But by the time Sir George had allayed his wife’s understandable apprehensions, it was Miss Seeton who was missing.
chapter
~ 29 ~
THEY HAD NOT heard her murmured farewells above the growing confusion of explanation and coagulation—the explanation coming from Sir George, staunchly seconded by Admiral Leighton, and the coagulation being that of the crowd, as the rain began at last to fall. Everyone within range at once hastened back to huddle in the shelter of the hall doorway, and Lady Colveden, standing on the top step, saw over the tops of the approaching heads the familiar sight of a black, bobbing circle opening above a small female form trotting off southwards down The Street.
“There! When I’d promised poor Miss Seeton a lift home. It really is too bad of you, George, now it’s raining—and of you, Nigel,” as the Colveden son and heir came to join his parents. “Nigel!”
Nigel essayed a careless shrug and brushed raindrops from his thick, wavy brown hair. “A black eye—I’ve had worse, at rugger. And you should see the other chap.” He spoke to his mother, but his words were for Bethan, hovering nearby. “Serves the blighters right—stones, indeed!”
Jeremy Froste, who seldom missed much, insinuated himself, with a smile, into the conversation, followed—as ever—by his faithful attendants. “Ah, yes—Mr. Colveden, you were the one who spotted the substitution, weren’t you? I should think that against stones, even Miss Seeton’s magic potions would have little effect.”
He was so intent—as he often was—on the sound of his own voice that he failed to notice the reaction wrought by his words among openly eavesdropping Plummergen. Miss Seeton? Magic potions? Hadn’t they said the man was up to no good—and didn’t this just prove it? And those who had gone so far as to welcome Jeremy Froste, Bethan and—either with the others, or in their wake—Rodney Roydon into their homes, began to wish, very much, that they hadn’t.
“I don’t suppose,” said Jeremy, with a winning smile, “you happen to know what the stuff’s made of? Bethan, you might take a note of what Nigel—if I may?—says,” as Mr. Colveden, conscious that Murreystone ears might just be lurking in unnoticed corners, hesitated.
Village loyalty prevailed. Nigel smiled apologetically. “Oh, all sorts,” he said, trying to look as if such farming aids as chemical sprays and artificial fertilisers were utterly beyond him. “A pinch of this, a dollop of that—you know how these old recipes are handed down. Sorry not to be more helpful—but I heard someone say something about pickling spices, if that’s any use. You’ll have to ask Miss Seeton herself ...”
And Nigel wished him joy of the enquiry.
Miss Seeton had been only too relieved, while listening to the proposals of Jeremy Froste, to recall her promise to Miss Wicks that she would drop in for tea, to report on the success (or otherwise) of the conker mixture against the Murreystone nuts. When dear Mel—and how strange that she had not been present at this afternoon’s ... Miss Seeton, groping for a suitable word, found herself suppressing a chuckle ... this afternoon’s event—which, though shocking in some ways, was sufficiently unusual, one would have supposed, to attract the interest of one who wrote a—a syndicated column about village doings, which was very popular, so one gathered, and which had contributed greatly to Mel’s success ... when Mel had explained that it would be most helpful to the police if one were to permit a reporter to conduct an interview at home, in one’s sitting-room, among all dear Cousin Flora’s pretty ornaments (and certainly there had been no talk whatsoever of the kitchen, which is where the mixture would naturally have to be mixed—or, far worse, of costume: it sounded uneasily as if one had been roped, after all, against one’s will into taking an active part in the proposed Christmas pantomime, instead of designing scenery and prompting, as one would prefer) ... when dear Mel had, as it were, set the scene, one had understood—not that one would dream of suggesting that Mel had deliberately misled, but ... though perhaps, in the undoubted confusion, she had not so much misremembered Mel as misunderstood Mr. Froste—whose evident enthusiasm ...
“Oh!” Outside Ararat Cottage, Miss Seeton jumped, completely losing her train of thought as something small, brown, and squeaking shot from the admiral’s hedge near her feet, hotly pursued by a huge, spitting streak of furious feline fur. “Oh, dear—no ...”
