Sir George rose from the table, heading out to the telephone in the hall, and closed the door behind him.
“H’mm,” said Nigel, as his mother smiled fondly in the direction of her disappearing spouse. “I suppose it was as well I didn’t say anything while Dad was around, but has it occurred to you that the tabbies might be right, for once? About the admiral, I mean. It didn’t hit me until just now, but if he was really pumping Dad about the Night Watch Men—good heavens, there must be heaps more interesting things to talk about at a party! So it could just be he was trying to find out whether anything was being planned that might put a spoke in his, er, burglarious wheel.”
“What a horrid imagination you have.” Lady Colveden shook her head sternly at her son. “I’m sure you’re wrong about the admiral, and so is everyone else. I expect he was just interested—you know, as one staff officer to another. Comparing notes. Different techniques, that sort of thing. He’s bound to have heard people talking about it all in the shop, and been, well, interested when he found out that one of his guests was the person who arranged everything. Organisation skills, isn’t that what they need in the forces? And they do so like to stick together—it always surprises me your father doesn’t belong to more clubs, except that he hates going up to Town more often than he has to . . .”
“I can’t say I’m too keen on London myself. We farmers like fresh air, and there’s not much of that in a city—but you’re trying to change the subject, Mother darling. Don’t finagle—it doesn’t suit you. I know officers are supposed to be good judges of character, because that’s how they get to be officers, but once in a while they must make a mistake—sheer law of averages. Which reminds me,” Nigel said, as the door opened to admit a beaming Sir George, “net practice this evening—Dan Eggleden’s going to bowl lots of bouncers for me to get my eye in. My batting average last season was twenty-eight, remember, and I’m trying for thirty this time. And if Murreystone turn up on Saturday with that demon bowler they fielded last year . . . That chap bowled bouncers, and I do mean bounce. Someone ought to invent a crash helmet for batsmen, with people like him around—but I did, if you recall, take fifteen off him before Potter walloped one right back at him, and knocked him out.”
Sir George snorted, and cleared his throat. Lady Colveden tried hard to look disapproving, but failed dismally.
Nigel chuckled. “Yes, well, one ‘accident’ like that is more than enough, if you ask me. Still, if I don’t get off to work now, I can hardly justify spending tonight at the nets, can I? Demon bowler or not, there’s no peace for the wicked. Coming, Dad?”
Following the exit of her husband and son to their cherished fields, Lady Colveden’s smile faded. She couldn’t help wondering whether Nigel had been right about the admiral, after all. Perhaps the Buzzard had managed to pull the wool well and truly over everyone’s eyes . . .
She made herself another cup of coffee and sat brooding as she drank it. Normally, she would trust George’s judgement every time—but these were hardly normal times. A clever crook would naturally have a good cover story . . .
Then her smile reappeared, and she sighed with relief. There was one person, she’d remembered, whose judgement was never at fault, whose instincts always told her the truth about people, though she seldom seemed to know how, or why, they did—but they did, which was all that mattered.
“I think,” announced Lady Colveden to the bottom of her coffee cup, “I’ll just slip down to Sweetbriars and have a word with Miss Seeton . . .”
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MISS SEETON HAD been unusually quiet these last few days. Martha Bloomer had noticed this, and been concerned, though she’d been able to rationalise the quietness—to some extent—when discussing their employer with her husband Stan, who had noticed the same phenomenon when tending Miss Seeton’s garden, volunteering the occasional remark as they encountered each other about the flower beds and shrubbery. Overtired after her holiday, poor little soul, said Martha; only too glad of the chance to rest at home without Things Happening, she must be—which there was no denying they did, where Miss Emily was concerned. True, she’d been tired at first—said Stan—but then she hadn’t really perked up, not even after tea with the Colvedens, and her so fond of them—seemed worse, if anything. To which Martha had sighed her reluctant agreement. You could almost say poor Miss Emily was brooding—though about what Martha had no idea, and not being one to pry, saw no way of finding out. Anyone would think, if they didn’t know Lady Colveden better, there must have been something said or done at tea that Miss Emily had been upset by, and she such a happy little soul, most times. Course, the weather was hot, and with having spent two weeks in Scotland where—so Martha firmly believed—it rained every day, poor Miss Emily probably felt uncomfortable with the contrast, so to speak . . .
