Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10)

by Hamilton Crane

  And Erica Nuttel nodded her grim agreement.

  chapter

  ~11~

  IT STILL DID not rain. For the rest of that week, scorching day succeeded scorching day; hosepipe bans were rumoured, to the fury of Plummergen gardeners. No cure for the sinister and still-spreading Brown Wilt had yet been found, and now a plague of moles seemed to be poised to devastate the flower beds and (even worse) what remained of the lawns of the village. Murmurs against Jacob Chickney, the area’s miserly and misanthropic Methuselah of a mole catcher, began to be heard, although nobody dared to come right out and accuse him of professional sloth. Jacob was not popular, never had been, and knew it. He did not care. For years he had been able to quell any complaint with one beetle-browed glower and a few choice curses—so choice that, for full understanding, an Anglo-Saxon dictionary would be required. Old age had not dimmed this dubious ability.

  Miss Seeton continued with her series of sketches; Lady Colveden and the Committee made arrangements to display both Before photographs and After pictures in the village hall: posters to this effect were put on display in various Plummergen stores and tacked to telegraph poles so that there could be no excuse not to attend the Great Exhibition, as Nigel called it.

  Farmer Mulcker lost a barn in an arson attack; further outbreaks destroyed, to a greater or lesser extent, shops and one factory in Ashford and Brettenden and Murreystone’s church hall. Murreystone chose to blame Plummergen for this loss, and villagers were sent on scouting expeditions to the rival territory to learn what they could. Superintendent Brinton, however, had by now concluded that insurance fraud was likely to be involved, as well as (if at all) the Choppers, and dreaded reading each morning’s reports.

  “One thing we’ve got to be thankful for,” he told Sleaze Arbuthnott, still on secondment from Hastings, “is that so far we haven’t had any kinky ones . . . touch wood,” he added. He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “If only it would rain,” he muttered. “It’d calm the blighters down a bit, and we need all the help we can get . . .”

  One of Mr. Alexander’s mysterious mistress’s Borzoi dogs jumped into the Royal Military Canal in an attempt to cool down, and discovered too late that the water, its flow much reduced by the weather, was brackish and green. Mr. Alexander walked back through Plummergen with Boris, smelly and dripping, at the fullest extent of the lead, and then tied the two dogs on separate hooks outside the post office. He bought a large bottle of dog shampoo and tried hard to join politely in the amused banter of the regular shoppers. Once he had departed homewards to The Meadows, however, amusement gave way to suspicion.

  “He’s forever walking them dogs down The Street, instead of letting ’em run about the garden, and with its great high walls there’d be no fear of ’em escaping, that’s for sure,” said Mrs. Skinner. “So it’s likely he’s got good reason for always going that way—plotting something with that Hawke woman along at the George and Dragon, mark my words.”

  “And everyone knows she’s in league with Miss Seeton,” Mrs. Henderson remarked. “Taken great care not to be seen together in public, they have, but there’s no denying it—and then there’s that reporter female as is friendly with Miss Seeton, she’s at the George, too—writing her articles about us, so she says, but I have my doubts,” and she nodded a portentous nod and looked grave.

  Everyone agreed that they, too, had their doubts about what was going on. Something, they felt sure, was brewing. They looked around for The Nuts, who could always be relied on to produce suggestions and speculations as good as any—but Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine still cowered inside Lilikot, waiting until the huge Russian wolfhounds were well out of range before venturing forth.

  Lady Colveden was glancing through Miss Seeton’s contribution to the Competition. As she finished each picture, Miss Seeton had placed it, with the appropriate photograph paper-clipped to one corner, in a folder; on the outside of the folder she fastened the Committee’s list, with each idea ticked off in pencil as she had incorporated it into her drawings. It was almost a professional portfolio, and Lady Colveden was impressed. She’d known all along that Miss Seeton could produce what was needed, and to the very highest standard. Every picture was competent and clear . . .

  Every picture except the last.

  “George, do look.” Lady Colveden riffled through the pile of sketches once more. “Yes, this is the only one—how very, very strange.”