It was widely known that remonstrance was seldom of any avail with little Amelia Potter’s notorious tabby cat. Cat? The superstitious held that Tibs metamorphosed, at the full moon, into—a werewolf being too much even for Plummergen to credit—the tigress rumoured to play so large a part in her genetic makeup. At such times, insisted Plummergen, the tiger-cat from the police house would scorn the more usual mice, voles, or rabbits in favour of dogs, sheep, and even badgers ...
“Stop it!” Miss Seeton, far too sensible for superstition, brandished her umbrella in the direction of imminent bloodshed. “Shoo!”
While Tibs had so far managed to ignore the current downpour in the excitement of the chase, it was less easy to ignore the huge, heavy drops being deliberately shaken on an already sodden coat. She glared round, growling, as the brolly loomed closer, and Miss Seeton’s shrill command came again.
“Shoo! Leave that poor mouse alone this minute!”
Such was the power of a voice trained over many years in pedagogic projection that Tibs, although protesting, with a hiss and a final growl allowed herself to be shooed, whiskers dripping, away. The mouse, its tiny frame quivering, ventured to open its eyes; saw that its tormentor was gone; and bolted, with a flurry of its tail, back to the shelter of the admiral’s hedge.
Miss Seeton sighed with relief as she watched it scurry to safety before herself trotting once more on her way. The poor little thing. It was, of course, a household pest; but one could not help feeling sorry—especially in the rain—for any small creature being chased by one so much larger. She sighed again and paused to contemplate a puddle, on the surface of which a pleasing pattern of interlocking raindrop ripples was repeatedly being formed. One might almost feel sorry, indeed, for oneself, if such a sentiment did not seem a little ... self-indulgent; exaggerated. To see oneself as the prey, as it were, of what in so many respects one could not help but regard as vulgar interest ... And yet it was undeniably the duty of a gentlewoman—especially one who had what must be termed a professional relationship with the police—to assist them as far as possible ...
An interview. In one’s home. With photographs of one’s possessions. To be on show, in the public eye—which was so very far removed from one’s normal sphere ... Another sigh, so gusty that ripples became waves. One would, of course, do one’s duty. A hostess, no matter how reluctant, had her obligations. The best china: tea and biscuits; maybe—the ultimate sacrifice—some of Martha’s fruit-cake ...
“Tea!” exclaimed Miss Seeton. “Cake! Oh, dear—Miss Wicks ...” And she promptly left the puddle to its own devices, holding her umbrella firmly as, having checked carefully in both directions for traffic, she crossed The Street and headed for the post office.
She did not do so unobserved. “Bunny!” Miss Nuttel raised the alarm. “Bunny—quick! That Woman ...”
She needed to say no more. Mrs. Blaine, lying down with her headache, was off the sofa, up the stairs, and along the landing as fast as plump legs would carry her. “What is it, Eric? What’s she done now? Oh, tell me the worst—don’t keep me in suspense!”
“Staring,” said Miss Nuttel, who for the life of her couldn’t conceive why Miss Seeton—why anyone—should wish to stand in the pouring rain, umbrella or no umbrella, and gaze for so long at the ground without moving. It wasn’t anything she, for one, would ever do—which opinion she offered to Mrs. Blaine, who agreed that Eric was too right, nobody but Miss Seeton would ever dream of it.
“Waved her umbrella first,” said Miss Nuttel. “Then stood and stared. Went galloping over to Mr. Stillman’s in the end,” she concluded grimly. “Must have realised I’d spotted her. But ...” Neither Nut care
d to confess to ignorance, even to the other. “Bunny,” Miss Nuttel said, coaxing, encouraging, “you don’t suppose ...?”
It was encouragement enough, and to spare. Theorising on the flimsiest of evidence was a Nutty speciality. “Yes, Eric, I do,” replied Mrs. Blaine, her headache forgotten. “Especially this near to Halloween. Remember, when we caught her buying that besom, and those terrible powders—too dreadful that Mr. Stillman would even think of stocking such things—but perhaps it all depends on how you mix them together, and normal people,” with a delighted shudder, “will be perfectly safe, because they wouldn’t know how. I mean—I’m sure I don’t know ... and neither do you.”
“No,” agreed Miss Nuttel, a little miffed Bunny hadn’t used a more definite tone to express her vote of confidence. Mrs. Blaine went on hastily:
“If it weren’t raining so hard—you know I was sneezing this morning, and it’s too risky, if I catch a cold, and it goes to my chest—though perhaps, Eric,” as Miss Nuttel was moved to expostulate, “I could stretch a point, at a time like this. Right outside our house, you said? Too sinister—she must,” moaned Mrs. Blaine, “have been casting spells.” And Miss Nuttel heaved a sigh of relief that the mystery had been solved without her having confessed to anything. She ventured, indeed, to enlarge on the solution.
“Not quite outside,” she said, in ominous tones; and her head jerked grimly sideways in the direction of Ararat Cottage. “Not outside here, I mean ...”
“Oh, Eric!” Mrs. Blaine licked pale lips. “Those flags he was flying ...”
“Signals,” said Miss Nuttel.
Mrs. Blaine went white. “Oh, Eric—right next door to us! What shall we do?”
“Go shopping,” said Miss Nuttel bravely. Mrs. Blaine, her eyes bright, after a moment’s pause decided to follow her leader.
“You’re right, of course, Eric. That Woman’s probably in there this minute—”
“She is,” interposed Miss Nuttel.
“—buying more gunpowder,” groaned Mrs. Blaine, “and—and,” as even her imagination failed, “and just let me put my mackintosh on, and my gumboots ...”
By the time that Mrs. Blaine had wrapped her scarf twice around her neck, had found her low-brimmed rubber hat, and had in every way rendered herself proof against the weather, Miss Nuttel could have been three times across the road and back. She said so, with some force. She added that she had a very good mind to go without Bunny, and let her come after—except that she knew Bunny would never dare go into Mr. Stillman’s shop unprotected—
“Protection! Herbs!” babbled Mrs. Blaine, scurrying off to the kitchen and returning with a handful of dried wither, as recommended in Ghosts and Go-Betweens as a safeguard against Evil Powers. “Eric—in your pocket, do!” And Miss Nuttel promptly did.
Thus rendered invulnerable, the Nuts finally made it out of their front door and down the path. Miss Nuttel pointed out that it was no longer raining. Mrs. Blaine complained of feeling stifled in this rig—of her headache returning ...
And then they saw Miss Seeton, her furled umbrella over her arm, on the point of closing the post office door, pausing to hold it politely open for the benefit of another customer. The two exchanged words. The Nuts could not hear what was said, but Rodney Roydon—for it was he—was seen to nod, and to stare thoughtfully after Miss Seeton as she left him before, with a curious expression on his face, he hurried into the post office, leaving the door ajar.
It was a matter of seconds before the Nuts were crowding through that same door, their ears flapping. They might now be too late to find out what Miss Seeton had been buying—though it is doubtful whether even they would have regarded the purchase of a packet of Earl Grey tea and a madeira cake, which Miss Seeton had promised Miss Wicks she would bring, as being of earth-shattering importance—but it was obvious she had passed instructions to her henchman, which would surely be proof enough. Everyone knew that the Roydon man, following him everywhere, did exactly what Jeremy Froste told him. Those television people were as bad as reporters, always looking to make a story out of something. The chance to film a genuine witches’ sabbath on Halloween was one no producer would want to miss, but for the sake of his career, of his image, he couldn’t do the dirty work himself ...
“Calcium carbide?” Mr. Stillman was saying, as Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine hurried to place themselves well within earshot, but out of sight. “Yes, we’ve a tidy amount of that, with everyone clearing their own moles now, instead of getting it done official.”
This reference to the village’s disgraced mole catcher, Jacob Chickney, seemed to be lost on Rodney, though the Nuts understood it well. Poison ...
“A—a large tin, please,” said Rodney. “And—and a small tin of—of black treacle—”
Muted sensation among those out of sight.
“—and some matches ... and a box of wax candles.”
Which sebaceous conclusion of the Roydon shopping list resulted in a further sensation that was far from muted—very far indeed.
Because Mrs. Blaine, with a squeal of horror, fainted.
