“Love this place, Miss S.” Mel Forby leaned back in one of those rather expensive, but so comfortable, garden chairs which had been an extravagance Miss Seeton felt was at last justified by the recent spell of fine weather. Mel yawned and stretched. “I could really fall for a house like this—the view, the privacy”—she glanced at the mellow redbrick wall, and, thinking of the absent Thrudd Banner, mused on the fun of nude sunbathing—“and the garden . . . glorious. Almost tempts me into retiring, if I could—but there’s only one Sweetbriars. Accept no substitutes—this place is ultra special, and you’re one lucky lady. But what’s your secret? How come the flowers look so healthy, and the lawn here’s so green, when everyone else’s looks tatty?”
“I believe it is because of that wall you were admiring, or so Stan has told me. They don’t care to dig through the foundations, I believe—the moles, that is. And of course, with being so high, and the trees, there is plenty of shade. The wall, I mean. And the canal—we’re so close, and Stan says the water probably travels underground—seepage, would that be?” Miss Seeton frowned, but the correct word eluded her. “And dear Stan is very sparing with the contents of the water butts, as well.”
“You do a grand job between you. Almost as hard work as farming, or blacksmithing, or the other good old country pursuits I’ve been finding out about recently—and, hey!” Mel sat up straight. “Did I tell you? I’ve managed to find out what Miss Ursula Hawke’s doing here, as well. Amelita Forby, Queen of Fleet Street! She kind of unbuttoned a day or so ago—not much, mind you, but chattier than she’s been before. I caught her prowling round the George in a bit of a state—something to do with the mole catcher setting a cat on a magpie, and she needed a cardboard box or something—I was so amazed she’d got any time for me at all, I didn’t take in the full story. But what I did take in was why she’s in Plummergen, and why her suitcases were so darned heavy. Care to guess?”
Miss Seeton thought back to that encounter with Ursula Hawke when, between them, they had rescued the magpie from the attentions of Tibs, little Amelia Potter’s infamous cat. “Might I guess her to be a naturalist of some sort?” suggested Miss Seeton. “She knows a great deal about birds and other small creatures.”
Mel pulled a mock-disgusted face. “Here am I, pleased with myself for having eventually solved the mystery, and you’d cracked it all the time! I should’ve known better than to try and catch you out, Miss S.”
Miss Seeton hastened to explain the reason for her happy guess, adding that the encounter with the mole catcher (briefly described, at Mel’s prompting) and Miss Hawke’s reaction on learning his job had been the first clue. “And then, of course, there was the poor magpie, with its broken wing—she was so very knowledgeable about what to do for it—such a relief to have her there, for otherwise I would have been late for school, setting such a bad example to the children—although kindness to animals, of course, is something of which one should never be ashamed, and we could have discussed the subject in one of our natural history lessons. But Miss Hawke was far more than kind, she was of great practical help, which the magpie would surely have appreciated much more than my small efforts.”
“But you stopped Tibs killing it, didn’t you? Without which first step,” Mel pointed out, “all Miss Hawke’s help would have been thoroughly impractical, I’d say. And you’re right about her being a bird buff—twitchers, aren’t they called? Spend all their spare time travelling around on the lookout for rare specimens. She told me this area’s great for wintering smew.” Mel grinned. “For a minute there I’d got it into my head she was insulting me, but it’s some kind of bird, cross my heart.”
“A small species of merganser, I believe,” Miss Seeton said. Mel looked blank. “A diving bird,” translated Miss Seeton. “In many ways similar to a goosander. Which also winter in the area, I understand.”
Mel looked impressed. “If you say so, Miss S.—and no wonder you got on so well with Miss Hawke. I guess with a name like that she just had to be interested in birds—but you’re right, she’s into animals, too. She knows one heck of a lot about badgers—gave me quite a lecture about them. And she’s writing a book about it all, she says. The Complete Natural History of the Kentish Marshes, that’s the working title. She’s brought three pairs of field glasses with her, all different magnifications—no wonder that bag of hers looks so heavy—and pretty well every reference book in the language to double-check anything just as soon as she sees it. Talk about dedication to duty. Plus a camera or two with fancy lenses, for close-up action shots of birds mating, or whatever they do at this time of year . . .”
