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

by Hamilton Crane

  Which artless invitation, unconscious of the cricketing-sketch scheme lurking in her hostess’s mind, Miss Seeton was—after some moment’s polite demur—happy to accept.

  She settled herself back in her favourite chair in the sitting room and began to read the magazine which dear Jack Crabbe had so kindly given her. The clock on the overmantel merrily ticked, the washing machine busily whirred in the background. Miss Seeton sipped her tea, and leafed through learned pages, and felt so very glad to be at home again. How peaceful it all was . . .

  Peace might well reign in Sweetbriars, but in Lilikot there was much frenzied whispering and frantic peering from upper windows as the Nuts tried to make out what Admiral Leighton planned to do with his long, white wooden post. They had, with the rest of the shopping gossips, watched the six workmen carry the post round the lorry and into the garden of Ararat Cottage; and Mrs. Blaine had been induced—by a display of willpower Mrs. Stillman hadn’t realised she possessed—to come back and complete her purchases, though it had not been Emmy Putts, resolutely deaf among the gossips, but her employer who eventually served Bunny with the oatmeal, sunflower oil, brussels sprouts, and other items she was not to be permitted to forget.

  Having paid for her groceries and stuffed them grumpily in her bag, Mrs. Blaine went back outside to collect Eric, who hurried home with her and then meanly—so thought Bunny—rushed to lay claim to one of the best snooping spots in Lilikot, while she—too unfair—had to unpack the shopping and put it away. The kitchen, at the back of the house, was downstairs: the best view of the admiral’s mysterious wooden post was to be had from the landing, upstairs. Mrs. Blaine’s little black eyes snapped as she banged tins on the counter, and slammed drawers, and made a great clatter among the cupboards.

  It was with an angry face that Mrs. Blaine at last joined Miss Nuttel by the open window; but Eric was too enthralled by what was going on below to take any notice of Bunny’s moods. On sensing her friend’s arrival, she grunted a quick greeting and then moved a token inch to one side, not relaxing her concentration for a moment from the sight and sound of Admiral Leighton in his front garden, urging on his crew to the completion of their task. And Mrs. Blaine, still determined to let Miss Nuttel know just how cross she felt about it all, soon found her own attention caught by what was happening.

  “Why, I never noticed them digging that hole! Did you, Eric?” Mrs. Blaine felt aggrieved all over again. Somehow, she had missed the chance to speculate that the admiral, his underworld connections now a certainty in her mind, planned to bury the corpse of some criminal colleague in an unmarked grave in his own front garden. Her only consolation would be if Eric, too, had missed it.

  Miss Nuttel shrugged; she’d had time to overcome her own sense of grievance, time to prepare herself to sound casual and knowing. “Could have been a rosebush,” she said. “Or a tree . . .” Eric’s share of the Lilikot lifestyle involved much outdoor work which Mrs. Blaine found lacking in interest, as well as too physically wearisome.

  “Flagpole, though,” said Miss Nuttel. For, by the time Bunny appeared at her side, it had become clear to Eric that the long, painted post brought by the builders and now being erected in the front garden of Ararat Cottage could be nothing else. And, peeved though she might be, Mrs. Blaine knew that the muttered identification her friend saw fit to offer could hardly be denied. Even she could recognise the metal rings, the arrangement of strings and ropes and—

  “Halyards,” said Miss Nuttel, in assured accents, as the admiral, his flagpole now finished, began experimenting with hoists and pulleys, checking that everything moved smoothly. The concrete already looked less runny than it had before; ballast and gravel and wedges had played their part; and the admiral appeared pleased by the successful conclusion of his arrangements, turning to the workmen with a cheerful invitation to come into the house and splice the mainbrace while he wrote out the final cheque.

  “Well!” Mrs. Blaine, being so much shorter, lost sight of the little procession before Miss Nuttel did. She turned to stare again at the flagpole where it stood proudly in its solid base, bare of flag or pennant or standard. “Too sinister, Eric, I must say! Everything done in such a hurry—digging that hole so quickly—so much concrete, and drying so very fast—I’d be interested to know”—darkly—“whether there’s anything else at the bottom of that hole besides earth and cement. Or”—even more darkly—“anyone. You,” with a monumental sniff, “had by far the best view. Didn’t you notice anything? You must have done!”

