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

by Hampton Charles

  While inwardly recognizing the justice of her remarks, Sir George was enjoying his grumble too much to abandon it right away.

  “Didn’t bargain on a lot of poofters poncing about the place.”

  “Now, George, language! And in any case, you have no reason whatever to imply any such thing. I’ve found the people from the magazine quite delightful, and I’m very much looking forward to having Cedric Benbow as a houseguest. It’s only for a few days anyway.”

  “Few days! To take half a dozen snaps! Good God, I could do it in ten minutes with my old box Brownie.”

  “Dad, your old box Brownie sat on the white elephant stall at about six successive village summer fetes until some fathead eventually gave a couple of bob for it,” Nigel pointed out. “I remember Ma warned me not to buy it back for sixpence the first year and I was about eight then. Couldn’t get the film anymore.”

  Far from crushing his father, Nigel’s intervention fanned the embers of his sense of grievance. “Couple of bob indeed! Feller got a bargain, I’ll have you know. Saw one just like it in an antiques shop window in Canterbury last time I was there. They wanted a tenner for it.”

  “Oh. Yes, well, people do seem to be into nostalgia these days, I must admit. Anyway, that’s not really the point, Dad. To get a dozen or so absolutely terrific pictures, Cedric Benbow will probably take several hundred.” He paused, blushing becomingly. “And it’ll take a lot of time for Marigold to change dresses and have her makeup and hair redone for each one.”

  Sir George reached for another piece of toast and looked at it in disgust. “Stone cold as usual. What sort of an idiot invented toast racks? They give it to you wrapped up in a cloth in decent hotels. Yes, but what’s he want to stay here for? That’s what I want to know.”

  “It’s because of the outside pictures, dear. That very pleasant young man with the beard explained it all to me. Natural lighting, you see. We’re enjoying a very nice settled spell of good weather, it’s true, but of course we can’t count on that for next week. It could easily turn out to be a case of seizing any opportunity that arises.”

  “And even if we do have a lot more sunshine, I imagine Benbow will want to try some early morning and some evening shots, Dad. You know, pearly dawn, romantic sunsets . . .” Nigel grinned and pretended to duck to avoid a parental assault. “So it makes sense for him to be on the premises, with Marigold and a few other key people nearby.”

  “Poppycock. Perfectly good pub in the village.”

  “Oh, really, George! Mr. Benbow is a very distinguished man. The George and Dragon wouldn’t be at all suitable for him. Besides, it’s fully booked. They’ve given Miss Naseby their best room, and Mr. Benbow’s assistants and people from the magazine have the rest.”

  An old campaigner, Sir George knew when defeat stared him in the eye. “Good mind to give old Freddie a ring down there in Ross-on-Wye. Few days fishing might be the thing.”

  “I’d say that would be an excellent idea, except that you’re forgetting the garden party at Buck House, dear.”

  Nigel waited politely to speak, until his father had finished groaning theatrically. “Why not go down there the following week, Dad? Recuperate after it’s all over. Besides, you’ll enjoy it while it’s happening, you know you will. And you can lend a hand keeping an eye on the Lalique jewelry.”

  “So, very good,” Ferencz Szabo said. “I shall close the gallery at eight o’clock. The representatives of the owners and the insurance company must be here well before then, of course. Then we shall together supervise the placing of each piece in its case, and the cases in the strongbox by the Securicor manager.”

  “Right,” the Mode business manager agreed. “The same procedure as when the jewelry was delivered to you, only in reverse.”

  “Precisely, except, my friend, that I shall feel more joyful when I see you and the Securicor representative sign the documents than I did when it was my responsibility to do so.”

  “Don’t regret it all, do you, Ferencz?”

