Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

  A Miss Seeton Mystery

  Hamilton Crane

  Series creator Heron Carvic

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Note from the Publisher

  Preview

  Also Available

  About the Miss Seeton series

  About Heron Carvic and Hamilton Crane

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “WELCOME BACK, Miss Seeton!” Lady Colveden, emerging from the post office, sounded pleased and slightly relieved at the same time. Several weeks had passed since her ladyship’s son and his bride had been handkerchief-fluttered on their honeymoon way by family and friends. Many guests had gone straight home after the wedding; Miss Seeton was one of those who had elected to make further visits in the north before returning to Kent. “Were the Highlands as spectacular as ever? And did you enjoy the Lake District? But of course you did, or you’d have come home sooner. I hope your friend—Miss Walkham, isn’t it?—was well when you left.”

  Miss Seeton beamed. “Dear Anne, such a treat to see her again and spend a few days catching up, rather than relying on letters, and in so lovely a part of the country. And famous of course for Swallows and Amazons, which I had never read as a child—I was at art school when it first appeared—but so many people spoke of it in glowing terms that in the end I had to read it to find out why, especially as the second edition was illustrated by the author himself—and it was excellent.”

  Lady Colveden smiled. “Yes, the books were excellent, though I always found his technique for drawing people a touch bizarre. Julia didn’t much care for the way you seldom saw more than the backs of their heads, and when Nigel was very young he used to talk of the children not having proper faces, and wondering if that was because they lived in the olden days, and he was glad he didn’t.”

  “Dear Nigel.” Again Miss Seeton beamed. “He and Louise looked so very happy. Have you heard from them? Are they well?”

  “One postcard,” said Nigel’s fond mother, “and he forgot to put a stamp on so it took ages to arrive. But nothing dreadful seems to have happened to them.” She smiled again. “Or to you, in the Lake District. Arthur Ransome captured the idea of the scenery very well, don’t you think? And the sailing pictures have a good deal of atmosphere.”

  Miss Seeton, retired teacher of art, could not disagree. “I believe he never cared for faces because he found them difficult—but he does indeed capture atmosphere very well. We visited several places thought to be his original inspiration for the lake, and in more than one I felt I knew where I was almost before I was. There, I mean. Anne is a most careful driver, and very sensible about not letting herself become distracted, which a guided tour of the local sights might very well do. Pointing things out, that is, while still on the move rather than stopping in a convenient place to do so.”

  She chuckled. “Until she was told about the heron, I should add. After the telephone call I fear that on our unexpected journey to Blackpool she drove rather faster than her usual cautious speed.”

  “Heron?” Lady Colveden tried to look as if she understood. “Telephone call?”

  “Nyctanassa violacea.” Miss Seeton was rather proud of not stumbling over the Latin. “Dear Anne promised—she is an enthusiastic bird-watcher—there would be much of interest, and to be sure to pack my binoculars, which of course I did. And there was—quite as much as in Scotland. Many birds one does not see in these parts, and then a friend called to let her know that a yellow-crowned night heron had suddenly appeared on the beach just north of Blackpool. All the way from America. Caught up in high winds in the Gulf of Mexico, I understand, and the poor thing was blown on the deck of a cargo ship heading for England.”

  “I remember now.” Her ladyship wrinkled her forehead. “Yes, the television news, one of those snippets at the end meant to leave you feeling more cheerful than the previous half hour ever does. Didn’t the crew take care of it all the way across the Atlantic, only before they could hand it over to a bird sanctuary to be properly looked after, it escaped?”

  “To be properly, or rather thoroughly, looked at rather than looked after.” Miss Seeton smiled. “So fortunate that, by the time we arrived, the authorities had taken control of what had seemed, at first, likely to become a somewhat disorderly situation. Serious bird-watchers, I understand, often descend in their hundreds upon even the most distant locations should a sufficiently rare bird be spotted. There were people directing the traffic in a one-way system, and telling one where to park, and making everybody form a queue to approach the area where the bird was feeding, and letting no one stay for more than ten minutes.”

