Miss Seeton Quilts the Village

by Hamilton Crane

  “Did you know about the wireless?”

  The Brattles looked at each other. There was a long silence. “We were never sure,” said Sam, “not until after the war, but as for during...well, from things they sometimes said, though they didn’t talk much in front of the likes of us...but we did have to wonder, servants not being as daft or deaf as some people like to think.”

  “And after the war? How did you find out?” He doubted if they’d been told the secret of the priest’s hole. “Surely nobody after the war would ever have admitted to a thing like that in the house!”

  “Spotted the aerial one day in the roof,” said Sam, “once we were allowed to put things up there again, the risk of bombs and fire being gone. Running under the ridge and down through the rafters, though how you got inside to use it I dunno. But I built myself a cat’s-whisker set as a boy. I guessed what it was all right—and neither of us can say we were really surprised.”

  “A good chance to ask for an increase in wages,” Brinton suggested lightly.

  Once more there was a pause, uneasy and thoughtful.

  Agnes stirred at last. “Might as well tell him, Sam. He’ll keep on until you do, and we’ve had a good run for the money.”

  “You know I never asked for a penny!” he protested. “But years after, with the colonel and the two oldest Misses gone, money did seem to be getting tight. They’d have used up what he made from selling Rytham Hall, and no more to come beyond the old age pension. Griselda decided she had to trust us, sort of. You could see she hated having to do it. Told a pack of lies about family inheritance and her grandfather not thinking banks were safe—which is why we knew it for lies. We’d never heard before about the colonel’s father being a prospector. Never the sort to chatter to the servants, and then suddenly she did.”

  “She was getting old,” said Agnes.

  “Aren’t we all? So one day she asked, when we came back from shopping, if next time we went into Brettenden I would change some old gold coins into proper money for her.”

  “At the bank?” Brinton would have supposed a British bank would have been curious, to say the least, at the sudden appearance of—“Not German coins, then.”

  “Gold sovereigns from South Africa,” said Sam. “They’d been hid somewhere in the house—full of nooks and crannies, that old place. Every now and then, on a day when we’d been out, she’d hand me a dozen. Next week I’d take ’em to a bank, or an antique dealer, sometimes even a pawnshop—though I never told her when I pawned them, knowing she’d be shocked at having to deal with Uncle—but always careful, like she asked. Even went as far as Ashford, sometimes. And…well, she never took a daily paper, to check up on me. The whole family’d been just waiting for their chance to be bosses again under the Nazis...”

  “Collaborators,” snapped Agnes. “We’re no Nazis, never were. There’s a big difference between grumbling about the way things are and wishing they were better, and plotting to hand over your country to a man who looks like Charlie Chaplin in jackboots and all he’ll make better is for him and his cronies, treading everybody else underfoot.”

  Light dawned on the superintendent. “So you decided to take agent’s commission for each transaction? Because she couldn’t look in the paper for the exchange rate. Clever. What did you consider a fair rate?”

  “Started at ten,” admitted Sam Brattle, “but when she didn’t notice I upped it to fifteen, then twenty—but no further. Wouldn’t have been right.” Brinton said nothing about this quaint notion of rectitude. “Like Agnes said, she was getting old. So long as she had money to live on we didn’t see why she should have all the benefit of what was traitors’ gold in the first place. Contaminated, you might say.”

  “With your rising percentage helping to decontaminate the rest. There’s logic in that argument—of a sort—but what about the Inland Revenue? Death duties?”

  “But it wasn’t honest money,” Sam objected. “It was never hers, it was from the Nazis for after the invasion. And there’s no Nazis left these days, or not a government with legal rights, just a few wicked old men in South America and places...”

  “And he’s probably right,” grumbled Brinton as he and Foxon drove away. “I’m no legal eagle, but I’d say the most we could do the Brattles for is fraud, maybe embezzlement. And was it even Griselda’s money in the first place? No, laddie, the only people to see any point in sending them for trial would be the lawyers.”

  “And Griselda’s dead and the dosh has probably all gone anyway,” said Foxon. “Or it’s still where she kept it, and nobody knows where. You bet if the Brattles had known they’d have helped themselves to the last percentage before they pushed off, and they certainly gave the impression they didn’t.”