Mel drifted into a brief daydream of Thrudd Banner, then brought herself sternly to her senses. “The poor woman’s scared stiff some rival or other’s going to pip her to the post, so she—”
At which point, the doorbell rang.
chapter
~15~
MISS SEETON WAS in the act of topping up the teacups, and at the sound of the doorbell started slightly. A few drops of tea splattered on the table. She had been concentrating too hard on what dear Mel had to tell her about Miss Hawke—such a very interesting project—and not enough on what she was doing—but how fortunate that, with the chairs, she had bought a matching table in heavy white plastic. No more need to carry furniture in and out of the house whenever it looked like rain: plastic, though ugly and strictly practical, was certainly waterproof.
“Oh, thank you,” said Miss Seeton, as Mel rummaged in her bag and produced a wodge of clean paper handkerchiefs. “Would you be so kind as to answer the door while I mop up this little spillage? And, while you are gone, in case it is anyone coming for tea, I will top up the pot with more hot water. So embarrassing to feel one is intruding, and that arrangements have to be made.” She smiled at Mel. “And we can always have another cup ourselves, can we not? So nothing will be wasted.”
Mel smiled at the very thought of Miss Seeton wasting anything—that generation seemed constitutionally incapable of behaviour so irresponsible—and agreed to answer the door. “Could be your lucky day, Miss. S.,” she said as she strolled away. “The postman with your winning Pools coupon, maybe, or a free sample of cornflakes.”
“Bert only delivers in the mornings,” began Miss Seeton, before realising that it was a joke. She smiled again as she dabbed conscientiously at the spilled tea, counting the number of cakes and sandwiches left on the stand.
Mel emerged through the french windows with a dancing look in her eyes. “Not sure if it’s your lucky day or not, Miss S. The boys in blue are here in, if you’ll excuse the pun, force—the police have come for you!”
She motioned Chief Superintendent Delphick and Detective Sergeant Bob Ranger to join the party and, while everyone was busily greeting everyone else, slipped into the kitchen to fill and boil the kettle for more hot water. She took it upon herself to retrieve the gingerbread from where she knew Miss Seeton kept her cakes and grabbed another packet of biscuits from a tin in the larder. She collected the teapot from outside and made fresh tea, topped up the milk jug, and hunted for the sugar bowl. Neither she nor Miss Seeton took sugar, but the police needed every ounce of energy possible, chasing crooks all the time.
Or at least, mused Mel, all the time they spent in the vicinity of Miss Seeton—which time surely included right now, she’d bet a sizeable sum. She hadn’t missed the cardboard folder under The Oracle’s arm, even though he tried to hide it, and she didn’t suppose it contained sample greeting cards or Delphick’s holiday snaps. Amelita Forby of the Daily Negative was going to find out what was going on, and which particular crooks the Yard men were chasing—and she was going to get herself a story.
She carried the laden tray out to the garden, and everyone stopped talking to offer their help in laying the table. “Don’t worry about me,” Mel said sweetly, “you just carry on and pretend I’m not here,” and she bustled about, trying to be unobtrusive. When everything was ready, and Miss Seeton was pouring more tea, Mel very poi
ntedly helped herself to another cup and a further slice of cake, and looked ready to sit in the back garden of Sweetbriars until midnight.
Delphick, who had a decided soft spot for the reporter—and who also knew that unless they applied bodily force he and Bob Ranger could hardly evict her, Miss Seeton’s invited guest, from Miss Seeton’s flagstone patio—grinned at Mel as he selected a sandwich and said:
“Relax, Miss Forby. It’s too hot to argue, and we’re all friends here. You might even be able to help us, though it’s really Miss Seeton we came to consult.”
Thus called to duty, Miss Seeton sat up straight and put down her cup. “Anything I can do to help, of course, I will be only too glad to. That is . . .” She remembered the school at which she had spent recent days teaching, and to which she was more or less committed until the end of term. “That is—of course I will help, where I can, but . . .”
“Is something wrong, Miss Seeton?” Delphick leaned forward to put his plate on the table and pick up his cup. In passing, he touched Miss Seeton comfortingly on the arm. “It’s nothing more painful than a sketch or two, as usual—there’s really no need to look so anxious. I’ll start to think you’re regretting asking us to tea—and young Bob’ll feel virtually orphaned if his favourite aunt makes it look as if she doesn’t want him.”
