Miss Seeton, By Appointment (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 6)

by Hampton Charles

  Wendy had a good giggle over the old-fashioned pinups and shook her head in disbelief, but Harry simply put a gentle hand under her chin, tilted her face upward, and looked at Mel, who nodded.

  Transforming her hairdo at a classy Mayfair salon had cost a packet, but the makeup was just a matter of trial and error, until Mel was satisfied. Achieving the right facial expression was much harder. Wendy had already learned from Harry how to put on a toffee-nosed expression to order, but the women in the pictures Mel showed her looked kind of soppy, like they were trying to think up a poem about nightingales or something. June, who was absolutely super throughout the whole process and not a bit jealous, hooted with laughter whenever Wendy practiced her lovesick-cow look.

  All the same, it worked. Harry must have taken hundreds of pictures, and from them he eventually put together a portfolio that took Wendy’s breath away. Mel approved, too, and pointed out that she ought to have a name to match the new image. The one they all finally agreed on must have appealed to the judges in the two preliminary stages as well, because Wendy made first the long list, then the short list. So it wasn’t as Wendy Smith the Woolworth’s assistant that she was admitted, her legs feeling as though they had turned to jelly, to the presence of the great Cedric Benbow on that day of days. Nor was it as Wendy Smith that she later faced a battery of cameras, including that of good old Harry, who was grinning like a maniac, and saw herself later on in some of the papers and weekly women’s magazines.

  That, of course, was as the woman whose reflection now looked back at her from the cracked mirror of the dressing table in the grotty flat off Seven Sisters Road. The woman who would shortly be leaving that flat to go and stay at some unbelievably posh hotel for the next couple of weeks at Mode’s expense and who might very well, if things worked out the way Harry said they ought to, be returning only for as long as it took to find and move into a smart new flat of her own. In Mayfair, perhaps.

  Yes, she was quite ready; the new dress suited her like a dream, and—a quick look out of the window told her—that must be the hired car just pulling up outside. Wow! Wendy Smith flung open the basement door, but it was the exquisite Marigold Naseby who floated up the steps to the street.

  Just under half an hour later that morning, as Marigold Naseby palely and beautifully drifted through the doors of the Dorchester as if she had been accustomed to doing so since early childhood, Miss Emily Seeton reached the quiet lane and the tidily trimmed hawthorn hedge that bounded the northeastern part of the grounds of Rytham Hall. She was on her way to call on Lady Colveden. By appointment, of course, even though dear Lady Colveden had stressed that punctuality was of no consequence whatever.

  “Oh, any time, any time. Elevenish or so? Whenever you’re ready for a cup of coffee. I shall just be puttering about, you know. Deadheading, if it’s another nice day. And George will be in Ashford dispensing justice, so he won’t be underfoot and we’ll be able to have a good chat. It’s ages since I’ve been to one of these beanos at the palace myself, but they do tend to stick in the mind. I can still see old Tilly Trumpingham in that extraordinary frock going on at some bishop or other, positively reeking of mothballs. Tilly, I mean, not the bishop, but I don’t suppose he noticed. Probably thought it was incense. I shouldn’t think the drill’s changed much in the past few years, so I expect I can give you a fair idea what to expect. Such fun the three of us are going . . .”

  Well, elevenish or so is what Lady Colveden had said, and a quarter past eleven it would be. Rytham Hall was much less than a mile from Sweetbriars, not even a half hour’s walk on a lovely day like this, but Miss Seeton had prudently allowed herself a good forty-five minutes so as to be able to pause from time to time if anything in the way of a bird or a flower needed to be appreciated. The thought of actually going to the Buckingham Palace garden party was still somewhat daunting, but the Kent countryside in July was better than any tranquilizer.

  The slowness of her progress gave Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, who had of course seen Miss Seeton set out, plenty of time to follow her and keep her in sight while they themselves remained mostly concealed. They were still deeply suspicious about the envelope with the royal coat of arms on the back, and frequently discussed the matter, agreeing that until it was satisfactorily explained, the only thing that could be done was to keep a close eye on the movements of “that woman.”