  “But no, not for a second! It has been a triumph! My little shop has always been on the map, of course, but from now on its name will be mentioned everywhere the critics meet, at every vernissage, every—”

  “Right on. We’re pretty pleased, too. My circulation manager’s delighted. Pity young Marigold flaked out like that at the press show, but—”

  “No no no! She did it so beautifully! And the Guardian critic mentioned that it was on the shoulder of no less a personage than the Queen’s Custodian of Objets de Vertu that the sweet child swooned. Dear friend, you must cherish her; she will be worth her weight in gold to you from now on.” Ferencz took an amber cigarette holder from his waistcoat pocket, inserted a dusty pink Sobranie cigarette into it, and admired the effect. “My security here is always very good, bien entendu. But you must have some anxiety about this country house, no?”

  “No, not really. They’ll only need a few pieces at a time, you see. Securicor will deliver the strongbox and take it away again in an armored van each day, and have a guard over it. Each piece Benbow wants to use will be signed for and then checked in again, needless to say. Big firm like that, I expect they’ve worked out very elaborate safeguards. Anyway, it’ll be their worry, not ours.”

  “And most assuredly not mine.” Ferencz beamed with satisfaction and finally lit his cigarette as the Mode man prepared to leave, then paused.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. Albertine said to mention that you’d be quite welcome if you felt like dropping in one day during the shooting. Long way to go, of course, but she thought it might amuse you to see the Lalique pieces actually being worn for once, and with the right sort of clothes in the right sort of context.”

  Miss Seeton had not really enjoyed the chicken salad Martha had prepared for her lunch before going back to her own cottage nearby. She suspected, quite rightly, that until very recently the poor chicken, like the lettuce, cucumber, and radishes, had flourished in her own rather large garden. In return for keeping the remainder tidy and for supplying her with eggs and with soft fruit and vegetables in season, Stan Bloomer had her full permission to keep hens in and cultivate well over a third of it. It was understood that he would sell whatever produce was left over after the Bloomers’ own table had been supplied, pocketing the proceeds. The arrangement suited both parties admirably, and so far as eggs, fruit, and vegetables were concerned Miss Seeton had no scruples about enjoying her share to the full. Although she was not a vegetarian, however, the thought of the ultimate fate of the hens troubled her.

  At least Mr. Bloomer was always scrupulous to deal with the more distressing aspects of the process when she was out, she thought, wobbling alarmingly but just succeeding in maintaining her balance. For in the privacy of her bedroom Miss Seeton was standing on her head, something she made a habit of doing, for a short time at least, every afternoon she was at home, after running through some of the less exacting postures described in Yoga and Younger Every Day.

  All the same, the frequent appearance of chicken on her table did constitute a recurring moral problem. Perhaps without giving offense to either of the Bloomers she could explain that she had decided to go on a special diet that excluded chicken. She would, of course, have to honor her word—not that there could be any question of her not doing so—and do without chicken altogether from now on, even in restaurants and other peoples’ houses, not that she dined out very often anyway. It would be a small enough deprivation, to be sure.

  Miss Seeton continued to muse about diets after she finished standing on her head and managed to assume the lotus posture. The pain was undoubtedly diminishing with practice, yes, but it would be very nice to be able to walk normally again in less than half an hour after doing that particular exercise. Perhaps a diet might even help. People were advocating some really quite unusual diets these days, avocado, grapefruit and so on, though hardly yet the Diet of Worms! Birds were widely supposed to live on worms. Even hens might eat the occasional worm, perhaps, given th
e opportunity, and they were undoubtedly early birds of the kind said to catch them.

  Now, why should she suddenly think about the Diet of Worms after all these years? The history mistress at school had never made it very clear what it had all been about, but then Miss Marlborough had always been the first to confess that religious controversies weren’t her strong point. It obviously had nothing to do with proper worms, or proper diets for that matter. Wormelow: what a very odd name to give a child, as if it weren’t bad enough to be saddled with a surname like Tump in the first place.

  The poor man must have been teased about it a great deal as a child. Schoolboys could be very cruel . . . well, unthinking, really. Like all those people at the reception, so busy talking and wanting to be seen that none of them noticed how unwell Miss Naseby was looking. Still, once having grasped the point, Sir Wormelow had been kindness and efficiency itself. Who would ever have thought that Clive Bennett would one day have such distinguished friends!

  Oh, dear, now comes the worst part. Miss Seeton gingerly disengaged first one foot from the opposite thigh, then the second, and with eyes closed, held her breath while the first wave of agony swamped her consciousness and then all too slowly receded. The pins and needles in all their glory were yet to come, but experience suggested that a period of total numbness and immobility would precede them, during which she might just as well turn her mind to other things.

  Marigold Naseby, for example, or Susanna as she had thought of her since that day. Chaste Susanna. Delacroix? No, Chasseriau, of course. “Susanna and the Elders” . . . more than a little unfair to cast Clive in the role of an Elder, much less Sir Wormelow Tump; but theirs were the faces that lingered in the mind.

  Tap, tap, tap . . . oh, dear, what a very embarrassing time for a visitor to call! Miss Seeton still had no sensation whatsoever in her legs, but she somehow contrived to drag herself to the window and peer out. Some feet below her stood the familiar figure of the vicar, who it was of course always a pleasure to see, even if one was at something of a disadvantage. . . .

  “Good afternoon, Vicar!”

  The Reverend Arthur Treeves looked up, his professional smile fading to be replaced by an expression of wonderment as he took in the spectacle of Miss Seeton’s arms hanging limply over the windowsill, much as if she were an exhausted survivor of a shipwreck who had succeeded in reaching a lifeboat but lacked the strength to clamber in.

  “Shall we have rain before the weekend, do you think?” the arms inquired politely, before to the vicar’s great relief they were joined by Miss Seeton’s head and neck.

  “Ah, there you are. Good afternoon, Miss Seeton. Rain, you were saying? One cannot be sure, of course, but my sister thinks it very possible. She was indeed urging me over luncheon today to put the gardening tools I have been using recently back into the shed. Er . . . you are, I hope, quite well, Miss Seeton?”

  “Indeed yes, thank you. I expect to be able to walk again quite soon.”

  “My dear lady, have you sustained an accident? Why did not Mrs. Bloomer inform us?” Confused thoughts of beef tea and hot water bottles surged into Arthur Treeves’s mind. Since realizing to his own surprise many years earlier that he had lost whatever faith he might once have possessed, the vicar had more or less come to terms with the situation. During their helpful little chat the bishop of Greenwich had urged him not to distress himself, explaining that a great many of the clergy and indeed not a few of his own brethren on the bench of bishops were in a very similar position, and that there was not the smallest evidence to suggest that this inhibited them in the performance of their duties.

  The bishop was himself a go-ahead theologian, the author of several popular inspirational books whose titles tended to be expletives. Strike a Light! had done very well, and For Heaven’s Sake! even better. Arthur Treeves envied the suffragan his breezy style, but no matter how often he was invited to do so simply could not bring himself to address him as “Rick.” His advice had nonetheless been reassuring. “Just carry on in the normal way, my dear chap,” the bishop had urged, “and you’ll soon get used to it.” And so he had, while still on the whole happier when doing good works than when conducting services.

  “I shall ask my sister to call on you to see if there is any way in which—”

  “No, no, Mr. Treeves, I assure you there is no need whatever for Miss Treeves to concern herself. In fact, I believe I can feel the pins and needles beginning now. The door is on the latch. Do please let yourself in. I shall be with you in no time at all, and we will have a nice cup of tea. I have been in the lotus posture, you see. I am told that Zen Buddhists can maintain it for hours without the least discomfort, but I daresay that is because they come to it earlier in life.”

  The vicar gazed at her in continuing bafflement for some moments longer before shaking his head and doing as he had been bidden, standing uncertainly just inside the door to watch an otherwise cheery Miss Seeton totter down the stairs clinging to the banister rail. “Mind over matter, Vicar. That is what one must aim at, according to the manual. Do sit down, and I shall put the kettle on.”

  “Thank you. Yes, mind over matter. Quite so. I must say that for a moment I was most alarmed, but clearly all is well . . . though I understand you did in fact undergo a distressing experience a few days ago?”

