and a damned fine job, too. Three signals for the entire operation—Prepare to anchor after the close of day; England expects; and Close action. Said it all, really. Well, the navy has a reputation for efficiency.” And the admiral tugged at his beard once more, an efficient gleam in his eye.

  Dangerously efficient? Roy took two prudent steps backwards as he framed his next question. Something about Admiral Leighton suggested that it might not be as easy as he hoped to get the answer he required—but he had to take the risk.

  “Very interesting,” he said. “I’d, er, like to write this up, if I may, and take some photos—for the feature, you know, the one I’m doing on Jeremy Froste—”

  “Ha!” And the admiral turned upon the hapless Rodney a look similar to that with which he would have regarded a weevil in the ship’s biscuit.

  “Oh, yes,” babbled Roy Roydon, feature-writer to the stars. “This is just the sort of thing he’s interested in. Picturesque—historical—the navy—rum—”

  “Nelson’s blood,” said the admiral automatically, referring to the tradition that his lordship’s body had been preserved in a keg of rum in order to bring it safely back to England for burial with all due ceremony.

  Then he recollected himself. “Jeremy Froste? The television blighter? Now look here, Nazeing, or whatever your name is—”

  “Roydon,” bleated Rodney, but the admiral was too irritated to hear him.

  “—I’ve already had that chap and his young woman round here asking to film my bees, upsetting them when they’re settling in for winter. I hoped I’d made myself abundantly clear about wanting nothing to do with such nonsense. Plenty of others who don’t mind a bit, I told him. Go and bother them instead! Tried to argue with me then, and I had to fire a warning shot hard across his bows—but I thought he got the message in the end.” He tugged at his beard, and Rodney took another backward step. “Now,” said the admiral grimly, “it seems he didn’t—or didn’t choose to. Deaf or daft, though, makes no difference—the answer’s still the same. And it doesn’t impress me, tell him, sending somebody else to do his dirty work. I like a good, clean fight face to face, none of this skulking in corners, hiding behind a woman’s skirts—”

  “Here, I say!” cried Rodney. The Buzzard had the grace to look slightly abashed.

  “Well, no offence—but the man seems incapable of standing up for himself. We didn’t take Wrens to sea in the War—and most men wouldn’t run around the countryside with a posse of researchers to bat their eyelashes and try to talk people into doing things they don’t want to do. Or,” giving Rodney the weevil-glower again, “sending so-called journalists, who’ve never heard of Nelson and talk bilge about signal flags being—being picturesque, like some blasted postcard ...”

  As the Buzzard drew furious breath, Roy Roydon, accepting that Ararat Cottage was one house he was destined never to enter, wisely—though metaphorically—hoisted the white flag of surrender. “Sorry to have troubled you,” he gasped; and, turning tail, he fled.

  chapter

  ~ 20 ~

  THE NUTS HAD been taking sentry-duty on the admiral’s sinister signal turn and turn about, without pause, since a quarter to seven. Breakfast from a knee-balanced tray, with the attendant indigestion—Mrs. Blaine, blackcurrant eyes bright with martyrdom, was heroically silent on the charcoal quality of Miss Nuttel’s toast—seemed a small price to pay for peace of mind.

  As the morning slowly advanced, however, the top landing of the Lilikot stairs, once trays were returned to the kitchen and dishes put to soak in the sink, became rather less peaceful than the sentries would have liked. Despite all their hopes—that is, their fears—nothing seemed to be happening outside to justify the inconvenience of keeping watch. Assorted passers-by, children going to school, early shoppers at the post office were all observed to observe the six fluttering flags—and only to observe them. Nobody (brooded the Nuts) did anything. Smiles, expressions of surprise and amusement, nudges and nods to fellow observers hinted at no more than general tolerance of this latest eccentricity on the part of the owner of Ararat Cottage. Children saluted, and giggled. There was no sign of panic, no look of guilt, no suggestion that the fluttered message had been understood and that Action Would Soon Be Taken ...

  Frustration at what both sentries secretly began to suspect might be their wasted effort turned gradually to indignation—which made Miss Nuttel gruff, Mrs. Blaine inclined to sulk. Cricks developed in necks, duly massaged with sighs indicative of silent suffering, nobly borne. Weary eyes were rubbed, cramped knees stretched, in continued silence, for neither Nut must be the first to crack. They were determined to out-do each other in strength of purpose and of will. Let will but once weaken, and who knew what dark and dreadful deed might not be perpetrated, unobserved, by Admiral Leighton? It was becoming only too evident that he had succeeded in fooling the rest of the village, but his next-door neighbours were not so easily fooled ...

  Still nothing happened. The effects of two hours’ linoleum on sentinel kneecaps became, by degrees, more pressing. Mrs. Blaine, for all her plumpness less stoic than Miss Nuttel, started to feel that face might justifiably be saved if she voiced her long-suppressed complaint about the aftertaste of soot-flavoured marmalade, with the subsequent necessity for fresh air ... and, even as she opened her mouth, a sudden elbow was poked into her ribs.

  “Bunny, look—down The Street! Coming this way.”

  Bunny looked. Her mouth dropped open. She squeaked, thrilling, all thought of abandoning her post forgotten. She trembled. “Oh, Eric! That bag—it looks so heavy, and the way she’s carrying it I’m sure there’s something breakable inside ...”

  Miss Nuttel bent sharply forward, her nose bumping the window. “Ugh! Glass, probably,” she said, rubbing hard. “Bottle. Mixed the stuff last night, of course.”

  “The potion,” corrected Mrs. Blaine. “And now she’s seen That Man’s instructions, telling her when to administer it—oh, Eric, I shall faint, I know I shall!”

  Unconscious of the havoc being wrought across the road, in the house beside that of the admiral. Miss Seeton, smiling, paused to contemplate the brightly-fluttering signal flags and to wonder at their meaning. Then, with a gentle shake of the head to reproach herself for curiosity—as no gentlewoman cares to reveal her age, so courtesy would suggest that a gentleman must feel the same way—she passed on her way up The Street, watched until she was out of sight by four desperate eyes.

  Desperation turned once more to frustration as the Nuts failed to agree on the Buzzard’s exact purpose in issuing his coded instructions to Miss Seeton. Mrs. Blaine, insistent on speaking first, inclined to the idea of sorcery, the casting of diabolical spells in preparation for Halloween. Miss Nuttel, whose grasp of the calendar—she being a keen gardener—was rather more accurate than her friend’s, held that, even egged on by the admiral. Miss Seeton was unlikely to start casting her spells quite so soon before the fatal night. Ten days would surely give her victims—alerted to their danger by so public a purchase of the ingredients as yesterday’s had been—time and to spare to arrange a counter-charm. No, her intention was clearly to poison Plummergen’s complement of Junior Mixed Infants—

  “Oh, Eric—of course!” Only pins and needles prevented Mrs. Blaine from bounding to her feet and rushing to the immediate rescue now
the truth was realised. “Ugh—oh, too painful ...” Fire-crackers exploded in her knees as she straightened. “I’m sure you must be right, and—ouch ...” She stamped—yelped—stamped again. Agonising tingles zigzagged up her shins. Moaning, Mrs. Blaine slumped to the floor, the top of her head on the bottom of the window sill; Miss Nuttel, more prudent, eased herself upright, and leaned against the wall.

  “Soon as we can get to the phone,” she vowed, ignoring whimpers of pain from near her kneecaps. “PC Potter?”

  The whimpers ceased. “Not Potter, Eric, you know he’s in league with You Know Who.” Mrs. Blaine again attempted to rise, grimaced, and gave up the attempt. “And Mr. Jessyp’s no better, forever inviting her to take Miss Maynard’s class—and she never says she won’t, does she? I think it’s too suspicious, the way she or her mother or some aunt or other always seems to fall ill just when it’s most convenient for Miss Seeton to—to have an alibi,” gabbled Mrs. Blaine in conclusion, trampling illogicality underfoot in the rush. “The evil eye ... I mean, when your back aches, you don’t ask me to dig the garden, do you?”

  This time it was Miss Nuttel’s turn to grimace. There was a long, thoughtful, pain-filled pause. Warily, slowly, Miss Nuttel moved away from the wall and prepared to make for the stairs ...

  “Bunny!” Bending, she clutched Mrs. Blaine’s shoulder. “Never mind—quick—look!”

  For a second time, Mrs. Blaine forgot her woes in the excitement of the moment. Together, holding their breath, the Nuts watched Rodney “Roy” Roydon hold colloquy with the admiral—with what they assumed, the angle of an overlapping eave blocking the complete view, to be the admiral—on the doorstep of the house next door. They saw the reporter take a backward step—take two—remonstrate, or at least attempt to do so, with whoever-it-was who had refused him admittance—heard a naval bellow, a squeak of fright, a slammed door. Saw Rodney rush down the path and make his escape, not even stopping to close the gate behind him ...