  Lady Colveden blinked. “When you’d dropped everything to drive all that way? I must say, that sounds rather unfair.”

  Miss Seeton gently shook her head. “One was allowed to start to queue again at the back, as many times as one wished. Every day—though suitable accommodation was a little difficult with so many people. But the organisation was excellent. We ourselves made three attempts before we achieved a sighting. Dear Anne is blessed with great patience and enthusiasm, as well as knowledge, and of course there was much more to see in the area beside the unfortunate bird. Some persons queued half a dozen times even when they already had—seen it, I mean. A night heron is apparently unknown in this country. One was tempted to move everywhere on tiptoe, and certainly to keep as quiet as possible.”

  So engrossed were the two ladies that they failed to notice the approach—almost an encroach—of two other ladies heading for the post office. One was tall and thin, with a face many would say reminded them of a horse. Her companion was shorter, and stout—many would call her dumpy—with snapping black eyes. On the post office threshold, their ears still flapping, the new arrivals paused to exchange speaking glances. Those who knew the Nuts (as equine Erica Nuttel and solid Norah Blaine are known in Plummergen) would have waited with impatience to learn what those glances were saying...

  The post office is one of three general stores in Plummergen, and the largest. While Mr. Takeley the grocer and Mr. Welsted the draper stock many of the same items, with enough variety to keep all three establishments in business, there is no doubt as to which is the hub of village rumour and surmise. Mr. Stillman, the postmaster, has more floor space. He also has prime position in the main street—The Street—near the bus stop, so that anyone buying books, bacon, tinned goods or even stamps will have, should she (almost always she) wish, an excellent view of the comings, goings, and general doings of her fellow villagers.

  The Street—wide, tree-lined, with no street lighting—runs in a gentle curve from north to south. Anyone who pops outside the post office (sometimes so crowded) for a breath of air has an excellent view along The Street, whether up or down, and of the movements of any stranger who might arrive on the bus. She will already know, or at least be able to guess, where a non-stranger is going. Usually she is making for the post office, either to ascertain what might have happened during her absence, or else to dispense what gossip she has picked up in Brettenden, a small town six miles to the north where Plummergen shops when it cannot find what it requires at home. The Brettenden bu
s (or buses) these days will make the trip just three times a week. One journey has been authorised by the council; the other two are covered by the public-spirited courtesy of Crabbe’s Garage, next to the post office and close to the bus stop, and perhaps these days the bus stop’s raison d’être.

  Those with a turn for pedantry sometimes wonder if Crabbe’s Garage’s apostrophe should be moved to indicate that these days more than one family member is involved in the business. Old Crabbe, in his youth, came to Plummergen from foreign parts—anywhere further than twenty miles distant is viewed by the village with suspicion—at the request of his blacksmith cousin Eggleden. The new-fangled motorcars beginning to appear, and to break down, in the Kent countryside were beyond the smith’s understanding. Cousin Crabbe, a younger man with modern ideas, had understanding to spare, as well as time to study the workings, repair, and maintenance of the internal combustion engine. Dan Eggleden, the current blacksmith and farrier, continues with his cousins to share, and to solve, such transport problems as the locals have, whether involving horses—Dan has learned how to make bridles as well as bits—tractors, or cars. Old Crabbe’s son, Young Crabbe, died in the war. His son, Very Young Crabbe, is father to Jack, who drives the bus to nearby Brettenden twice a week.

  A local-by-adoption is postman Bert—red-headed, obliging, efficient and popular despite his foreign origins: a true Cockney, he was born within the sound of Bow bells, far more than twenty miles from Plummergen. Bert lives in Brettenden, but his heart is in the right place. He plays for the village’s cricket team, as well as emptying its letterboxes and collecting bulky hessian sacks twice daily from Mr. Stillman’s post office.

