“I’m sure,” Mel told him, “she’d be pleased to lend you Yoga and Younger Every Day for as long as you wanted—she must know it backwards by now, and if she thought you were interested—well, she’s not one to interfere, of course, but she does love to be of use. She’s been dropping hints about this”—indicating her bandaged ankle, from which emanated the faint effluvia of Armorel’s latest embrocation—“ever since she came out of hospital. She feels it’s partly her fault I strained it—looking for her, you see.”
“Poor Miss Seeton,” said Liusaidh, with a smile, and a sigh. But Mel shook her head.
“You’ve no need to feel sorry for Miss S., believe me. She never does. Whatever happens to her, she just—well”—with a laugh in Ranald’s direction—“bounces back, every time. Mind you, she scares the life out of all her friends, because we’re always afraid her luck’s going to run out one day—but anyone who can survive being bopped on the head and almost blown up by a gang of anarchists is pretty much a born survivor, in my opinion. And thank goodness for that!”
Miss Seeton had been invited to take afternoon tea with Miss Beigg, and it was while she was still there that Liusaidh telephoned to invite Philomena to accompany her guest back to the castle for dinner. Ranald, it seemed, had one final piece of news to impart: the real reason for the death of Ewen Campbell.
“He found the gold mine, surely?” Philomena tried not to show it, but her disappointment was plain. “You mean those veins in the boulder were something utterly boring like iron pyrites, or copper, instead? I can’t believe it!”
Ranald handed her a glass of Rainbird whisky, telling her that just because her father had been teetotal it didn’t mean she had to be. Philomena chuckled—but weakly. “I’m sure I was right,” she protested, and he nodded.
“In a way, yes—but there was rather more to the veins than you thought, you know. Didn’t they strike you as . . . as rather washed-out-looking, for gold?”
“Don’t know,” said Philomena, while Mel sat up suddenly and didn’t even notice she’d jogged her ankle. She had just remembered that last still life Miss Seeton had drawn, where the gold of the pearl necklace had seemed so very pale . . .
“I’ve never seen gold in the raw, so to speak,” Philomena said, frowning. “But it looked like gold—like gold as one imagines it to look, in its natural state . . .”
Ranald poured drinks for the others, then helped himself to whisky, and sighed. “I’ve had a lengthy lecture on mineral deposits from the geologist the police brought in, and I’m not sure I remember all of what he said—but the gist of it should be enough, I fancy.” He cleared his throat. “When metals and minerals are found in the, um, wild—ores, and so forth—they don’t necessarily occur singly. I mean they might be mixed with other metals—copper and nickel are often found together, I gather. And Hamish McQueest was smart enough to recognise that the gold he discovered didn’t come, er, neat, as it were”—with a desperate sip of whisky to inspire him—“but was mixed with another metal, one that gave it a pale appearance . . .”
“Silver,” suggested Philomena, in a tone of anticlimax.
“Platinum,” said Ranald simply. Everyone stared.
Mel said, “Platinum’s kind of valuable, right? Twice as expensive as gold, or whatever? And McQueest found it just lying around on the moor?”
“Oh, there was rather more to his discovery than that—he had to work his way up the vein from traces he’d found lower down, traces of exposed and decayed ore that signalled something worth hunting for nearby—but he’d had to recognise what they meant to begin with. Which he did. All of us, remember, had been brought up on tales of a gold mine, with the understanding that it was already there, and hadn’t been weathered out of obvious existence. If it ever existed at all, of course. There are pockets of gold all over the Highlands, you know, and it’s more than likely that a folk memory of a mine already known about was grafted into Glenclachan—Miss Beigg will know more than I do about how such things can occur. But there’s a zone fifty miles long, and around twenty miles wide, from Oban to Aberfeldy, where gold has been found—still is, in small quantities. Anyone can take a pan and a pair of gum boots and start wading around in the burn to see if they’ll make their fortune.”
“Interesting waterways in your part of the world,” said Mel. “Pearls, gold—salmon, of course . . .” Salmon was on that evening’s dinner menu, in one of Mrs. McScurrie’s finest sauces. “All worth money, and quite right too. But granted it’s expensive, what use is it? Platinum, I mean. I guess anyone would think it was worth killing somebody for a plain old gold mine”—with a quick look at Miss Seeton, who clicked her tongue sorrowfully, but couldn’t help listening with much interest—“but what does anyone use platinum for?”
Ranald cleared his throat again, and frowned. “Industrial and scientific uses mainly, I gather, because it has, er, exceptionally high resistance to corrosion, and it makes an excellent catalyst. Especially in the refining of petroleum, and in the manufacture of, um, certain important acids whose names and functions escape me. Oh, and it can be used to coat, and line, and otherwise protect, er, various pieces of equipment—optical lenses, electrodes—oh, jewellery as well, of course . . .”
