by Heron Carvic
“Your coffee, Arthur.” Miss Treeves put down the paper and handed him his cup. It was not their own morning paper; there had been such an eager exchange of newspapers throughout the village—“Schoolmistress Scares Stabber” swopped for “Covent Garden Murder Heroine”, “Battling Brolly” for “Art Teacher Routs Gang”, that no one was now sure whose paper they held. “Don’t you think it might be kind to call on this Miss Seeton before tea?”
The Reverend Arthur started, spilling coffee into his saucer. “So soon? Surely not.” He sought an excuse for delay; found it. “Next week, perhaps, when she’s had time to settle in.”
“She’s only here for a few weeks, I believe,” his sister pointed out. “After all, Mrs. Bannet was an old friend and this is her god-daughter.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, of course.” He got up, went to the window, looked out: the grass needed cutting. “I must express my sympathy.” He returned to the table, stirred his coffee. “When’s she coming?”
“She’s arrived already. The Bloomers told me she’d be here for lunch.”
“For lunch? Here?” He dropped his coffee spoon and looked apprehensively round the room. “Good gracious! I’d no idea . . .” He made for the door. “I must . . .”
“Sit down, Arthur, drink your coffee and don’t get in such a tiz; we’ve just finished lunch. Not here for lunch—there for lunch; in her own house,” she explained patiently. “Mrs. Bloomer was very kindly going to stay on and have it ready for her. The train was on time; I saw the car arrive.”
“She’s got a car?” The vicar’s mind jumped ahead: The Old People’s Party—she could give lifts; The Seaside Outing; endless possibilities. “Can she drive?” he inquired anxiously.
Miss Treeves sighed. “I’ve no idea. I shouldn’t think so. Why don’t you listen? Crabbe’s car from the garage met her at the station, drove her to the cottage and Bloomer helped her with the luggage.”
“Bloomer?” He was cheered; one of his flock in the right place at the right time, doing the right thing. “That’s fine. An excellent man with hens. I’ll drop by this afternoon and say how sorry we are.”
“No, Arthur, no.” She spaced her words as though to a child. “Glad. How glad we are to welcome her.”
“Yes, that, of course.” He finished his coffee and jumped up. “Naturally. Surely you can trust me to say the right thing. But a word about her bereavement is only fitting. After all, we knew her mother well. I buried her.”
“Oh, do pay attention, just for once. Her godmother, Arthur. How many more times?”
“Yes, yes, that’s what I said,” her brother answered testily. “Don’t muddle me, Molly.” He looked out of the window again: the lawn really did need cutting.
“And try to find out exactly what happened last night.”
“Last night?” He turned, surprised. “But she wasn’t here, I understood . . .”
“Oh, Arthur, it’s the talk of the village. It’s in all the papers. There was a murder last night in London and Miss Seeton was mixed up in it. The accounts vary, but apparently she hit the man.”
For a moment she had his full attention; the vicar was shocked. “It hardly seems a suitable topic,” he reproved her.
Molly Treeves was exasperated. “Nonsense. It must have been a most dreadful experience. It would be a kindness to encourage her to talk about it and get it off her mind. If I hadn’t got a committee, I’d go myself.”
“H’m, yes, I see.” He ruminated. “If you put it that way . . . Naturally, anything I can do—any way I can help . . . I really think you can leave it to me to know what to say.” He opened the french windows. “I think some air—I’ll get on with mowing the lawn.” He escaped. Poor Molly, so well-meaning, but didn’t always quite realise . . . Someone in trouble; there he flattered himself he could be of use. It all sounded most unfortunate. A brawl in London—dubious company—and ending in death, too. Very distressing. Yes, he really did feel he might be of service. To talk it over rationally with someone like himself would give her a different perspective. He trotted off to collect the mowing machine.
His sister watched him with a smile. Poor Arthur, the mere idea of meeting new people did upset him so. Note: she must remember Milk of Magnesia tonight. It was just as well he always took his agitations out on the garden. It kept the place tidy and the exercise was good for him.
