Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 15)

by Hamilton Crane

  Miss Seeton pulled herself together with a guilty start, and realised that Martha had stopped talking about the War, when she had been a girl in the battered but buoyant East End, and was reminiscing about the postwar days when the first of September each year heralded the invasion (as the locals saw it) of the Cockney hoppers. In early days by special train, latterly in furniture vans or borrowed lorries, they had come to Kent in their hundreds—and they still came.

  “Not that I ever fancied walking on those stilts, mind.” Martha chuckled richly as she tried to envisage her younger self strolling ten or more feet above the ground with the studied nonchalance of the regular workers. Hops, grown in clockwise spirals up coir strings in groups of three or four to the wire supports eighteen feet above, required those strings to be attached to the supports—the supports to be regularly checked—the tips of the hop bines cut free when the time came to harvest the crop. “Dear only knows,” said Martha, “how they managed before they’d learned that trick!”

  Miss Seeton murmured of lobbers, and of Mr. Butcher’s stringing system. Invented in the nineteenth century, so she recalled having learned when accompanying the children on a school visit to a nearby hop garden, one day last year when it was, for once, Mr. Jessyp who had fallen by the wayside—his wisdom teeth, she believed, and knew from her own experience how uncomfortable that could be—and Miss Maynard had been most pressing in her request that Miss Seeton, although not at that time officially on the school payroll, should join the party. Which Miss Seeton, fully appreciating that fifty Junior Mixed Infants might not be so willing to behave when being supervised by a younger woman on her own, had been happy to do, as well as being interested in the purpose of the excursion, since she knew shamefully little about the produce of her adopted county. “Charles Dickens,” she concluded, and quoted with a smile: “Everybody knows Kent—apples, cherries, hops, and women.”

  “And men, bless ’em,” said Martha, nodding again in the direction of her husband, barely visible through the dusk now the kitchen light was on. “Stan, he’s a regular wonder, and I don’t care who knows it. How he puts up with visiting the family all at once like he does, dear, I’ll never know. Such a tiny hut, it is, when you come to think about it—though when the farmer tried to change it one year, oh my word, they didn’t half create!—and that corrugated iron roof can really ring when the whole lot of ’em starts yelling at the same time. I’d forgotten,” admitted Martha, with a grin, “what they can be like all together, so to speak. But Stan, he never turns a hair, knowing how I do like to see ’em, and with not wanting to pay out on the train fare and neither of us driving, it’s as good a way as any to keep in touch when they come hopping every year like they do.”

  Miss Seeton beamed. “Such a close family,” she said, no hint of wistfulness in her voice: why should there be? She had everything and everyone she’d ever really needed, right here in Plummergen. But one could see that a town-bred soul like dear Martha must miss her relatives and friends, even after so many years—how many was it now?—away from them, settled so happily with dear Stan in the country. Martha was not, or so one gathered, a great letter-writer; the telephone she’d had installed was seldom used except for brief local calls, because it was expensive; it must be difficult, mused Miss Seeton, to keep in touch. The yearly hop-picking excursions would be her very best chance of doing so . . .

  “There’s close—and there’s close, Miss Emily, believe me.” For the first time, Martha seemed to lose some of her normal bounce. She sounded almost sombre as she added: “And there’s family—and family, dear. We’ve always prided ourselves on staying respectable—my mother, she brought up nine of us and never a hint of bother—but it’s different nowadays, what with the telly giving them ideas, and the dole money, and everything so much faster than we were ever used to. Motorbikes!” She sighed, and shook her head. “But here am I, sounding like an old woman: and he’s only a second cousin when all’s said and done, not what you’d call close the way you and Mrs. Bannet were, with her your godmother anyway, and you coming to visit right from a little girl, while I’ve not clapped eyes on this Barry more than once a year since he was born, and not always then, with him out and about at nights, worrying his mother half to death, him and his so-called friends—making the right contacts, she says he calls it.” Martha sniffed.