  Miss Nuttel grunted. She had indeed had a grandstand view of almost the entire proceeding; and, much though she would have enjoyed the idea of a mysterious bundle at the bottom of the hole, had seen nothing of the sort—and took much delight in informing Mrs. Blaine of this fact. If Bunny was going to be disagreeable, Eric in her turn was just as capable of disagreement. Besides, she had other matters on her mind: other questions to be asked, other speculations to be made . . .

  “Suspicious,” said Miss Nuttel, with a backward jerk of her head in the distant direction of Sweetbriars, at the far end of The Street. “Came back today, didn’t she? Crabbe’s sent a car—and now this.” Through the open landing window she indicated the flagpole in the admiral’s garden, in full view of every passerby.

  “Signalling,” said Erica Nuttel, and slammed the window shut.

  chapter

  ∼ 7 ∼

  WHILE THE NUTS were so preoccupied with the problem of the admiral’s flagpole, the matter of the mysterious cyclist, whose appearance that morning at the George and Dragon had prompted Mrs Blaine’s remarks about brussels sprouts and eccentric millionaires, faded utterly from their minds. On an ordinary day, however, they would happily have thrashed the topic to microscopic pieces amongst themselves and the rest of the customers in Mr Stillman’s post office, because she was really a remarkably attractive girl . . .

  She was really a remarkably attractive girl. Nigel Colveden, driving from Rytham Hall with half his attention on the MG’s engine and the other half on the road, had first spotted her as she slowed to a halt outside the hotel, then dismounted to push her laden bicycle across the paved front yard and rest it against the porch step. Nigel was no snob. Landlord Charley Mountfitchet’s guests could arrive on foot if they liked, or by bus; but the normal style of arrival was by car, whether the visitor’s own vehicle or one of the local taxis. Newcomers to the district might wheeze and lurch their way from Brettenden railway station in aged Mr Baxter’s asthmatic hire car; old hands preferred the more reliable service offered by Crabbe’s Garage. But Nigel couldn’t think of anyone who’d ever arrived by bike before, and he looked at the cyclist with some interest . . .

  And then looked again, with a great deal of interest, for she was really a remarkably attractive girl. Long, wavy blonde hair which gleamed richly in the sun; a shapely form, and—she was wearing shorts—sensational legs. Nigel gulped, and breathed in hard as he brought the car to a juddering halt on the corner where Marsh Road joined The Street; and continued to stare at the vision on the front step of the George and Dragon opposite.

  The vision turned as she heard the note of the MG’s engine change. Even from the other side of The Street, Nigel could see that her eyes were a deep cornflower blue; her skin flawless and lightly tanned; her lips a full, generous, soft pink; and her teeth, as she parted those lips in a smile, a row of perfect pearls. “Gosh,” breathed Nigel as the vision smiled again, unoffended by his obvious interest. And no wonder: she must be accustomed to admiration from everyone everywhere she went . . .

  “Oh, gosh,” said Nigel again, as the vision ventured a little wave in his direction and smiled all the more. What further hint could a red-blooded male ask? Nigel swung the MG round sharply to the left, pulled in to the kerb outside Winesart’s bakery, switched off the engine, and darted diagonally across The Street to enquire, still breathless:

  “I say—do you need any help parking your bike?”

  It was the best he could ma
nage at such short notice, and he felt rather foolish as he said it. She didn’t laugh at him, though; she simply smiled again and shook her head.

  “Thanks. You’re very kind, but I can manage.” Her voice was lilting and low, with a touch of huskiness that sent delightful shivers down Nigel’s spine. “We’re used to coping by ourselves, Edgar and I—still, thank you for offering. I appreciate your kindness.”

  The look in those blue eyes spoke volumes for the sincerity of her appreciation, and Nigel wondered whether it would be pushing his luck to risk the wrath of the as-yet-unseen Edgar by continuing the conversation. After a quick look up The Street, which showed no signs of movement, cyclic or otherwise, he ventured:

  “Are you, er, planning to stay at the George?” Another foolish question—what else would she be doing on the doorstep, if not wanting to go in? Though she could, of course, be looking for work, rather than having a holiday. Those baggage carriers strapped to the rear frame of her bike, the fruit-juice containers at the front, suggested a seasoned traveller. She might be an Australian or a New Zealander, backpacking round the Old Country, surviving on casual employment; though she’d sounded as English as his own family.

