“Battling Brolly Finds Body in Burn,” murmured Mel, with one eye, carefully shadowed, on her waiting notebook. “Body By Bush?” She completed her makeup and picked up a pencil. “Corpse Near Crag,” she decided, and began to scribble.
Miss Seeton’s return to MacSporran Castle yesterday had startled the countess, whose guests did not normally arrive under police escort—a part-time officer, as are many in remote Highland regions, of course, but wearing uniform, and with the regulation blue light on the roof of his car. The light wasn’t working, but the sight was still enough to make Liusaidh almost drop the baby. Only the swift action of Mrs. McScurrie prevented a nasty accident.
“A nasty accident she’s seen, puir wee soul,” Special Constable Duncan Muffit informed Lady Glenclachan, after his charge, looking slightly green, had thanked him for his kind assistance and begged her hostess to excuse her, just for a few moments, while she composed herself: such a shock, even though one knew accidents could happen in the hills if one was a trifle careless, which it seemed the poor man had been—but oh, dear, if Lady Glenclachan wouldn’t mind, she would so like just to slip inside for a few moments . . .
“Best make her a cup of tea,” suggested Duncan, as, with a horrified clucking, Mrs. McScurrie urged Miss Seeton in the direction of the nearest door. “We brewed a pot at Sergeant Trumpie’s house, but it was mebbe a bit strong for her, with the sugar and all, for the shock. At her age, too. A nasty accident she’s seen, puir wee soul—or that’s what she’s been thinking, and your leddyship would oblige if she’s left in that opinion.”
Duncan met Liusaidh’s startled eye, and nodded slowly. “Never mind what she did for the bairn, you’ve only to look at her to know Miss Seeton’s no criminal. And she’s such a wee body, what’s more—she could never so much as lift a finger against a man, let alone the great stone it must have been, to cause such damage—there’s no suspicion attached to her, for all she was the one who found the corpus. But she would have it he’d taken a tumble from Quet-na-Scrabberteistie, and happier left believing so, when there’s neither sense or need for her to know the truth. An accident, as far as she’s concerned, if you don’t mind . . .”
“And as far as the police are concerned?”
Sergeant Muffit looked at Lady Glenclachan and shrugged. “A strange way to commit suicide. Well-nigh impossible, any reasonable man might say, to tumble off the crag and under a bush and have your head take such a battering on the way, never mind you couldn’t be sure it would work.”
“Murder, then.” Liusaidh had turned rather pale. “It’s a terrible thing, I imagine, to find anyone dead at the best of times, but poor Miss Seeton leads such a quiet life. She may never want to go for a walk again, and I can’t say I’d blame her for feeling that way. I’m sure she can’t have expected this to happen when we invited her for a holiday; nobody would, and we certainly didn’t. Dead bodies and . . . crime—murders—simply aren’t. . . aren’t normal.”
To Miss Seeton—Scotland Yard’s MissEss—crime, if not murder, might well be considered normal. With murder she is not unacquainted, and she has watched in hospital morgues as dead bodies were dissected, laying open to her interested student gaze bones and muscles and sinews. Anatomy classes, and diagrams in books, somehow weren’t the same . . .
But a gentlewoman seldom talks about herself—and her art college days are long since past—and few people ever realise that the Battling Brolly beloved by the popular press is no gamp-wielding gorgon, but rather a retired spinster schoolmarm who stands just over five feet tall in her stout walking shoes, and weighs seven stone, fully clothed. The MacSporrans had been so overjoyed at the safe recovery of Lady Marguerite that they failed to take in even the little that Chief Superintendent Delphick saw fit to tell them of their daughter’s guardian angel . . .
“Poor Miss Seeton,” Liusaidh said. “I suppose one could hardly suggest that she take a dram to calm her nerves? Mrs. McScurrie will look after her, though.” She suddenly directed the full force of her smile towards Sergeant Muffit. “And while she’s being looked after, are you going to tell me if it was anyone we know ? Ranald,” she reminded him, “is provost of Glenclachan as well as the laird, after all.”