  Sir George joined his wife at the table, upon which she had laid Miss Seeton’s work carefully as she withdrew each drawing from the folder. “Little woman’s done a grand job,” Sir George said. “Knew she would.” He ventured to preen his moustache for a moment. “Photographs helped, of course. Give Cedric Benbow a ring—be interested to know.”

  “Never mind Cedric Benbow for now, George. Just take a look at this last picture—well, I suppose it would be the very first she painted, as it’s at the bottom. She told me she just did them and filed them and went on to the next.” Lady Colveden shook her head. “It’s—I suppose you’d call it sinister—all the smoke, and the flames—almost as if that end of The Street had been set alight.”

  “Post office is clear enough.” Sir George was studying the picture which had so disturbed his wife. “Probably grew tired of filling in the background and sloshed around a lot of grey paint to save time.”

  “Miss Seeton would never slosh anything, George. She’s simply not the type.” But Meg Colveden’s response had been automatic: she was still busy staring at the picture. “Of course,” she comforted herself, “there’s the smithy at that end of The Street, and Daniel Eggleden’s been working all hours to make wrought-iron railings and flower stands and lamp brackets and things—you always have smoke and sparks from a blacksmith’s forge. She might have been watching him before she started this picture, and then, as you say, grown tired after she’d painted the post office—and doesn’t the awning look smart? We were sure it would—Miss Seeton does tend to paint what she sees, doesn’t she . . .”

  “Unless,” her husband reminded her, “she’s in one of her queer moods. No telling what she’ll come up with then, is there? Often wondered if she’s psychic. Afraid she may be starting up again, aren’t you?”

  “It’s happened so often before,” explained his wife, in a voice that was not quite steady. Sir George favoured her with a shrewd look.

  “No need to sound so apologetic, m’dear. Couldn’t agree more—uncanny.” He stared hard at the smoke-filled, flame-wreathed distances of the post office picture. “Could just be because of all these arson attacks in the local rag,” he suggested, not very convincingly. “Subconscious memory—or the forge, as you thought.”

  “You don’t believe it any more than I do, do you.” This was a statement, not a question. “George, what should we do about it?”

  “For one thing, not show the picture. Put ideas into people’s heads—irresponsible, this hot weather.”

  “Miss Seeton’s bound to notice and wonder why. You know how she takes such a pride in her work. And maybe, if we were to ask her, she could explain why she’s shown—oh, no, we can’t.” Meg Colveden looked most upset. “George, she’s shown the southern end of The Street on fire—and that’s just where Sweetbriars is! She’d be so worried . . . George, where are you going?”

  “Kitchen,” explained the major-general, his accents as decisive as when he won his DSO. “Wait there.” Mystified, his wife waited.

  “Don’t you think ritual suicide’s rather a drastic solution to the problem?” she asked as he came back bearing a large carving knife. “And really, I’m not that bothered by this picture—”

  “Couldn’t find the scissors,” replied Sir George with a flourish of the knife towards the dining-room table and the pictures which lay upon it. “Must have been tidying again—everything muddled. Better than nothing, though.”

  He made to seize the troublesome smoke scene, but Lady Colveden, with a cry of outrage, stopped him. “Not my best carvin
g knife, please! You might scratch the table, for one thing—let me find my embroidery scissors. You know I’m never going to finish that tapestry fire screen—I can’t imagine why I even began the wretched—oh, yes, of course, Nigel gave it to me for a joke. Well, I’ll admit that he’s won the bet, and we can always ask Mr Stillman to sharpen the edges, if the paper spoils them.”

  Sir George chuckled as he watched his wife rummaging in her work basket. Dearly as he and his son loved her, they knew her limitations: it had been particularly cheeky of the boy, all those Christmases ago, to say he’d be deeply hurt if his mother didn’t make even an attempt to complete what he insisted, straight-faced, was something he’d always felt was needed to complete the decor of the morning room. Lady Colveden had gamely struggled on, stabbing her fingers with needle points and frequently demanding that somebody should help her untangle the strands of wool, for some weeks before Nigel, choking with laughter, had confessed. Meg Colveden promptly rose to the challenge and said that she would complete the fire screen, though it might take years, or die in the attempt.

