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

by Hamilton Crane

  “So very practical, as well as beneficial—one’s knees—though the yoga, of course, has really been most . . .”

  As Miss Seeton drifted to a halt, smiling again, Annabelle smiled back, with only the faintest flicker of bewilderment in those beautiful blue eyes. Nigel hadn’t warned her about Miss Seeton—he would have thought it impolite to make personal remarks about a family friend who was also to be a guest under his parents’ roof—but she had, during her travels, met several old ladies—with picturesque cottages, decaying mansions, and stately homes for her to paint—some dotty, some not. She could, she was confident, cope with Miss Seeton.

  She seized on the one word she felt sure of. “Are you a practitioner of yoga, Miss Seeton? Don’t you find that it just clears your mind wonderfully—makes you see things in a completely new way?”

  “Indeed I do. Which is so very important, as I always tell the children—that they should learn to see what they wish to draw, for only when they have done so can they communicate what they have seen to others—not, of course, that I would presume to teach them yoga, as I feel that Mr. Jessyp and the educational authorities would hardly . . . and I am still very much a learner, though perhaps not, after seven years, quite so much of a beginner. Which is, after all, is it not, the true purpose of art?”

  Annabelle blinked, but Miss Seeton hurried on: “Helping others to see, as well—sharing our experiences with those perhaps less able to appreciate them fully until they have been shown how. By those who can. See, I mean.”

  Nigel cast a triumphant look in Annabelle’s direction. “You see? If you’ll excuse the pun. But Miss Seeton agrees with me, so do let me show everyone your sketch.” And Annabelle, knowing that to repeat her refusal would be as discourteous as if she had thrown a full-scale tantrum, smiled again, and nodded, blushing.

  Nigel jumped to his feet—nearly knocking his lady’s teacup from her hand—and hurried out to the hall for her sketchbook, which he had placed with all due care on top of the carved old mahogany chest which stood beside a row of coat hooks near the cloakroom door. He returned with the book open in his hand, and said:

  “Look, Mother—Dad—isn’t that the Hall to the life? Isn’t she brilliant?” And Annabelle blushed again as Lady Colveden admired her work, handing the book—with a murmured apology to Miss Seeton—to her husband, who held it at arm’s length, stared thoughtfully, blew through his moustache, and turned with a twinkle in his eye to Miss Leigh.

  “Notes and impressions, eh? Seems rather more than that to me, though I’m the first to admit I don’t know anything about art. Except”—with another twinkle—“what I like.” And he chuckled, as did Miss Seeton, who knew Sir George’s sense of humour of old. Dear Nigel, too, could be such a tease—he had inherited it from his father—such a charming and amusing young man, and devoted to his parents—though only in the nicest possible way. Teasing them, she meant. And always so very susceptible to equally charming young women . . .

  Miss Seeton gazed with interest at Annabelle, wondering whether this time Nigel had really found the Right One; and smiling, for she was really a remarkably attractive girl. None but the best, of course, would be right for dear Nigel, of whom his parents—and she herself, with the privilege, she hoped, of an old friend—was so fond . . .

  Miss Seeton emerged from her daydream to the sudden realisation that Sir George must have handed over Annabelle’s sketchbook without her having noticed, for she found herself leafing through it, looking at earlier sketches and notes—impressions (and Miss Seeton smiled again)—the girl had evidently jotted down on previous occasions. Automatically reverting to her former persona, the retired art teacher studied each drawing in turn, observing the lively penmanship, the quick and confident grasp of outline, the assured strokes and skilful forms that proclaimed the consummate craftsman. There was, reflected Miss Seeton with a sigh and a wistful shake of the head, true talent in Miss Leigh’s work. And such an eye for close work, as well as the ability to capture the essence of a scene with fluency and rhythm—there were copious written notes, as well as sketches and details from the larger whole—delicate use of toning and texture and shade, immediacy of vision coupled with a lasting sense of truth, of certainty that, were the buildings thus shown to be removed in their entirety to a crowded city and the viewer asked to pick out one from among a hundred others, it could be done with no difficulty.

