Behind his newspaper the major-general uttered a cough which sounded, to his wife’s suspicious ears, very similar to a laugh. “George, please! And Nigel, stop it. This is important—we all think so.”
“And who,” enquired Nigel, “is all, exactly?”
“The Competition Committee, of course. Matilda Howett, and Molly Treeves, and me—and Phyllis Armitage,” added Meg Colveden. Nigel grinned.
“Poor Miss Armitage! Fated always to be an afterthought. I wonder if she’s glad or sorry she doesn’t spend too much time in the public eye?” Miss Armitage was a quiet soul who seldom offended anyone; she had once taken second prize at the Women’s Institute Regional Show for her flower arrangement, yet not a soul had grudged her this brief glory.
“She’s very artistic,” said Lady Colveden quickly, “and she has a good sense of colour, and balance, and, well, that sort of thing. In fact, this business with your father and Miss Seeton”—she raised her voice to penetrate the barrier of newsprint—“was originally her idea, though the rest of us agreed to it at once . . .”
As her startled spouse lowered The Times, wide, innocent eyes met his. Meg Colveden smiled. “Why, George, how very kind of you to join us. Was it something I said?”
“Why you said it,” Sir George said. “Wasn’t it?”
“And it worked,” said Nigel. “Mother is obviously privy to your guilty secret, Dad—you and Miss Seeton! What the Plummergen tabbies will make of that little item, I daren’t think—and how I’m going to show my face in the village in future, I can’t imagine.”
His mother picked up the coffeepot. “Nigel . . .”
With a shrug, a grin, and a wink at his father, Nigel subsided. Sir George stroked his moustache reflectively. Lady Colveden smiled again.
“I never realised, all these years, that you were paying attention, George, but I’m so glad to find out at last. Now I shan’t have to explain too much.”
“Have to explain from scratch,” he told her. “Something about the Howitzer, and the Competition, that’s all I know.”
“No, George, not Major Howett—it was Miss Armitage’s idea. About you taking photographs of The Street, and Miss Seeton doing sketches of how everywhere could look if people followed the Committee’s suggestions. Not that you were the person Miss Armitage thought of—she just said, someone who knows what they’re doing with a camera. And of course, you were the obvious choice.”
Sir George quietly began to preen himself as his wife explained. The Times, for once, was forgotten. Nigel gaped at the miracle his mother had wrought.
“Like tickling trout,” he murmured in admiration. “Like catching monkeys—softly, softly . . .”
“Your father’s not in the least like a trout,” protested Lady Colveden, “and certainly not at all like a monkey.”
“Not if he’s going to use a camera, he’s not,” agreed Nigel. “Rather a bright scheme, really—before and after, with Dad’s box Brownie doing the Befores and Miss Seeton and her paintbox producing the Afters. Which reminds me”—and he shook the coffeepot hopefully—“Does anyone else . . . ?”
His parents ignored him, and he was able to fill his cup for the third time. Sir George was preoccupied with more serious matters. “Sent my box Brownie to the church fete years ago,” he reminded his family, with a sigh. “Sorry to do it, too: fond of the old memory-trap. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“And they don’t make film like that anymore, either,” said his wife. “They stopped humouring sentimental people like you ages back, which is why I decided it was a waste having the place cluttered up with a camera you couldn’t use. But if,” she said, in the coaxing voice of Eden’s serpent, “you were thinking of taking up the hobby again—which you said you were, remember, when Cedric Benbow first came to the house . . .”
“So I did,” remarked Sir George, brightening. The grand old man of fashion photography, Cedric Benbow of worldwide renown, had first made the acquaintance of the Colvedens at the time of his much-publicised search for the Lalique Lady. This young woman, chosen by Cedric himself to model designer clothes and to wear the priceless jewellery borrowed from museums in Lisbon and Paris, had needed (according to Cedric Benbow) the decorations of William Morris to display her and her adornments to best advantage; and Rytham Hall boasted two of the finest Morris rooms in the country.
