Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  Exactly on the hour, the door swung open. From inside the hall, closed against invaders and sabotage since seven that morning, a warm, moist, gardeny, flowery, bakery aroma wafted, heavy on the autumn air.

  Noses twitched, eyes brightened as people pressed closer to the entrance. At the official ticket table, postmaster Mr. Stillman—impartial as only a servant of the Crown can be—sat ready to take the money.

  The explosion was not loud—but it was unexpected. Up from his table leaped Mr. Stillman, scattering change from his float tin. Those who had opened the door looked at each other in horror, then at the startled crowd—and then back, into the hall ...

  “Not honest—didn’t I say so?” cried Mrs. Putts, as news of Murreystone’s latest perfidy filtered through the crowd. The impersonating duck-eggs, deceiving nobody, had been disqualified almost at once. The rumoured record-breaking cucumber had proved—after considerable argument—to be a rare variety of edible gourd, and thus ineligible. In all the excitement of destroying entry cards and striking names from lists, the possibility of machination among the marrows had been overlooked by the Plummergen judges, and instinctively ignored by their Murreystone counterparts. When, swollen beyond their regular growth by a diet of sugar solution, the marrows had begun to ferment in the heat of the airless hall, it was only a matter of time before the worst occurred ...

  The doors of the hall were closed against the crowd as the ensuing debate raged within. Without. PC Potter smacked his truncheon loudly in the palm of his hand, and surveyed the scene with an air of quiet menace which convinced everyone he was in command of the situation, though inside he was wishing he’d thought to ask Superintendent Brinton for any spare men going. Saturday overtime or not, because he wasn’t anywhere near as confident as he’d have liked to be that there wouldn’t be a punch-up before long ...

  “Thought it was Bonfire Night come early,” came the general chorus. “And the smell! Talk about a brewery!”

  “Beer,” remarked Mrs. Skinner, to nobody in particular, “can be powerful stuff, there’s no denying, though there’s surely none been trying to make it in the village hall, it being difficult enough at the best of times—wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Henderson?”

  Mrs. Henderson’s husband had once caused the destruction of their entire ground floor glazing by his insistence that his wife, for reasons of economy, should make good use of the traditional family recipe for Strong and Wholesome Barley Beer. Though the broken windows had been replaced, the cracks in the plaster had never been properly repaired; the cost of the glass alone had almost bankrupted the Henderson household.

  “For my part,” said Mrs. Henderson, with a sniff, “I was more reminded of the war, with doodlebugs falling, and land-mines. Lucky nobody was hurt!” She glared round at guilty Murreystone as it slunk off, sniggering, to a safe distance.

  From Plummergen, a few murmurs of agreement were heard, but they were drowned out by Mrs. Skinner’s nobody-in-particular remark that Some People should take care about Giving Away How Old They Were, letting on just how well they remembered the war.

  “We all,” said Mrs. Flax grimly, “remembers the war, save them as weren’t yet born, o’course.”

  “Thirty years—why, that’s nothing,” said Mrs. Spice, who was of similar vintage to Mrs. Henderson.

  “And when we don’t remember,” chimed in Miss Seeton, who had wartime memories of her own, “we have, of course, television.” Miss Seeton was a keen viewer of old movies, whose black-and-whiteness did not make her regret that she had, as yet, no colour set. She so seldom watched television that the expense seemed unjustified—and as the Colvedens were so very kind when there were art or wildlife programmes she might wish to watch ...

  “There’s war,” muttered someone, “and then there’s dirty tricks—and we all know the difference, or if we don’t it’s a downright disgrace—”

  “And somebody,” somebody said, “ought to teach them as is ignorant just what’s what—”

  “And before much longer, as well!”

  Lady Colveden, catching PC Potter’s anguished eye, felt that noblesse obliged her to intervene—fast. “Talking of the war,” she said, “perhaps, Mr. Froste”—for Jeremy and Bethan, with Rodney as always never far from his idol, were drinking in every choleric syllable—“you might find material in Plummergen for an altogether different series, once you’ve finished Not All Roast Beef. Although my husband and I didn’t come to live here until two or three years after VJ Day, we do know that the Hall was used by the military for something terribly hush-hush—and of course Kent was right in the thick of things with the Battle of Britain, fighters shot down and—and that sort of thing. A Village Remembers—something along those lines, perhaps?”