  Brinton was silent.

  “Or they could,” persisted Foxon, “be good liars. Perhaps they did help themselves to what’s left, and they’ve got it hidden until the legal position’s been sorted out. Which could take yonks.” Envisaging these long, tedious years of legal argument, he tooted loudly at a cock pheasant strolling across the road. It took no notice. He tooted again. There was little difference in the bird’s waddle rate. Foxon braked, and sighed.

  “This time of year they’re really stupid, aren’t they? Shame it wasn’t a lucky black cat crossing our path.” As the pheasant finally reached the safety of the verge he put his foot down, and then laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Foxon’s almost relentless bright-side-seeing sometimes pushed Brinton’s forbearance to the limit.

  Foxon subsided. “Sorry, sir, it just popped into my head. The man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. We’ve been talking about money, and banks, and lucky black cats, and I had this sudden vision of that bird’s hands in its pockets as it walked along the Bois Boolong with an independent air.”

  Brinton muttered under his breath, and then sat up. “Foxon, turn round.”

  Foxon slowed the car. “But I didn’t hit it, sir, and in any case—”

  “Pheasant for dinner be blowed! Turn the car round. We’re not going back to Ashford. Visions? The very word. We’re going to Plummergen to call on your artistic lady-friend who has more visions than you or I can ever understand.”

  Foxon checked the road, then achieved a neat three-point turn into a farm gateway and out again. “She might be shopping or something, sir. Should we radio ahead and ask Ned Potter to find her and let her know we’re on the way?”

  Now he’d voiced the suggestion, Brinton was no longer sure it was such a good idea. The Oracle was the real expert at making sense of Miss Seeton’s sketches, and the Oracle was on leave. If he involved anyone else besides himself and young Foxon he’d be committed, good and proper—and official. They’d know at Ashford nick. They’d know in Plummergen. Potter wouldn’t let anything slip, but if she didn’t answer her phone they’d see him looking for her...And he’d look as stupid as that pheasant when she did one of her doodles and it made no sense and he’d have wasted her time, and the Yard’s retainer fee...

  “Or shall we just take pot luck?” Foxon understood his chief rather better, sometimes, than Brinton realised. “See that couple of magpies? One for sorrow, two for joy. They’re a good omen, sir!” And he continued to drive Plummergenwards, grinning broadly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BRINTON WAS ABOUT to knock on Miss Seeton’s front door when it opened. Bob Ranger loomed before them.

  “Hello, Mr. Brinton, hello, Tim. Come in. Miss Seeton’s making a fresh pot of tea and Anne’s cutting more gingerbread. I thought I recognised the car.”

  Brinton hesitated. “Wouldn’t like to interrupt a family party.” He hadn’t expected any audience other than Foxon when he asked Miss Seeton for help.

  Foxon understood his reluctance, but Bob misread the signs. The proud father laughed. “Don’t worry, sir, we didn’t bring the sprog—he’s fast asleep being doted on back at the Knights’. It seemed a shame to disturb him, so it’s just me and Anne. Do come in and help stop the cakes g
oing stale. Martha had a change from sewing yesterday and cooked for an army. Aunt Em can’t possibly eat it all.”

  Well, if he couldn’t have the Oracle, his young giant might be a fair substitute. Brinton followed Bob through to the sitting room and Foxon closed the door.

  Miss Seeton was delighted to welcome the newcomers. For a while the conversation was general as tea was drunk, sandwiches were nibbled, cake was devoured. It was Anne who introduced the topic over which Brinton was clearly dithering, even as he sighed, licked his lips, and patted a satisfied stomach.

  “Now the inner man is satisfied, would you like me and Bob to go away, Superintendent? It’s obvious you didn’t turn up here simply to pass the time of day.”

  Again Brinton hesitated. Bob started to rise from his chair. Brinton made up his mind, and waved him to sit down again. “I know you can keep your mouths shut, and local knowledge might come in handy. I suppose you’ve heard all the rumours.”

