Miss Seeton by Moonlight (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 12)

by Crane,Hamilton

  Lord Edgar raised aristocratic brows. “Indeed? Didn’t my little impersonation of a tour guide persuade you that I was the genuine article? You have quite cast me down, Miss Seeton. Until now, I confess, I’ve been taking considerable pride in my histrionic abilities.”

  “Oh, you were most convincing,” she said at once. “Yet perhaps too much so, if you will excuse me, for an utterly credible performance. You seemed to be very much at home, you see, and somehow . . . well, you were rather more at home than one would have expected of an ordinary guide—though of course logically one should expect it, because you were. At home, I mean—unlike the rest of your family, whom one gathers are in South America. Which reminded me so vividly of a young friend of mine, Nigel Colveden—not that he has ever gone mountaineering in Brazil, you understand, or at least not as far as I know, but like you he has a lively sense of fun. He would, I believe, enjoy playing a similar sort of joke, by pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes—and then, of course, you accepted the tip, which I feel reasonably sure an ordinary guide would never do.”

  He bowed again. “Very shrewd, Miss Seeton—and allow me to point out that your ordinary guide would probably ask more for an afternoon’s guiding than we could afford to pay. Family does it for nothing, Miss Seeton—forgive me,” he added hastily, “for making so free with your name, but I couldn’t help wondering yesterday when I spotted your umbrella . . . Faulkbourne has mentioned you a few times recently, you see, in connection with, well, our little difficulties, past and present. Naturally, as soon as my suspicions were aroused, I had to ask him about you to find out if my guess was correct. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Seeton. Mrs. Ranger, of course, was with you on your tour, wasn’t she? I recognised her just now as she came down the stairs—I was waiting for the receptionist to put in an appearance, but Mrs. Ranger was an even more welcome sight, I assure you. I’d intended asking Beverley to telephone your room so that I could introduce myself properly, but between you you’ve saved me the trouble.”

  Miss Seeton glanced at her wristwatch, then at Anne. “Oh dear, am I very late? Have I kept you waiting for your breakfast? I am so sorry, but—”

  “You’re not, and you haven’t, so don’t worry,” Anne said quickly, “which is what I was explaining to Lord Edgar just now. I wondered whether he’d like to join us, if you didn’t mind discussing—well, I suppose you’d call it business, while we were eating. I thought it might, well, save time,” and she laughed, and turned slightly pink, as Miss Seeton’s eyes twinkled at her.

  But almost at once the twinkle changed to a frown. How could she have forgotten that dear Anne had wished to spend the day combing secondhand shops for bargains? Naturally, she was eager to be on her way. And by her thoughtlessness she had delayed her—although, of course, if she had not delayed her, they might have been gone before his lordship arrived, which would have seemed rather impolite, one supposed, as he had taken the trouble to come to the hotel to look for them—except, of course, that the attractions of Beverley would surely count for more with him than those of herself, an elderly spinster, and Anne, who was so happily married—and so, well, not poor, but certainly in need of every bargain she could find . . .

  “Do please join us, Lord Edgar,” invited Miss Seeton in her politest tones. “That is—unless you have breakfasted already? I believe that normally, by this hour, Nigel would be enjoying a coffee break, rather than his breakfast—but then he is a working farmer—not, of course, that I would wish to imply . . .” In a flutter of embarrassment, she broke off. One hardly cared to question the aristocracy, even obliquely, about their eating (or indeed their working) habits; but Lord Edgar did not seem to find it an impertinence. He smiled his charming smile, and bowed again.

  “It will be a pleasure to escort you two ladies into the dining room, even if, as Miss Seeton suggests, I only have a cup of coffee, to be sociable. After all, my reason for coming to see you was to be sociable—or perhaps I should say welcoming. In the absence of my parents and brother, it falls to me to thank you, Miss Seeton, for your services to my family in the past, and to offer you every assistance for the future.” Miss Seeton smiled politely, and favoured him with an uncertain look.

  “A more detailed tour of the Abbey, perhaps,” said Lord Edgar, “if you feel it would be any help—and the freedom of the grounds, of course. That goes without saying. Mind you,” and he chuckled, “considering my family’s parlous financial state, I think, if you don’t mind, that I won’t go so far as to offer a refund of yesterday’s entrance fee. And I only hope, talking of fees, Miss Seeton, that your charges aren’t astronomically high. We Bremeridges are pretty broke, you know.”

