Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14)

by Hamilton Crane

  Miss Seeton Goes to Bat

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Note from the Publisher

  Preview

  Also Available

  About the Miss Seeton series

  About Heron Carvic and Hamilton Crane

  Copyright

  chapter

  ∼ 1 ∼

  OPINION IN PLUMMERGEN was divided.

  Which division, in itself, was unremarkable. The population of this Kentish village has hovered around the five hundred mark since time immemorial: and during that time it has been a rare occasion when two hundred and fifty—or thereabouts—persons have not been at loggerheads with the other—approximately—two hundred and fifty. A few dauntless individualists through the ages have made a point of retreating to the safety of parentheses, but such neutrality has generally been frowned upon. It is seen as no more than one’s plain parochial duty to take sides, for Plummergen does not so much indulge in as thrive upon argument, controversy, discord, and strife. What was good enough in 1189 at the accession of King Richard I is certainly good enough in the latter quarter of the twentieth century. Vengeance may traditionally be the Lord’s, but perennial ideological divergence is, just as traditionally, Plummergen’s.

  Such division of opinion, therefore, was unremarkable. To the true Plummergen expert, however, certain refinements must surely present themselves as remarkable in the extreme: these refinements being the unexpected subdivisions of opinion into which the current convoluted dispute had diversified, such subdivisions being a complication to which Plummergen is not accustomed. And nobody was quite sure how it would all turn out . . .

  It was Mrs. Flax who first polarised Plummergen in three different directions instead of the more usual two. With her basket over her arm, Plummergen’s Wise Woman had made a majestic entrance to Mr. Stillman’s post-office-cum-general-store, where a little crowd of shoppers was busy discussing the latest item of general interest, just as Mrs. Flax had expected—it being the middle of the morning, and village custom long established—would be the case.

  Mrs. Flax listened for a few moments, her eyes beginning to gleam, while conversation surged to and fro about her. Gradually, this silent surveillance reduced the eager gossips to an uncomfortable muttering amongst themselves, as it dawned on them that Mother Flax was waiting to pronounce.

  Which, with every face at last towards her, mutely asking her views, the Wise Woman duly did.

  “At least,” she pointed out, “she didn’t do it here, did she?” And with these few words she split the village, Ancient Gaul-like, into three parts.

  In Plummergen, when spoken with a particular emphasis, “she” can only refer to one person. Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton, who removed from London to Kent some seven years ago when her godmother died and bequeathed to her the picturesque cottage at one end of the village’s main street, has, since her first arrival, been the subject of wildly differing theories and speculations. One school of thought considers her a positive asset to the place, the adventures into which she is plunged never failing to be resolved, with credit, by her own—innocent—actions. She is to be much admired, if not seen as an example to one and all.

  The opposition counters this with claims that Miss Seeton has caused more trouble, and invoked more chaos—deliberately—than any one normal retired art teacher could reasonably be supposed to do: which the pro-Seeton lobby finds hard to deny without appearing ridiculous. Innocent or deliberate in her behaviour, Miss Seeton certainly makes her presence felt in unforgettable fashion . . .

  But at least, on this occasion, she hadn’t done so anywhere near Plummergen.

  “Front page of the paper, so it was,” said Mrs. Skinner, an avid reader—as is most of the village—of that popular publication, the Daily Negative. “Sensation in Scotland, it said. And didn’t Miss Seeton go to stay with some lord in the Highlands only the other day?”

  “And look whose name’s on the top line,” said young Mrs. Newport. “That Amelita Forby, as is always coming down here writing Plummergen Pieces, and about the Battling Brolly—stands to reason it’s Miss Seeton again, doesn’t it?”

  Everyone had to agree that, though Amelita Forby had not specified Miss Seeton by name (“Yes, but she never does, does she? Sneaky, I calls it!”), the inference, to those familiar with the little spinster, was obvious. Miss Seeton had been At It again . . .