  Now on the post office threshold Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine exchanged their speaking glances, but said nothing. From the relative positions of Lady Colveden and Miss Seeton they guessed it was the latter who was about to enter Mr. Stillman’s shop, as her ladyship had just left it. The Nuts resolved to take extra care in the selection of vegetarian meatballs (the Nuts refuse to touch, taste or ingest animal products) so that Miss Seeton might be ushered to the front of the queue, could complete her business, and would then depart, leaving the floor free for speculation.

  After accepting an invitation to tea at Rytham Hall, Miss Seeton said goodbye to Lady Colveden and went into the shop to greet acquaintances with a nod and a smile.

  “Back home at last, Miss Seeton?” said Mrs. Skinner.

  “You’ll have some catching-up to do, being away so long,” said Mrs. Henderson. It irked her to be in even slight agreement with Mrs. Skinner—there had been a quarrel over the church flower rota some years ago—but sometimes you had to put up with things. Like Mrs. Skinner, Mrs. Henderson had seen the promising gleam in the eyes of Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, but knew nothing could be said until Miss Seeton was out of the way. “Martha Bloomer can’t shop for more than herself and Stan, not beyond what you might call the basics, not for other people. You go right ahead with your shopping, Miss Seeton—I’m sure nobody minds waiting, do they?”

  A general chorus that nobody minded. Plummergen thrives on gossip, and can always depend on Miss Seeton to provide good value. As Nigel Colveden remarked after her first adventure—when, accidental witness to a fatal stabbing, she had been pursued by its aftermath from bustling Covent Garden to rural Kent—the village had become involved in murder, suicide, drowning, gas, shooting, car crashes, abduction and embezzlement. The village could never make up its mind about Miss Seeton. Her supporters knew the police found her assistance invaluable. Her detractors said such official interest only went to prove her general untrustworthiness. You always had to keep an eye on her...just in case.

  A glow of pleasure warmed Miss Seeton as she moved to the general counter. So very kind of everyone. At last she was home in her own dear village. East or west—though in this particular instance perhaps it should be north and farther north—but home was, without question, best. Naturally, she had enjoyed her week with the MacSporrans after Nigel’s wedding, and her visit to the Lake District had been a joy, even if the unexpected arrival of so rare a visitor as the yellow-crowned night heron had of necessity somewhat prolonged her stay, but...

  Elsie Stillman coughed impatiently. “How can I help you, Miss Seeton?”

  Miss Seeton blushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I fear I may still be a touch abstracted—yesterday’s journey, rather more tiring than I had supposed. The train itself is a wonderfully comfortable mode of travel, but I had forgotten, after the peace and quiet of the north, how very busy London can be, even if one takes a taxi rather than try to struggle with a suitcase on the Tube.”

  Mrs. Stillman nodded. She and her husband seldom went farther than Ashford, fifteen miles away. “At least you didn’t even think of the bus, Miss Seeton. In a taxi there’s none of this hopping on and off changing, you just sit and watch the world go by. And now you’re safely home again. So what can I get you?”

  Martha Bloomer, who cooked and cleaned and generally “did” for Miss Seeton two days a week, and who had readjusted for the umpteenth time her village rota when her employer telephoned to say that she really would be back the next day, had already laid in ample stock of almost everything Miss Seeton might require. One item, however, Miss Seeton had not thought to request. She knew there were different sorts—modern manufacturing, so innovative—and wanted to make sure by asking someone who sold them all the time.

  “I need new batteries for my flashlight, please,” said Miss Seeton, producing it from her capacious handbag.

  Miss Nuttel looked at Mrs. Blaine. Mrs. Blaine looked back at Miss Nuttel. Mrs. Blaine sighed and pursed her lips; Miss Nuttel sighed and shook her head. Only Miss Seeton failed to observe these promising signs. Everyone else brightened. So the old girl was up to her tricks again, and not back five minutes from foreign parts! The crowd of shoppers began to drift away from various shelves and display stands to be in at the very start of whatever speculation might in due course begin.