“Let’s hear it for the jewellery,” muttered Mel, while Philomena was more outspoken.
“How very boring,” she said.
“But deadly,” added Mel, then frowned. “That sketch of yours with all the birds, Miss S.—did you ever work out what they were?” And she bet herself a new hat that they’d be platinum flycatchers, or something of the sort. Otherwise, what had been the point of drawing them in the first place?
Miss Seeton looked round vaguely. “My sketchbook is in the hall,” she said at last. “But, if you’re really interested, Mel dear . . .”
“I’m interested. On the chest, I suppose?” But before Mel could limp along to fetch it, Philomena was before her. Miss Seeton’s unique talent had been explained in a private moment, and she, too, had been sworn to secrecy.
On her return, with a quick enquiring look at Miss Seeton, she handed the book to Mel, who flipped through its pages for the she-didn’t-know-how-manyth time. “Birds,” she said triumphantly, as she found the sketch Miss Seeton had drawn on the day she found Ewen Campbell’s body. “Ducks or something similar, and sparrows? Any idea what they really are?” And she looked at Miss Seeton expectantly.
Miss Seeton blushed, and twisted her fingers together as Mel smiled. Philomena, natural history expert, took the book when Miss Seeton made no further move. She studied the sketch for a moment, then chuckled. “Members of the duck family, without a doubt. Bucephala clangula, at a guess—the, er, goldeneye.” At Mel’s quick gasp and knowing nod, she chuckled again. “The smaller birds, I suggest, would be either gold-crested wrens or goldfinches . . .”
And everyone regarded Miss Seeton with much respect. An awkward silence was broken at last by Mel. “Guess I’ll be treating myself to a new hat next time I’m in Brettenden, Miss S. A Monica Mary special, I reckon I deserve!”
Miss Seeton, relieved that the topic of conversation had so fortunately been diverted from herself, smiled absently, and murmured that she looked forward to dear Mel’s visit, but then she turned to Ranald, blushing again.
“Although, as Miss Beigg says, platinum is rather unromantic, one has to admit, I think, that gold is not only far more attractive, but has even more practical applications—my umbrella, for instance . . . and also one can paint window frames with gold leaf, which needs very little maintenance, according to dear Lady Colveden.” She coughed delicately. “One hesitates to interfere, Lord Glenclachan, but MacSporran Castle is far larger than Rytham Hall, with a great many windows. And, as these must require painting far more often—with being so far north, you know—and as one assumes the land on which the gold was found belongs to you . . .”
“I only wish it did,” said Ranald, while Mel regarded Miss Seeton with amusement. A sensational discovery, in
which she’d played an important, though as usual unwitting, part—and all she could think of was somebody else’s household maintenance. When they made her, they certainly broke the mould.
But it was Philomena Beigg who produced the telling, final phrase. “Miss Seeton,” she said, “you really are, if I may say so, a pearl without price . . .”
Note from the Publisher
While he was alive, series creator Heron Carvic had tremendous fun imagining Emily Seeton and the supporting cast of characters.
In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her lead . . .”
You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr
Preview
COMING SOON
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat . . .
“Good gracious me.” She blinked again. The picture did not change. There was Plummergen’s playing field, on which in winter football matches were fought out with rival teams, but which in summer was dedicated to England’s national game—no, religion.
In the foreground, the back view of a watching umpire, his shadow flickering on the grass. The players he was watching stood together, close to the familiar three-stumped shape of the wicket, as if about to discuss some change of tactics; with their heads—their faces—turned so that the umpire, and anyone looking at the sketch, could clearly see them. There they were, all of them old friends, all of them—having been born east of the Medway—Men of Kent, as opposed to those who, born west of the river, must be called Kentishmen. But English through and through, of that there could be no doubt . . .
So why, wondered Miss Seeton, were their facial features so very . . . oriental? The slanted, dark eyes; the flattened noses; the hint of swarthiness about the skin . . .
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The Fox Among the Chickens . . .
The squawking from the hen-houses continued unabated. Miss Seeton arrived at the runs. She beat the wire door with her umbrella.
“Stop that,” she called. “Stop that at once, do you hear me?”
“Sure, lady. I hear you.”
She gasped. A shadow moved forward, reached through the wire and unhooked the door. With the moon behind him Miss Seeton could see little but a dark shape muffled in a coat, a hat pulled low. But the moon shone on the barrel of the pistol he held.
“Now, just take it nice and easy, lady. Back to the house and no noise, see.”
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About the Miss Seeton series
Retired art teacher Miss Seeton steps in where Scotland Yard stumbles. Armed with only her sketch pad and umbrella, she is every inch an eccentric English spinster and at every turn the most lovable and unlikely master of detection.
Reviews of the Miss Seeton series:
“Miss Seeton gets into wild drama with fine touches of farce . . . This is a lovely mixture of the funny and the exciting.”