“More coffee, anyone?”
“Thank you, m’dear.” Without lifting his eyes from the sporting page, Sir George pushed his cup towards Nigel who handed it to his mother. She filled it and gave it back; he gently lifted the bottom of his father’s paper and pushed it underneath. Sir George grunted.
Lady Colveden opened wide innocent eyes. “Busy this afternoon?”
Her son’s equally wide eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Just a little errand I thought you might do for me in the village. I meant to go myself only I can’t get away, my committee isn’t over till five.”
“Come off it, Mother darling. When you go all innocent, you’re finagling. What are you up to?”
“I’m not up to anything. It’s simply that I thought it would be a kindness, that’s all. Considering the aunt was our oldest inhabitant and with the niece coming here today, I thought the least we could do was try to make her welcome, take an interest, you know.”
The newspaper moved a fraction: Nigel caught his father’s eye; it winked. He grinned. “Yes, we know.” He finished his coffee, got up and started to stack the luncheon plates. “Do you think I’d be good at welcoming heroines? Anyway, what d’you want me to do? Present her with a gold-plated umbrella, or a Press-cutting book on a salver?”
Lady Colveden considered. “Well, I thought some eggs.”
“But she’s got hens of her own—at least, she and the Bloomers between them.”
“I know, but I can’t think of anything else. I ought really to have baked a cake, I suppose, but you know what happens when I do.”
There was a strangled noise from behind the newspaper. “We do,” her son agreed.
“Well, there you are then.” She collected Nigel’s cup, took the coffee tray over and pushed it through the kitchen hatch. “I’d have got Mrs. Bloomer to do it, only she changed her day this morning so as to see Miss Seeton in. And you can’t go armed with cabbages or cauliflowers, it looks so silly, so what else is there except eggs?”
“A nice bottle of home-made wine?” Nigel joined her at the hatch with the dishes and the plates.
“Don’t be revolting.”
“Right, eggs it is. What do I do?” he asked. “Crossquestion her, or get a signed statement?”
“Your trouble is you’re vulgar.” She returned to the table, picked up the cruet and the butter-dish and put them on the bread-board. “It’s only natural to sympathise over that dreadful affair last night. How would you feel if you were an elderly spinster, coming to a new place where you knew nobody, after a terrible adventure and you’re all alone and nobody calls, nobody cares—I think it’s very sad.” Sadness was tilting the bread-board; things started to slide.
Nigel reached for it. “Better let me have that before it’s overcome.”
His mother brightened. “I’ll collect the glasses. Of course,” she added, “if you manage to find out a little more of what really happened, surely there can’t be any harm in that?” Sir George folded his paper and put it down. “Oh, George, you’re back with us. How nice. Nigel has just decided to call at Old Mrs. Bannet’s this afternoon with some eggs.”
“Why?” Sir George took his coffee-cup and went into the kitchen.
His wife carried the glasses to the hatch and poked her head through. “Why? As a gesture of sympathy and welcome, of course.” She closed the hatch, retrieved the newspaper and followed the men into the kitchen. She opened the dishwasher. “Will you do the pans in the sink, Nigel, and George, you hand me the rest of the things; I’ll stack.”
Her husband passed her a pile of plates. “Why eggs?”
“Don�
��t be tiresome, George. Because there isn’t anything else, that’s why. There was a murder last night.” She took the newspaper and started to hunt through it. “You wouldn’t know anything about it, you never read the interesting bits, but it’s here somewhere; she was in a running fight with the police all round Covent Garden, or something. Old Mrs Bannet’s niece, I mean.”
He gave her the vegetable dishes. “Second cousin.”
“Who’s a second cousin, what are you talking about, George?” she accused. “I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I said.” She ruffled the paper. “Why do things always disappear when you look for them.”
He put the trays on a shelf. “Page one, headline column four.”