  “At least,” said Mrs. Flax, “she didn’t do it here, did she? Peace and quiet, for once—and I’m sure,” she added virtuously, “there’s nobody likes a peaceful life more than I do.”

  Thoughts turned to some of the Wise Woman’s less peaceful pastimes—ill-wishing; love-philtres; the potent charms used to banish the aftereffects of the love-philtres’ efficacy—but nobody ventured to contradict her. Nobody, that is, except Mrs. Scillicough, sister to young Mrs. Newport.

  Mrs. Scillicough and Mrs. Newport were Plummergen’s contribution to the population explosion, as well as a classic example of sibling rivalry. Mrs. Newport had four children under the age of five, and an automatic washing machine; Mrs. Scillicough had triplets, and a twin-tub. Mrs. Newport’s brood was as well behaved—after an ambiguous start, sternly suppressed—as could reasonably be expected of so youthful a quartet; Mrs. Scillicough’s triplets were a village byword for utter frightfulness. For which reason, a desperate Mrs. Scillicough had approached Mrs. Flax with pleas for help: had been prescribed various herbal concoctions and incantations: had used these with ever-increasing urgency—and had found them sadly wanting.

  For which reason Mrs. Scillicough stoutly refused to afford the Wise Woman the respect Mrs. Flax, and most of Plummergen’s other inhabitants, believed to be her due.

  Mrs. Scillicough tossed her head and scowled. “Peaceful life? There’s none of you knows the meaning of the word! But what if it is peaceful here when Miss Seeton goes away? At least she brings a spot of life to this dump! Pictures in the paper, and reporters—”

  “And the telly,” broke in Emmy Putts from behind the grocery counter, where she dreamed perpetually of being Discovered by some passing producer and whisked off to stardom in Hollywood movies—or, failing the films, on television. “Lots of telly people we allus gets here when Miss Seeton’s up to her tricks, don’t we? Only this time, they’ve all gone off to Scotland! It’s not—it’s not fair!”

  “Now really, Emmeline . . . ,” began Mrs. Stillman; but her protest went ignored. Emmy’s plaintive cry seemed to have touched a nerve with a certain rebellious element among the shoppers, who murmured, and grumbled; though they still cast doubtful glances in the direction of Mrs. Flax.

  “Sensation in Scotland indeed,” said Mrs. Henderson, with a sniff, and a glare for Mrs. Skinner. These two ladies had fallen out over the flower-arranging rota in church, and one had only to suppo
rt a particular party line for the other to be heard denouncing it. “What’s she want to go gallivanting off with lords for? Aren’t we good enough for her?”

  “After all the fuss she made about retiring down here, when Old Mrs. Bannet left her that cottage,” said young Mrs. Newport, who lived in one of the council houses at the far end of the village.

  “She’s gone on holiday,” retorted Mrs. Scillicough, who lived in another. “And if a body can’t have a holiday once in a while, it’s a poor lookout, that’s what I say!”

  “Holiday? When that reporter woman’s gone with her, as bold as brass?”

  “No more than a put-up job, so it was . . .”

  “Gets paid for a story, line by line . . .”

  “There’s bin stories enough around these parts for a while, I reckon . . .”

  “But Miss Seeton—” emphatically—“lives here!”

  Which five crisp words encapsulated the difference of opinion. The pro-Seeton lobby had long ago given up arguing their heroine’s merits, unless pushed to the limit by utter folly on the part of her detractors: life, said Miss Seeton’s friends, was too short. Besides, they tried to avoid shopping when the anti-Seetonites were liable to be out in force: it was far less exhausting; with the result that the group which harboured the darkest suspicions of Miss Seeton was generally able to voice such suspicions among others of a similar persuasion with perfect freedom: a freedom which they were happy to exercise—and frequently did.

  But all at once the happy freedom had proved false, the similarity mere illusion. Miss Seeton had been up to her tricks yet again: well, this came as no surprise. A week seldom passed without her doing something to set local—if not, courtesy of the press, national—tongues wagging. But that she had performed these latest tricks many miles from her native—(or at least adopted)—hearth was nothing less than an insult—or a matter for relief and celebration, depending upon one’s point of view. Of that fifty per cent of Plummergen which regarded Miss Seeton as . . . well, as odd, half were only too thankful she had removed that oddness from their vicinity for a time; while the other half were annoyed that she had apparently seen fit to ignore their claim to a share—albeit vicarious—in her fame by indulging in her antics at the opposite end of the country.

  The group headed by Mrs. Flax found itself unable to understand that fronted by Mrs. Scillicough. Everyone felt at cross-purposes: but not in the usual way, which they could have accepted, and even enjoyed. They were all, to a woman, decidedly unnerved by the feeling. It went far deeper than most of their habitual skirmishes: they found themselves in agreement on one level while, at the same time, in absolute disagreement on the other. They had been knocked decidedly off-balance . . .

  Of course, they knew who was really to blame. The odd influence of Miss Seeton clearly continued to exert itself even during her absence many miles away: on this, at least, everyone could agree. But as to the other matter . . . would either side feel able to back down, or to modify its views? Unlikely, given the intensity of previous quarrels, whether or not caused by Miss Seeton. They needed some new direction for their thoughts, in order to restore their former unity of sentiment and purpose . . .

  But, though everyone saw the danger at the same time and undertook some frantic cogitation, nobody could think of anything. An awkward silence descended on the post office. People found themselves unable to meet one another’s eyes. Mrs. Flax surveyed the havoc she had wrought and fell to brooding on Miss Seeton’s skill in long-distance enchantment, which she herself, for all her vaunted prowess as a wise woman, had never possessed. Like Emmy Putts, Mrs. Flax felt it was unfair; and was about to risk the faraway wrath of that foreign witch by saying so, when the bell over the door tinkled—and in walked salvation.

  The long and the short of it, in fact. Tall, thin, and equine of feature, Miss Erica Nuttel accompanied her friend, the dumpy, dark-eyed Mrs. Norah “Bunny” Blaine, noted in the village for her bad temper and her subsequent sulks. These two ladies, whose little house, Lilikot, is situated almost directly opposite the post office, spend every spare moment at their plate-glass windows observing Plummergen life and passing public comment on it thereafter. The accuracy of such comment is a matter of small importance to the Nuts, as Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine are collectively known. Plummergen has always regarded any bulletin from The Nut House with great interest and with much scepticism; but it is supposed there is always some grain of truth in these bulletins somewhere, if only it can be found.

  And, if it can’t, who cares? A good time is nonetheless had by all. Plummergen not only thrives on argument, controversy, discord, and strife: it revels in speculation, gossip, and wild surmise as well. And it now welcomed the Nuts with smiles of relief and expectant looks: it recognised the demeanour of people with News to impart.

  Miss Nuttel surveyed the assembled shoppers with an air of lofty disinterest and took herself off to study the revolving book-stand while Bunny fumbled in her string bag for the inside-out envelope on which she had jotted her list. Neither Nut seemed aware of the pregnant hush which filled the post office; and Mrs. Blaine was ushered to the front of the queue with little cries that no, of course it didn’t matter, they were in no hurry and she was to go right ahead. The Nuts invariably impart their most interesting news when pretending to be busy doing something else.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Blaine with demur, “if you’re sure you don’t mind . . .” A general chorus insisted that they didn’t. “Too considerate of you all, when we’re in such a hurry to catch up—Eric and I are a little behind this morning.” And not a smirk was directed towards Mrs Blaine’s ample rear: matters were too important for such levity. When would she come to the point? “Eric,” called Mrs. Blaine—an indrawn collective breath. Was it to be now?—“Eric, I can’t quite make out what I wrote. Can it really say bicycle spokes?”