  It was after Miss Seeton had turned right into the lane and rounded the next bend, with a hundred yards or so to go to come to the Rytham Hall lodge gates, that she saw the foot appear through the bottom of the hedge a few yards ahead. Being tidy-minded, Miss Seeton at once corrected herself. To be strictly accurate, it was a shoe, but the fact that an ankle was also visible made it a case of “foot is understood,” as her Latin teacher might well have put it over half a century earlier.

  Miss Seeton stood and watched a second shoe—also complete with ankle—appear. They were good-quality shoes, that much was clear at once, and quite suitable for country wear, if hardly robust enough for hedge-crawling. Soon most of their wearer’s legs also came into view, and these were clad in fawn cavalry twill trousers, which would undoubtedly need to be sponged and pressed, if not dry-cleaned, after their ordeal.

  Miss Seeton could not imagine why a respectably dressed gentleman should wish to emerge from the grounds of Rytham Hall at that point and in such a complicated manner when there was a perfectly good driveway a little farther down; but having no wish to intrude, she prepared to move on. At this moment, however, the recumbent figure made a strange sound. It sounded like something between a muffled imprecation and a grunt of pain, and was accompanied by a thrashing of the legs and the appearance of an arm and hand, the latter scratched and bloody.

  Filled with concern, Miss Seeton quickly approached the sufferer, tucked her umbrella under her left arm and stooped to render assistance. All she said was “Dear, dear, such a nasty scratch. Do let me help you,” but the effects were dramatic. With a convulsive heave and a pitiful yelp the man shot backward out of the hedge and twisted his head round in such a violent way that he almost impaled his neck on the ferrule of the umbrella, which in fact became lodged between his collar and the knot of his necktie. Miss Seeton did her best to pull it free, but for several seconds succeeded only in creating a tourniquet effect and watched with alarm as the man flailed about wildly, his face becoming suffused with blood and his eyes bulging alarmingly. After what seemed a very long time he managed to grab the umbrella from her and wrench it free, after which he lay there for some time, shuddering.

  From a safe distance the Nuts looked on in horror, Mrs Blaine clutching at Miss Nuttel’s arm for security.

  “Is he dead, do you think?” she quavered.

  Miss Nuttel made no reply at first, but stared with narrowed eyes at the prone figure over whom Miss Seeton was stooping. “Not quite, it seems. I can see the poor fellow twitching,” she said eventually.

  “Oh, Eric! Death agonies?”

  “Probably. I have never in my life seen such a vicious unprovoked assault, even on the television.”

  “Shouldn’t we go and try to save him?”

  “Out of the question, Bunny. In the first place he’s almost certainly beyond medical help, and moreover it’s sheer folly to approach an obvious homicidal maniac. Any policeman will tell you the same thing—oh. He’s getting up.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Blaine sounded slightly regretful, too. “What shall we do?”

  “Straight back to the village, of course. Find Constable Potter and report an attempted murder. He’s a simpleton, but it should be possible to make even him grasp the seriousness of the situation.”

  chapter

  ~5~

  “OH, POOR chap!” Lady Colveden said. “He must have been frightfully fed up about it.”

  “I’m afraid he was rather, yes.”

  “No wonder you seem a bit shaky. More coffee?”

  “Perhaps in the circumstances, just half a cup, thank you so much.”


  “Um, Miss Seeton, I don’t mean to be inquisitive, but why did you bring your umbrella with you anyway? There isn’t a cloud in the sky.” They were sitting in the conservatory, and Lady Colveden gazed thoughtfully out at the sun-drenched lawns.

  “Do you know, that’s almost exactly what the gentleman said. After he had recovered somewhat, that is. And wrapped a clean handkerchief round his hand. I explained that I never, couldn’t possibly, go out without it. One never knows, and besides, it’s the one Mr. Delphick gave me to replace . . . though of course I didn’t mention that to the gentleman . . .” Miss Seeton’s voice trailed away, and a touch of color appeared in her cheeks as she remembered the circumstances in which the umbrella’s predecessor had been wrecked beyond repair.

  “Ah, well, bird-watchers are a law unto themselves, but strictly speaking he was trespassing anyway, so it served him right. A youngish man, you say?”