Duncan had no intention of keeping the local magistrate in ignorance of what he had every right to know, and said so—and did not voice any reservations about the rights of the provost’s lady, though her husband was nowhere to be seen. Liusaidh accordingly heard as much about the death of Ewen Campbell as she wanted, and sent Sergeant Muffit on his way before Miss Seeton should reappear to be upset again at the sight of him, with instructions to keep the castle informed. And Sergeant Muffit was to take no particular notice of what Inspector Badock might say . . .
While the wake was being held at the Pock and Tang, Lord and Lady Glenclachan were taking pains to look after their guest. Mrs. McScurrie had prepared a light, though nourishing, supper; Ranald opened a classic wine, on which he said he would value Miss Seeton’s opinion, and he begged her to take “a wee dram or two” to see what she might think of the malt. There was not one suggestion of treatment for shock. The television, an antique black-and-white model which had in any case barely been switched on throughout Miss Seeton’s stay, fell victim to that mysterious signal loss which from time to time plagues the Highland regions, and everyone was far too busy to think of suggesting they might listen to the wireless news instead. Miss Seeton, who had looked after Lady Marguerite with such care, was now being cared for by Lady Marguerite’s fond parents and faithful retainers . . .
So that when Mel Forby telephoned next morning with her request to speak to Miss Seeton, she did not find it an easy request to fulfil. Eat your heart out, Martha Bloomer: Armorel McScurrie could be twice as protective without even trying. Mel took several deep breaths, imagined herself eating honey by the tablespoon, and eventually persuaded the housekeeper to pass on a message that Miss Forby, Miss Seeton’s friend from London, staying in the neighbourhood, would like to pay a visit later that morning.
When later, and Mel, duly arrived, it was not to be met by Lady Glenclachan or Miss Seeton, but to be confronted on the doorstep by Mrs. McScurrie, bristling with indignation. Every grim syllable of her greeting made Mel feel her mascara must be smudged. It wasn’t until long after that she remembered she hardly wore any these days, since Miss S. had persuaded her to soften the Forby nail-hard image by softening her makeup . . . and that had been years ago.
But Armorel McScurrie read the newspapers with rather more enthusiasm than her employers knew, and had recognised (or at least suspected that she recognised) the name of Miss Seeton’s London friend, and was now determined to test the new arrival’s bona fides.
“Miss Forby?” Mrs. McScurrie’s eyes narrowed. “It’s an uncommon name, as no doubt you’ve been told. Not Scottish.”
“No,” agreed Mel. “Lancashire born and bred, if you ignore those crackpot boundary changes we had foisted on us. Plain Liverpool’s good enough for Amelita Forby.” And she thumped her stick on the ground, trying to look like some hardworking gaffer or gammer worn out by rheumatism after years of honest toil.
“Ah, yes.” Armorel’s smile was thin and self-satisfied. “It’s you that writes for one of the national newspapers, then? As I said, you’ve an uncommon name.”
“Christened Amelia, so what else could I do? Except add a T, that is. Not that tea’s my preferred tipple—give me coffee every time. Deadlines,” she explained. “Helps keep me awake.” She observed Mrs. McScurrie’s expression, and hid a smile. “Just the opposite of Miss Seeton, though,” she continued, making the point of old acquaintance. “Our Miss S. prefers her tea weak, no sugar—and you know Miss Seeton, too polite to tell you if you’ve got it wrong. Hope you’ve been looking after her properly.”
More bristles rose along Armorel McScurrie’s spine, but before she could say anything else, her employer appeared. “Miss Forby, isn’t it? Good morning!” Liusaidh held out a hand, smiling. “It seems an age
since we met in London.”
“Certainly does.” Mel’s eyes flicked towards the bleak-visaged form of the housekeeper, still barring her entrance. “Only—not that I’m being rude, Lady Glenclachan, but it was Miss Seeton I came to see.”
“Of course, you’re old friends, aren’t you? Do come in. Mrs. McScurrie, would you be kind enough to find Miss Seeton, and tell her about her visitor? And would you bring some coffee to the drawing room, please?”
The nose through which Armorel sniffed was held high in disapproval as she stalked back into the hall without a word to her mistress, who looked at Mel, and sighed. “She’s been giving you a hard time, has she? I’m so sorry, but you can imagine how anxious we’ve been about . . . about all this. Poor Miss Seeton’s here on holiday—as our guest—and we felt it our job to keep away, well . . .”
