by Heron Carvic
“Yes,” the boy agreed, “something like that. Sort of thing they believe in, but generally they use a cock or hen. And after that we couldn’t do anything with them. If it hadn’t been for her they’d all’ve burned. She … she’s pretty good, you know. Because seeing her walk out of it and Trenthorne burned, the others—well, they enjoyed it, it sent them crazy.”
“Yes,” assented Delphick, “I can see it might.”
“You mean,” exploded Brinton, “that lot actually enjoys roasting people?”
“Not quite, Chris. As far as I get the hang of it, most religions have something of the kind—death of the deity and resurrection. In witchcraft there was the seven-year cycle with the godhead as a burnt offering, only to rise like the phoenix from his own ashes.” He eyed the Trumpeter directly. “And another thing you can explain is the secret of the Secret Place. We’ll patch you up and then we’ll be taking you in and we’ll need a statement—a full statement. The fuller the better for you.” The boy started to protest. “I understand from Miss Seeton that you were helpful—helped to save her and the others from the fire at some risk to yourself. We’ll be taking note of that too.”
Relieved, the youth leaned forward eagerly. “The Secret Place, sir. It’s here in the cellars below the church. If it can be cleared I’ll show the way in through the crypt. You push a stone and a bit of the wall swings open like a door. They must all still be there if they’re not charred to cinders.”
Delphick and Brinton got things organized. The fire chief judged that the wood could do little further damage and should be left to burn itself out; but he forbade anyone to approach the red-hot shambles that had been a church. Three of the water tenders would be returning shortly with new supplies. Others would fetch more, and they’d douse the ruins until they were cool enough to be investigated with danger only from tottering walls and beams. But there could be no hope of getting near the crypt before the morning. So that those who were not immediately concerned had better get some rest and food and then be back by dawn, when they could help to clear the wreckage.
Dawn broke on a clear September morning to wipe away the shadows and the turmoil of the night. The villagers were back, bringing cheer for the weary, sweating men who had toiled to clear the still-steaming ruins. They plied them with bread and cheese, with egg and bacon sandwiches, with homemade pies, with flasks of black and sweetened tea and fizzy drinks of varied colors; they offered them cakes and ale.
The news had spread and crowds were gathering. Neighboring villagers, local townsfolk, people from near, from far, all thronged to see the outcome. Well to the fore, representatives from the newspapers, press photographers and two television crews jostled for position. Balked by the absence of Miss Seeton, who still slept, they centered their attention and their cameras on a long padlocked plastic box, coffin-shaped and with a handle at each end, over which stood guard Bob Ranger and two members of the uniformed police. Speculation was rife. The first of the bodies to be brought out of the church? Another murder? A confrontation of the killer with his victim? They pressed the police, bombarded everyone with questions, but got no satisfaction. Then at last the way was clear and, led by the firemen, Delphick and Brinton with the young Trumpeter, followed by Dr. Knight and two ambulance men, picked their way down into the crypt.
The scene which confronted them when they entered the cellar resembled Hogarth’s impression of the debtors’ prison. It jarred them to find that they were not welcome saviors. Some of the inmates were in shock, induced by their realization of the world’s finale; brought home to them by the crashes that they had heard, the heat they had endured and the fumes of fire that they had breathed throughout their night-long vigil. Some were apathetic, all disbelieving, and the exhortations of their rescuers made no impression.
The Trumpeter whispered to Delphick, “They know me. May I try, sir?” Delphick nodded. The young man strode forward. “Come on,” he snapped. “Up. Out of this, the lot of you.”
Someone they recognized, the tone of command, the authority they craved, brought a response and brought them to their feet. With assistance and cajoling, with kindness and coercion they were chivied up and out into the daylight.
Their appearance was greeted by a cheer and the whir of television cameras: microphones were rushed toward them in order that no word of their message of thanksgiving for their safe deliverance should be lost to the world at large.
The long ordeal was ended; the night of fear was over; the threat of Armageddon passed; the burden of responsibility for the making of a New World had been lifted from their shoulders. Behind them lay the blackened defilement of the church and wood: before them the Kent countryside glowed green under a blue sky flecked with white clouds gilt-edged by the new day’s sun, the golden glint repeated upon earth, where the first touch of autumn was tinting the leaves. Their homes were safe; their families, their friends yet lived. A row of smiling faces welcomed them. Their valuables would be restored, the box containing them was there on view.
They gazed dumbfounded: a feeling too great to be repressed, almost too deep for utterance began to bud, to swell, to burgeon, to well up until it blossomed into words from the most articulate, the most affected member of the group.
“It’s all too disappointing really,” said Mrs. Blaine.
Note from the Publisher
While he was alive, Heron Carvic had tremendous fun creating Emily Seeton and the cast of Plummergen residents who make the series what it is. We hope you enjoyed reading the novel as much.
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
Also, one of the joys of humorous fiction—and Miss Seeton is definitely at the light end of the mystery genre—is sharing the reaction of others. Did Miss Seeton drive you up the wall? Or drive you to tears of laughter? If you enjoyed the story, we would be thrilled if you could leave a short review. Getting feedback from readers makes all the difference and can help persuade others to pick up the series for the first time.
Thank you for reading, and here’s to the Battling Brolly …
Preview
COMING SOON
A Most Bewitching Murder . . .
Putting down her cup and taking in her surroundings she saw—good gracious, what a coincidence—the gentleman who had hummed at London airport. She smiled and nodded. Unknowing and out of key she began to hum “Song of India.”
Mantoni glowered. Allora, so she derided him in public with all her friends of the polizia. She wished him to understand that she knew what he was doing—what he had done—and that she found him ridiculous and was only awaiting her opportunity. Allora—so. He got up. This was now personal. This was vendetta. He would go at once to the dealer he knew of and when he had his pistol—and its silencer—she would find that it would be he, he who would be making the opportunities.
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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 t
he 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 uncover a case of sabotage.
About Heron Carvic
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. The Miss Seeton series was continued after his death by Roy Peter Martin writing as Hampton Charles, and subsequently by Sarah J. Mason under the pseudonym Hamilton Crane.
This edition published in 2016 by Farrago, an imprint of Prelude Books Ltd
13 Carrington Road, Richmond, TW10 5AA, United Kingdom
www.farragobooks.com
First published by Geoffrey Bles in 1968
Copyright © The Beneficiaries of the Literary Estate of Heron Carvic 2016
The right of Heron Carvic to be identified as the author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9935763-2-4
Version 1.3
Cover design by Patrick Knowles