Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Let that be a lesson to you!” cried the Buzzard, and he would have concluded with a few salty oaths until he recalled, just in time, that the vicar was in the vicinity. “Full steam ahead down The Street,” he commanded, “and don’t let me see any of you near my house again!”

  He glared across through the uneven darkness for a few moments, growled into his beard, then nodded in satisfaction as the three began to make their way south towards the safety of the George. “Good riddance,” muttered the admiral—and strode back to join his guests.

  The party had become somewhat muted during the previous minutes, but the host’s return prompted a swift resumption of festivities. More drinks were poured, and the vicar was coaxed into having his ginger-beer shandy made at double strength, in honour of the occasion.

  “Grand chap, Nelson,” said Admiral Leighton, as anecdote and reminiscence became the order of the day. “Not just a fine commander, but a born leader of men—they’d have followed him anywhere because they loved him, and quite rightly. Know what he did, the day before the battle? Wrote to Lady Hamilton, of course, in case he didn’t come through, if you, er, don’t mind my mentioning her, Padre ...”

  The Reverend Arthur Treeves blinked, appearing untroubled by the name of the celebrated mistress. Either he had no idea who she had been, or he judged her liaison with Lord Nelson so very historical that it didn’t matter now.

  “Ah—yes,” said the admiral, and coughed. “Everybody else was writing the same sort of thing, of course—people do.” He coughed again. Major Howett and the vicar sighed; Sir George huffed into his moustache; Colonel Windup cleared his throat. “So, off went the letters in the mailboat, and then someone found out the Victory’s coxswain had been so busy collecting the mail and getting it bagged up, the poor chap hadn’t had time to write himself. But Nelson didn’t hesitate—he made ’em signal the mailboat back. He said they none of ’em knew whether they’d be alive the next day, and if a British sailor wanted to say goodbye to his wife, he had as much right as anyone to say it. Signalled back the mailboat on purpose—with all that on his mind!” And he took a hearty swig of pink gin to hide his feelings.

  “A great man,” agreed Major Matilda Howett, delighted with this story, while the vicar beamed. Colonel Windup signified his approval of Nelson’s behaviour by emptying his glass in a silent toast, and glancing about for a refill.

  “Knew how to handle his men,” said Sir George, as the admiral hospitably rose to fetch the whisky. “More than you can say for some of the brass hats.”

  “Talking of hats,” said the admiral, busily pouring, “ever noticed his effigy in Westminster Abbey? That cocked hat was made specially, y’know, with a shade for his blind right eye. Lock’s. I believe.”

  “Should think so,” said Sir George, as the other officers nodded. The establishment at Number Six, St. James’s Street, was renowned throughout the world for the quality of the headgear it had supplied during the past three hundred years to royalty, the nobility, the gentry, and members of HM Forces. The baronet chuckled. “Lock’s—fell out with Edward, didn’t they? The Seventh, I mean—wouldn’t open up after hours to let him sneak into Marlborough House the back way, without being saluted by the sentries. Adventurous sort of life, the Prince of Wales—ahem!”

  He recollected the presence of Major Howett and the Reverend Arthur Treeves, and once more huffed into his moustache. The admiral said quickly, “Talk about turning a blind eye—there was a chap on Channel convoy duty who never let on till the day he was demobbed that he couldn’t see a thing without contact lenses. Had to get his friends to memorise the chart for him before he went for his medical, because he didn’t buy ’em until halfway through the war—some of the first in the country. I believe. Broke ’em in by wearing one at a time, a few minutes more each day. Must have been damned—sorry. Padre—uncomfortable, but it was the only way he could cover a full eight-hour watch, to begin with. Only wore both, he said, if he was going into action. Now, that’s what I call a pretty brave chap.”

  “Suppose,” enquired Major Howett, her medical curiosity aroused, “he’d been wounded, and knocked out? Even with the modern lenses you can’t risk leavin ’em in while you’re asleep—you could end up blinded. And hardly anyone would have known about contact lenses durin’ the war.”