When Miss Seeton announced to Martha that she was going up to London for the day, the first instinct of Mrs. Bloomer was to advise against it: August in Town was hardly the best idea for anyone feeling under the weather. Martha held her tongue, however, and was glad she’d done so when she saw how Miss Emily’s mood lightened, how her eyes brightened at the thought of going up to visit one or two art galleries—and perhaps, she added, take a look at the proposed site for the new Gallery of Chinese Art about which she’d read in dear Jack Crabbe’s crossword magazine.
“Went off an hour or so ago, happy as Larry,” Martha told Lady Colveden after opening the front door of Sweetbriars to the latter’s knock. “Almost her old self again, so she was. Going round looking at pictures, bless her, and a little shopping too, she said, if she had time . . .”
Martha Bloomer had worked at Rytham Hall for almost as long as she’d worked at Sweetbriars, and her employers could recognise one of her Moods every bit as quickly as Stan, if not more so. Lady Colveden saw that somehow Martha held her to blame for Miss Seeton’s not having been “her old self” until that morning; she ventured to ask, in the discreetest possible way, what the trouble might be—but was answered with an old-fashioned look, and a pointed change of subject. Her ladyship still expected Martha at the Hall two days from now, didn’t she? Oh, no reason—just checking. Which warned Lady Colveden that, unless she behaved herself, one of Mrs. Bloomer’s famous Grand Slams could erupt in her kitchen, when cupboard doors were banged, heavy pots and pans clattered, brushes dropped, drawers rattled in their tracks.
Lady Colveden made her excuses, smiled, and left, trusting that things would have calmed down in two days’ time. Martha was the most loyal of employees, she knew well, and was far more solicitous of Miss Seeton’s welfare than ever Miss Seeton herself thought it necessary to be. Better, in the circumstances, that the little spinster should not be asked—no matter how indirectly—her opinion of the admiral, thereby—possibly—being given further cause to worry: if today’s trip to Town worked as well as Martha seemed to think it should, then Lady Colveden would not be the one to upset Miss Seeton a second time, when she hadn’t meant to upset her the first . . .
And it was with a guilty conscience that Lady Colveden went home again, hoping that Miss Seeton’s self-prescribed solution was working as well as it ought.
• • •
Miss Seeton had begun her day’s excursion with a visit to that part of the British Museum where Chinese pottery, porcelain, and paintings might be seen. She had marvelled at the delicate green glazes of the Han Dynasty, the exquisite underglazed decorations of the Tang, the jade-like effects achieved with celadon in the Song. She contemplated the remarkable perspectives of landscape, the superimposed planes and varying viewpoints, the balance of mountains with water, animals with trees; she admired the monochrome handscrolls with their hundred dragons in flight, their hundred birds; she frowned as she tried to grasp the concept of the “three perfections” of poetry, painting, and calligraphy, tried to comprehend this artistic form and rhythm quite outside her normal experience.
She had to concentrate hard, which pleased her gre
atly. In concentrating, she had managed to forget, or at least to diminish, those anxieties about her own humble artistic efforts which had troubled her for the past few days. One had not, of course, allowed oneself to dwell on that unpleasant little sketch of Annabelle Leigh, but one had to admit that it had been harder to dismiss it from one’s thoughts than one would have wished. Last night’s sudden inspiration that a day in London would help to clear one’s mind had been a happy one. Just as oriental landscapes had a perspective very different from the western, so now had Miss Seeton a very different perspective on her own work.