“Undesirables?” Mel finished for her, with a grin. “Oh, I guess none of you need worry too much—we go back a long way together, Miss S. and yours truly. She took me to a bird sanctuary just last week. In Kent.”
Liusaidh nodded, and led the way through to the drawing room. “She was out bird-watching when . . . when this dreadful . . . when the body was discovered. Poor Miss Seeton. I’m so afraid this will distress her far more in the longer term than she seems prepared to admit. This morning she’s kept insisting she feels fine, but one can’t help but suspect her of simply being polite. Yesterday, you see, she was rather shaken—which is no surprise, of course—she’s led such a very quiet life. For something like this to happen . . .”
When Mel had given up the unequal struggle and permitted the bubbling laughter deep inside her to erupt in a strangled guffaw, she had to wait several minutes before she felt able to explain even part of Miss Seeton’s unique quality to an astounded audience. Liusaidh kept saying “my goodness” and “I had absolutely no idea” when informed that the renowned Battling Brolly was not only staying under her roof, but was the saviour of her cherished only child.
“We never read anything about it, you see,” she said to Mel, who nodded. “I suppose we were cowards not to face up to what had happened, but we simply wanted to forget everything and bring Marguerite home to Glenclachan, where we felt she’d be safe. I’m sure the press had a field day . . .” Her voice tailed away. A look of strain came into her eyes. “After your visit—and you were the first reporter to talk to us, remember . . . but then there were so many . . . and I’m afraid we simply couldn’t bear any more reminders of . . . of the whole dreadful business. And we certainly didn’t know about Miss Seeton—”
“No need to mention it.” Mel’s gesture was airy, knowing, dismissive. “She’ll only be embarrassed if you do.” Liusaidh looked doubtful. “Honest. Besides, who’s to know that Miss S. is that good old Battling Brolly? Nobody who’s read about her in the Daily Negative, that’s for sure . . .”
Mrs. McScurrie, striving to obstruct Liusaidh’s request without positive disobedience, had by now run out of delaying tactics. It was therefore at this moment that Miss Seeton escaped from the kindly clutches she hadn’t realised held her captive, and arrived in the drawing room to look for her guest. “Mel, my dear,” she greeted Miss Forby with pleasure. “How much better you look than the last time I saw you—you have made a full recovery, I trust? And how is your poor ankle?” as she noticed the stick, leaning on the side of Mel’s chair. Recently broken, and the sunshine, she explained to Lady Glenclachan, apologising for her public discussion of so personal a topic as someone’s health; but she had been rather concerned for dear Mel, and, had yesterday’s little unpleasantness not occurred to make her forget her obligations . . .
“And it was such a beautiful day,” she sighed. “So very bright for the eyes when one is tired from travelling—the sun, I mean. Such a strain for the system. The day before, that is. Not that yesterday,” she added, “was not. And, of course, my dear friend Martha also suffers from them. Headaches. Bright, yet not oppressively hot—perfect for walking—or climbing. Poor man. Unless, of course, one is recovering from a broken ankle, naturally. Before a thunderstorm, that is. Not that we have as yet had thunder, but there was certainly a storm, and the principle, one has to suppose, must be the same.”
“I suppose it must,” murmured Mel, while Liusaidh tried to suppress the tickle in her throat. Mel did not dare to meet her eyes. Instead, she looked straight at Miss Seeton.
“As a matter of fact, it was yesterday brought me to see you, Miss S. I’ve been thinking about, well, what happened—the man you found, and everything—so what I thought was, how about you try to sketch me what you saw? Just the rough idea,” she added, as Liusaidh seemed about to protest. “And while you’re doing it,” she went on, “if you could spare a few thoughts on the topic of John Stuart Fraser, I’d be very grateful . . .”
chapter
~19~
“JOHN STUART FRASER?” Miss Seeton repeated the unfamiliar name thoughtfully, welcoming it as a distraction from her memories of the previous day. She looked towards Liusaidh, and frowned. “Fraser—no doubt there is a clan of that name, or at least a—what was the word? Sept?” Liusaidh nodded. Miss Seeton, still frowning, went on: “And surely I have heard of the House of Fraser—the department store? Stuart, of course, would be the Scottish royal family, even though I understand from his lordship that there is currently some other family with a claim to the throne . . .”
“The Sobieksis,” Liusaidh said, as Miss Seeton’s frown grew deeper in an attempt to recall the details. “Archduke Casimir and his sister Clementina, of all the nonsensical names.” She looked at Mel. “Surely you don’t want to know about aspiring Jacobite nobility! There’s a brace of them staying not fifty miles from Glenclachan right now, but they aren’t worth wasting newsprint on, believe me.”
Mel’s eyes gleamed, but Miss Seeton hadn’t heard: she was too busy thinking. “And as for John, really, one has heard so many: Prester John, John Bull, John O’Groats,” she said, with a smile for her Scottish hostess.
“John Anderson, my Jo,” responded Liusaidh. “And, if we feel like another quote from Burns, how about John Barleycorn? Whisky,” she explained, as Miss Seeton looked puzzled and Mel looked blank. She thickened her accent to one Harry Lauder would have admired, and declaimed: “Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,/What dangers thou canst make us scorn !/Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;/Wi’ usquebagh, we’ll face the devil! Tippenny is the dialect for twopenny, ale—tuppence a pint, in the good old days.”
“Really? I had always supposed,” ventured Miss Seeton, “that the song referred to ale and not whisky, though the words are somewhat different, in my recollection. Another version, no doubt, as it seems to me that the final stanza I knew at school was” —she began to hum in a gentle, off-key pipe—“They pour him out of an old brown jug and they call him home-brewed ale.”
Liusaidh said cheerfully, “Well, if that doesn’t sum up the difference between the Scot and the Sassenach. I really don’t know what does. Methods One and Two for making use of the malt . . . What do you think, Miss Forby?”
“I think,” said Mel slowly, “I’m more interested in what Miss S. makes of everything. Not that I intend to drag you into all this, honey”—hastily, and with emphasis—“and I don’t want you dwelling on what happened yesterday, but—how about one of the Seeton Specials, if you can bear it?” And Miss Seeton, twisting her fingers together at the intensity of Mel’s tone, hesitated.
A monumental sniff at this juncture heralded the arrival of Mrs. McScurrie with a laden tray. As the tray was banged down on the low table in front of Liusaidh, the sugar lumps danced in their silver bowl, and the cups clattered on their saucers. Mrs. McScurrie sniffed again, glared at Mel, directed a scowl towards Lady Glenclachan, and remarked to Miss Seeton that her tea, which everyone (with another glare for Mel) knew she preferred, would be here in a few moments, and if there was aught else she needed she’d only to ask. She then turned on her heel, sniffed once more, and flounced out of the room.
; “My goodness,” breathed Liusaidh, following the furious housekeeper with widened eyes. “You’ve certainly won over Mrs. McScurrie, Miss Seeton—how on earth did you manage it? Silly question,” she added, before Miss Seeton could reply. “She absolutely adores the baby, of course. And after what you did for Marguerite . . .”
At Miss Seeton’s blush, the countess drifted into an embarrassed silence. Mel caught her eye, and mouthed I told you so in Miss Seeton’s direction before asking if she could have her coffee black. Liusaidh smiled, and poured, and was about to turn to Miss Seeton when, to her surprise, she saw that her guest was rising to her feet, her fingers writhing, her face wearing a look of frowning abstraction.
“If you would please excuse me,” she murmured and, with a vague smile in Mel’s direction, hurried from the room.
“Oh dear,” said Liusaidh. “You did warn me, didn’t you? I’m afraid it’s because of what I said—”
“It isn’t,” said Mel, the Seeton expert. “It’s me—or do I mean I? Whichever.” She shrugged. “What I said about drawing has started her up—I thought it would. I know the signs. She’s popped off to her room, or wherever she keeps her sketchbook, and she’ll be back in a few minutes with a certain type of drawing that’s going to be, well, kind of interesting, believe me . . .”
Mrs. McScurrie’s disapproval on observing Miss Seeton’s absence was awesome to behold. The month may have been August, but the temperature in the drawing room of MacSporran Castle would have broken January records. “I’ll be away up to her room, then, and telling her there’s a fresh pot of tea waiting,” she said, on learning her favourite’s whereabouts. “The puir wee soul—come here for a holiday, and never allowed a minute’s peace . . .”
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 15