  “It seems to be a nice hotel.” The girl smiled again. “Would you say it was sufficiently respectable for a lone, lorn female?”

  Nigel blinked. He glanced up The Street again. “You’re by yourself?” His heart gave a little thump. “Aren’t you—aren’t you waiting for your, er, Edgar?” They’d had a quarrel—he’d tried to bully this sweet creature—she’d fled in panic—he himself might be her only hope when the angry Edgar caught up with her . . . And Nigel squared his shoulders, made muscular by years of working on the farm, and did his best to look like Sir Galahad waiting to slay the dragon—or, he added to himself with a smile, Saint George.

  The girl smiled back, her trill of laughter as musical as birdsong. “Oh, I’ve no need to wait for Edgar—he’s as punctual as I am! And he never goes anywhere without me, just as I hardly ever go anywhere without him.” She patted the handlebars of her bicycle. “Let me introduce you to Edgar—and, before you ask, it’s because my name is Annabelle Leigh, although . . .” She spelled it for him, and smiled again, ruefully. “My parents shared an enthusiasm for Poe—I’m only thankful it wasn’t for Tennyson. Imagine being called Maud, in this day and age!”

  Nigel, trying to imagine it, shook his head as he introduced himself. Annabelle suited this glorious girl as no other name possibly could: why she should even dream of being called Maud he couldn’t think. But Annabelle Leigh had a delicate, romantic, poetic sound . . . “Annabelle,” he said and returned her smile. “I do hope you’re going to stay in Plummergen a good, long time.”

  “I might. It seems an attractive place.” Had he heard a slight pause before that final word? Her beautiful eyes sparkled at him, and Nigel allowed himself to hope that he had. “Very . . . flat,” she said, patting the handlebars once more. “My last working holiday was in Norfolk.”

  “Prairie farming,” came the automatic response before he checked himself. “Er, yes. You know, I’d always assumed Australians had an accent you could cut with a knife, but your voice is, well . . .” And, struggling for a compliment of sufficient force, he mumbled into a confused silence as the wide cornflower gaze showed nothing but pure amazement.

  “What on earth made you think I was Australian? I’m as English as the next man—or woman! Oh, of course,” and she nodded towards the loaded baggage carriers. “The working holiday bit. Well, I just thought one day, if the Aussies and Kiwis can do it, why not me? I don’t mind hard work, though it’s better to find something you’re good at, and which you enjoy—especially if the money’s not brilliant—which I have. I’ll bet,” she told him with pride, “I’m the first journeyman artist you’ve ever met, aren’t I?”

  Nigel blinked again. “I, er, suppose so,” he said, with caution. Artist, of course, he recognised—a vision of his old friend Miss Seeton floated briefly across his inward eye—but as to journeyman . . . “You, er, must travel a lot,” and he studied the sturdy bicycle tyres with their deep treads, and tried not to let his glance drift to Annabelle’s legs, in their practical—but so flattering—shorts. Anything less masculine than their slim, tanned, smooth shapeliness it was hard to envisage.

  Annabelle smiled. “I travel, yes—I need to breathe different air all the time, I need to be free, though that’s not why I call myself a journeyman artist. It comes from the French,” she explained kindly. “Journée—the length of one day: the period for which a journeyman is paid for his, or her, work. Just as I’m hired on a daily basis, so I’m paid the same way. I’m free to come and go as I please, you see—anywhere”—as she patted the handlebars again—“provided there aren’t too many hills.”

  “Say it again,” begged Nigel. “You were absolutely perfect—I mean, that’s how it sounded. The French, I mean. So . . . so attractive.” And he wondered briefly whether it had been thoughts of Miss Seeton that made him so confused, or the devastating closeness of Miss Annabelle Leigh. The latter, he decided, as once more her lips parted, first in a smile, then in slow motion as she obligingly murmured “Journée,” adding:

  “The attraction of opposites, perhaps? You don’t speak French, obviously. But do you know what the opposite of day is, Nigel? Night—la nuit, in French. The moon is la lune—the stars are les étoiles. Love is l’amour . . .”