  Miss Seeton, who hadn’t, showed nothing but polite interest. Anne looked annoyed and Bob, resigned. “About Summerset Cottage and the Saxon family,” added Brinton quickly. “Nothing to do with anything or anyone else.”

  Anne was relieved. Miss Seeton was fond of the Colvedens. It would have upset her to learn what village gossip was implying. “The Saxons,” Anne echoed cheerfully. “Well, they do seem to have been a strange family.” It would be breaking no professional confidence, when it was for the police; and in any case, Griselda was dead. “Dad was called in by the Brattles when old Griselda was so poorly they got frightened, and that was the first time he’d ever seen her. He sent at once for an ambulance to take her to hospital, and it was the last time he ever saw her, too.”

  “The Brattles—yes.” Right to the heart of it without him even hinting. “We’ve had a word with them. They seem to think the old lady might have had a hiding-place where she kept...a hoard of gold coins.” Brinton glanced at his hostess. “They’re the people you bumped into the other day in Brettenden, Miss Seeton, and sketched so well that I knew them as soon as I saw them.”

  Miss Seeton murmured something. Anne exchanged a quick look with Bob, and they both looked at Foxon.

  “Metal detectors,” said Bob. “Of course.”

  “Everyone’s been talking about it,” said Anne. “I wouldn’t have thought it was very practical, myself. I still think it was poachers Jacob Chickney saw. Even in the middle of the night someone could have seen them digging their hole, and waited till they’d gone back to the house and dug it up again.”

  “I’d have buried it in the garden,” said Bob. “More privacy.”

  “More risk of being seen by the servants,” said Anne, “and we talked before about the risk of blackmail, didn’t we, burning the uniforms in the kitchen range?”

  Miss Seeton sighed. “It is a sad thought that the whole family, as I understand, supported the Nazi cause. Dr. Braxted’s discovery of the priest’s hole and the wireless would seem to be proof positive. Foolish thought it may be, one cannot help but wonder if the…the influence of that unpleasant fresco of Henry VIII might have had something to do with it.”

  “You always like to see the best in people, Aunt Em,” said Anne gently.

  Brinton took this for the warning she intended. He modified the remark he’d been about to make. “I’m afraid there’s little doubt they felt that way some time before the war, Miss Seeton, when they still lived at Rytham Hall. Quite a few of our upper class did, secretly—or not so secretly. Look at the Mitford girls and Oswald Mosley, for starters.”

  Miss Seeton, sighing again, nodded. “There were doubts about the Duke of Windsor, as I recall. One would expect a former king to remain loyal to his country under all circumstances, and of course nothing was proved, but he was a sad disappointment generally and people found the stories easy to believe, even though I cannot believe that he would have taken Nazi gold the way it has been suggested the Saxon family did.”

  Brinton stared. She smiled. “As dear Anne pointed out, everyone has been talking about it, and Martha talks as well as anyone I know. And I do remember the war, Superintendent, and how rumours could start from the least little incident.”

  And, thought Brinton, you’ve done your best to ignore any rumours ever since peace was declared. And managed it, most of the time. Lucky you.

  “The Brattles,” he said, “somehow gave the impression that the gold, supposing there was any gold, was hidden inside the house rather than out of doors.”

  “Dr. Braxted,” said Miss Seeton, on whom Euphemia had paid a follow-up call for further enthusing, “has told me a little about priest’s holes.” Euphemia had in fact told her a great deal, in a flurry of words and gesticulation that left her bemused, able to take in only part of what she was saying. “She explained how sometimes they would have a second, smaller place of concealment hidden within the first, so that should the secret be betrayed the priest had, in theory, time to slip into an even safer place.”

  “And you think the gold might be there?”

  “But, sir,” said Foxon, “Potter told me about that priest’s hole. He’s been inside. She was an elderly lady, in poor health. She wouldn’t want to go scrambling about up and down ladders for her money. She’d want it the easy way.”

  Bob nodded. “Dr. Braxted wouldn’t even let me try, because the space was so tight. She said that after the ladder she had to balance across the rafters and worry all the time about falling through the ceiling, and then swing on a roof beam to open the hidden door. An old lady couldn’t do anything like that...”

