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

by Hamilton Crane

  She hadn’t gone far when she heard a sudden scuffling behind her and heavy footsteps. She whirled round.

  “Why, it’s Miss Forby!”

  Her heart thudded down from her mouth and settled, quivering, in the pit of her stomach. “Jack Crabbe,” she said, recognising the man from the garage. “What on earth—”

  “Sorry if we startled you, Miss Forby, but we’re on duty tonight—the Village Watch, you see—just been patrolling down the Old Way, that hedge by the old vicarage could hide any number of people up to mischief—and it’s not usual for folks to go for a stroll at this hour, so when we saw you, we did wonder a bit. All right now, are you?”

  Her fright had shaken the last traces of the celebration out of her system. “Fine, thanks, Jack. I was just taking a walk before turning in, but now I find I’m not sleepy at all, even though it’s so late. How about if I come along with you for a while? I promise not to get in the way, but it might give me a good story for my paper.”

  Jack Crabbe was no more a match for the new Mel Forby than any of her Fleet Street friends, and after a token discussion with the rest of his patrol, she was allowed to join them as they quartered Plummergen’s Street, its one or two side lanes, and neighbouring fields. A barn owl hooted as it swooped on a mouse; Mel thought of Miss Ursula Hawke and shuddered. Jack grabbed her arm and pointed out a dog-fox crossing the recreation ground in the moonlight, barking. In hedgerows and overhanging trees small creatures rustled and squeaked. Mel thrilled to the countryside at night, and wished she’d brought her notebook with her: the moon was bright enough to read and write by.

  In turning up a side road the patrol missed the police car’s arrival outside the George and Dragon. Delphick and Bob had hunted with the Ashford men until it grew dark, then had obtained a further statement from Jacob Chickney and set various house visits in motion by telephone. Then Superintendent Brinton grumbled that his death by starvation could hardly be what anyone would wish, and they all went out for fish and chips, washed down by pints of beer. Bob, safely within the limit, drove Delphick back to Plummergen, parked the car with care, unlocked the hotel door with another of Charley Mountfitchet’s night keys, and bade his superior good night.

  Mel returned half an hour later, composing paragraphs in her head, and, yawning, made for the kitchen. Another cup of coffee would keep her alert long enough to write down all her impressions of the night’s little excursion before sleep dulled too many of them. From being wide awake, she’d suddenly lost all her zing; but it would be a pity not to put down how the fox had barked and the night-birds had been calling through the dark.

  Other birds were calling through the dark: the chickens in their henhouse at the bottom of Miss Seeton’s garden. Where nightingales sang sweetly, the chickens squawked: they cackled, and screeched, and flapped their wings at the disturbance. Someone was trying to climb over the wall.

  In the main bedroom of Sweetbriars, Miss Seeton slept; maybe she dreamed, maybe her sleep was too deep, but she heard nothing of the commotion outside. It did not last long. Whoever had been trying to climb over the garden wall must have realised that it was too difficult for anyone burdened with a large, full, heavy oblong metal can—and the noise from the chickens was an even stronger deterrent. The chickens, after one final outburst, were left in peace, and fell grudgingly silent. They went back to sleep.

  In the main bedroom of Sweetbriars, Miss Seeton slept on—and on. Outside, hardly anything moved.

  Mel Forby rinsed out her cup and left it on the draining board, then closed the kitchen door and passed quietly through the hall, up the stairs, and into her room. As one hand stifled a yawn, with the other she switched on the light. She giggled. On top of the hatbox perched her gaily ribboned hat, slipping sideways where Miss Seeton had set it, not entirely steadily, before she left. Mel’s eyes brightened. She’d try it on just once more: it would inspire her to write better than ever.

  It was as she crossed the room to the mirror that she saw something that halted her in her tracks. An umbrella. Miss Seeton’s umbrella: the black silk, gold-handled, number one brolly of which its owner was so proud. It leaned in a most forlorn fashion against Mel’s low armchair and looked . . . bereft, Mel decided, was the only word.