Oh, dear. How very awkward, that one should give the unfortunate impression that Mr. Delphick and dear Bob were unwelcome. “It’s because of the children, you see,” Miss Seeton began to explain, turning pink. Delphick turned an amazed look upon his baffled sergeant.
“Children? Plural? Are you keeping something from me, Bob? Have I missed out on the drama of your drive through the night to make sure Anne reached the hospital in time? Are congratulations in order? And what happened to the fat cigar which I understand is regulation issue to the proud father’s friends and acquaintances? I am hurt, Sergeant Ranger, after so many years not to have been thought worthy of confidence. I must restore my feelings with a cup of Miss Seeton’s, I beg her pardon, Mel’s excellent tea.”
Bob was goggle-eyed with mingled protest and astonishment, stuttering as he tried to deny all knowledge of any offspring, while Mel, thinking of Miss Seeton’s recent renewal of the pedagogic life, choked quietly over a crumb. Delphick patted her on the back and smiled at Miss Seeton, who was pinker than ever.
“I must apologise for my sense of humour, Miss Seeton. Put it down to the hot weather, and the excitement of meeting old friends again.” He completed his first aid by slapping Mel briskly across the shoulders, then said, “If you’re worried about the teaching, please don’t be. Yes”—he paused as she broke off her rambling attempt at explanation and looked surprised—“we know all about it. Superintendent Brinton has already put us fully, if you’ll excuse the pun”—and he grinned at Mel—“in the picture.”
Indeed Superintendent Brinton had: repeating the content of his almost daily telephone calls to Scotland Yard with a blow-by-blow account, once reinforcements had arrived safely in Ashford, of everything Miss Seeton had said, done, or drawn (according to reports from various Plummergen sources) since the arson outbreak began. Delphick, intrigued, had made a mental note to visit the Colvedens to examine that picture of Plummergen in flames which had so troubled Sir George; he resolved to have a word with the major-general about the Village Watch scheme which Brinton said the old boy felt might be a good idea; and he persuaded the superintendent to supply him with a set of photographs of what remained of the Half Seas Over. These, insisted Delphick, must be enlarged from the best shots on the files, clearly and with as much detail as possible . . . Which explains why Chief Superintendent Delphick came visiting his friend and colleague, Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton, with a cardboard folder under his arm: a folder whose contents, after tea had been cleared away, he laid on the table in front of her.
“Oh, yes,” murmured Miss Seeton. “I believe Martha said something—such a strange name for a nightclub, although I understand it to be a jocular reference to intoxication. Poor man. To be drunk in a building which catches fire . . . so very unwise—and of course he died, didn’t he? Which does seem rather a . . . an excessive judgement on him.”
“Don’t waste too much sympathy on him, Miss Seeton. He was a small-time London crook who won’t be missed—though we’d like to clear up his death, if we can.” Rapidly, Delphick explained the minimum he felt she needed to know, then continued: “I’d rather like you to try sketching me your impressions of the photos—the nightclub—perhaps even your idea of the murder with which I’m dealing, at Superintendent Brinton’s request. The poor man,” he told her gravely, “is rather perplexed by it all, and he’d be grateful, I know, for any help you and your sketches could give him. But take your time. Ask me any questions you like, and I’ll do my best to answer them . . .”
He caught Mel Forby’s eloquent eye and hesitated. Mel, who was sitting near enough to lean over to look at the spread of photos in front of Miss Seeton, pointedly leaned over to look. Delphick laughed.
“You win, you persistent newshound—the scoop, when it comes, is yours, so long as you promise to play fair now. Wait until, with Miss Seeton’s help, we’ve solved the case, and then you’ll get an exclusive.”
“It’s a deal.” Mel cheerfully spoke above Miss Seeton’s little cry of protest that she certainly couldn’t promise to solve any case, much though she recognized that her duty lay in helping the police to the best of her abilities. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss S.,” instructed Mel, “you’ll do fine, the way you always do, and I’ll get my banner headlines again. Just wait and see if I’m not right . . .”