  He broke off. Miss Seeton couldn’t be called old, though she was no spring chicken. And he’d bet that she would, if asked, tackle rafter-balancing and swinging on beams without turning a hair. Years of yoga had turned his adopted aunt one of the most sprightly pensioners in the country.

  From the suppressed chortle that drew Brinton’s glare, Bob could tell that Foxon had shared the same thought. Probably old Brimmers as well, and only glaring because he’d been caught out. Bob grinned, saw Anne’s quick frown, and sobered.

  “So if it’s in the house at all,” he finished, “it’s somewhere...handy.”

  Brinton took a deep breath. “And that’s why I’ve come to you, Miss Seeton. To see if you might have an idea for this handy hidey-hole, if it exists.”

  “But why ask me, Mr. Brinton? Dr. Braxted and her students have undertaken the most thorough research, which is how they discovered the priest’s hole—measuring every room and comparing the proportions. When these didn’t match, they found it. You would do far better to ask them if they have found any others that don’t match for I assure you, I am no expert.”

  “Maybe not on priest’s holes, but you have other talents, Miss Seeton. What I hoped was that if you just sat and thought about it for a while, seeing as you’ve been inside the house and picked up the atmosphere, you might be able to sketch a general idea of the sort of place the gold might have been hidden.”

  She was still puzzled. “But they have measured all the rooms, Mr. Brinton. Dr. Braxted told me so. I believe they even used squared paper, as an additional means of checking.” She thought of the Plummergen Quilt, and would have smiled, until she saw his disappointment. One didn’t mean to be unhelpful, but...

  “But in any case,” she added, “I would have thought that to build more than one priest’s hole, in so modest a house, would be most unusual, though Dr. Braxted would be able to explain this to you far better than I.”

  “Sliding panels,” suggested Brinton, inspired. “I take it this place has panelled walls?”

  “Yes, the hall is panelled in oak, as well as the parlour, but they tapped all the panelling as well as measuring the walls, so Dr. Braxted said. Had there been anywhere that sounded hollow, I feel sure it would have been investigated before the search moved to the upper floor, and thence into the attic.”

  “But once they found it, they stopped looking.” Brinton still had hopes for his theory. “In all the excit
ement they might have missed anything else.”

  Miss Seeton looked doubtful. She knew her Euphemia. “Dr. Braxted is a most thorough researcher. It seems unlikely...but if you ask, I feel sure she would be prepared to give you every assistance.”

  “Provided you swear an oath of secrecy,” Bob warned him. “She’s worried about rival academics stealing a march on her. When I turned up looking for the Oracle—Mr. Delphick—she shouted at me to go away until he told her who I was. She did the same to him, as well, before she had a good look at his warrant card.”

  Miss Seeton smiled. “Dr. Braxted is, understandably, jealous of her reputation as a historian, but I believe, Mr. Brinton, that once she is assured of your bona fides she will co-operate with you to the best of her ability.”

  Like Delphick on a previous occasion, Brinton realised that Miss Seeton wanted to have as few direct dealings with Summerset Cottage as possible. “I wouldn’t ask you to go there to sketch it,” he said, as the penny dropped. “Just to dig out your gear and sit quietly and think about hiding-places, while we old pals chatter among ourselves. Young Foxon and I will be shown thousands of baby snaps—” he winked at Anne “—and, if you can oblige, you could rough me out an idea of the sort of place someone might have built in Tudor times to hide something they didn’t want anyone else to see.”

  “I know where Miss Seeton keeps her sketching things.” Anne jumped to her feet and went to the bureau. “As this sounds like an official request, Aunt Em, I promise we’ll chatter very quietly and not disturb you.”

  “And if we had any photos of his lordship with us we’d make you look at them all to keep you quiet,” said the proud father, “but we haven’t. We’ll just have to chat.”

  So they did, trying to ignore Miss Seeton as she leafed through her sketchbook for a blank sheet. She paused when she came to the Three Weird Sisters, and frowned before turning the page. Mr. Delphick had seemed interested in that one. She hadn’t then known why, but now she could guess. No wonder the women wore the same clothes, and what must be jackboots. A most unpleasant and distressing idea, that the family had been in thrall to the Nazis...