The midnight sky was clear above the whole of southern England, and there was a crispness in the air which was echoed in the faint crystal powdering of frost, first of the season, faintly glittering beneath the gibbous moon.
In a sleepy Home Counties town, a police patrol car sat stationary under a streetlamp, its engine mute, its lights off. Only the agitated glimmer of a small torch, waving in front of the dashboard, proved that the panda was occupied.
“You need a screwdriver to fix that,” said Police Constable 1234 Hatfield. It was the seventh time he had made precisely the same point.
“If you tell me that again,” said Police Constable 9876 Heath, “I’ll knock your ruddy block off! If you know so much about it, how come you can’t fix it?”
“I didn’t break it.”
This was undeniable. It was also unhelpful. “Could’ve happened to anyone,” said Heath, hopefully, as he probed yet again with his ballpoint pen in the depths of the broken radio. The vinegar-soaked chip remained stubbornly where it had landed, a silent witness of the constable’s unexpected sneeze in the middle of an illicit snack.
“That the argument you’re going to try out back at the station?” Hatfield chuckled maliciously. “Better practise a bit before you do—you wouldn’t sell a fridge to an eskimo sounding like that.”
“Talking of eskimos”—Heath suddenly straightened, and switched off his torch in despair—“it’s getting chilly.” He shivered artistically. “What say we give this up as a bad job, and get back on patrol? We could at least have the heater on, with the engine running. It’s only another”—he held his wrist to the streetlamp’s glow—“ten minutes or so till we clock off. It’s not as if things have been all that lively tonight, is it?”
“Apart from you busting the radio, you mean.”
“Apart from me busting the radio,” agreed Heath, groping again for the torch, and wondering whether a brief outburst of assault and battery could be thought justified, in the circumstances. He sighed, and decided it couldn’t. He put the torch down with a clatter. “Come on—let’s get going,” he begged. “Another ten minutes, and we can roll this lot up for the night and go home. I mean, what’s going to happen round here, in the middle of the night?”
In the midnight sky above Plummergen, the gibbous moon shone down on the sleeping fields, the lampless street, the darkened houses. No wind stirred the frost-bright air, the silent, bare-branched trees; the only signs of movement were the occasional swooping owl, its prey the scuttering mouse, the frightened vole. In their frantic flight, they ran through fallen leaves, their passage marked by dry whispers echoing, echoing through the otherwise peaceful night ...
Until that peace was disturbed by the padding of furtive feet. A shadowy form—human, muffled against the chance of recognition—came creeping between the moonlit dark towards the cottage at the southern end of The Street—the cottage on that corner wher
e The Street narrowed to cross the canal bridge—where it turned right into Marsh Road.
The cottage where Miss Seeton lived.
Sweetbriars ...
The muffled figure, its pockets suspiciously a-bulge, set its hand on Miss Seeton’s front gate—hesitated—and lifted the latch. There came a click, clear on the frosty air. The figure held its breath ...
In her bedroom, Miss Seeton’s breath came regular and soft. She did not stir.
In her front garden, the figure began a steady progress up the path, flinching as a moth flickered before its—his? hers? impossible, through the muffling, to tell—face. The moth, made far larger by fear and the illusive silver light, flew on.
An owl hooted overhead; a fox, in a distant field, barked. A rabbit squealed.
The figure, frozen with fright, forced itself to creep onwards, round the corner of the house.
Miss Seeton still slept, in her comfortable bed ...
And she did not even stir when the peace of the moonlit night was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass ...
chapter
~ 30 ~
THE SOUND OF breaking glass had come to their ears just as Hatfield had been about to start the car. His hand froze on the ignition key—but only for an instant. He turned the key, gunned the engine, switched on the lights, and was off.
“Over that way,” said Heath, pointing. “That way!”
“Hard to tell, this time of night. Things ... echo.”
“Echo be damned—I’m sure it was back there. For goodness’ sake, turn round!”
Hatfield drove on in a grim silence. Heath wrestled in vain with the radio, hoping against hope it would work.
It wouldn’t. He cursed. He looked up as the forward movement of the panda suddenly changed.
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 24