  Before Jeremy could reply, someone said that their most vivid memory of the war was Woolton Pie, which made all who could recall this curious comestible—chopped seasonal vegetables, oatmeal, and plain white sauce combined beneath a potato topping for the nutritional benefit of beleaguered Britain—chuckle. Someone else mentioned whale steaks; the name of Dr. Edith Summerskill was coupled with snoek, otherwise known as barracuda. People spoke of Spam, of dried eggs (“God bless the Yanks!”), of coupons, and of points.

  “Butter, marge, lard, cheese ...,” chanted Mrs. Skinner, now in a better mood.

  “... eggs, sugar, jam, tea,” continued Mrs. Henderson, for once in harmony with her rival as she completed the ration-book litany familiar to so many for so long. It was not, after all, until 1954 that fourteen years of meat rationing had finally come to an end.

  “Those who have the will to win,” somebody recited, “Eat potatoes in their skin, Knowing that the sight of peelings, Deeply hurts Lord Woolton’s feelings!”

  And everyone—Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Skinner included—laughed together. Jeremy Froste, edging closer to her ladyship, smiled a winning smile.

  “Lady Colveden, you could just have had the idea for my next series. Bethan—make a note. There’s still a lot of interest in the war, though I don’t really remember it myself, of course,” hastily, in case anyone should think the young television Turk so old. “If it could be done—at least one programme, anyway—from the perspective of a typical English village ...”

  Nobody thought to disabuse him of the notion that Plummergen was anything like a typical English village, or its inhabitants anything like typical English villagers. Plummergen saw no reason why it should not star in a documentary feature about the war, and began to preen itself.

  “Service reminiscences too, perhaps,” mused Jeremy, his eye falling on the neat ginger beard of Admiral Leighton, the moustache of Major-General Sir George. Bethan made another dutiful note, and Rodney Roydon nodded approval; but the expressions on the faces of the two old warriors, and a sudden stirring among the listening crowd, warned Mr. Froste that he might have misjudged public sentiment.

  “Of course, it would be the Home Front,” he said quickly, “where most of the interest would be concentrated—your talk of rationing, for instance, has certainly inspired me.” He adopted an Inspired pose. “The difficulty of baking cakes without fat—we could show someone cooking Woolton Pie—make do and mend, for clothes—home-made soap ...”

  He recollected himself with an effort as Rodney Roydon coughed at his side, and Bethan’s pencil slowed in its flight across the page. “Alas,” sighed Jeremy Froste, “I must complete Not All Roast Beef first. If only I could find a Plummergen Peculier ...”

  chapter

  ~ 27 ~

  HE TURNED TO Miss Seeton. “I do beg your pardon, but I was unable to avoid overhearing your earlier remark to Lady Colveden about your apples, and how you aren’t exhibiting any in today’s show. We met,” he reminded her, with a winning smile, “the other evening, you no doubt recall. And as I believe your garden is one of, er, the few we haven’t yet been invited to visit ...”

  Beside him, Bethan already had her notebook open. Miss Seeton puzzled over his remarks for only a moment, then smiled
. “Why, yes—the kind gentleman who picked up my umbrella. Or rather”—her eyes flicked past Jeremy to meet those of Roy Roydon—“your friend—although of course ...” She blushed, wondering if her desire for accuracy had made her sound rude. She hoped not. She smiled again. “So very kind, even if there was no time to introduce ourselves properly. That is ...”

  Lady Colveden stepped promptly into the protocol breach. “Miss Emily Seeton—Jeremy Froste, the television producer, and his colleagues, Miss Broomfield and ...” This was more awkward, since she couldn’t recall the other’s name.

  “My ... associate,” supplied Jeremy, doing his own bit of breach-filling. “Roy Roydon—the reporter, you know. Roy is researching”—a smirk—“an in-depth article about me for the national press.”