  “Which means you’d better leave the carving knife behind when we’ve finished,” she said, “so that I can commit, what is it? Suttee, or hara-kiri, or something. You can tell Nigel he’ll have to cook supper, and it’s his own fault.”

  Together, she and her husband studied the picture again, working out where best to sever that disturbing smoke scene from the main focal point of the post office. “We’ll simply have to tell her, if she asks,” said Lady Colveden, scoring gently with the points of her scissors along the line they eventually chose, “that it got torn, or something, and as it wasn’t the important bit, we decided to neaten up the rest of the picture and burn the damaged piece. Oh, dear.” Once more she looked stricken. “Burn—I mean throw away, don’t I? It’s all such a—an uncomfortable feeling . . .”

  Sir George, who knew Miss Seeton of old, nodded. After a pregnant pause he said: “Think I’ll give Brinton a ring, at Ashford. Can’t be too careful, where fire’s concerned. Can we?” And he picked up the discarded portion of Miss Seeton’s view of the post office and stared at it grimly.

  “How does she do it?” demanded Superintendent Brinton while Detective Constable Arbuthnott watched him turn slowly puce. “How did she know there’d be more trouble—big trouble—with these fires?” He clutched at his hair and groaned. “The only thing that’s keeping me sane is that she didn’t have the corpse in her blasted picture, but otherwise—”

  As emotion seemed to have choked him into temporary silence, Sleaze took the opportunity to point out, daringly, that Miss Seeton’s sketch, according to their informant Sir George Colveden, had not been of the Brettenden night club which had burned down in the small hours, but of Plummergen. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, sir,” he suggested gently.

  “Be damned to that for an idea,” exploded Brinton while Sleaze smothered a grin. “Harry Furneux was right—and so was young Foxon, curse him—and I should have known better. I tempted fate, and this is the result. And let me warn you right now, laddie, that since she’s got involved in all this, there’s no knowing where it will end. She’s bound to stay in it—and it’ll only get worse. If you’d like to transfer back to Hastings, this is your one chance to get out of what my instincts tell me is going to be a very messy case.”

  “But an interesting one, surely, sir. Working with, or should I say in spite of, Miss Seeton must be a unique experience—I’d certainly like to hang around and see what happens. If you have no objection, sir,” he added.

  “I’ve every objection to working with a lunatic, which is what you’ve just shown yourself to be,” growled Brinton. “But have it your own way, Arbuthnott, and don’t say later you weren’t given the chance to make your escape. It won’t be coming your way again, I assure you.” He inhaled deeply, then breathed out, closing his eyes. “So let’s have the full report,” he commanded. “Carefully, now . . .”

  “Formerly known as The Singing Swan,” he told Chief Superintendent Delphick half an hour later. “Recognise the name?”

  “Indeed I do.” In Scotland Yard the Oracle motioned to Detective Sergeant Bob Ranger to stop messing about with his filing and listen in on the telephone extension. “The far side of Brettenden, in the Les Marys district—my first Seeton case, as I recall—vandalism, dope, and Cesar Lebel just to liven things up. But I understood from my sergeant, with his local connections, that it had quietened down a lot in recent years—gone up-market and attracted an older type of clientele, with a new owner. The previous chap drank all the profits, or so I’m told.”

  “Yes, he pickled his liver very nicely and ended up an emergency case. Went on the wagon once he got out, which is hardly the best advertisement, is it? Makes the punters nervous. So people began to go for a drink somewhere else . . . And when things got a bit slow, he found it hard to sell, with money being a bit tight, as well as the reputation, which was still pretty unsavoury—no wonder the new bloke—lives in Murreystone, name of Thaxted—rechristened the place. It’s the Half Seas Over now—or rather, it was, before last night’s little effort.”

  “Tell me,” prompted Delphick, “about last night.”

  “The usual fire alert—building well ablaze before the brigade got there—firemen eventually put it out and then searched the remains for signs of arson, as they’ve been doing for every incident during recent weeks.”