She made a face at him. “Pig. You’d read it all the time.”
“Old Ma B. cousin of mother. Makes Seeton second cousin. Also the old girl’s god-daughter.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, George, how could you possibly know?”
“Asked her.”
Nigel hung up the last saucepan. “Father, you’ve been holding out on us. When did you meet up with the battling brolly?”
“Met her twice. Once visiting Ma B. for the day. Once clearing up after the old girl’s death.”
“And you’ve been keeping it from us all this time.” She slammed the dishwasher shut. “George, I could kill you.”
“Stupid.” Sir George bent down, picked up the dispread newspaper, smoothed it, folded it neatly and laid it on the table, “Wife always first suspect. Hire someone. Don’t let ’em overcharge.”
“No, but honestly, George, knowing her all the time and not a word. What’s she like anyway and why didn’t you tell us?”
“No murder then.”
Nigel snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. You know her, you take the eggs.”
His father’s plump figure headed for the door. “Can’t. Going to bed.”
“To bed?” Lady Colveden echoed. “What on earth for?”
“Sleep.”
“But you can’t sleep in the afternoon.” All at once she was concerned. “George, you’re not ill, are you? No, please tell me what’s wrong.”
“Rabbits,” he told her and shut the door.
“Another cup of tea, Eric?”
“What?” Erica Nuttel looked up from the newspaper. “Yes, thirsty. Dunno why. ’Less there was too much salt in that mock beef. Thought it tasted salty myself.” She passed her cup. Mrs. Blaine poured lime tea and handed it back.
Miss Nuttel and Norah Blaine had shared a house for eleven years in the centre of the village opposite the garage; thus ideally situated to watch all the local comings and goings, on foot or otherwise. There was little they didn’t know, much they speculated on and a deal they invented about everybody’s business. People complained that they spread malicious and unfounded rumours; unfounded was true, but malicious was unfair and for the spreading the people themselves were equally to blame. Faced with any untoward event which had no immediate explanation, an interpretation would present itself which, improved on and garnished in discussion between the two ladies, emerged finally as positive fact. That these intriguing myths lingered long after plain truth had been established was as much the fault of the disciples as it was an error in the preachers of the gospel.
They were dedicated vegetarians, known collectively as The Nuts. Miss Nuttel, tall, angular, with the face of a dark horse, was generally referred to as Nutcrackers. Mrs. Blaine, whose dumpy geniality was belied by the little blackcurrant eyes, was called by everyone Hot Cross Bun; this derived largely from Miss Nuttel’s pet name for her of Bunny, but it may have been also a tacit acceptance of the shrewish temper which flared through the placid surface when she was thwarted. Their house, Lilikot, a modern innovation with large plate-glass windows screened by nylon net, was inevitably The Nut House.
“Salty?” Mrs. Blaine did not like criticism. “I can’t think why you should say that. You’ve always liked the mock beef before. It was precisely the same as usual, I followed the recipe exactly. More likely to have been your parsnips, I should say; I thought you were a bit freehanded there. You should know by now parsnips won’t stand too much salt, it spoils the sweetness.”
“Could be, could be—no need to get into a flap, Bunny. This Seeton woman—” Erica Nuttel jabbed a blunt forefinger at the paper, “think we should call?”
Bunny responded at once. “Oh, yes, do let’s, we must find out what really happened. What excuse can we make? I know, we can take her some dandelion wine. We’ve got plenty and it’s full of vitamins.”
“Good idea. Stimulating—good as whisky anyday. Better make it last year’s—a bad year. Don’t suppose she’ll know the difference.”
“All right, we’ll get it out as soon as we’ve cleared away lunch. When shall we go along to old Mrs. B’s? At tea-time? I think this Miss Seeton sounds terribly brave, don’t you?”
“Sounds more of a damn fool to me. Not tea-time—too obvious. Wouldn’t look well. Better make it three, sharpish.”
“Mummy—” Angela raced into the house and flung open the door of the sitting-room. “Mummy, she’s here—that woman who’s in all the papers this morning.”
Mrs. Venning stopped typing. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.” Angela chucked her coat on to a chair, danced over to the writing-desk, kissed her mother and looked at the pile of paper beside the typewriter. “How’s the new book going? Sorry I missed lunch, but I got talking in Brettenden, and one thing and another—oh, you know how it is.”
“Nigel Colveden rang you up.”
“Nigel? What did he want?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Oh, well—” She perched on the arm of the sofa, taking cigarettes and matches from her bag. “I’ll give him a ring sometime. On the way back I took the car into the village to get her filled and heard all about it from Jack Crabbe, he had to pick her up from the station.”
“Hadn’t you better get something to eat?”
“Oh, puff food,” she threw the match in the fireplace. “I’ll get it in a minute.” She came back to the desk. “But, Mummy, isn’t it ultra about this woman?”
“What woman?”
“Oh, darling,” she hugged her mother, “don’t be such a fud. I told you—the one who’s in the papers, who was mixed up in a murder last night in London, she’s here in the village, she arrived just before lunch. I can’t wait to meet her, she must know masses of spicy people.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t remember her name, Miss Something-or-other.”
Angela collected her coat and tossed it over her shoulder. “But she’s taken old mother Bannet’s cottage or rather I think it’s hers now, or something like that, old Ma B. was a relation of some kind. Let’s go and look her up, shall we?”
“Certainly not. We don’t know her and from what you say, I should prefer not to. Go and ask Mrs. Fratters to give you some food.”
“Oh, all right, but I think you’re drab, you never want to do anything spicy.” The door banged.
Sonia Venning sighed. She remained still, gazing out of the window. Then, with a shake of her head, she referred to her notes and continued typing.
“Jack the Rabbit jumped nimbly over the stile. He swept off his cap with its tall red feather. He made a courtly bow and held out his paw to little Lucy.”
“Well, you’re looking better, Miss Angie, I must say.” Mrs. Fratters dried her hands on the roller towel and bustled over to switch on the electric kettle. “Thought you were coming down with a cold this morning from the look of you. What d’you want to go and miss your lunch for? Upset your Ma, and not the first time. What’s got into you these days? You should have more consideration.”
“Oh, don’t harp so, Frat.” She dropped her coat on the kitchen table, moved over and started to hunt though the store cupboard. “I felt all hung this morning, now I’m fine.”
“What you looking for?”
“Som
e of your apricot jam.”
“You don’t want jam now, it’s not enough.” Mrs. Fratters bent down and pulled open the hot-drawer at the bottom of the cooker. “I’ve been keeping some of the steak ’n’ kidney warm for you just in case. There you are now.” She dumped the plate on the table and took a knife and fork from the drawer. “You just sit down there and get on with it.”
“Yes, yes, in a minute.” Angela took a pot of jam from the cupboard, tore a sheet off a memo-pad and sat down at the table. She rummaged in her handbag for a pen and an elastic band. She wrote: “Greetings from Mrs. and Miss Venning. The Meadows, Plummergen.” She put the paper round the jampot and slipped the band over it. “There, that’s prime.”
“Well, I’m off now, dear, so I’ll say ta-ta.” Mrs. Bloomer came into the living-room, shrugging on her coat. Miss Seeton turned from the french windows which opened on to the lawn. She smiled. “I’ve washed up and put everything away and laid the tea ready, the cold meat’s in the fridge, the rest of the apple-pie’s on the table with a cover over it, there’s plenty of veg. so you’re all right for your supper, unless you fancy something else, if so there’s tins—or eggs of course, you can say what you like but it makes a difference when you lay your own, stands to reason, when you buy them there’s fresh and fresh, but when you lay your own you know where you are, I’ve left you six, but if you wanted more for your breakfast, Stan’ll be collecting after tea when he waters the hens.”