Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  Plummergen sighed, but said nothing: a would-be conqueror was allowed three attempts before the turn of his opponent came. Jack swung again, and this time his aim was true. The Weasel’s cheeser was struck and sent spinning, swinging on its string—but it was unbroken, without even a chip out of its shiny brown skin.

  “Third strike, and last,” said Sir George, as Jack shook his head over a small dent, a sliver of creamy white showing through. Frowning, the Plummergen opener prepared for his third attempt.

  “Strings!” Both men cried out at almost the same time, as Jack missed his mark and his conker, speeding through the air, tangled with the Weasel’s string in a spinning spiral. There was a roar of disapproval from Plummergen as the Murreystone umpire tried to suggest that the Weasel had called first: Sir George was firm that Jack’s voice had—just—been heard before the other. Bowing to the majority opinion, Murreystone told the Weasel to play on ...

  Jack’s free blow scored another direct hit, but still did not shatter the cheeser. With a nod to his opponent, the Plummergen player held up his conker and waited for the Weasel’s attack.

  Strike one: another dent in Jack’s conker. Strike two: the previous split widened, though examination of the Weasel’s cheeser showed a split of equal size on the rounded side. Strike three: a portion of Jack’s nut broke off and fell to the ground.

  First blood to Murreystone. A muted roar of triumph, an exchange of knowing looks. Jack Crabbe’s turn to strike ...

  It was more than five minutes before the Weasel struck the winning blow. The sharp, wedged end of his cheeser made a lucky connection with a weakened hollow in Jack’s conker, which had already lost several chunks of various sizes. Now it shattered into so many pieces that the string could no longer hold it, and what was left of it fell to the floor.

  There was a yell of triumph. “Cracketts! Cracketts! First round to Murreystone!”

  “A oncer!” cried the Weasel, holding up his battered nut with a grin as he made the traditional boast, then retired to join his friends so that the second bout could begin.

  Each village fielded a team of eight. By a complicated process of scoring, of challenges issued by winning conkers to winners from other rounds, a clear victor would eventually emerge; and this victory was no mean achievement. Cheating and chicanery were attempted by both sides at every turn, and the umpires had a difficult task. They must do far more than keep score. A sneakily mis-aimed blow could land on an opponent’s hand rather than on his conker, and force him to withdraw from the contest. Umpirical eyes must stay alert for substitution: a handkerchief produced from a careless pocket to wipe a heated brow, a new lease of life in an otherwise dilapidated weapon ...

  There were age-old ways of improving conkers long before the battle began in earnest. Certain horse chestnut trees were regularly fed throughout the year with the slops from beer-barrels, and from failed attempts at homemade wine. Frost and high winds in spring were dreaded, lest the flowery spires should fail; summer rain was welcomed as swelling the immature seed. Once fallen from their spiny husks, the conkers were eagerly appropriated for treatment. Some swore that repeated passage through the digestive tract of a pig—purists considered Gloucester Old Spots the preferred breed—hardened a nut to perfection. Others claimed that overnight baking in a low oven, coupled with prolonged soaking in pickling vinegar, would guarantee a champion ...

  It had been their children’s playground success with Miss Seeton’s version of Miss Wicks’s formula which encouraged the men of Plummergen to perform their own experiments. Their wives might denounce it as a witch’s brew; their husbands maintained that Murreystone was the devil’s own place, and it took fire to fight fire. Mr. Stillman’s stock of salt prunella, saltpetre, and bay salt was quickly exhausted, and those demanding the white vinegar their reluctant wives remembered Miss Seeton as having bought were informed that it must be malt, or nothing, for at least another week. Even for the sake of village pride, Mr. Stillman was unable to collect his order from the warehouse earlier than that—and telephoning it through for immediate delivery wouldn’t work, because they didn’t. Deliver, he meant. And they wouldn’t accept an order from anyone unauthorised, so it was no use nagging him, he’d done his best ...

  And Plummergen sentiment had come to believe that indeed he had. The fearful smells in kitchens and sheds the length of The Street had faded; the butcher had received his fresh consignment of metal skewers; the draper’s and the post office were well-supplied with string. Plummergen was convinced it was on the road to success ...

  So why, now, was success proving so elusive?

  chapter

  ~ 28 ~

  IT WAS WHEN the gloating cry of “A niner!” went up that Plummergen began to suspect Murreystone of more than usually dastardly doings. Niners, naturally, were not unknown during the conker season; they were not unknown during a match such as today’s; but for one to appear so soon ...

  The contest continued, bout by bout. Conkers shattered to cracketts, and a forfeit was added as each new nut was brought into the fray. Murreystone edged slowly ahead, each chalked-up win another blow for disillusioned Plummergen. Murreystone chuckled, and sneered at its rivals with as much emphasis as the umpires would permit.

  It was Nigel Colveden, when his turn came to risk making the Murreystone niner a tenner, who solved the mystery. Nigel, Plummergen cricket team’s best bat, was blessed with an excellent eye for all games. While working farmers had little time for sport, young Mr. Colveden—like most males—could not resist the lure of smooth, shining, richly brown conkers, the excuse to revert to childhood in challenging the foe to single, dramatic combat. With the eyes of Bethan Broomfield, among others, upon him, he had swung and struck at his opponent’s nuts in skilful fashion, and had rejoiced to win his bouts after comparatively few strikes.

  Now his conker’s latest innings brought him face to face with the hitherto victorious niner, still as smooth, shining, and richly brown as it had ever been. The Murreystone man, a noted poacher—PC Potter, among others, had been after him for years, with absolutely no success—suppressed a smirk as Nigel prepared to receive the first strike.

  “Ibbley obbley onker, my first conker. Ibbley obbley oh, my first go.” The poacher gabbled the challenge, and swung before Nigel could even blink, chipping a small piece out of the already-battered Plummergen nut and almost dashing the string from young Mr. Colveden’s hands.

  Nigel winced, but said nothing, waiting for strike the second. The poacher leered, and swung again. Again Nigel’s conker was chipped—a larger piece this time. Nigel stared in some dismay, comparing the damage suffered by his nut to that of the Murreystone niner: which was none.

  None at all. Nigel frowned ...

  “Third strike to come,” warned the umpire, as Nigel continued to frown. He jerked out of his trance, nodded, and stood ready, arm outstretched, conker dangling.

  The poacher, grinning, struck again.

  “Strings!” cried Nigel, as the conkers embraced.

  “Foul!” cried the poacher, at exactly the same time. “He moved!”

  “A cheat! A cheat!” The cry went up from Murreystone as Sir George, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes, gazed at his son in stupefaction. Lady Colveden held her breath; Miss Seeton clicked her tongue. Bethan Broomfield was so excited that she forgot to make any notes.

  Nigel’s grip fastened on his string, and he yanked at it suddenly before the poacher could disentangle his own. With a yelp of surprise, the poacher watched his conker flash out of his hand and into Nigel’s ...

  “A cheat,” said Nigel grimly, holding up the Murreystone conker beside his own. “A cheat—I cry foul!” He had to raise his voice above the growing hubbub; he had to take a mighty backward leap as the poacher sprang towards him, bent on wresting his conker from his opponent’s grasp.

  “A foul!” came Nigel’s breathless cry from the safety of the stage, beside PC Potter. “A foul—this isn’t a conker! This is—this is a sto
ne!”

  Uproar, as his words reached Plummergen ears and Murreystone attempted to deny the truth of the charge. Umpire Sir George, as grim now as his son, marched up the steps to take the disputed niner from Nigel’s hand. PC Potter, with truncheon raised, stood ready to repel any attempt at rescue and disposal of the evidence ...

  The evidence (announced the magistrate, after a few moments’ scrutiny) was undeniable. One member—at least one, he amended in ominous tones—of the Murreystone team had brought the noble sport of conkers into disrepute by deliberately disguising a stone of suitable size—cutting, honing, painting, and polishing—as an ordinary nut, and daring to enter it as such. Disqualification (went on Sir George) was the very least penalty that could be imposed ...