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Stillman liked Miss Seeton. Elsie Stillman had noted the looks, the sighs, and the drifting. While not wishing to annoy her customers by saying anything, she must make it clear she did not approve. “Of course,” she said promptly. “Always pleased to oblige, Miss Seeton. I know you buy the Ever Ready, and they’re very good or we wouldn’t sell them, but now we’re trying out these new Duracells, even though they’re more expensive. They last a lot longer.” She produced two packets and laid them side by side on the counter. One set of batteries was a rich blue, with red and white lettering; the other was of a striking black and coppery gold design that appealed at once to Miss Seeton’s artistic eye.

  “I think I might try this new sort, with autumn on the way and the days growing shorter. Twilight is so much later in the north. One loses track. And fresh batteries now will avert any risk of their going flat—the old ones, that is—at some critical moment out of doors...”

  They made sure that Miss Seeton, having paid for her purchases, was safely out of earshot before they began.

  Miss Nuttel bowled the opening ball. “Bunny, have I got it wrong? Thought the clocks didn’t change for a month or more.”

  Mrs. Blaine—Bunny to her friend, the Hot Cross Bun to the village—tittered. “So did I, Eric, but with the Common Market perhaps it has to be European time now. You know how they even drive on the wrong side of the road—though I’d like to see them try anything of that sort here—and it would cost far too much to change all the signposts and things, anyway. Everybody’s taxes would have to go up, you can be sure, if they made us do it—but clocks would be easier, wouldn’t they? We must have missed it in the news.”

  “That you didn’t, Mrs. Blaine,” said Mrs. Skinner. “October they change, I forget exactly when, but nothing so early as this week. The kiddies have only just gone back to school.”

  Mrs. Henderson remembered the Girl Guides. “Be Prepared, I should say,” she chipped in as Mrs. Skinner drew breath. “Very sensible, if her old ones might ru
n out any moment. Best to be on the safe side.”

  “But she said twilight lasted much longer in the north,” said Mrs. Blaine. “And it’s true. The sunset lasts for positively ages, doesn’t it, Eric?” The Nuts, before deciding on Plummergen, had years ago taken a variety of coach tours to look at scenery as well as likely locations for their retirement. Scotland had been their final sortie. Their tour had taken them encouragingly close to Balmoral with its royal connections, but in the end, defeated by the accent, the midges, and the weather, they settled for the south of England and descended upon an unsuspecting Kent.

  “It does,” agreed Miss Nuttel. “But she’s been staying up late and creeping about in the dark, remember. Easy to flatten a battery without noticing.”

  “Tiptoeing in the night, Eric, I think she said.”

  “Same thing.” Erica Nuttel shrugged. “Not something I’d do myself, nor would you—”

  “I should think not!”

  “—but,” persisted Miss Nuttel, “no accounting for taste. Just strikes me as an odd way to behave, at her age.”

  “And to encourage Lady Colveden as well,” said Mrs. Blaine. “Tiptoeing in the dark!”

  “Ah,” interposed Mrs. Flax, the local wise woman. “Not so very far off All Hallows’ Eve, is it, which ain’t all turnip lanterns and bobbing for apples—not for them as knows the old ways.” Her audience shifted uneasily. “But for them as don’t know ’em so thorough as others there’ll be preparations to make, rituals to learn afore they can hope to see the spirits of the dead. You can’t rush matters o’ that sort—that’ll be why she’s starting so early.”

  “Halloween’s more than a month away,” objected young Mrs. Scillicough. Mrs. Scillicough was one of the few locals sometimes able to voice opinions contrary to those of the witch. Mrs. Scillicough and her Kevin were the parents of triplets whose frightfulness was a Plummergen byword. Threats against them, should they fail to mend their ways, were legion. Pointed remarks about the Royal Military Canal at the bottom of The Street were made. Mrs. Scillicough had asked Mrs. Flax for advice and nostrums. None of these worked. The contrast between the young Scillicoughs and their Newport cousins (four under five, every one angelic) was so marked that Mrs. Scillicough sometimes felt almost sick with envy of her sister.