Nigel Colveden had lost his heart, albeit briefly, to Marigold Naseby, Cedric’s prize model; Cedric and his crew had nearly lost some of the jewellery, in a daring daylight robbery thwarted, at the very last minute, by Miss Seeton, in a manner which forged firm bonds of friendship between Sir George Colveden, the great Cedric Benbow, and two other visitors to Rytham Hall who could duly relish the recherche character of the whole adventure.
“Benbow,” nodded Sir George. “Haven’t seen him for a while—time we all got together again.” For, every few months, Sir Wormelow Tump (custodian of the Royal Collection of Objets de Vertu) and Ferencz Szabo (dealer in fine art, whose gallery was in Bond Street) would join their new friends Benbow and Colveden at Sir George’s club, for an evening of cheerful and reminiscent sodality. “Could pick his brains about the best camera to buy,” reflected Sir George. “Maybe learn a few tricks of the trade at the same time—nothing like asking an expert for advice if you want a job done properly.”
Lady Colveden sighed with gentle relief that her husband had taken it so well. When Miss Armitage had first made her tentative suggestion, clearing her throat and politely waiting for a suitable pause in the conversation before daring to speak, nobody had for one minute supposed that she had been volunteering her own services as Plummergen’s wizard of the single-lens reflex. Phyllis Armitage belonged to the age of tripods, black cloths over the head, and glass plates—which, even supposing such items to be more obtainable than the film for a box Brownie, nobody could imagine her using with particular success.
The thought of a box Brownie had at once brought to the mind of Lady Colveden her husband, and his long-neglected hobby, and his friendship with Cedric Benbow . . .
“No point in hanging around,” said Sir George, briskly folding up The Times and pushing back his chair almost in the same movement. “Might as well give him a ring now, if he’s at the studio—if not, daresay someone can take a message.” He glanced at Nigel and returned his son’s faint grin. “Important matter, after all—practically life and death, this competition. Utter nonsense about Miss Seeton, though—pleasant little soul, but not my type.” He nodded to his wife as he made to disappear out of the door. “Tell ’em I prefer blondes,” he advised, and vanished.
“That’s one in the eye for you, Mother.” Nigel drained his cup and set it in its saucer. As Lady Colveden smiled, he began to collect together the other cups and crockery and tidied everything on the tray. “Blondes, indeed!”
“Oh, he’s talking about Daphne Carstairs—ages before we were married,” she said, frowning. “Miss Seeton—now, I wonder—”
“For heaven’s sake, Mother, I was only teasing,” broke in her son, in some alarm. “Surely you don’t think—”
“Of course I don’t, and neither would anyone else with any common sense. But do take care not to say anything of the sort down in the village, won’t you—you know how they delight in getting hold of the wrong end of the stick, and the poor little soul comes in for quite enough gossip as it is. No,” said Lady Colveden, “what I was wondering was, is she going to be able to fit in the After pictures, with all the other projects she has on hand? Not just the Scotland Yard business, though I notice she hasn’t seemed to be doing so much recently, although I’m sure there was more in that Dick Turpin affair than anyone ever knew, but then, I am a school governor, and when Mr. Jessyp rang me yesterday, of course I had to say it was a good idea, only I’d forgotten about the Before and Afters when I agreed.”
“Mother darling, has the shock of Dad’s secret obsession turned your brain? What has your being a school governor in any way got to do with—
oh.” Nigel grinned. “At least you aren’t suffering from Seeton Disease, after all—disjointed ramblings that only make sense if people sit down with wet towels wrapped round their heads and flash back in slow motion. I hadn’t,” he said, “realised that Miss Maynard’s mother was ill again . . .”
It was not one of Martha Bloomer’s days for “doing” in Miss Seeton’s cottage, and now that her yoga session was over, Miss Seeton had Sweetbriars to herself. She had made herself a fresh pot of tea and was sitting now in thoughtful solitude to reread the letter which she had received by the first post that morning—a tribute to the professional dedication of red-haired Bert and his fellow post office workers, for the writer had only committed his missive to the mail the previous evening.