  “Scratched a warning on the back of his identity disc,” said the admiral, amazed that anyone—even an army officer—should doubt the resourcefulness of an officer of the Royal Navy. “He was lucky, though—came through without so much as a splinter. They used to say, begging the Padre’s pardon, that when he went to sea, the Archangel Gabriel piped the duty watch to look after him.” He sighed, and stroked his beard, his eyes suddenly clouded. “A good number old Gabriel couldn’t seem to find time to pipe the watch for, more’s the pity ...”

  There was a pause. The Reverend Arthur shifted on his chair, looking guilty. Major Howett said sadly:

  “And now we’re gettin’ to the stage when even the ones who lived through it are finally leavin’ us for good. Open the paper any day, and ten to one there’s somebody you know—used to know, rather.”

  Sir George nodded. “Sometimes feel we’d do better tearing out the obituary page before we read it—supposed to be a sign of old age, though I must say I don’t feel a day older than I did then. And reading them brings it all back, one more time. Paying your respects, you could say ...”

  The admiral drained his gin, clinked his glass on the table, and jumped to his feet. “This is a party, and we’re getting down in the dumps. Now, I’ve a treat in store for everyone, once I’ve topped up the glasses—bit of a change from pork pie, but a real naval delicacy: Hammy, Eggy, Cheesy Topsides! And I don’t want you shaking your head about too much fat, Major, today of all days. Many a ship’s company lived on Topsides right through the war, and most of ’em are still with us thirty years on.”

  Major Howett chuckled. “One of my cousins was in the navy, Admiral, and our side of the family—the army side—used to tell him the reason your Cheesy Topside was so popular was that even a man could cook it. Now then, what d’you say to that?”

  The admiral twinkled at her. “Heard that said myself, Major. So you won’t want to pop into the galley to keep an eye on what I’m doing, will you? Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to see to the drinks while I’m gone ...”

  And he made for the kitchen, leaving Major Howett to explain to the other guests that their host was about to toast a slice of bread—removing the crusts, since everyone there was an officer—and butter it before adding a slice of ham and a lightly-poached egg, in that order, with a final layer of mature Cheddar cheese, grated, and popped under the grill until it was oozing.

  “Rich,” concluded Major Howett, busy with the whisky, gin, and ginger beer. “Not that it’ll do any of us any harm, once in a while, but we’ll need somethin’ to wash it down. A drop or two of the hard stuff’s good for fat, the diet chaps say, so don’t you go lookin’ at me like that, Vicar,” as the Reverend Arthur tried to refuse the offered shandy. “I promise I won’t breathe a word to your sister about how much you drink tonight—but you’d better join us and have somethin’, just in case. We wouldn’t want to read your obituary in the papers tomorrow, would we? Best take care of the old ticker ... Just hang on a moment there, Colonel, and I’ll fix you another scotch ...”

  “Another sherry, Miss S.? Or shall we go in to dinner?”

  Mel, despite the tea and—she’d weakened, with the excitement of Miss Seeton’s eventual Drawing—biscuits, was starting to feel hungry. She and Miss Seeton were sitting in a quiet corner of the George’s saloon bar, studying the menus Maureen had dropped off at their table with a mumbled explanation before hurrying away to flutter her eyelashes and parade her best profile in the neighbourhood of a little group of three—two men and a young woman—in the middle of the room. The young woman and the elder of the men seemed to regard the other man as a person of much importance, hanging on his every word,
gazing at him (on the rare occasions when he wasn’t speaking) with great attention. He so clearly expected to be the centre of attention that Mel, who had never met him but knew his reputation, took a mischievous delight in not allowing her gaze to drift, even for an instant, in his direction.

  At Miss Seeton’s smiling nod, Mel gathered up the menus, and rose from her chair. “We’ll take these through with us, to save time,” she said, “if that’s okay with you—I could eat a horse, now I’ve got round to thinking about it, after the journey and everything.” She giggled. Her schooner of sherry had been twice the size of Miss Seeton’s. “Not that I’d want to, really. I know they eat horse-meat on the Continent—poor old Banner, I almost feel sorry for him—but I do hope the George hasn’t gone and done a deal with Dan Eggleden!”