  Then she had to smile. “Well, I’d never have met Stan if I’d stayed in with my mother every night, but . . . he’s too much of a one for wandering, is Barry. Can’t settle to nothing for long, not a job or a girl or nothing. He’s fidgety.” Martha, whose inability to keep any part of herself (including her tongue) still for more than ten seconds manifested itself in a quite remarkable appetite for work, frowned in disapproval of even a second cousin’s sharing the same genetic heritage. “It’s not right, upsetting his mum this way, and if I’d seen him today—me and Beryl, we were good friends as girls—oh, I’d have given him such a piece of my mind. But he wasn’t there, so I couldn’t.”

  As Martha drew breath in order to sigh again, Miss Seeton managed to slip in a few words. It was in the nature of the young, was it not, to be given to restlessness? Surely no more than a part of growing up. In time, they settled down; but one would not wish them to lose their enquiring spirit too soon. The ability to see with new eyes—from a different perspective, one might say—was very important, as one knew from one’s own experience with children. A new perspective might lead to untold benefits: while never thinking of things except in exactly the same way as before . . . well, might not. If everyone, after all, remained content with his or her lot, with no ambition or outside interests, would there ever be any progress? Which was not, surely, altogether a bad thing, as dear Martha must agree. Medical advances—space travel—one might not understand or fully appreciate the benefits, but think how unpleasant it would be if, for example, everyone still lived in caves because nobody had ever felt that twinge of curiosity which would have led to, for instance, proper plumbing—

  Martha burst out laughing. “Depends what you mean by proper, dear. They’ve still got outside lavs at home, so they don’t mind the huts not having the flush—but there, you don’t want to worry about that,” as Miss Seeton gave a little startled cry. Last year’s tour of the hop garden hadn’t included the hoppers’ accommodation. “They don’t worry about it—if they did, would they keep coming back? There’s cousins of mine born here, dear, and their kiddies too, sometimes, by mistake, you might say . . .”

  She frowned again, obviously brooding on the restless and hyper-gregarious Barry. Miss Seeton said quickly: “Stan must be finding it very hard to see outside, now the nights are coming on so fast. And until the moon rises above the garden wall . . .”

  “Harvest Moon,” Martha said at once. “That’s what we called it, even in Town, when you were as far from the harvest fields as anyone could be. And that’s why we enjoyed the hopping so much every year. You sit under the moon when the light’s mostly gone and your work’s over, and you have a talk and a laugh and a bit of a picnic, maybe, and then the stars come out and away to bed because it’s an early start tomorrow—and, my goodness, if it isn’t you that’s got the early start tomorrow, Miss Emily—and me keeping you here chatting when you did really ought to be making sure you’ve everything ready. I’ll call Stan this minute, and we’ll be off and leave you to it.”

  Saying which, she rapped on the kitchen window and went straight outside without giving Stan time to answer. Miss Seeton peered into the night, watching the brisk figure of her friend marching down the rectangle of golden light on the lawn—watching as two brisk figures, dark against the gold, headed for the door in the garden wall, turned to wave farewell, and vanished—watching as the sky above the wall turned from grey to silver, from silver to brilliant white, as the great round face of the Harvest Moon climbed above the topmost bricks to beam on the world below.

  chapter

  ~ 5 ~

  WITH THE HELP of textbooks, they had worked th
eir way together through mathematics, geography, and history. Nothing too complex for young minds, this early in the school year: it was enough to know that they were learning to sit still and to pay attention without scuffling, fidgeting, or giggling. And if—as she believed she had—Miss Seeton managed to instill a few facts into those young minds, then she could feel justly proud that she had not lost her touch.

  One had to admit, however, that teaching from textbooks subjects with which one was not fully at one’s ease could never hold the same attractions as did teaching—maybe even inspiring (Miss Seeton stifled a wistful sigh)—from one’s own knowledge and long experience. As the hour for the art lesson approached, Miss Seeton sensed an air of growing excitement in the little classroom: excitement she supposed her pupils to have caught from herself, as she began to look forward to setting small feet for the first time on the road to the appreciation of Art. She smiled on the eager faces turned towards her as she slipped the heavy history book in her desk, and said:

  “Now, before we begin our art lesson, you may run about the playground for another five minutes.” Long experience had also taught Miss Seeton the wisdom of bowing to superior forces. A sunny afternoon, to youngsters who had seldom before been prevented from frolicking out of doors whenever they wished, was indeed a superior force: but children, she had found, almost always kept their side of the bargain. “While you are letting off steam, I will prepare things here. When I come out to call you back in, I shall expect you to return quietly, without fuss. Do you understand?”

  Small heads nodded in silence. Oh, they understood, all right: Miss was going to learn ’em to draw, just like they’d heard from their older brothers and sisters. Never knew just what she’d do, but she always made it fun—so long as you didn’t mess with her. Play tricks with Miss Seeton, mind, and she’d most likely play a few tricks of her own—a witch, wasn’t she? Everyone knew that. Mother Flax got in a rare taking sometimes, talking about things Miss Seeton’d done—but she wouldn’t do them unless she needed to, being careful not to waste her magic—which was powerful stuff. Everyone knew that, too. Better not to give her cause to let it loose, just in case . . .

  So Miss Seeton’s class behaved itself beautifully, without her ever realising that such (uncharacteristic) behaviour was due to her reputation as an enchantress rather than as an educationist—a reputation acquired through a complex system of misunderstandings which had almost split the village as they were argued back and forth. The only persons to remain untouched by argument had been Miss Seeton herself, and the Reverend Arthur Treeves: who, detractors said, never noticed much in any case, and even if he did, wouldn’t know what to do about it. Which was, in a way, true: the vicar had long ago lost his faith, trusting now to people’s basic good nature and only being truly upset by unkindness, which was the only sin he was prepared to recognise as such—and which, as it upset him so much when he did, he preferred not to notice in the first place.

  Miss Seeton, too, might well be seen by some as having a blinkered view of life: although, in her case, it is less a matter of deliberate choice not to notice the unpleasant than a basic inability to accept the truth of whatever she might have seen. She cannot (she always feels) have properly understood: surely there has been some mistake? She will always find good reason not to believe the worst of any situation which everyone else regards with (at the very least) circumspection; and so strongly does she not believe this worst that the nerves of those who know her best are stretched permanently, when she and her umbrella are in full innocent cry, to the very limits.

  So the suppressed excitement of the waiting children was translated by Miss Seeton into a vague feeling that her own wishes were making themselves too strongly felt, and that the sooner she worked the burgeoning creative urges out of her system, the better for all concerned. Once she had set the class the little task she had, with Martha’s invaluable help, prepared for them last night, she would take out her sketchbook and pencils and . . .

  The children came trooping back into the classroom without waiting to be summoned. Those with wristwatches had kept a wary eye on the time, so that Miss wasn’t put to any trouble on her pupils’ behalf. Keep her in a good mood, and who knew what she might not do?

  “Good gracious.” Miss Seeton, standing on a chair in front of the easel, turned round in pleased surprise as the thump of cheerful feet announced the return from the playground. “Oh! Oh, dear . . .”

  There was a clatter as she dropped the last of the three large bulldog clips with which she was trying to fasten something to the top of the blackboard.

  “That’s a big envelope you got there, Miss.” One of the boys darted forward to retrieve the fallen metal clip, which he handed up to Miss Seeton with a grin. “Take a deal of stamps to post that, won’t it?”

  “Thank you.” Miss Seeton smiled, fixed the final clip, nodded, and jumped neatly down from the chair. “Post it? Oh, no—although . . .” She remembered dear Martha’s remark about parcels. “I hardly think it would fit through the mouth of the letter box,” she said. “Do you?”

  Everyone giggled politely as they hurried back to their places. On each desk was set out a sheet of plain paper and a soft black pencil. “No eraser,” said Miss Seeton, as the children exclaimed. “If anyone makes a mistake—why, those can be just as interesting as if they don’t, as I hope you will see for yourselves. Because the object of this lesson is to teach you all to see for yourselves—even if you are unable, at first, to make sense of what you see . . .” Which remark (had they been privileged to hear it) would have made Detective Chief Superintendent Delphick of Scotland Yard and his colleagues chuckle. It is from the making sense of what they see of Miss Seeton’s instinctive cartoon sketches that they have solved some of their most unusual cases. Once the hidden spark in Miss Seeton’s innermost nature is allowed to run riot—that spark which had been, even as she prepared the children’s lesson, starting to kindle . . .

  “Now, children.” Miss Seeton pointed to the large brown envelope-like construction clipped to the blackboard. “What I wish you to do is copy exactly what you see as I slip this cover down the board—and what you will see is a pattern of lines drawn on a sheet of white paper. Copy that pattern as closely as possible on your own sheet of paper—watch where the lines cross, or meet, or curve and move away—see how they lie in relation to the other lines . . . and, after a few moments, I will slip the cover down a little more, and you must add the lines you will next see to those you have already drawn.”

  There were few questions, easily dealt with. This sounded interesting—sort of like a conjuring trick, only instead of making things vanish, she was going to make them appear. Perhaps they’d see a sort of magic, after all. The children waited, bright-eyed, as Miss Seeton hopped back on her chair, removed the two end clips from the top of the easel, and slid the brown-paper envelope about six inches down the board, then clipped it on either side to stop it slipping further. There were little gasps and exclamations as the “pattern of lines drawn on a sheet of white paper” was revealed; but Miss Seeton, with one look, silenced the whisperers as she said: “You may begin.”

  And they did.

  Miss Seeton smiled on the rows of bent heads and the industriously copying pencils. She walked up and down between the desks, pausing to look, nodding her approval of what she saw, no matter how far from her own vision of the pattern the copyist had strayed. One child, who was squinting quite horribly at the blackboard with her tongue poking through her teeth, was gently urged to swap seats with another, sitting nearer the front; Miss Seeton made a mental note to ask the girl’s mother when her daughter last had her eyes tested. She watched, and praised, and walked back to the blackboard to release the brown envelope a further six inches.

  “If you think,” she warned, “that you recognise what it is you are drawing, please say nothing: it would be a shame to spoil the surprise for everyone else. Just carry on copying the lines exactly as you see them . . .”

&nbs
p; It was not until the slipping-down exercise had been accomplished twice more that one or two squeals emerged from some of the children. Miss Seeton put her finger to her lips, smiling—the young, so enthusiastic—and the squeals died down, although the squealers bounced and wriggled on their seats as they copied the next pattern of lines. There was a thrilling silence as Miss Seeton finally removed the brown paper completely from the drawing, and some busy copying; then eager voices begged that Miss should tell them what it was they’d been doing: and, with another smile, Miss Seeton instructed everyone to turn their papers round the other way. At the same time, she jumped back on the chair, released the large drawing clipped to the blackboard, reversed it, and clipped it back again.

  A murmur filled the room, as those children who hadn’t already guessed realised that the pattern of lines they’d been copying, when looked at the right way up, showed the figure of a man on stilts, striding across the paper with a glass of beer in his hand. A vivid sketch, it replaced the rather uninspired dog and cat which Miss Seeton had drawn last night before Martha had talked to her of hop picking and its customs; local customs. Miss Seeton had decided to catch the children’s attention with something they knew well, to emphasise the point she hoped to make. She twinkled now at her class as she picked up the heavy wooden ruler from its place on the easel pegs, and said:

  “Hands up those of you whose picture looks like mine at the top, here,” and she laid the ruler on the paper in such a position that the picture was cut in two.