Miss Seeton, she noticed in some amusement, well before the end of the little speech of encouragement had begun to drift away from the conversation, suddenly concentrating on the photographs lying before her. Something had caught her attention: she looked back at an earlier photo as if for comparison; held another farther away, frowning slightly; stared, and stared again, and sighed. As she set the last photograph back on the table, her fingers began to flutter, her hands to fidget. “Attagirl, Miss S.,” breathed Mel, who recognised the signs.
So did Delphick. With a quiet sigh of relief—there’d come a time, he knew, when Miss Seeton’s abilities, and consequently the police luck, would run out, but the time was not yet—he smiled.
“Why not go indoors for your sketching block?” he said as Miss Seeton realised what her fingers were doing and sat reluctantly back on her chair with her hands folded in her lap, trying not to look embarrassed. “Go on,” coaxed the chief superintendent. “We’re all friends here—we won’t mind if you leave us for a few minutes. We’ll understand—we can take care of ourselves for a few minutes—and you’ll feel better afterwards, once you’ve drawn it out of your system. Off you go, Miss Seeton . . .”
And, with a murmur of apology for abandoning her guests, Miss Seeton went into the house.
chapter
~16~
“WELL,” SAID MEL, “while we’re waiting for Miss S. to do her stuff, we could talk about the weather, I guess. Or shall I start interviewing you now, Oracle—save time for when the story finally breaks?”
Delphick smiled. “You have as much faith in Miss Seeton as I do, don’t you, Mel? She hasn’t let us down yet—and I know that you’ve never let her down, either. Your articles in the Daily Negative are models of restrained reporting—”
“Praise from a policeman, yet. That I should live to see the day!” broke in Mel, grinning.
“I’m serious. You make a good story out of what happens—but you don’t betray Miss Seeton’s privacy, and privacy is very important to her. Some people might enjoy seeing themselves plastered all over the papers, but not Miss Seeton. I don’t believe you’ve used her full name even once in your pieces, have you?”
“The Battling Brolly,” murmured Bob with a chuckle, and an approving nod for Mel. Mel was overwhelmed by this twofold vote of confidence: an observer might have supposed her to be almost blu
shing. “Gee, thanks,” she muttered, then could have kicked herself for feeling embarrassed.
“So much for the hard-nosed newshound,” said Delphick. “But I mean what I said, Mel. When it comes to stories about Miss Seeton, I trust you more than anyone else to play fair, both with her and with the police. And I’ve already promised that, as soon as the case is solved, you’ll be one of the first to know—and certainly the first reporter. But until then I’d rather not say anything definite . . .”
Mel grinned. “I’ll hold you to that, Oracle—as soon as the case is solved. As for now, shall we talk about the weather?” And she proceeded to do so.
They had time to try several other topics of conversation, comfortably, as old friends will, before Bob Ranger’s keen ear caught the sounds of Miss Seeton’s return. Delphick motioned to his subordinate to continue chatting with Mel, while he himself rose to his feet and turned to face the french windows.
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Seeton, “I’m so sorry to have been such a long time, but—”
“But you found that the first sketch you made didn’t look like the sort of thing in which the police would be interested, didn’t you?” prompted Delphick. “So you had to draw another, which came harder than the first—and it’s that one you’ve brought for me, isn’t it?”
Miss Seeton nodded, slightly pink. “The first one just didn’t seem to make sense, not really—it must have been because I knew it was a nightclub, you see. But I don’t believe that anyone today—even the very young people, such colourful costumes—though it might have been fancy dress, of course. Not that you, or Martha, mentioned a party. So why I should have received that impression . . . which is why I felt you might prefer, well, something that looked like the photographs—”
She held out her offering to the chief superintendent, who smiled kindly as he took it from her, but did not look at it. “I’d honestly rather see the other, you know. Even if it seems not to make sense—it may not to you, but to us it may. We know the full story, you see,” and Mel’s eyes glittered as she looked at him. He shook his head gently, and she subsided as he went on: “Please, Miss Seeton. The other sketch, not your copy of the photographs—Superintendent Brinton will have as many copies as I want run off for me whenever I ask for them. Your talent’s not meant to be wasted on doing what a machine can do . . .”
Miss Seeton Paints the Town (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 10) Page 12