  Miss Seeton smiled again at the jocular reference to Plummergen’s blacksmith, but said nothing: she, too, was starting to feel a trifle peckish. Following Mel’s lead, she unhooked her brolly—her very best gold-handled umbrella, since she was dining out with a friend—from the back of her comfortable chair, and slipped her handbag over her arm before moving out of the bar towards the restaurant.

  Maureen was returning with more drinks to the table of three, her head high as she tried to emulate the gliding walk of film stars and top fashion models such as Marigold Naseby. Mel’s eyes remained resolutely averted from the man she’d recognised as Jeremy Froste, whose ego was a legend among media folk. Miss Seeton, who prided herself on discretion, couldn’t resist a very quick peep at the television people of whom she’d heard Martha chattering ...

  The triple collision was more of a shock than anything else. Neither bones nor, surprisingly, glasses were broken, and only the carpet received a generous libation of Campari soda, gin-and-orange, and advocaat. Nobody’s clothes were splattered, nobody’s shoes were splashed.

  Exclamations and apologies filled the air, turning every head in the room towards the table of Jeremy Froste. He, of course, was in his element, rising graciously to the occasion, loudly assuring Maureen no harm had been done, looking on as Bethan bent to collect the fallen glasses, as Rodney picked Miss Seeton’s brolly from the floor, while he himself patted shoulders in a soothing manner, and smiled on the assembled female company—and continued to smile.

  “No, no, don’t worry about a thing. Accidents will happen—just put it on my bill, and never mind—Bethan, make a note.” He glanced sideways as he spoke, and met the beautiful eyes of Amelita Forby, which watched him with a faintly mocking air. “Now, you must allow me to buy you both a drink,” he said. “I insist. I won’t take no for an answer. Maureen, my dear—it is Maureen, isn’t it?—we’ll have two more chairs at this table, and if our friends would say what they’d like ...?”

  “Thanks,” said Mel, “but there’s no need. As you said, no harm done—we’ll just pick up our bits and bobs and be on our way in to dinner.”

  “If you’re sure I can’t persuade you,” Jeremy said, “we might perhaps have an after-dinner drink together.” Those eyes, in that bone structure, had made a great impression on him; besides, there was something familiar about her, though she didn’t look the type to fall for the haven’t-we-met-before routine. He wanted to find out more.

  “Perhaps,” said Mel, who had no intention of accepting; and no qualms about refusing, without the courtesy of even a silent exchange, on Miss Seeton’s behalf as well. “Thanks,” with a smile of genuine warmth for Rodney, as he appeared at her side and bowed an odd, jerky little bow, before handing her the gold-handled umbrella. “But that’s not mine, it belongs to—uh, to my friend here.”

  Rodney blushed, and bowed again as he corrected his innocent mistake, holding the brolly out with a look of awe on his face. “Can this,” he enquired, in a breathless voice, “be real gold? Surely not!”

  Miss Seeton received her property with gratitude, and beamed in the pride of possession. “Indeed it is. Not solid gold, of course—the weight, you see, not to mention the expense—but yes, it is real, and I am so thankful it was undamaged. Gold, I mean—since it was a present from a gentleman who ...”

  She hesitated. Should she describe Chief Superintendent Delphick as a friend, or as a colleague? He was, of course, after so many years’ acquaintance, both—or so she felt, and believed him to feel the same; but at the time of his first giving her the umbrella they had only just met—and their professional relationship, as one naturally must call it, had not developed until more than a year later ...

  “Well, it wasn’t damaged,” said Mel quickly, before Miss Seeton could betray an identity the reporter had no wish to let the television team discover. For a person who valued her privacy, Miss S. could sometimes be awfully casual about what she said and who she said it to. “Not even the tiniest scratch,” said Mel, taking hold of the handle as if to check it, and giving it a surreptitious tug. “So we’ll be on our way, and leave the three of you to it. Shall we go, uh—before the place gets too crowded?”

  Miss Seeton—who, reassured as to the condition of her umbrella, had started to apologise for the accident she had come to believe must have been her fault—responded at once to her hostess’s hint with a quick blush, and a murmur of penitent farewell. She stepped nimbly around the kneeling form of Maureen, scrubbing with a lamentably unglamorous dishcloth at the carpet, and hurried after Mel as she made for the relative safety of the dining-room.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, as she caught up with her friend in the hall near Reception. “To have delayed you, that is, though he was most charming about it, was he not? And one has to say, I fear, that Maureen, too, was somewhat to blame, since if she had been paying proper attention to where she was going—though that is no doubt unfair, as I must confess to a little curiosity on my own behalf concerning the television gentleman—”

  “Don’t worry about Jeremy Froste,” advised Mel, “and I wouldn’t agonise too much over the spilled drinks, either. It really was just one of those things. Come to that, I was so busy looking the other way on purpose, you could say I was as much to blame as Maureen—poor kid,” she added, with a grin. “If she wanted to impress our friend Froste—well, she’s certainly made an impression—though I don’t think it’s quite what she had in mind.”

  Miss Seeton, still feeling guilty, blushed again, and began to murmur once more of curiosity, and ill manners. She fell silent, however, as they arrived at the door of the dining-room, and head waitress Doris came to show them to their seats; and by the time all the business of ordering was done, she was almost herself again.

  Mel suggested a Beaujolais to accompany the meal, and when Doris returned with the bottle enquired: “That was Jeremy Froste in the bar, wasn’t it? So what’s he doing,” as Doris intimated that it was, “in Plummergen? If he’s poaching on my preserves, I’ll sue him for breach of copyright!” For Mel considered Miss Seeton’s village her personal territory, not to be shared with an outsider—which, after so long, she hardly thought herself to be. Those Plummergen Pieces she wrote for the Daily Negative must have established her claim to this particular beat, if anything could ...

  “Looking for an apple tree,” said Doris, tugging at the cork. “Leastways, so he says—now, shall I pour some to taste, or will you just drink it?—and there’s that Miss Broomfield busy taking notes and measuring all day long—tasty, isn’t it?—and photos, too, popping in and out of folks’ houses to look at their gardens—leave it here, shall I, for you to help yourselves?—and with that Roydon, he’s a journalist, following ’em around asking all them questions for this article he wants to write, we’ve had a rare old time of it these last few days.”

  She regarded Mel with approval. Miss Forby might be a reporter, but she wasn’t such a Nosey Parker as some. “He wouldn’t,” said Doris, “be anyone you know, of course.”

  Mel shook her head. “No—though Thrudd might know him, I suppose. These freelance types,” smugly, “aren’t in quite the same league as the Fleet Street regulars. Your Roydon’s probabl
y a stringer for one of the nationals, based on some local rag writing obituaries and weddings, hoping to break into the big time with a story on Jeremy Froste. Well, the best of luck to him—we’ve all had to come up the hard way. And there’s room,” said Mel, looking as smug as she sounded, “for all sorts on the Street, once you’re there. But none of them scoops Amelita Forby ...”

  chapter

  ~ 25 ~

  THE NEXT MORNING found Mel early awake, poring over one of the menus from dinner which she had smuggled upstairs without being noticed. She knew it would be no use asking Room Service, in the person of Maureen, to bring her breakfast before the restaurant opened; she also knew that she wanted black coffee and something solid inside her before she could consult the police ...

  “But not the Oracle, I think,” Mel murmured, gazing at the menu—or rather, at the blank back of it—or, rather, at the back which had been blank before Miss Seeton doodled on it in pencil, said pencil having been out of Mel’s bag and held across the table as soon as the reporter recognised her guest’s fresh attack of twitching fingers. “Somehow, I don’t believe this one’s for the Yard just yet ...”

  And she decided, with reluctance, that breakfast would have to wait.

  An hour later, she wished it hadn’t.

  “Brinton or nobody,” she insisted, standing before Desk Sergeant Mutford in the police station at Ashford. She’d hoped to creep in through the back as she’d done on a previous occasion, but the sun had been shining then, the doors open. A chilly start to an October day had kept the doors firmly closed, and Mel decided to bow to the inevitable. If she asked nicely, they might give her coffee and a bun to make up for the rigours of the cross-country bus ride ...