  Miss Seeton sighed again. One should not so much envy as respect and admire the greater gifts possessed by others. She hoped she was not jealous—that would hardly be proper, in the circumstances—but . . .

  She became aware that Annabelle was gazing at her in some surprise; and became flustered. Had she made some comment out loud which had sounded—though of course would not have been so intended—improper? Had she inadvertently given Miss Leigh to suppose that she found her work—which would be untrue—of no interest?

  “Indeed not,” she made haste to assure Annabelle, whose eyes widened with more surprise than ever, since Miss Seeton had not explained her complete train of thought, and by itself her assurance made little sense. “Not true at all, and most improper—as you must surely realise, my dear.”

  Nigel, gallant as ever, in instinctive sympathy for his old friend’s confusion, hurried to save her from becoming yet more confused, and confusing, by saying:

  “Well, I know I shouldn’t admit it, but I agree with Dad—about only really knowing what I like, in art. And I like Annabelle’s work no end, I must say. Though I suppose”—he rather prided himself on this neat diversion—“a few visits to decent galleries and exhibitions would help to educate the pair of us properly.” He looked hopefully at Annabelle: would she take the hint?

  As she hesitated, Miss Seeton said brightly: “Dear Jack Crabbe, who drove me home from Brettenden yesterday, as you know compiles those clever crossword puzzles for magazines, and was kind enough to give me a copy—because of the extra money, and the chough. But with having to take the mouse to the garden, and then being rather more tired than I expected after my journey, I only read it this morning—such a sad, romantic story, to which it now seems most unlikely we will ever know the true answer. But she might, perhaps, have been comforted at last to learn that it was being turned to some more practical purpose, after so long.” She frowned in silent calculation. “How many years is it since the end of the war? Almost thirty—and that poor woman still mourning as greatly as ever, and becoming a recluse, so the article said. She never married again, and her little twin daughters were supposed to have been buried in the rubble as well as her husband, and were dead when they were finally dug out, or so the story goes. There were so many similar tragedies during the Blitz . . .”

  Miss Seeton sighed. As a teacher, she had not been conscripted, but had done her fair share of fire-watching and, later, keeping a lookout for doodlebugs when Hitler’s forces threw everything they could at London, yet were unable to break that city’s spirit. But the spirit of someone who had suffered from the bombing had been broken beyond repair on a night at the height of the Blitz: the spirit of a woman who, after experiencing her horrific loss, had refused ever to consider having the site of that loss disturbed. It had remained as a stark, gaping void between two adjoining Regency houses whose walls were shored up with scaffolding and buttresses, resting on the empty ground between: ground which had become a small haven for birds and other wildlife, where rose-bay willowherb—fireweed—flew its pinky purple flags in graceful memory of the dead.

  Lady Colveden, who also remembered the war, said gently: “Indeed there were, Miss Seeton. Though I’m afraid I don’t quite understand . . .”

  Her smile was kind, and Miss Seeton turned pink. “Dear me, I seem to have . . . it was the gallery, you see. When Nigel was saying . . . because the article says that, now the poor woman is dead, the site has been sold to a—a consortium of oriental art lovers—Chinese gentlemen whose names, I fear, I find myself quite unable to recall. And even if I could”—she smiled—“I dou
bt if I could pronounce them. A most interesting language, is it not? Pictorial—or rather it was, having become more symbolic over the years, as I understand.” Her eyes twinkled. “The symbol for man, when written with two of the symbols for woman, represents jealousy, which is most descriptive, is it not? But the article says that they wish to buy the site, and commission an architect to design a new building in the exact style of the one which was bombed—that is, on the outside, since there was not, of course, an art gallery in the house when the family lived there. But the article suggests that luxury flats are to be built on the upper floors—and, though it is perhaps fanciful to think it, one would hope that the people who buy them, living happy lives in their new homes, will lay the unhappy ghosts for that poor woman at last.”

  There was a thoughtful pause as she finished speaking. Sir George, who like his wife remembered the full horrors of the war, broke it at last with a harrumph, and—after a quick glance at Lady Colveden—attempted some lightening of the general mood.

  “Not the only tale I’ve heard about those days recently, y’know. Major Howett, now—wouldn’t think a woman could spin a yarn with the best, but she did last night.” Nigel, on hearing this, choked, and swallowed hastily several times before regaining composure as his mother glared at him. The major-general ignored them both, intent on his story.

  “Timber merchant’s daughter, y’know—brothers in timber as well. Reserved occupation,” he added for the benefit of the younger generation. “Didn’t have to go—weren’t allowed, even if they wanted to. The Howitzer—er, Major Howett”—and he harrumphed again—“knew everyone round the place, of course. All able-bodied men in the Home Guard, ready for action if Jerry invaded—shotguns, rook rifles—pitchforks, even—keeping a lookout for enemy parachutists in disguise. Nuns, that sort of thing.”

  “You could tell them by the size of their feet,” came the irreverent murmur from his son and heir. Annabelle flashed Nigel a brilliant smile, then turned politely back to his father, her eyes asking him to continue.

  Which he did. “Later on, the end of the Phony War—air raids—bombs dropped, incendiaries and so on. Every man Jack on call—no excuses. Major Howett’s brothers slipped down to the pub”—he glared at Nigel, daring him to comment—“and the siren went off. Bad show—nobody on duty. The Howitzer took the telephone message—grabbed her hat, went charging down the road, banged on every door she knew and warned it was Action Stations. Bombs dropping round her thicker than hailstones. One landed in the road—blew off her hat, tripped her up over a heap of sand by the gate.” He paused and added the further explanation that sand had been a necessary adjunct to wartime life for the purposes of fire safety. Not everyone, he pointed out, had been lucky enough to possess a stirrup pump.

  “And even if you did,” his wife reminded him, “if there was no water supply because it had been bombed, what use would a hundred pumps have been?”

  “Sand,” agreed Miss Seeton, “might certainly be regarded as being more practical in such circumstances, although not, perhaps, generally as versatile—one can, after all, do so much more with water than extinguish fires. I remember how, when my lodgings were bombed out, for three days we were rationed to just one cup a day, with which we could either clean our teeth, or wash ourselves—or, of course, we could drink it.”

  “Golly,” said Nigel, regarding her with awe, and marvelling that she hadn’t mentioned cleaning paintbrushes as yet another option. “Which—if it’s not too rude, Miss Seeton—did you choose?”

  “Oh, I drank it, naturally. The human body, you see, is over eighty per cent water, as I recall. So it seemed much more sensible to stay healthy, rather than clean. And for three days one could surely tolerate the inconvenience of having to wait until arriving at school before ceasing to be grubby—when our forces were undergoing such privations in the field of battle . . .” She smiled kindly for Annabelle’s ill-disguised shudder. “In wartime, my dear, one’s priorities are so very different, you see.” And the Colvedens nodded gravely at her words.

  Sir George, however, was not to be balked of his story, which he resumed with relish. “Anyway, the major survived, the Home Guard did their duty—thanks to her. Couple of weeks later, up comes young Bocking, friend of her brother—driving a lorry full of Christmas trees, of all things. Says he’s brought ’em for her as a thank-you for calling out the Guard. Calls the brothers, unloads the lot, and skedaddles! Pinched, of course.” Sir George shook his head. “As Miss Seeton said, different in wartime. Had to hide every blessed one of ’em—inspection pit in the tractor shed, the major said. Still there on VE Day, what’s more. Christmas trees . . . very rum.”

  “What’s rummer still,” Nigel pointed out, “is the idea of anyone as respectable as Major Howett having risked being pinched for receiving stolen goods.” He regarded Sir George with some amusement. “The Buzzard must mix a pretty lethal drink for her to have told you, of all people, a story like that.” He grinned at his mother. “I wonder what Dad told the Howitzer in exchange? Let’s hope he was at least able to reassure her she’s not about to be hauled off to chokey—at least, I trust she isn’t, though that depends on the book of rules, of course. Want me to hop along and fetch it? My father,” he explained to a puzzled Annabelle, “is the local JP—a pillar of the community, in fact.” Miss Leigh blinked, then smiled, slowly, as he translated: “A magistrate—a Justice of the Peace. Duty bound to collar every crook he encounters and see that law and order are maintained, no matter how long since the crime. Now, if he’d only had his handcuffs with him yesterday . . .”

  “Nigel,” said Lady Colveden, with an apologetic smile for Annabelle, who was frowning again as she stared at the baronet’s cheerful moustache, “I’m sure your father knows the difference between a . . . a criminal case, if it still is, and a social occasion thirty years after the event.” She turned to her spouse, suddenly curious. “George, I don’t suppose . . .”

  “Nonsense!” The major-general, magistrate, blew forcefully through his moustache. “Statute of limitations expired years ago. Far more keen on catching today’s crooks.”

  “It just wouldn’t be sporting,” said his son cheerfully. “To take advantage of what you’ve been told in your cups, I mean.” His eyes danced. “In both your cups, that is—you and the major. It would hardly be cricket, would it?”

  chapter

  ∼ 11 ∼

  “CRICKET,” SAID LADY Colveden quickly, before Nigel could say anything more. “Now, that reminds me, Miss Seeton . . .”

  And she began to explain, in greater detail than when she had talked earlier to her husband and son, the parlous state of Plummergen’s pavilion, and the proposals for raising funds for repairing both the roof and the floor.

  Miss Seeton approved the idea of an auction, and agreed that Sir George would make a splendid master of ceremonies; she said that Lady Colveden must be sure to let her know as soon as any raffle tickets went on sale, as even if her services were not required in their selling, she intended to buy several books. One wished, naturally, to do one’s best to help one’s adopted home in whatever way possible.

  “Though I fear, however,” she continued, with a sigh, “that my ability is such that, really, much as one feels an obligation to offer further assistance, if such assistance is of no practical worth then it is surely much more than a waste of time, it is unfair. Indeed, one ought, perhaps, in all honesty to say inability. From what I recall of Jack Crabbe’s kind explanation, there are only eleven people in the team, and though ours is not the largest of villages, one would have supposed there to be many more persons with a far greater ability than—”

  “Nigel,” broke in Lady Colveden with a quivering voice, “run out to the kitchen a moment, would you? I, er, have a horrid feeling I left the kettle on the gas.” And Nigel, too grateful for her offer of release to remind his mother that Rytham Hall cooked by electricity, uttered a strangled gasp of agreement before bolting from the room to have his laugh out in private
.

  By the time he felt able to return without risk of bursting into shrieks of hysterical mirth at the idea of Miss Seeton, clad in cricketing whites—apart, of course, from her distinctive cockscomb hat—and carrying her umbrella, striding out to the crease as Last Man In, destined to save the match, the misunderstanding had been cleared up. Miss Seeton, her face wreathed in smiles, was so relieved to find she was not to be co-opted into the local cricket team that she gladly agreed to produce the required painting, trusting that it would reach a suitable sum at auction and promising to bid for it herself, though she knew almost nothing of the game, and could think of nowhere to hang the picture, should her bid be successful.

  “Oh, but you’ll have to understand just a little about it, Miss Seeton.” Nigel was now able to speak without choking on his words, and managed to do so with a straight face. “Before you can paint it properly, I mean. But honestly, it couldn’t be easier—and you’ve got the basics, anyway. You already know there are two teams, and they’re made up of eleven people each. And I’m sure you know that the fielding side tries to stop the batting side scoring runs . . .”

  Miss Seeton said that this, indeed, she understood—in principle—but that the scoring, she felt, was far more complicated than he made it sound. Nigel paused. He frowned.

  He said: “Well, when a team goes in to bat, they try to hit the ball as far as they can so that they can make as many runs as possible before the bowler gets it back. If it goes as far as the boundary, they score four runs without having to run at all—and if it goes as far as the boundary without touching the ground, then they score six. But if it only goes a little way, then they have to use their judgement as to how far they can actually run—how many times they can charge up and down the pitch—that’s the dry grassy bit between the two sets of stumps—before the bowler is ready to bowl the next ball of the over.”