  “Gosh,” said Nigel, as she came to a halt. “I mean—it sounds so . . . so French, when you say it.”

  “So it should—I read French at university before I decided to treat myself to a sabbatical. I don’t want to settle down and join the rat race until I’ve spent a couple of years just travelling about and seeing the world—seeing England, anyway, for a start. I haven’t been on the road long. Next year, once I’ve got the hang of things, I might take off round Europe—or go to Africa—or America . . .” She smiled at the admiring, almost envious look he gave her. “Making up,” she explained, “for the years I spent in the convent, you know. My mother packed me off there after my father died.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sir Galahad, Nigel felt, would have said something rather more memorable; but Annabelle Leigh didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, she laughed.

  “I’m not! Sorry about going to the convent, that is. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been, though I hope you don’t believe the popular mythology about convent girls being so very much wilder than the rest. It isn’t true in the least.” But her eyes twinkled as she said this, in a way which puzzled poor Nigel until he realised she must be joking. He twinkled back at her.

  “Perish the thought, Miss Leigh—and would I be so formal if I supposed you’d allow me to take liberties? Er, how would it be if I took your bicycle instead, while you see if Charley Mountfitchet has a room? I mean, I could take care of it for you, outside. Not that there’s what you’d call a crime wave in Plummergen, but . . .”

  He broke off as he remembered Miss Seeton again, clearing his throat with unnecessary vigour. Annabelle looked decidedly startled. “I mean,” said Nigel, “it might just fall over, or something—or be rained on . . .”

  Annabelle looked upwards to a sky as cloudless and blue as her eyes, and another smile curved her lips. “You’re very kind,” she said gravely. “Thank you. And perhaps, if Mr—Mountfitchet, did you say?—has a room for me, he might also have a map. I’d like to know exactly where I am before I begin exploring and trying to earn some money.”

  Nigel looked a silent question, and she pointed to those bulky bags in their carriers. “My artist’s equipment,” she explained. “Sketchbook, pencils, paints, palette—folding easel, eraser, shooting stick—the works, in short. Three changes of underwear,” she added mischievously, watching his sudden blush, “and a spare pair of jeans,” taking pity on him. “I travel light, and I work hard.”

  Since she obviously wasn’t going to think it impertinence on his part, Nigel ventured to enquire further as to the nature of
her journeyman’s work. Annabelle spread her arms in an expansive gesture.

  “I paint—I immortalise. Look at this lovely old pub—it’s simply crying out to be captured on canvas! I’ll ask Mr Mountfitchet if he’d consider reducing my bill in return for a signed Annabelle Leigh picture of this place—and if he says yes, then I’ve earned part of my keep before I’ve left the village. If he says no, then I hop on Edgar here and cycle off to find other likely buildings—I check if the owner’s at home first, of course, no sense in wasting my time on an empty house—and I ask if they’d mind my sitting outside in the road for a while. I tell them why I want to, naturally, but I never”—her eyes twinkled again—“mention money, at this stage. Time enough for that when they’ve seen the finished article. It usually sells itself, and, if it doesn’t . . .”

  She concluded with an expressive shrug which was entirely French, and her lips formed a careless moue which Nigel found altogether enchanting. With a quick flash of sympathy, he felt he understood exactly what she meant; and for a few wild moments he envied Annabelle Leigh her freedom, her independence, her gay spirit, her glamorous, gypsy lifestyle—which captivated him to such an extent that he found himself wondering whether he really wanted to stay in Plummergen for the rest of his born days. Living and working on the family farm, inheriting—eventually—and inhabiting the family home . . .

  “Rytham Hall,” he said, with a gulp, dragging his eyes from Annabelle’s and becoming, with an effort, Nigel Colveden again. “Where I live—just up the road there. I think it’s rather old, and—I mean, I know it is, so you might be interested . . . a couple of the rooms are William Morris, and they’re supposed to be some of the best in the country—but they’re inside, of course, so I suppose you wouldn’t paint them, would you? Rooms, I mean—interiors. But if you’d like to come along and paint the exterior—or sketch it, or draw . . .”