  Fees? The retainer from the police was most generous, though one would hardly describe it as astronomically high—but really, there were limits to what ought to be discussed in public, especially with strangers, as one would have expected Lord Edgar to understand without having to be reminded. Particularly as it seemed that he had been speaking to his steward, or perhaps one should say his father’s steward, and she thought she had made it very clear . . . although one could hardly appear rude, of course, in refusing . . .

  “Oh dear, this is all very— That is, I have already explained to Mr. Faulkbourne that I understand almost nothing of financial matters, Lord Edgar—”

  “Eddie, please.” As he offered her his arm, he patted her gently on the hand. “Please don’t look so worried, Miss Seeton—honestly, I’m harmless. Just behave as if I’m your young friend Nigel. He’d want you to enjoy your breakfast, I’m sure—well, so do I. If you’d rather wait—if you’d prefer not to talk this over now . . .”

  Miss Seeton glanced doubtfully at Anne. “I would prefer not to waste any more time,” she said, after a pause. Eddie nodded, and looked pleased. Anne, who had remained silent, gave Miss Seeton a reassuring smile.

  “You don’t really mind, do you, Aunt Em? I don’t think Bob would mind, if that’s what’s worrying you. Bob’s my husband,” she explained. Eddie nodded again.

  “The large young man escorting you both yesterday. Dear me, is he the jealous type? Tell him my intentions are entirely honourable. Which reminds me—isn’t he joining you for breakfast?”

  “He had to go back to London last night,” said Anne, “though he hopes to be with us again soon. You know how it is—come to think of it, I suppose you don’t—but there are times when you can’t leave your business for too long.” She was careful not to specify the nature of the “business”: it never hurt to err on the side of caution. They were here incognito, after all. Lord Edgar might know who they were, or rather who Miss Seeton was—his steward knew, and others might guess—but it seemed sensible to go on trying to keep things quiet, even though (and Anne sighed with resignation) it could well be a waste of time. In a village, as any inhabitant of Plummergen (Miss Seeton excepted, of course) would testify, walls didn’t so much have ears as full-blown radio-telescopic sensors. The Battling Brolly might be staying in Belton on holiday, but let one hint that the wife of a serving policeman was with her, and goodness knew what would happen. It was up to that wife to do her best to maintain at least the semblance of normality . . .

  “Oh, but I do know, only too well,” replied Lord Edgar, as they made their way into the dining room. “Or, rather, I know the other side of the coin. When you live right on top of the job, like us, you sometimes wish you could leave it for a while—at least, the other members of my family wish they could. Which, of course, they do. The notorious backpacking Bremeridges! I’m very much the black sheep of the family,” he added, drawing out Miss Seeton’s chair for her. “If not an out-and-out heretic. When I was younger—gosh, that sounds silly, doesn’t it?” He caught Miss Seeton’s eye, and grinned. “Actually, I’m not twenty-three yet, but when I was what I’ll call a stripling I was forever being dragged up mountains and down potholes and across torrential rivers by one or other of my relatives—and I loathed every minute of it. I’m the home-loving type. I�
��d far rather potter around the Abbey grounds than swarm up the Matterhorn with an ice axe, a rope, and a cylinder of oxygen! Believe me, the day I came of age I made it quite clear that I never wanted to see a glacier or a cave full of stalactites or a precipice ever again—except, of course, on television.”

  “Such dramatic scenery,” murmured Miss Seeton, as the waitress brought their menus. “And so rewarding to paint, although one would hardly suppose, Lord Edgar, that you had either the time or the inclination to carry a sketchbook with you. But I remember that when I was in Switzerland . . . although, now that I come to think of it, that was not the Matterhorn, but Mont Blanc. I found it so interesting that, from an aeroplane, the snow one sees is not snow, but clouds—while the snow is rather more like whitewash. Or cotton wool, of course—the clouds, I mean. One’s eyes can play strange tricks, can they not?”

  He flinched, then chuckled. “When you’re camping in a blizzard halfway up a cliff, you have neither the time nor the inclination, believe me, to look for optical illusions. Sorry if that sounds rude, but . . .”

  “Dear me, no, I do understand.” Miss Seeton nodded, and smiled. “That there would be no time to look for them, that is—but then, would there be any need to look? Surely the point of such illusions is that they come, well, unbidden—like a mirage in the desert.”

  “Ah, now deserts,” said Eddie, “are about the only horrible sort of place I was never forced to visit in my youth. Too hot for my family, all that sand and sun and waterless waste—and I’m unlikely to take myself off to one now, I assure you. England is good enough for me.”

  This was said with great firmness: a firmness which some might have called arrogant. Anne, who had fond memories of foreign parts because she’d spent her honeymoon in France, was about to say something, but refrained. Miss Seeton, however, that gently stern educationist, shook her head at him, and smiled.

  “Do forgive my saying so, Lord Edgar, but you are still very young, and although I know the young are noted for the intensity of their views, one should always be alert to the risk of becoming not so much intense as inflexible. Surely it would be a great pity if one’s earliest experiences of life were permitted to, well, to colour one’s actions and attitudes in perpetuity, without any willingness to adapt—because one would miss so much, you see—or rather, one wouldn’t. That is, you wouldn’t—see, I mean. Clearly. Although sometimes, of course, one has to acknowledge the complete success of an optical illusion,” she added earnestly. “Like Scarlett O’Hara’s eyes, for instance, which are perhaps not the most obvious example, but are described more than once as pale green, yet she was renowned for her beautiful blue eyes. In the book. And so they had to be shot with a yellow spotlight in close-up—Vivien Leigh, that is, in the film. Which, naturally, coloured the whole scene, of course, although so skillfully that one hardly noticed it, as I recall—but it was, I thought, a most ingenious solution to the problem. And ingenuity, after all, is merely another way of saying adapting to circumstances—which is what we have been considering, is it not?”

  “Is it?” murmured Lord Edgar, adding quickly, as he saw Anne’s frown: “You’re absolutely right, Miss Seeton, and you have a remarkable gift for explaining things.” She could take that as she chose . . . “I promise I’ll try to be more . . . adaptable, in future. Perhaps my view of life is a little narrow—but I blame my parents, of course.” He smiled, and shrugged. “That’s the fashionable medical view, isn’t it? We’re not to be held responsible, because we aren’t, if I’ve understood it correctly.”

  Anne, daughter of a doctor and herself a nurse, couldn’t help muttering at this, but Lord Edgar ignored her. He was gazing at Miss Seeton with great interest, his eyes bright. And Miss Seeton, who had heard his words and felt at first dismayed—trying to avoid one’s responsibilities was surely neither more nor less than dereliction of duty, which was not what one expected of the aristocracy—suddenly smiled. How like dear Nigel. So very mischievous . . . She frowned again. Perhaps here there was rather more intention to shock. Indeed, when one considered the matter, there was, because Nigel’s sense of fun was invariably amusing and, one could say, harmless, whereas his lordship’s parents, among others, might think his attitude a trifle harsh, not to say unfair, even though of course they must know he was only joking—if, as one might say, a little thoughtlessly. Children were generally supposed to grow out of the more cruel phase of humour long before they reached Lord Edgar’s age, but there were always, as one knew from one’s years of teaching, exceptions to every rule . . .

  As he observed Miss Seeton’s concluding nod, Lord Edgar nodded back, and said cheerfully: “As I said, it’s all due to my heredity. Generations of Bremeridges ducking their responsibilities by dashing off to canoe up the Amazon or hack their way through the jungle whenever things got tough at home—leaving other people to cope.” He became serious. “I’m not the adventurous kind, remember. Which is why I’m . . . having this little spot of bother now.” He glanced round quickly. The dining room of the Belton Arms was busy, but nobody had chosen a table too close for comfort. “The snuffboxes,” he said, putting a warning finger to his lips. “I’m sure you understand me. What do you suggest I should do, Miss Seeton? Have you come up with any ideas?”

  chapter

  ~17~

  ANNE EMERGED FROM what was now her room, and tapped lightly on what had become, over the last few days, Miss Seeton’s door. Miss Seeton had been utterly captivated by the four-poster bed, and Anne certainly had no intention of spoiling her adopted aunt’s fun by swapping back. With great success she applied the histrionic skills inherited from her father (who, dressed as a hippopotamus, had given a stirring rendition of “Mud” at the village concert), and managed to persuade Miss Seeton that the four-poster would remind her too much of Bob, who was still in London. Chief Superintendent Delphick had received strong indications that the nightclub protection racket was on the point of being resolved, and his sergeant’s full-time presence had therefore become necessary.

  “Is that you, Anne, dear? I am almost ready,” came Miss Seeton’s rather breathless voice from within. She had begun her relaxation from The Noose, but one should never, as the book made very plain, hurry one’s movements in the advanced yoga postures. “. . . a little late today, I fear,” came her muffled accents through the door. Anne called back:

  “It doesn’t matter—don’t let me rush you, darling. If you like, I’ll go on down and wait for you—Oh,” as the door opened and Miss Seeton, a hurried dressing gown wrapped discreetly about her form, stood on the threshold.

  “I’m so sorry—” they began together; stopped; and then laughed. Anne smiled for Miss Seeton to speak first; Miss Seeton tugged at the dressing-gown belt and looked anxious.

  “It will be a matter of a few moments only before I am ready to join you, my dear. If it would not distress you too much to wait for me—that is, inside—dear Bob . . .” She motioned towards the four-poster bed. “Such a lovely room,” she said, with the hint of a twinkle in her eye. She was almost, but not entirely, convinced that Anne had been acting when she claimed to be pining for her husband: she would miss him, of course, but was a kindhearted girl, and so fond of films, and realised that one was enjoying one’s little taste of luxury—and as a nurse was surely much too sensible to pine. One could with confidence ask her to come inside to wait . . . she supposed. Miss Seeton studied Anne’s expression, and with relief observed a responding twinkle. She smiled, and opened the door wider.

  Anne hesitated before entering, but took her seat in one of the deep armchairs, which seemed likely to engulf her tiny frame. “Look, Aunt Em, I don’t want you to—Well, you’ve been coming out with me every day in the car, and I know you enjoy looking at the scenery and so on, but—Lord Edgar’s offer. Are you really sure you don’t want to take him up on it? The guidebook says the Abbey grounds are marvellous at this time of year, and you’d be bound to have a lovely time sketching and painting. He said you could go anywhere and
do anything you liked, after all. It seems such a shame for you not to . . . well, for you to be stuck looking round secondhand shops with me, and sitting in a car half the time while we get to them. Don’t think you’d hurt my feelings if you said you’d prefer to stay behind today—though I’d love you to come with me, of course,” she added, in case Miss Seeton should suspect her of tactfully asking to be left alone for once. “It’s always heaps more fun seeing the sights with someone else, isn’t it? Someone to listen when you want to say just look at that, and then your artist’s eye certainly comes in useful bargain hunting, too. But you mustn’t miss your chance at the Belton landscape because of me.”

  Miss Seeton, doing up the final buttons on her blouse, shook her head. “His lordship was indeed most kind, was he not? Noblesse oblige, of course. But others besides the aristocracy understand such obligations,” pointed out Miss Emily Dorothea Seeton, spinster gentlewoman, firmly. “It is my opinion that one should reciprocate by not taking advantage of such kindness, for it seems to me that I have really done nothing to deserve it. He did his best not to let it show—the disappointment, I mean, so thoughtful, and very much the way Nigel, I believe, would behave in similar circumstances, except that”—Miss Seeton turned slightly pink—“I think it unlikely one would be offered financial reward for merely doing one’s duty. Only then, of course, he said he knew better, and wouldn’t—but it was rather awkward, none the less. His mentioning a fee, even in passing. Or not, as I have done—one’s duty, that is. By being unable to tell Lord Edgar anything about the snuffboxes—because it is, is it not, the constabulary who have first call on my services—so that even if I could tell his lordship anything, I doubt very much whether I should. Moreover, in this particular instance I would have supposed photographs to be of far more use than IdentiKit drawings, because they are really for faces, and though they were not mass produced in those days, as far as I know, one could never be certain that any would be sufficiently unusual to be unique, and by such means easy to identify. Especially with being so very small, for no doubt one would miss too many distinguishing details. Snuff boxes, that is. So if you would like me to accompany you again today, my dear, I assure you it will be a great pleasure.”