  “My oracular sense tells me they did indeed find such signs,” said Delphick. Bob Ranger grinned. Superintendent Brinton’s bleak tone would have told a far less astute man than his boss that there was something wrong with the fire at the Half Seas Over.

  “They found more than that,” Brinton said. “They found a corpse with its head bashed in, buried in the rubble—and I got Records to run a dental check, and he’s one of yours, Oracle. From the Smoke. Name of Black, Notley Black, and a versatile sort of character he was, too. Bank robberies, jewel heists, con artist—that was in his younger days—”

  “I believe I know the name,” said Delphick. “And, Chris, talking of artists, I don’t suppose—”

  A heartfelt oath scorched its way along the telephone wires and set Delphick’s head ringing. He held the receiver away from his ear and listened to the gabble of indignation that came pouring out in a metallic frenzy. Across the room at the other desk, Bob Ranger raised his eyebrows and emitted a silent whistle. Well, they called the super Old Brimstone, and he could certainly see why, judging by this present performance. Lucky nobody censored the telephone system, or Brimmers would’ve had the blue-pencil boys banging on his door this very minute. He caught Delphick’s eye and grinned.

  When the outburst seemed to be quietening down, Delphick said, in his most soothing accents: “I apologise, Chris, but I couldn’t resist it. I take it there really is a Seeton connection? As you predicted all along there would be?”

  “She’s the one doing the predicting, Oracle, chattering on about striking matches and candle flames almost before there’s been a word said about arson—and then drawing Plummergen going up in smoke, according to your pal Sir George Colveden. They found it rather unnerving, he said, he and his wife. And so do I.”

  “You say she drew Plummergen on fire? Then why are you so worried about this chap in Brettenden? You can’t blame Miss Seeton for him.”

  “Logically—rationally—no, I suppose I can’t, but who can be logical where Miss Seeton’s concerned? She seems to have known about the arson outbreak before it happened—the village is buzzing with rumours—”

  “When did it ever do anything else?”

  “—about mysterious strangers with sinister intentions, creeping about the place in the middle of the night, having secret meetings with Miss Seeton—”

  “What?”

  “—and generally playing merry hell all over the show,” concluded Brinton, breathlessly. “I can’t stand it, Oracle, I’ve told you before. I need someone else to cope with her, and you’re the obvious choice. She m
ay only be on the edge of it now, but you know what she’s like for getting . . .”

  He hesitated, hunting for the right word.

  “Embroiled?” supplied Delphick, resigned; intrigued. “The word has the correct overtones of unwitting involvement, I think.”

  “What I think is that the sooner you get down here, the better,” retorted his harassed colleague. “Bring young Bob Ranger—he can try sorting out his dear old Aunt Em, if you can’t manage it. Because one of you’s got to,” said Brinton firmly. “I never could cope with her, and I’m not starting now—I’m saving my strength for the worst that’s to come.”

  And nobody dreamed of remarking that the worst might not come. Now that Miss Seeton was on the case, they all knew that almost anything could happen.

  chapter

  ~12~

  THE HEAT OF the morning sun made Miss Seeton walk along the easterly side of The Street on her way to school, seeking the benefit of even a slight amount of shade. The George and Dragon, with its creepered frontage, looked cool, but was set too far back from the road for its shadow to reach the pavement. Miss Seeton glanced up at the windows and wondered which room was dear Mel’s. The reporter, she knew, was no early riser unless pursuing a story; and how could there be a story in Plummergen? Which was the most peaceful of villages, where nothing, thank goodness, untoward ever happened beyond the little parochial excitements that would be unlikely to interest a stranger. Amelita Forby, having earned her holiday, must be sleeping still, and Miss Seeton could not expect to see her peeping out at her friend.

  The hot summer nights, so exhausting, barely giving one the chance to recover from the even hotter summer days . . . She must take care not to let the children overexcite themselves at playtime: they might prefer to sit quietly under a shady tree and play some round game, rather than run about in the open. Green, especially grass green, was such a very soothing colour . . .