  “Yes, and so beautifully turned out. At least, he must have been to begin with . . . after he was able to stand, and breathe normally again without making that awful whistling sound, he said it was all right, the tweed was thornproof. Very well-spoken, in spite of everything. But I’m afraid it wasn’t, you know. Thornproof, I mean. One sleeve was ripped in two places, but invisible menders are awfully clever, aren’t they? Perhaps he’ll be able to get it repaired. His binoculars were undamaged, at least, and I expect that was more important to him than the state of his clothes. And naturally wavy hair.”

  Lady Colveden was inured to her visitor’s afterthoughts and firmly steered the conversation back on course. “He calmed down eventually, then?”

  Miss Seeton sighed. “Well, he seemed to. It must have been a great shock to his system, of course, so it’s hardly surprising that he decided to go and look at birds somewhere else. I can’t imagine where his car could have been parked without my seeing it, because he hurried off in the direction I had come from, and then in no time at all drove past me at what I must say struck me as excessive speed. I waved at him in the hope that there were no hard feelings, but he probably didn’t notice. I hope that was the reason, anyway, because of course I had intended only to be helpful and only noticed the feet by chance in the first place. The shoes, that is. So I came to the conclusion that he must be hurrying off to find a chemist’s shop. Quite unnecessary, because I had told him while he was recovering that Dr. Wright’s clinic was quite close, and also that Mrs. Stillwell at the post office stocks iodine, lint, and sticking plaster.”

  “Never mind. All’s well that ends well, as George would undoubtedly point out if he were here. I think Nigel’s about the place somewhere, getting in the way of the people from the magazine. So many of them and for such ages, and all so that Cedric Benbow can mince about and take a few snaps. Nigel will be happy to run you home after we’ve sorted out the drill for Buck House on Thursday week. Unless I can persuade you to stay for lunch?”

  “Too kind, but no, no, thank you. And I’m not sure I can take in what you tell me this morning, in view of—”

  “Nonsense, nothing to it. George has already decided to have a hire car, so we’ll all be going together, and once we’re inside, all you have to do is enjoy yourself anyway. George and I certainly intend to: this place will be a madhouse for the whole of that week, I gather. Now, so far as a hat’s concerned, the one you have on would be entirely suitable.”

  “Really? I’d thought perhaps a new one. But in the same style. It’s rather interesting you know, he was called Clive when I knew him.”

  “Completely up to you. And white gloves, of course. Who was called Clive?”

  “Cedric Bennett. Benbow, I mean. Cedric Benbow was called Clive Bennett. At art school.”

  “Why?”

  Miss Seeton blinked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite . . .?”

  “Why was he called Cyril Bennett?”

  “He wasn’t. He was called Clive Bennett. Because . . . well, that was his name, you see. He suffered from acne.”

  “What a funny chap. I could understand him trying Germolene or something, but I can’t for the life of me see what good he thought changing his name would do. Anyway, we’d better get on. Buckingham Palace. As I remember it, there’s always such a mob that they use two or three entrances to the grounds. We should get our admission tickets in a day or two, and they’ll tell us which gate the driver should take us to. And then, inside, you just sort of mill about, look at the flowers, see if you can see anybody you know or spot somebody famous, listen to the band, make for the marquee, and try some of the delicious little petits fours they offer you.”

  “But . . . but, what about Her? Meeting, you know, Her Majesty?”

  “Oh, good heavens, not a chance! Not unless you want to spend most of the afternoon trying to work your way through a rugger scrum, that is. Might see her with a bit of luck, in the far distance. Or one or two of the other royals doing the rounds. Oh dear, I do hope you aren’t disappointed.”

  “No, no, indeed not. Quite the reverse. The thing that was making me most nervous is that, you see, I have no idea what one is supposed to say . . .”

  “Well, mind you, I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, but if by some remote chance it did, by the time you’d curtsied and said ‘Yes, ma’am, delightful weather,’ it would all be over.”

  “Really? That is a relief, I must say.”

  “Oh, look, here comes Nigel now. I do wish he didn’t always look as if he’s about to come in through the French windows and say ‘Tennis, anybody?’ Still, I should be thankful, really.”

  “Yes, I really think you should, Lady Colveden,” Miss Seeton said firmly. “And proud, too, if I may say so. Nigel is a gallant, courteous, and considerate young man.”