  She was shocked. Miss Seeton without her umbrella just didn’t seem right: her umbrella without Miss Seeton seemed—well, maybe she wasn’t quite as sober as she’d thought. But she almost wanted to pat the poor thing and tell it not to worry, she’d look after it, and it hadn’t really been abandoned for ever.

  “So much for celebration,” she murmured, feeling guilty. She picked up the umbrella, shook her head, and drifted to her bedroom window. The lights had all been out in Sweetbriars twenty minutes ago, but maybe Miss S. would wake up and remember what she’d done and worry about leaving such a valuable item behind, even in the care of her old friend Mel Forby. Suppose she didn’t remember exactly where she’d left it? She might be walking the floor of her room this minute. Mel would go over at once if she saw a light on.

  Mel did see light: a red, flickering light. The light of the fire which was beginning to consume the wooden fence around the tiny front garden of Sweetbriars . . .

  chapter

  ~27~

  “FIRE!” MEL RUSHED to her bedroom door, flung it open, and charged into the corridor. Where was the nearest telephone? “Fire!” Which room was Delphick’s, which Bob’s? Apart from herself, they were the George’s only guests. “Fire!” She beat with Miss Seeton’s umbrella upon every door as she flew past, her feet barely touching the ground. She hurtled down the stairs, swung round the newel-post at the bottom, and skidded across the hall to the reception desk. She grabbed the telephone and dialled nine-nine-nine.

  From the landing above, heavy poundings were heard as feet clattered in her wake, and people appeared, breathless, beside her in Reception. “What fire? Where?” cried Bob as Delphick demanded; “Where’s Mountfitchet? How many people are in the hotel tonight?”

  “It isn’t the George that’s on fire,” Mel said, starting to shake. “It’s Miss Seeton—someone’s set her fence alight, and you know the size of that front garden—she’ll be burned in her bed before the fire brigade gets here.”

  “You’ve rung them? Good girl,” Delphick said while Bob turned to run. He wrestled with the front-door bolts which Mel had so carefully shot not an hour ago. Charley Mountfitchet dragged Delphick kitchenwards. “Buckets!” he cried. “Doris, get out into the garden and bring the hose from the shed. Mr. Ranger—”

  But Bob was gone. Mel, regaining her breath, seized an elaborate flowerpot from beside the desk and tore out the cheeseplant by its roots. She flung it to the ground and chased after Bob. Earth was as good as sand for smothering fires, wasn’t it?

  Bob was galloping up the short path to Miss Seeton’s front door, having evidently passed through the flames without noticing them. He battered on the door and began to shout. Mel arrived and threw earth over the flames. They died down a little—or did they? Was it just wishful thinking?—and she nerved herself to ignore them, rushing down the path, past Bob, and round the side of the cottage to the back. She thumped on the kitchen door and added her shrieks of warning to Bob’s baritone calls.

  There came further shouts from the narrow road outside, beyond the bottom of Miss Seeton’s back garden. Sir George and his platoon of Watchmen, patrolling down by the canal, had spotted someone sneaking south from Plummergen with what they were convinced was a guilty look. They had given chase as he vanished into the water-meadows and disappeared. They had failed to find him as he lurked successfully for a while and then doubled back. He climbed into his waiting car, shadowed from immediate sight by an overhanging tree, and, panicking, turned to flee northwards. Sir George’s troop, countrymen all, with no need to wait for their second wind, pounded after him.

  The car slammed on its brakes at the sight of Charley Mountfitchet’s makeshift fire brigade quenching the flames the driver had believed would be
unnoticed until too late. There were figures in the road ahead: Norman Thaxted had no wish to add to his list of victims. There were figures in the road behind—and they were closing in on him. Some brandished what looked like pitchforks. Norman gritted his teeth, pressed his hand firmly down on the horn, pressed his foot firmly down on the accelerator, and shot forward.