The School House
Plummergen
Kent
Thursday, 10th July
Dear Miss Seeton,
Although it is rather short notice, I wonder if you would possibly be able to help out as a supply teacher next week as you have done on previous occasions. Miss Maynard’s mother, who as you know has been ailing for some time, has become suddenly so much worse that an operation has been proposed, and naturally her daughter wishes to be with her. As it is fairly near the end of term, your duties would certainly be less onerous than on previous occasions: general supervision of previously set lessons, with the occasional excursion, also already planned, to Ashford Forest for nature study rambles, and to Greatstone, to visit the Shire Horse Stud. They have a splendid collection of harness and farm machinery, as well as a flock of Suffolk sheep and other animals which the children might like to draw. Perhaps you would be able to organise some form of competition for the best picture? It is planned to hold a small exhibition of the children’s handiwork in the school during the final week of term, so that the parents of our pupils may see and admire their efforts from the whole school year.
Pay and conditions would be as before, and I very much hope you will see your way to helping us out in this slight emergency. Perhaps you would be kind enough to telephone me on Friday, at some time convenient to yourself, to let me know your decision.
Yours sincerely,
Martin C. Jessyp
It was a simple enough request, and of a kind which she had fulfilled more than once in the past, as Mr. Jessyp, the village school’s headmaster, acknowledged.
Then why did Miss Seeton feel a slight twinge of unease as she read the letter for a third time?
chapter
~4~
CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT DELPHICK, The Oracle of Scotland Yard, who first was instrumental in annexing Miss Seeton’s unique artistic skill for use by the forces of law and order, once described his remarkable protégée as everybody’s conscience—the universal maiden aunt, humanity’s backbone, going to the stake again and again throughout history as a matter of principle. Detective Constable Bob Ranger, who was the astonished recipient of this profound assessment of Miss Seeton’s character, came over the years to see how very true it was. Indeed, he and his wife Anne, daughter of Plummergen’s Dr. Knight (whose private nursing home, following Anne’s matrimony-induced defection, was in the capable charge of retired Army Major Matilda Howett), very early in their acquaintance chose to adopt Miss Seeton as their own Aunt Em, conscience and all . . .
Certainly, Miss Seeton’s conscience was ever vigilant—some, less scrupulous than Miss Seeton, might say troublesome—and especially now. So very thoughtful of Mr. Jessyp, trying to spare poor Miss Maynard any anxiety about deserting her post, although of course one could not really see it as such when a daughter’s duty was surely to be with her mother at a time like this—yet was it not equally true that one had one’s own duty, to Scotland Yard? And to be committed to two or more weeks (Miss Seeton, so happily retired, was now vague about when the school term ended) of teaching, when perhaps the police—who were, one had to admit, so very generous with their fees—might call upon one’s services—and naturally must have first claim upon one’s time . . . The awkward phrase conflict of interests had been dancing in letters of fire around Miss Seeton’s mind all morning: fire which might subconsciously have been the reason she decided to essay the exercise with the candle flame, failure though it turned out to be.
Miss Seeton has no proper understanding of her true value to Chief Superintendent Delphick and his constabulary colleagues. She believes that the annual retainer she is paid for what she calls her IdentiKit sketches is a measure of her artistic competence; she tries her conscientious best to provide likenesses of such persons as the police request her to draw, and genuinely does not realise that a proper IdentiKit would probably do the same job much better. Miss Seeton’s importance lies in the quick-fire, almost instinctive—some would say psychic—drawings of which she is always slightly embarrassed. She regards them as cartoons, almost doodles, and tries not to let anyone know when she has, at some urging she never fully comprehends, produced one. Rather, she is more proud of her ability to turn out proper likenesses of what one sees, not realising that a photograph would have the same result.
The police send for Miss Seeton, known to their stubborn computer paymaster as MissEss, when matters seem out of the ordinary—for Miss Seeton herself is the most ordinary and conventional person in Kent: the contrast is piquant, and to Scotland Yard very useful. It is also not strictly true, for Miss Seeton is a conventional only in her own eyes—Scotland Yard, and the newspapers, know better. Adventure follows Miss Seeton—no, is stirred up by herself when, behaving in a purely conventional manner, she produces a far from conventional result; and does not even appear to notice herself doing it. In Miss Seeton’s eyes she has done nothing remarkable or noteworthy: she would greatly prefer neither to be remarked upon or noted; when she is, she regrets it, but sees it as the price one has to pay for doing one’s duty. Miss Seeton has taken, not the King’s Shilling, but the Queen’s, in the form of the Scotland Yard retaining fee, and her duty to the police is plain.
But, mused Miss Seeton now, had one not also a duty to the community in which one lived? Poor Miss Maynard—and Mrs. Maynard, so unpleasant, being in hospital—the anxiety over the schoolchildren which might be lessened were one to speak the word—and Mr. Jessyp, always so courteous and considerate of one’s feelings, arranging the lessons as far as possible to fit in with one’s abilities—and such amiable children, always polite and interested . . . a pleasure to teach again, just for a change, although one would never wish to return to such employment full-time—not that one needed the money, although it was always welcome, but there had been the surprisingly generous settlement from the insurance company after those pictures belonging to the Duke of Belton were found in the gallery in Switzerland, and the interest from the deposit account was gratifyingly high . . . but then the police might wish for some IdentiKit drawings, and if one had accepted a prior commitment . . .
Miss Seeton sighed and shook her head. No wonder she had been unable to achieve mental calm this morning: there was far too much for her to worry about. Perhaps it would be best if she were to ask someone for advice . . .
When the telephone bell rang on his desk, Superintendent Brinton was frowning over a report that had just come in. Almost without thinking, he groped for the receiver; why, he found himself wondering, did the rhythmic ringing sound so, well, hesitant? As if whoever was on the other end of the line were clearing his or her throat and preparing to apologise for disturbing him . . .
“Who did you say wants to talk to me?” he demanded when the switchboard relayed the message. The message was carefully repeated.
“Miss Seeton.” Brinton sighed, clutching at his hair. “Well, you’d better put her through—but you can stop that sniggering before you do.” The switchboard apologised, but still with a choking quality to its voice that told Brinton his paranoia concerning Miss Seeton—and who, he silently asked the empty office, could really blame him?—was known to the whole of Ashford police station, if not the entire Kent constabulary. He groaned, and cursed.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Seeton—a frog in my throat—hay fever,’’ he gabbled when a polite voice enquired if he was indeed Superintendent Brinton, and if he was quite well. “Oh, yes—a nuisance, but I’ve learned to live with it. Never mind me, though—I’m sure you didn’t ring up to hear me sneezing, did you? What exactly can I do for you?” And he crossed mental fingers that her request, whatever it was, might not be too exotic.
He’d been right: the first thing she did was to apologise for disturbing him. And the second, and the third . . . but that, he could cope with: and he made the right noises at her, soothing, friendly, trying to stop her saying the same thing fifty different ways. Trying also, he realised, to put off the evil hour when she managed to get down to brass tacks and tell him why she’d really rung . . .
“I felt, you see,” she explained, “that it would be best to speak to you—as you are nearer than London, and I first thought of asking P. C. Potter, except that his wife told me he is out on patrol, and you are his superior officer, are you not? And, having first approached Mr. Potter, even though he was not there, I thought it might be unethical to telephone Scotland Yard.”
She paused. Brinton, who had been shaking his head in an attempt to clear some of his confusion, realised that Miss Seeton was hoping he would reassure her, although for what, exactly, he wasn’t absolutely certain.
“That’s quite all right, Miss Seeton.” It wasn’t easy to sound convincing when you were as baffled as Brinton was, but he did his best. “Don’t worry about it—forget it, and just tell me why you rang. There’s nothing,” he repeated, “to worry about at all.”
“And I told her,” he lamented, ten minutes later, “there was nothing to worry about at all—I must have been out of my tiny mind even to dream of saying something like that to your Miss Seeton, Oracle. Stark, staring mad.”
Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10) Page 3