One had obviously been still tired from the journey—a little too . . . scratchy to be as comfortable in oneself as one would have wished; perhaps one should have stayed away from company until one was not. Scratchy, that was to say. Miss Leigh’s great talent, her fresh and blooming good looks—as well as dear Nigel’s obvious interest in her—had made one conscious of one’s passing years and mediocre gifts, in a way which, in normal circumstances, wouldn’t have troubled one at all, because one hoped one was honest enough to admit that they were. Passing, that was to say. And mediocre. Both of which, being true, one had surely always seen quite clearly—an artist, however mediocre, must learn to see before anything else—and neither of which—one having not only seen, but, being realistic, acknowledged to oneself—had ever previously caused one any concern—although perhaps one had not often before been quite so tired . . .
Miss Seeton, wondering at just how tired she must have been to have responded in such a puzzling way, felt an unexpected yawn coming on, and put up a hasty hand to stifle it. With a clatter, her umbrella slipped from her grasp, landing on the glass of the display case over which she had been poring. Miss Seeton blushed.
The uniformed attendant in the corner cried, “Oy! Watch it, ducks!”
And Miss Seeton, apologising profusely, picked up her brolly and hurried, still blushing, away.
She felt so hot and bothered by this little mishap that her thoughts automatically turned to the sovereign remedy for all English ills, a cup of tea. And, as her still-warm cheeks would cool down so much more quickly after a walk in the fresh air, she decided to go in search of some suitable café, where there would be no glass cases to risk cracking by accident, where she could have a nice sit-down and perhaps a pastry or two before deciding where to go next.
Still musing on the examples of oriental art and crafts which she had seen, Miss Seeton found her feet taking her in a direction she did not at once recognise. London, as one knew, was not so much a city as an amalgamation of villages and towns: Hampstead, of course, one knew well, from one’s teaching time at Mrs. Benn’s school—and the museums and galleries—and certain of the shopping streets. But there were so many byways and shortcuts—all, naturally, of great interest to one who had not walked them before. Miss Seeton gazed about her at unfamiliar shops housed in buildings of various styles, old and new, medieval and modern, side by side: Georgian and Victorian, plate-glass and Tudor brick, concrete and stucco. Perhaps rather too much plate-glass and concrete for one’s own taste, but then—she sighed—it had been the war which robbed London of so many fine old buildings, and the pressure to rebuild in times of peace had been great. No doubt the architects of the mid–twentieth century believed their efforts to be every bit as attractive as those of previous generations . . .
Miss Seeton turned a corner, and stopped in her tracks, narrowly missing a collision with the nimble-footed man who was hurrying a few steps behind. “Oh, I do beg your—”
But he was gone, leaving her to stare at the huge white hoarding, lettered in boldest black and red, which confronted her as she stood stock-still, startled to find that her feet had brought her to the very place about which she had been reading only three days ago.
Dosset: Superior Builders, proclaimed the hoarding’s top line, with a telephone number underneath, both in black. At the bottom of the hoarding, in smaller letters—also black—was the legend Architects: P.B. Bossiney, Ltd., with not only the firm’s telephone number, but also the address. It must be supposed that P.B. Bossiney the architect was as yet less well known than Superior Dosset the builder, and had chosen this method of advertisement to redress, in part, the balance. Miss Seeton nodded. Balance, indeed, was the correct term in this particular case: the black letters at top and bottom neatly sandwiched—if that was the correct term—the far larger letters in red, which told of the site’s proposed dedication to the world of oriental art, in the form of the new museum. Someone with a good eye and a sense of proportion had designed this hoarding, Miss Seeton decided with approval. A scarlet-and-black sandwich . . .
Which reminded her that her original plan, on leaving the British Museum, had been to find herself a cup of tea and a snack. She really must try to—oh. Oh, how very fortunate. Miss Seeton smiled. Almost exactly opposite the building site she could see, now that she looked, a small café with—she hurried along the pavement to peep in at the glass-fronted door—one or two empty tables, though it was nearly time for lunch. The café, for all it was so close to the dust and commotion and, yes, the noise of the building site, seemed both popular and clean. She made up her mind. Fascinating though it might be to stand watching that huge crane manoeuvre steel girders and blocks of concrete delicately between those two tall buildings either side of the bomb site—rather dilapidated buildings, Miss Seeton observed, her quick eye noting brown stains on the stucco suggestive of blocked gutters or leaky pipes—she would, if she could obtain a table near the window, be able to continue watching from the comfort of the café’s interior, while at the same time quenching her thirst. She was, she now realised, very thirsty. Builders’ dust was dancing in little puffs and eddies about the base of the enormous crane, swirling wherever anything was disturbed, drifting into the street.