  “A distressing experience? Oh, you must mean the gentleman who was so badly scratched. His jacket was torn as well, I fear, and for a while he had great difficulty in breathing. No, quite the reverse, I assure you, Vicar,” Miss Seeton said, now fully restored and bustling from the kitchen with several chocolate ginger biscuits on a plate. “It was he who was distressed. I was quite myself again within a few minutes, and indeed went on to enjoy a cup of coffee and a helpful chat with Lady Colveden.”

  The vicar blenched. This time it was true, then. Molly always insisted that Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine not only invented things but persistently launched malicious rumors, particularly where Miss Seeton was concerned. There could, however, be no doubt that they had witnessed some sort of an incident in which she and an unknown man had been involved, an incident into which it seemed the police had deemed it necessary to inquire. And now here was Miss Seeton confirming the allegations made by the Nuts—oh, dear, it really was extremely uncharitable to refer to them so unkindly—by Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, when they had accosted him earlier that day.

  Arthur Treeves was a bulky man who perspired freely in warm weather, and when embarrassed. The combination of the two sets of circumstances made it necessary for him to take out his handkerchief and dab first at his forehead, and then at the perfectly circular bald area on the top of his head that gave him such a convincingly clerical look. He cleared his throat nervously. He absolutely hated having to bring religion into conversations.

  “Here in Plummergen we try, as you know, to avoid extremes of churchmanship,” he began, falteringly. “And the preface to the Book of Common Prayer clearly implies that this is a wholly desirable course. On the other hand—and this is not perhaps as widely known as it should be—the sacrament of confession is always available to anyone in any parish who may have a troubled conscience. . . .”

  “You, Mr. Treeves? A troubled conscience? I am sorry to hear it. It may be impertinent on my part to say so, but I am confident that you lead the most blameless of lives. I should of course be honored if you should wish to confide in me, but would not perhaps your sister be a more suitable—?”

  “I fear I have expressed myself badly. What I . . . oh, never mind, Miss Seeton. Perhaps some other time.” The vicar sighed and took refuge in his tea and the quite excellent biscuit. He had at least tried. Pastoral care, the bishop had stressed, had very little to do with theology or doctrine. One occasionally came across the odd eccentric who liked nothing better than a dingdong argument about transubstantiation; and of course people did get quite excited about the number of candles on the altar and so forth but could generally be calmed down without too much trouble. Coolly ruth
less person she might now have revealed herself to be under that mild exterior, but at least Miss Seeton wasn’t a religious maniac.

  “Well, of course, if you say so,” she went on after a moment, peering into the teapot to conceal her embarrassment over the vicar’s unexpected cri de coeur. “I’m sure in any case whatever it is that may be worrying you will all look much less troublesome in the morning . . . Vicar! You’re just the person for me to ask! Now what was the Diet of Worms all about?”

  Twenty minutes later, Miss Seeton, still much concerned, watched her dejected guest lurch away from Sweetbriars, head bowed and shoulders slumped. Whatever could Mr. Treeves have been up to? He had obviously been so completely distracted by whatever it was he had on his mind that he had shown no interest whatever in the Diet of Worms and, though it was hard to credit, seemed hardly even to have heard of Martin Luther. Or was it John Calvin?

  Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the telephone ringing, and she hastened to answer it.

  “Yes, this is Emily Seeton. I’m so sorry, I didn’t quite catch . . . Who? Mel? Mel Forby? Why, Miss Forby, what an unexpected pleasure! Yes, of course I remember. You were so very kind to me when I was wet through. Though I do try not to think about those poor children. Thank you, yes, I am very well, except for being a little anxious about the vicar. Do you happen to know whether it was John Calvin or Martin Luther who had something to do with the Diet of Worms? You don’t? Well, never mind. In Canterbury, you say? On holiday? How very nice, and not very far from here, of course. Why, that would be delightful, but if you have a car, why don’t you come and have tea with me here at Sweetbriars, perhaps tomorrow? You will? Splendid! I shall look forward very much to seeing you again and telling you my exciting news. . . .”

  chapter

  ~10~