  “Stop that car!” barked Sir George in the parade-ground voice he thought he’d forgotten. The fire fighters, winning their battle with the flames, shouted and waved their arms. The vicar, whose peaceful dreams had been transformed by the commotion into a nightmare about Joan of Arc, burst from the door of the vicarage with an aspidistra in his arms. Unlike Mel, he had not thought to remove the plant from its pot, and peered frantically between the spiky leaves as he hurried to play his part in extinguishing the fire. On hearing the command from Sir George, he hurled the aspidistra, pot and all, in the direction of Norman Thaxted’s windscreen. Earth splattered everywhere. Norman skidded but drove on.

  “After him!” roared Sir George, and almost everyone gave chase. Norman, too startled to think of switching on the wipers, lurched as fast as he could up The Street, heading north. Outside Sweetbriars, Bob ceased his battering of the door as the flames died away into a damp, hissing stench.

  Mel’s shrieks were answered. Miss Seeton opened her bedroom window and peered out. “Who is there?” she enquired cautiously. Being startled from sleep in such a fashion had given her a headache. “Good gracious—Mel, is that you?” She peered into the darkness. “And—surely, that can’t be dear Bob with you?” as Ranger, feeling rather superfluous, had joined Mel at the side door. He and Mel together tried to tell Miss Seeton that indeed it was them and to explain why they were there. “I’d better come down,” Miss Seeton said. She rubbed her brow thoughtfully. Perhaps a pot of tea would be a good idea.

  A car, its lights extinguished, was driving into Plummergen from the north. It drove slowly, its engine quiet. There were four people inside. Each one of them erupted into warning shouts when Norman Thaxted, still blinded by the aspidistra earth on his windscreen, came weaving his way towards them. The driver sounded the horn. Norman, nervous as pursuit neared, drove on unheeding. The car without lights tried to swerve. Norman’s car lurched across the road. The lightless car’s brakes squealed. The smell of hot rubber and sweat filled the air. Norman, his sense of direction utterly lost, crashed into the darkened car without reducing his speed by one iota.

  The metallic embrace occurred almost opposite the police house. P. C. Potter peered from his window, grabbed notebook and trousers, and ran into the road buttoning his tunic, shouting instructions for his wife to telephone the ambulance. He reached the accident as the four men, cursing but otherwise apparently unharmed, struggled out of the tumult of tangled steel. They looked upon Authority approaching them at speed and turned to run.

  “Stop!” Sir George and his men were at hand. “Stop, in the name of the law!” In the distance a siren was heard. The four men hesitated. They could not escape to the north: better to attempt to fight it out with the unofficial pitchfork crew heading from the south. They squared up to the Village Watch, prepared to sell their freedom dearly.

  The fire engine swept down the road from Brettenden to come upon an astonishing sight. Blocking the road was a mass of metal which might at one time have been two separate motor vehicles. Was this why they had been called out? The message had spoken of fire, and after an accident there was always the risk, with spilled petrol and electrical sparks, of fire. But the men who were engaged in hand-to-hand combat all around the wreckage seemed oblivious of the risks they were running. The leading fireman, spotting a police officer apparently unable to control events, got out of the cab to offer assistance.

  “Leave them be,” instructed P. C. Potter, brushing aside this kindly cooperation. “That’s they Murreystone buggers our lot’s sorting out—give ’em hell, lads!” He cheered on his own side without stopping to consider his official position. Sir George, urging moderation in a quiet voice, stood ready to call off his troops only if slaughter seemed likely to ensue. The fire crew, scratching their heads, asked if there really had been a fire. Delphick, previously busy with Charley Mountfitchet and his team, now arrived on the scene. He said that there had, but that it was safely out. The fire engine would find it difficult to squeeze past the scrimmage in the street until tempers had cooled: he was a police officer and would take full responsibility. Suppose (if they insisted on checking the ruins of Miss Seeton’s fence for smouldering sparks) they turned round, went back up The Street, turned left, left, left again, and then sharp right? They would thus reach Sweetbriars without disturbing anybody else, leaving himself and his colleague—he indicated P. C. Potter—to clear up proceedings here.