  The ensuing fisticuffs were (everyone afterwards agreed) far less vehement than on many previous occasions of discord and dispute between the two villages. It was not thought necessary to summon Dr. Knight and his colleagues from the nearby nursing home; nobody (not even the Murreystone poacher) was arrested by PC Potter, though there were several near misses; nothing of great value was smashed within the hall, and no real damage was done outside it. Jack Crabbe, Nigel, and the rest of the team acquitted themselves well: the power of a righteous wrath meant that they hardly needed their friends to assist them in the justifiable trouncing of the opposition. Such assistance, however, was more than freely offered, to the accompaniment of cheers from many of the female onlookers, who hurled into the fray not themselves, but assorted missiles in the form of various fruits, flowers, and vegetables from the display tables ranged about the hall.

  Not everyone was so bloodthirsty, though even Lady Colveden, beating a prudent retreat with Miss Seeton, had to admit that it did serve Murreystone right. To substitute a stone for a conker was, well, was ...

  “Hardly cricket,” supplied Miss Seeton, who had not forgotten similar skullduggery on the occasion of the recent match. A fleeing figure hurtled past, pursued by a vengeful blur. Miss Seeton ignored both as she and her ladyship continued on their way out of the hall. “One understands, naturally, that there are what may be called legitimate means of ensuring victory—dear Miss Wicks, the children were so pleased—but in this particular instance, though of course one must deplore the strength”—as an agonised yell indicated further damage inflicted on the foe—“of the—the protest, or perhaps one should say of the response”—as a potato flew past—“it must be said that there was, unfortunately, a considerable degree of provocation.”

  A bunch of grapes splattered on the floor at Miss Seeton’s feet, splashing stickily. Calmly, she unhooked her umbrella from her arm and opened it, inviting Lady Colveden to share its shelter. A vase of chrysanthemums shattered on the wall above their heads, spraying water in every direction. Flowers fell on the black silk of the brolly; Miss Seeton, with a practised twirl, shook them off, with the accompanying drops of water, and made her way through the door at a speedy, yet still dignified, pace.

  Outside, it seemed that the weather was about to become as stormy as the atmosphere inside the hall. Thick, grey clouds loomed low overhead, and a stiff breeze had arisen. Those who had escaped the battle within huddled together under the porch, debating what to do next.

  “Would it, I wonder,” ventured Miss Seeton, “be thought an impertinence if one were to telephone the police? Since Mr. Potter is already present, that is, and might be annoyed if the impression should be given that one thought him incapable of controlling ... of preventing ...”

  “I don’t honestly think,” said Lady Colveden, “anyone could do much, um, preventing until things have calmed down a little.” Her sudden giggle was as suddenly suppressed. “Goodness, that sounds positively slanderous about poor Mr. Potter, because he’s certainly more than capable—but you know what I mean, I’m sure. Quite apart from the fact it’s bound to be all over by the time anyone could reach us from Ashford or wherever, if they’re allowed to let most of the steam out of their systems now, it will stop it bottling up inside them and, well, boiling out later when—and where nobody’s expecting it, which could be a great deal worse—though I imagine George will want to keep the Village Watch on patrol for a few nights more, to be on the safe side. As for now—well, it’s not as if”—another giggle—“they aren’t used to this sort of thing, is it?”

  “A safety valve,” said Miss Seeton, with a sigh, and a regretful nod. “It is, however, hardly the sort of example one would really wish one’s pupils to be set—seeing their elders incapable of controlling their emotions, and indulging in such very ... undignified behaviour—”

  She broke off with a blush. Was not Lady Colveden’s son foremost among the Plummergen warriors? Did not her husband appear to be overseeing the battle from the stage, with the admiral—who had hurried to join his friend—and PC Potter at his side? She had intended no disrespect by her remark—Lady Colveden must not think—

  “I’m not thinking,” said Lady Colveden, “anything of the sort, and even if I were, I know exactly what you mean. So please don’t worry about it, Miss Seeton.”

  “Miss Seeton?” It was Jeremy Froste, one of the few males—his perpetual shadow Rodney Roydon was another—to be outside the hall rather than in. Doubtless it had been concern for the safety of Bethan, wide-eyed and breathless, which brought the pair hurrying through the door to the open air, free from flying fists, fruit, vegetables, and vases. “Miss Seeton? I imagine you must be a very disappointed lady right now.”

  “Disappointed?” Miss Seeton blinked. “I hardly see ... That is, certainly, one cannot condone such behaviour—but, as I was saying just now, one can, to some extent, sympathise—and, as her ladyship has remarked, it is perhaps better for them to have a—an immediate release for their feelings rather than to bottle them up for release at a ... an even less appropriate time. It is hardly,” with a faint smile, “as if this is the first occasion on which there has been a disagreement of so—so forceful a nature. Three hundred years,” Miss Seeton pointed out, “is a not inconsiderable period over which feelings of rivalry may develop, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The producer of historical docudramas brightened. “You mean they’ve been slugging it out around here for three centuries? Over conkers? Bethan—make a note!”

  He had no real need to issue the instruction: his assistant was already delving into her handbag. Miss Seeton, after a quick look at Lady Colveden, hid a smile and murmured of the Civil War, adding the rider that she believed the very first intimation that the two villages did not see eye-to-eye on politics—a topic about which a great many people found it hard to remain ... well, entirely rational—had occurred during the Wars of the Roses ...

  “The Red Rose and the White,” said Jeremy Froste, dreaming up titles. Rodney and Bethan gazed at him with awe. Miss Seeton and Lady Colveden gazed at him with polite interest. “York and Lancaster—five hundred years of strife from then till now—oh, we could do a wonderful programme!” as the crashes and yells from inside the hall found an echo in a roll of distant thunder. “Talk about living history—these people do! They are!”

  So Descartean—and so very audible—a conclusion to his raptures made some of Jeremy’s more distant audience stare. Others, not necessarily out of sight, shook their heads or tapped knowing fingers against their temples. For one reason or another, various Plummergen factions had been unable to allow themselves to fall beneath the producer’s spell. They freely admitted they’d never quite known why: well, now they did. The man was obviously mad. And the fact that Miss Seeton, of all people, was happily talking to him—Lady Colveden’s presence was excused on the grounds of sharing Miss Seeton’s umbrella, with it looking like rain coming on—only made it worse ...

  “We’ll need,” said Jeremy, “a theme—a symbol ...” He raised his eyes to the cloudy heavens, then clicked his fingers as inspiration struck. “Bethan, make a note—the conkers! The chivalric tradition—jousting and conquest and single combat—games of skill replace hand-to-hand fighting ... W
ould they set up a replay of the match if we asked, do you think? Miss Seeton—your secret formula.” Miss Seeton blinked at him. Before she could explain that it had been Miss Wicks who supplied the recipe, and that to call it secret, since she’d gladly shared it with an entire class of children, was perhaps something of an exaggeration, he hurried on:

  “Would you let us film you mixing the stuff, or whatever you do with it? Age-old recipe, passed down through the generations—traditional costume—now, how about that for an in-depth interview!” Miss Seeton looked considerably startled. Jeremy waved a hand, dismissing what he believed her fears to be. “We’d pay for the ingredients, of course—like I said, you must be really disappointed not to have had the chance to see your side win with your help, but if we can persuade them—and I can’t see why they wouldn’t want to do it all again—”

  There was a sudden outcry from within, which should have suggested to the meanest intelligence that whatever experience currently being undergone by the outcriers was not one they would willingly—even for the sake of a television programme—undergo again. Jeremy Froste ignored it, looking eagerly at Miss Seeton, who blinked again, and sighed.

  “As to the matter of interviews, I had rather thought—a newspaper reporter, not television ...” A pucker appeared between her brows. “When it is a police matter, of course, one should hardly hesitate, but—”

  A louder, closer outcry, and an eruption of high-speed Murreystone, pursued by triumphant Plummergen and a selection of airborne foodstuffs. Lady Colveden, Bethan, and Rodney Roydon uttered little cries of alarm, and stepped back; Miss Seeton, her brow still puckered, stepped nimbly to one side as Jeremy jumped to the other, disappearing from his view behind a phalanx of excited bodies—and, as the phalanx moved speedily onward, behind older, slower bodies only slightly less excited.

  “George!” Lady Colveden caught her husband’s sleeve as he and the admiral, surveying the rout, seemed on the point of following it. “I won’t ask what on earth’s been going on, because I know very well, but is Nigel all right? Where is he? I didn’t see him come out, although there was such a crowd I might have missed him ...”