  “A newspaper reporter?” Miss Seeton’s eyes brightened at the recognition. It wasn’t that she cared whether Jeremy had a dozen in-depth articles written about him, but ... “I do beg your pardon—but you must have thought me very foolish,” she said to Rodney, who was nodding still at Jeremy’s elbow, saying little. “Not to have known who you were, that is—although admittedly she was in something of a hurry at the time, after the trip from Town—to go in to dinner, which would explain why she forgot—dear Mel, I mean. To explain in her turn, that is.”

  Rodney blinked. Jeremy frowned—though with caution: creases made him look older. Bethan and Lady Colveden tried—successfully—to hide their smiles.

  “Amelita Forby,” went on Miss Seeton, with affectionate pride. “She writes for the Daily Negative, as of course you know—but then you could hardly be expected to know, could you?” She saw Rodney’s mouth fall open, and hastened to enlighten him. Lady Colveden, who could guess what manner of convoluted simplification was coming, hid another smile—of compassion for Miss Seeton’s innocent audience.

  “That it had been arranged, I mean—for you to interview me,” said Miss Seeton, as Rodney continued to stare at her in some consternation. “At home, after your official part, if one may so describe it, in Mr. Froste’s affairs was over—because of course it wasn’t, when one thinks about it—that is,” and she lowered her voice, belatedly mindful of the need for caution, “undercover,” with a meaningful nod, “as I understand the term to be. So very expressive.” Rodney’s eyes had started to glaze over; Jeremy Froste was likewise blank of face; Bethan had turned pale. Oblivious, Miss Seeton babbled on.

  “From the films, of course, although spies are not my favourites, generally speaking. And not exactly official, in this case, since Scotland Yard—or at least,” remembering Mel’s remarks about her chat with Delphick after the press conference, “not yet—but Mr. Brinton, or I suppose I should rather say Superintendent Brinton ...”

  “I believe,” broke in Lady Colveden, taking pity on the bemused trio forced to suffer Miss Seeton’s serpentine explanation, “that they may be about to open the hall at last. You’ll find it interesting, I expect, Mr. Froste. While Miss Seeton”—with a smile of apology to her friend for having interrupted her—“may not have been, um, allowed to exhibit any of her garden produce, there are sure to be plenty of other apples for you to look at.”

  Her guess had been correct: with a creak and a rattle, the door swung open, and everyone shuffled their feet, hoping to be among the first inside.

  “I look forward to it,” said Jeremy, recovering himself more readily than either Bethan or Rodney. “Failing the Peculier, one could always fall back on hops, or cherries—the wrong time of year, I know, for cherries, but ...”

  “And for hops,” said Miss Seeton, with a smile. Jeremy and his companions, who naturally knew about hop-picking and the annual autumnal invasion of the Cockneys, decided now that the old lady must really be as muddled as they had suspected. “If one plans,” she went on, “to eat them, that is, rather than dry them for making beer. They can be cooked—the young shoots, with butter, in the spring. Rather like asparagus, I understand.”

  “And very tasty they are,” agreed Lady Colveden, who had caught the quick exchange of glances among the strangers, and was indignant on her friend’s behalf. “However, you’ll be wanting to hurry off in search of your elusive apple, no doubt, Mr. Froste. Don’t let me keep you. Miss Seeton,” turning away with a cool smile from a startled Jeremy, “you must come with me and be moral support for George and the admiral—the honey, you know. George is so looking forward to next season ...”

  Chattering, curious, excited, the Plummergenites moved into the hall, followed by Murreystone in combative mood. The judges’ decision in the matter of the marrows was not, Murreystone felt, likely to meet with the outsiders’ total approval—but the day was not yet over. There were other surprises up the collective Murreystone sleeve ...

  “Really, it’s too bad!” The decision of the judges was being questioned in other quarters, closer to home. “Eric, it’s simply not fair—after all your hard work, ending up without even a Highly Commended.” Mrs. Blaine waxed loyally indignant on behalf of Miss Nuttel, who kept a stiff upper lip with some success. Only Bunny’s outburst had let anyone know just how disappointed she was that her leeks had won not a single ribbon.