San Francisco Chronicle
“A most beguiling protagonist!”
New York Times
“This is not so much black comedy as black-currant comedy . . . You can't stop reading. Or laughing.”
The Sun
“She’s a joy!”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Not since Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple has there been a more lovable female dabbler in crime and suspense.”
Amarillo News
“Depth of description and lively characters bring this English village to life.”
Publishers Weekly
Further titles in the series:
Picture Miss Seeton
A night at the opera strikes a chord of danger when Miss Seeton witnesses a murder . . . and paints a portrait of the killer.
Miss Seeton Draws the Line
Miss Seeton is enlisted by Scotland Yard when her paintings of a little girl turn the young subject into a model for murder.
Witch Miss Seeton
Double, double, toil and trouble sweep through the village when Miss Seeton goes undercover . . . to investigate a local witches’ coven!
Miss Seeton Sings
Miss Seeton boards the wrong plane and lands amidst a gang of European counterfeiters. One false note, and her new destination is deadly indeed.
Odds on Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton in diamonds and furs at the roulette table? It’s all a clever disguise for the high-rolling spinster . . . but the game of money and murder is all too real.
Miss Seeton, By Appointment
Miss Seeton is off to Buckingham Palace on a secret mission—but to foil a jewel heist, she must risk losing the Queen’s head . . . and her own neck!
Advantage, Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton’s summer outing to a tennis match serves up more than expected when Britain’s up-and-coming female tennis star is hounded by mysterious death threats.
Miss Seeton at the Helm
Miss Seeton takes a whirlwind cruise to the Mediterranean—bound for disaster. A murder on board leads the seafaring sleuth into some very stormy waters.
Miss Seeton Cracks the Case
It’s highway robbery for the innocent passengers of a motor coach tour. When Miss Seeton sketches the roadside bandits, she becomes a moving target herself.
Miss Seeton Paints the Town
The Best Kept Village Competition inspires Miss Seeton’s most unusual artwork—a burning cottage—and clears the smoke of suspicion in a series of local fires.
Hands Up, Miss Seeton
The gentle Miss Seeton? A thief? A preposterous notion—until she’s accused of helping a pickpocket . . . and stumbles into a nest of crime.
Miss Seeton by Moonlight
Scotland Yard borrows one of Miss Seeton’s paintings to bait an art thief . . . when suddenly a second thief strikes.
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle
It takes all of Miss Seeton’s best instincts—maternal and otherwise—to solve a crime that’s hardly child’s play.
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat
Miss Seeton’s in on the action when a cricket game leads to mayhem in the village of Plummergen . . . and gives her a shot at smashing Britain’s most baffling burglary ring.
Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion
Miss Seeton was tending her garden when a local youth was arrested for murder. Now she has to find out who’s really at the root of the crime.
Starring Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton’s playing a backstage role in the village’s annual Christmas pageant. But the real drama is behind the scenes . . . when the next act turns out to be murder!
Miss Seeton Undercover
The village is abuzz, as a TV crew searches for a rare apple, the Plummergen Peculier—while police hunt a murderous thief . . . and with Miss Seeton at the centre of it all.
Miss Seeton Rules
Royalty comes to Plummergen, and the villagers are plotting a grand impression. But when Princess Georgina goes missing, Miss Seeton herself has questions to answer.
Sold to Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton accidentally buys a mysterious antique box at auction . . . and finds herself crossing paths with some very dangerous characters!
Sweet Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton is stalked by a confectionary sculptor, just as a spate of suspicious deaths among the village’s elderly residents calls for her attention.
Bonjour, Miss Seeton
After a trip to explore the French countryside, a case of murder awaits Miss Seeton back in the village . . . and a shocking revelation.
Miss Seeton’s Finest Hour
War-time England, and a young Miss Emily Seeton’s suspicious sketches call her loyalty into question—until she is recruited to unc
over a case of sabotage.
About Heron Carvic and Hamilton Crane
The Miss Seeton series was created by Heron Carvic; and continued after his death first by Peter Martin writing as Hampton Charles, and later by Sarah J. Mason under the pseudonym Hamilton Crane.
Heron Carvic was an actor and writer, most recognisable today for his voice portrayal of the character Gandalf in the first BBC Radio broadcast version of The Hobbit, and appearances in several television productions, including early series of The Avengers and Dr Who.
Born Geoffrey Richard William Harris in 1913, he held several early jobs including as an interior designer and florist, before developing a successful dramatic career and his public persona of Heron Carvic. He only started writing the Miss Seeton novels in the 1960s, after using her in a short story.
Heron Carvic died in a car accident in Kent in 1980.
Hamilton Crane is the pseudonym used by Sarah J. Mason when writing 13 sequels and one prequel to the Miss Seeton series. She has also written detective fiction under her own name, but should not be confused with the Sarah Mason (no middle initial) who writes a rather different kind of book.
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 23