  Lady Colveden smiled at her. “Thank you. That’s a very nice thing to say.” The smile became conspiratorial. “And a very susceptible young man, you might have added. Has he told you about Marigold?”

  “Why, yes, he has. I understand she is very beautiful.”

  “Well, your friend Cedric Benbow or whatever he calls himself thinks she is. And so do a lot of other people, it seems. I haven’t met her yet, but I’ve been shown some very clever photographs. I’m dying to see what she’s like in person.”

  Chief Inspector Chris Brinton took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, replaced the glasses, sat back in his chair, and laced his fingers together across his ample chest. “For lunch today I had a ham and tomato sandwich, well, two actually, and a pint of shandy because it’s so hot. One pint, Foxon. Definitely just the one. So I’m sober. What on earth did you have?”

  “Chicken, chips, and beans, sir. Bread and butter, strawberry milk shake, and a custard tart.”

  “Cripes, no wonder you’ve gone barmy.”

  “No, sir, got a touch of heartburn, but otherwise all my faculties, such as they are. Just reporting word for word what Potter said on the phone from Plummergen.”

  “Then it must be Potter who’s blown a gasket.”

  “More likely that precious pair they call the Nuts, if you ask me. Mrs. Blaine and Miss Nuttel. They’re the ones’s reported the so-called incident. Potter got on his bike and went up there right away, but not a soul about in the lane, needless to say.”

  “Attempted murder? Miss Seeton?”

  “That’s what they alleged, sir. Vicious unprovoked attack with her umbrella on a defenseless man. Apparently she’d already felled him somehow before the Nuts were near enough to see. Man was lying there cringing from the blows. Then she throttled him, but didn’t quite make a thorough enough job of it, because they said he seemed to be regaining consciousness when they ran off to tell Potter.”

  “Foxon. Listen to me. Miss Emily Seeton is what, in her late sixties? She weighs about six or seven stone in her heavy walking shoes, I should reckon. And Scotland Yard pay her some piddling retainer as an occasional expert consultant. Now I’m consulting you, Detective Constable Foxon. Can you think of a single convincing reason why we should not charge those two silly cows Blaine
and Nuttel, whom we know of old to be malicious gossips, with wasting police time? At the same time tipping Miss S. the wink on the quiet? To consider clobbering the old bags in the civil courts for slander, I mean?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You can? A convincing reason?”

  “Yessir. Umbrella, sir. I can see the headline: BATTLING BROLLY STRIKES AGAIN.”

  Brinton took off his glasses again, buried his face in his hands, and groaned. Then he looked up wanly. “I hate you, Foxon,” he said, “but you could be right, blast your eyes. One way and another Miss S. has wrought more havoc in a few years with that confounded brolly than a man twice her size could with a stick of gelignite.”

  “Don’t forget the Orac— er, Mr. Delphick gave it to her, sir. I think he sees it more as a modern version of Excalibur than a stick of gelignite.”

  “Nobody’s perfect, Foxon, not even Chief Superintendent Delphick, and don’t be such a bloody show-off. Excalibur my foot. You’d better get over to Plummergen and have a word with Miss Emily D. Seeton. God only knows why, but she seems to like you. Find out what, if anything, she used her umbrella for this morning, and ask her where she buried the body, if any. Oh, and drop in at Dr. Wright’s place and see if Bob Ranger’s turned up in the village yet, will you? The Oracle’s organized a spot of leave for him so he can do some courting and keep a discreet eye on this fashion circus for us at the same time. Fill Ranger in if you see him. Just in case the Battling Brolly’s latest victim tries to get his own back. I reserve the right to feel the collars of the Nuts at some later date.”

  Sir Sebastian Prothero winced as he did his best to achieve a reasonable effect with his black tie, but in spite of repeated efforts the end result was a sorry sort of butterfly compared with the perfection that normally set off his dinner jacket in the evenings. This was because he had not only ricked his neck in the course of the desperate struggle to free himself from Miss Seeton’s umbrella, but had also strained his shoulder in extricating himself from the hawthorn hedge. Thank heavens his face was unmarked. The scratches on the back of his hand still looked red and angry, but could, he thought, be explained if necessary as the work of a temperamental cat. They smarted horribly, but nothing like as much as the outrage to his pride.