  “And to give the First Prize for preserves,” moaned Mrs. Blaine, “to That Man, of all people!” Those about her who recognised the Nutty nomenclature for Admiral Leighton gathered round to listen. “Too unfair, when nobody else in the area keeps bees. And simply everyone makes jam—though it isn’t sour grapes on my part, Eric”—Mrs. Blaine’s marmalade had been as uncommended as Miss Nuttel’s leeks—“it’s just a strong feeling of community spirit, that’s all, and giving first prize to someone’s honey doesn’t strike me as being—well, it’s simply too unfair. Heaven only knows how he managed it, when he hasn’t been in the village five minutes—oh, Eric!” Frightened eyes were fastened on Miss Nuttel, still stiff-upper-lipping and silent. “Eric! Too dreadful—what did I just say? Heaven only knows—or—or ...?”

  Mrs. Blaine could not force her tongue to frame the fearful words. Miss Nuttel, throwing back her head, braced herself. “Not that long,” she brought out, through faltering lips, “till ... till Halloween, remember.”

  “Oh, Eric!” Blackcurrant eyes glittered with terrified realisation. “Eric, let’s go home—too dreadful even to think about—and I don’t feel well anyway, with all the noise and worry and disappointment.” Her gaze swept the hall, seeing nobody. “And it makes me too uneasy, Eric, being alone and unprotected like this—well, being so far from home.” Two hundred yards loomed in the general consciousness as two thousand miles. Mrs. Blaine wafted a plump hand to her brow. “Eric, I’m sure I’ve got one of my heads coming on ...”

  Mrs. Blaine’s headaches were a Lilikot legend. Miss Nuttel, already troubled more than she cared to admit by the failure of her leeks, felt she could cope with no more just now. “Home, Bunny,” she said, without hesitation. “Cup of chamomile tea, and you’ll soon be better. Won’t bother”—glancing at the clock—“staying for the conkers—”

  “I should think not!” Mrs. Blaine shuddered artistically. “The noise—with my head ...”

  And the Nuts, without a backward look, passed slowly from the village hall through a throng of fascinated observers they still did not allow themselves to see.

  Yet not everyone was fascinated by their passage. Jeremy Froste was engaged in earnest conversation with Rodney Roydon; Bethan Broomfield was making ever more notes in her book; those who had won prizes were exulting over those who had not, while those who had not voiced their displeasure, with some force, and cast numerous aspersions at the probity and likely genealogy of the judges, from either village. PC Potter stood, ever-vigilant, on the stage, clearly visible to one and all, his buttons bright with admonition, his truncheon a reminder that good behaviour was required.

  The first thrilling moments over, the hubbub in the hall subsided as people began totting up whether Plummergen or Murreystone had the higher score of stickers, ribbons, and rosettes. The coveted cups waited, gle
aming softly silver, on the green baize-covered table beside the watchful Potter. In such a crowd, it was not easy even to estimate which side might be ahead. Larger persons always seemed to block the view of shorter individuals, particularly if those individuals chanced to hail from the opposing village. There was a strong suspicion that Plummergen was in the lead, but this triumph—if, indeed, triumph it was—could yet become dust and ashes ...

  The general prize-giving would not take place until after the Grand Conker Contest, climax of the afternoon’s activities. Watches began to be checked against the hall clock, and mutterings were heard as it was thought About Time to be Getting On with the Show, and Why Was Nobody Doing Anything?

  It fell to Sir George, in conference with the leader of the Murreystone team, to announce that play would begin once a suitable space had been cleared below the stage. The Show Committee had deliberately left this part of the hall free of tables, so if everyone would kindly move to one side ...

  A coin was produced, examined for two heads, and agreed—reluctantly—as the genuine article. Jack Crabbe was the first Plummergenite into the ring, followed by his opponent, a weasel-faced little man with a leathery skin and sharp, darting eyes. There were sniggers from the Plummergen spectators as they saw that the conker dangling from the string in his hand was a cheeser, one of the awkward, wedge-shaped nuts produced when two or more horse chestnuts developed inside the same prickly husk.

  The coin was tossed: the Murreystone weasel, as the visitor, called—and lost. Jack Crabbe grunted, and took up his position.

  “Ibbley obbley onker, my first conker,” he said, using the ritual challenge. “Ibbley obbley oh, my first go!”

  The Weasel duly held up his conker, dangling from its string a foot below his hand. Jack, concentration in every inch of his body, swung his own conker around and down with a whistling motion to strike—to miss!—the other.