  The collective breath was exhaled with relief. It was to be now. Even for the Nuts, a reference to bicycles would be so bizarre that Plummergen knew it must in fact refer to whatever it was that Miss Nuttel and her friend wished to relate; and Plummergen waited eagerly for the rest of the equation.

  “Better let me see,” said Miss Nuttel, striding across from the books and taking the proffered envelope, over which she frowned for a few tense seconds. Then she nodded and looked up. “Not bicycle spokes, Bunny—Brussels sprouts. Understandable mistake, though.”

  “Yes, of course, too silly of me.” Mrs. Blaine, beaming, retrieved her list and turned to Emmy Putts. “Two pounds of stone-ground flour, please, Emmy. I suppose it was because of seeing that girl. Too muddling—and a packet of oatmeal—when she rode that bicycle as bold as brass up to the door of the George—and a small bottle of olive oil. When one hardly expects any but the most exclusive—goodness, I had no idea the price had gone up so much. Better make that sunflower, instead. Such a remarkable-looking young woman, one has to admit. Perhaps,” suggested Mrs Blaine, “she’s an eccentric millionaire? Everyone knows how much Mr. Mountfitchet has been able to increase his charges since the Best Kept Village Competition, don’t they, Eric? Eric?”

  But Miss Nuttel’s air of lofty disinterest, which had, after her deciphering of Bunny’s scribble, been reinstated, was now changed to one of intense concentration on the view through Mr. Stillman’s own plate-glass window. “Bunny!” cried Miss Nuttel, ignoring her friend’s George and Dragon millionaire guest motif. “Across the road—look!”

  Mrs. Blaine was promptly elbowed to one side by a concerted rush for a frontline view from the post office to the other side of The Street, as Plummergen’s main thoroughfare is known: to Lilikot, otherwise known as The Nut House, at which the taller of the two Nuts appeared to be staring . . .

  Or was she? As feet jostled for space, heads craned, and one or two more devious souls began to remove from the window the tallest items obstructing their line of vision, everyone saw that it was not what was happening to her house that worried Miss Nuttel. It was what was happening to the house
next door which had caught her, and now their, undivided attention.

  chapter

  ∼ 2 ∼

  ASHFORD, FIFTEEN MILES northeast of Plummergen, is not the county town of Kent, but is nevertheless the headquarters for the local police force. PC Potter, who with his wife Mabel, his daughter Amelia, and Amelia’s notorious tabby cat Tibs, resides in Plummergen’s police house, is only one of many village bobbies who report to their town-based superior anything they feel Old Brimstone needs to know.

  Superintendent Chris Brinton, based in Ashford, always suspected that he was regularly kept in the dark about certain aspects of rural life, but was never able to prove his suspicion; and was inclined to adopt the attitude that, on the whole, the ground force was a better judge of what was really important than the desk-bound johnnie he was afraid he’d become. Ignorance, decided Superintendent Brinton, was definitely bliss in many cases, as far as he was concerned.

  His one deviation from this comfortable working theory was in the case of Plummergen, home to Miss Emily Seeton. PC Potter had standing orders to disturb his superior—at home, if necessary—at any hour of the night or day should anything remotely untoward occur within a five-mile radius of the retired art teacher, or—in her absence—her house. It was—Superintendent Brinton advised his friend and colleague, Chief Superintendent Delphick of Scotland Yard—much safer that way. And Delphick, who had been responsible for Miss Seeton’s first involvement with the constabulary—and had overseen her recruitment to the force as an Art Consultant—could in all honesty do nothing but agree with him.

  But today’s reports, over which the superintendent was poring, contained nothing from PC Potter; and Brinton hummed to himself as he reached the final sheet in the folder, and smiled. He reached into his pocket for one of the triple-strength peppermints to which he was hopelessly addicted, and smiled again. He even, as he popped the peppermint into his mouth, whistled a little tune.

  “Hey, sir!” Detective Constable Foxon leaped from his chair and came rushing to thump his superior on the back. “Are you all right?”