Miss Seeton coughed, then blinked, as a piece of grit blew into her eye. She blinked again to bring tears to wash the grit away, and remembered Brief Encounter as she fished in her handbag for her pocket handkerchief, smiling as she did so. Perhaps, instead of visiting another museum after lunch, she might go instead to the cinema.
Restored to her normal bright-eyed self, Miss Seeton trotted into the café, ordered a pot of china tea and an egg—poached—on toast, took her seat at a newly vacated table by the window, and continued to watch what was happening opposite. One did so enjoy seeing an expert at work, and the driver of the crane—so very large—handled it with remarkable skill, in so narrow a street, lifting such awkward weights and shapes. Miss Seeton shuddered as she imagined what might happen if the mighty jaws of the crane slipped open, releasing their load to the ground . . .
“Don’t fancy your egg after all, love?” The waitress, unnoticed, had brought Miss Seeton’s lunch and set the plate in front of her. “Rather have something else?” And a weary sigh escaped her as she pulled out her notepad and pencil.
“What? I mean—oh, dear, I do beg your pardon. I was so busy, you see, wondering—worrying, I suppose one might say—and quite unnecessarily, I feel sure. Because one can hardly imagine he would be allowed to drive it, if that is the word I want, if he was not an expert, can one?”
The waitress followed her gaze, and replied after only a few seconds’ thought. “Albert, you mean? You’ve no need to worry about him. One of the best, is Albert—or says he is, when he comes in for his elevenses.” She looked pointedly at Miss Seeton’s plate. “Usually has a poached egg on toast, same as you—if that’s what you’re having . . .”
Whereupon Miss Seeton, blushing, applied herself to her meal without another word, resolving to leave a sensible tip for the poor girl, who was obviously so busy and found customers who couldn’t make up their minds so troublesome.
“And no wonder,” murmured Miss Seeton, sprinkling a few grains of pepper over her meal, and slicing a neat triangle of toast on which to balance a portion of egg. After a sip or two of tea, she was beginning to feel hungry. She glanced across the road to the building site and wondered whe
ther Albert the crane driver enjoyed his mid-morning snack as much as she was enjoying hers . . .
From thoughts of the unknown Albert, Miss Seeton turned to musing on the new museum of oriental art, and on the exhibits she had seen earlier in the British Museum. She recalled a still life she had once encouraged her class to draw, and how they had mischievously eaten the fruit, though afterwards some had produced good likenesses of the Chinese vase, and—
But Miss Seeton’s happy reverie was rudely interrupted by an outburst of sudden, piercing screams all around the little café.
chapter
∼ 15 ∼
MISS SEETON, ASTONISHED, set down her knife and fork neatly on her plate and surveyed the room with a startled pucker between her brows. Memories of school were all very well, but even in their wildest moments during end-of-term dinner her pupils had never . . . Why was everyone making such a loud and—or so it seemed—unnecessary noise? Above the sound of the building work outside, it was impossible to hear oneself think. Though one could not, of course, be prevented from noticing. And wondering, for instance, why so many of the ladies present were jumping up and down, clutching at their skirts—and why (Miss Seeton’s eyebrows arched high in disapproval) so many were climbing on their chairs—some even on the tables—with their skirts wrapped tight about their knees.
Miss Seeton shook her head. One did not expect such behaviour from grown women when one would certainly not tolerate it in younger ones, for whom one always tried to set an example of quiet and ladylike deportment. Which one could hardly claim was being shown now by—
“Good gracious.” This really was not good enough: even the waitress—so unhygienic—was clambering up on a nearby table, shrieking with the rest. Miss Seeton gazed about her for the cause of all this hysteria.
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 14) Page 12