  And cleared up they were. By the time the ambulance arrived, the Murreystone quartet had been utterly vanquished and added to the criminal collection begun by P. C. Potter, who recognised Norman Thaxted as he crawled at last from the ruins of his car. Bob Ranger, who had left Mel to explain as much as she could to Miss Seeton, held Norman by the collar while Potter scurried indoors for his handcuffs: Delphick called after him to bring every pair he had, as Sir George, viewing the situation with a knowledgeable military eye, advised him that the Murreystone contingent were about to throw in the towel. Delphick, Potter, and Bob—with assistance from the victorious Colveden crew—loaded five conquered foes aboard the ambulance, with instructions to take them first to Ashford hospital (just in case) and then on to the police station, where they were to be charged with causing an affray.

  “And that,” Delphick said, looking straight at Norman Thaxted, “will be only the start, for some of you . . .”

  “But what,” enquired Miss Seeton as the assembled group in her sitting-room began the postmortem, “was everyone doing? I don’t understand why anybody from Murreystone should wish to set fire to my fence.” She poured tea while Mel handed round a plate of gingerbread. “How fortunate that I had already decided to replace the fence—one of Mr. Eggleden’s clever arrowhead patterns, I thought. For the Competition, you understand.”

  “Oh, we understand,” said Delphick, grinning. “That’s the explanation for everything, you see.” He had decided to keep silent about Norman Thaxted’s designs on her life: let her continue in blissful ignorance. Something always seemed to look after Miss Seeton, and though he feared that one day her luck would run out, this time, yet again, it had served her well. Why worry her with what she had no need to know?

  “It was the Competition,” He said. “Murreystone wanted to win—still does, I suppose, but I can’t believe they’ll stand much of a chance when the judges find out what they’d got in the boot of that car.” He paused to help himself to gingerbread as Mel passed.

  She feinted at him with the plate. “Stop keeping my scoop to yourself, Oracle, or Bob gets every slice of this and you starve. We want the story—right, Miss. S.?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Seeton said. “Certainly we do.”

  “So, what was in the boot of the car?” demanded Mel as she removed the gingerbread from Delphick’s reach and sat down, wishing she’d brought her notebook.

  “Thermos flasks of boiling water and cardboard boxes with moles in them. The water wasn’t for making tea—and the moles weren’t dead.”

  “Amazing,” said Mel flatly. “Er . . . care to explain some more?”

  Delphick explained. The boiling water, poured over any living thing, plant or animal (“Think of ants’ nests,” he said), would damage if not kill it. Murreystone was to be blamed for Plummergen’s mysterious Brown Wilt: which was neither more nor less than scorch marks, and not a virus at all. “Which means that it’s safe to put fresh plants in now—there’s no risk they’ll catch anything to kill them. As for the moles . . .”

  Miss Seeton shook her head. “Stan says there have never been so many molehills about the village. He has planted caper spurge in my garden, and of course it is protected by a wall, although I beli
eve they can tunnel underneath, but I seem to have been very fortunate.”

  “You have indeed.” Delphick smiled at her. “Your wall was so high that the Murreystone crowd couldn’t let any of their moles loose in your garden—and the foundations of the road would stop them digging in this direction. They went the other way and ruined as much as they could in the time—doing Murreystone’s dirty work for them.” He paused to allow Miss Seeton and Mel to express their shock at such a display of ruthless rivalry.

  “The most depressing part,” he said, “is that Murreystone didn’t go to the bother of catching the moles themselves—they bribed a mole catcher to do it for them. The Plummergen mole catcher. Yes”—as they exclaimed—“Jacob Chickney, who’ll do almost anything for money. And who did,” he added in a grim undertone, thinking of badgers, and owls, and Miss Ursula Hawke. He glanced across at Mel. “I think that’s pretty well the full story, but I’ll fill you in on any details you’d like once we get back to the hotel.” He stretched and yawned. “It’s been quite a night.”

  Everyone else yawned, too. In the silence, the sound of rain could be heard, pattering against the windows. “You’ll get wet,” said Miss Seeton, “crossing the road. Let me lend you my umbrella . . .”

  Mel Forby began to laugh. And laugh.

  Note from the Publisher

  While he was alive, series creator Heron Carvic had tremendous fun imagining Emily Seeton and the supporting cast of characters.

  In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her lead . . .”

  You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr