Picture Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 1)

by Heron Carvic

  London born and married to a local farmhand, ten years previously, Martha Bloomer had come to clean house twice a week for Mrs. Bannet. Since she lived close by, this was to lead to an arrangement advantageous to them both. As with most houses in the village, the main garden of Mrs. Bannet’s cottage lay at the back. The Bloomers lived in one of a row of small dwellings divided from this garden by a narrow lane, a continuation of The Street, which ran down the side of Mrs. Bannet’s, over the canal and eventually connected with the main coastal road. The Bloomers suggested that Mrs. Bannet should buy some chickens and provide their feed. Stan Bloomer repaired the disused chicken house, looked after the birds, kept Mrs. Bannet and his own family supplied with eggs and poultry and sold any surplus for his own profit in place of wages. The agreement had proved so satisfactory to both parties that it had spread to flowers, fruit and vegetables.

  “Now,” Martha concluded, “is there anything else you want, dear, before I go?”

  “No, nothing, Martha, thank you. You’ve done everything possible and I’m more than grateful.”

  “Right, then off you go to bed, I’ve put a hot-water bottle in.”

  “But I can’t go to bed in the middle of the day,” Miss Seeton protested. “I must unpack and . . . and . . .” How curious, now she came to think of it there was nothing really urgent, nothing that couldn’t wait.

  “And what, dear?” demanded Martha. “You’ve got out all the things you need for the moment. You get to bed, it’s the right place for you, you’re looking tired and no wonder.”

  Miss Seeton was not used to being organised; she found it comforting. “I must confess I am a little tired. I was rather late last night and I’m not used to such a large lunch, delicious as it was.” She moved to the door.

  Martha followed her into the passage and reached past her to shut the heavy oak door to the cupboard under the stairs. She shot the bolt. “You want to watch it, dear, you nearly walked right into it. The latch doesn’t hold right and it swings. You keep it bolted or you’ll be getting a nasty knock one of these days. Need to keep your strength up with all your gallivanting about and then the journey on top, so up you go and have a nice lie down, there’ll be nobody coming so you won’t be disturbed and if they did you wouldn’t hear them with your bedroom at the back. Then you can have a nice quiet evening settling in and you’ll feel fit as a flea in the morning.”

  “I think perhaps you’re right,” Miss Seeton started up the little twisted stairs. “I will lie down, after all. And, Martha—” She stopped and looked down.

  “What, dear?”

  She still hesitated. “I—I don’t know how to thank you. I feel—you and Stan have made me feel—as if I’d come home.”

  Martha chuckled. “So I should think, what have you done if you haven’t? I’ll slip out the kitchen way, I need a lettuce for Stan’s tea so I’ll pull a couple on the way down and pop out by the back gate, it’s quicker. Ta-ta, dear, see you Friday if not before.”

  How lucky she was. Dear Martha, she talked as much as ever: Cousin Flora had maintained that Martha must have been born in the middle of a conversation. In the bed-room she placed her hat and bag on the dressing-table and stood for a moment, discovering the garden. One’s own garden. So different from London, not being overlooked. She pulled the curtains to keep the light from her eyes when she lay down, put her coat and skirt on a chair and got into bed. Warm. Comfortable. And so quiet. Nobody to disturb one. So silly to feel guilty, resting in the afternoon. Martha was quite right. It was just what she needed. Sleep.

  chapter

  ~3~

  “WELL, I MUST SAY, Eric, I think it’s too peculiar.”

  “A bit odd, yes.”

  “It’s more than odd, it’s peculiar. You don’t go to sleep as soon as you’ve arrived in a place, and in the afternoon, too, unless of course there’s a reason. Well, would you?”

  “Not myself, no. Not without a reason.”

  “Do you think she drinks, or something, and is sleeping it off?”

  “Could be.”

  “Oh, Eric, how terrible. We should never have left that dandelion wine, it will only make her worse.”

  “Might not be. Might be something else. Could be she’s ill.”

  “She can’t be too ill, or she’d never have made the journey from London. Though I did just happen to notice the bedroom curtains were drawn, because I slipped down the lane to see. I mean you don’t pull your bedroom curtains in the afternoon unless there’s some terribly good reason, do you?”

  “Not ’less you’ve something to hide.”

  “To hide? Yes, that would explain it. But what could she . . . ? Oh, Eric, it’s too terrible to think of, it couldn’t be—it’s not possible—drugs, do you think? Could it be that, do you think?”

  “Possible, of course. Could be. Could very well be.”

  The two ladies entered the post office and took their places at the grocery counter.

  “It’s dreadful to think of, really”—Mrs. Blaine dropped her voice; persons more than six feet away had to strain to listen—“when you remember Mrs. Bannet and imagine how she’d have felt if she’d known.”

  “Don’t forget, Bunny; can’t be sure,” Miss Nuttel encouraged her.

  “Of course not”—her turn to be served had come; she smiled at the assistant. “Two boxes of dates, a packet of digestive biscuits, oh, yes, and a large packet of prunes, please.” The shop assistant turned to the shelves; Mrs. Blaine returned to her theme—“but what other explanation is there? I mean, there has to be a reason, Eric, even for the oddest behaviour, doesn’t there?”

  “Woman’s something to hide, certainly,” her friend agreed.

  “Obviously, and I’m afraid it is the only answer. Of course it would never do to say so. Thank you.” She helped the shopgirl to stow her order into her carrier and took out her purse. “There, eight and eightpence halfpenny. Too lucky, I have the exact change. I don’t even like thinking about it.” She moved away.

  Several customers, seed borne on the breath of scandal, had drifted between them and the door. “Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Goffer, how’s your dear little girl, Effie? Not been up to mischief again, I hope. Excuse me—why, it’s Mrs. Spice. Looks like keeping fine, doesn’t it? But it’s too true, I’m afraid,” she went on as they threaded their way, “that you’re always reading in the papers how the drug habit is increasing everywhere, aren’t you, especially in London.” The ladies left the shop.

  “Wanted more of that puce wool, didn’t you?”

  “Of course, too silly of me, I nearly forgot.” They started across the road. “And anyway it’s not puce, it’s magenta. I only meant to use it as a border, originally, but I think the all-over pattern is much better, don’t you?”

  “Don’t think it a bit strong against that mustard?”

  “Oh no, Eric, mustard’s all the thing at the moment, but it needs a strong contrast to go with it. I can’t think what Mrs. Venning was doing sending a pot of jam.”

  “Jam?”

  “Yes, you remember those pots of jam, they were all from people in the village and I just happened to notice the card on the apricot one said: ‘Greetings from Mrs. and Miss Venning’.”

  “A bit odd for the Venning.”

  “It’s too peculiar. After all, Mrs. Venning never goes anywhere these days, you practically never see her. I wish we could find out why. I mean it’s too funny when you think she used to be quite gay and go out a lot and then she suddenly stopped. I feel sorry for poor little Angela.”

  “Not so little as all that. Seventeen or eighteen, must be.”

  “Yes, I suppose she must be about that by now. She’s so gay always.”

  “Too gay, I’d say. Or too moody. Too much up and down altogether. Hysterical type, if you ask me.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Eric, she’s just young and high spirited and that always leads to moments of depression. I was just like her as a girl. You wouldn’t understand because you’ve always
been the blunt, forthright type. I used to think she and Nigel Colveden would eventually make a match.”

  “Doubt it. She’s always gadding about in that little car. Drives too fast. And that club outside Brettenden she’s always at, that’s too fast, too.”

  “Well, it must be terribly dull for her now that they never invite people to the house any more. That’s what makes it so funny that Mrs. Venning should send greetings to a new-comer.” They stopped to look in the draper’s window. “Do you see, they’ve got that mango chutney we’ve always had to get in Brettenden. Do you think perhaps they’ve met in London?”

  “Could be. The Venning used to go to London a lot. To see her publishers, or so she said.” A bell pinged as she pushed the door.

  “Those silly children’s books of hers—” Norah Blaine followed Miss Nuttel into the shop. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Welsted,” she greeted the proprietress.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Blaine.”

  “—yes, that would explain it, if they knew each other in London.” She reached the counter. “I need some more of that magenta wool.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Blaine, how much?”

  “Of course, with what we now know about Miss S., it’s too obvious in that dreadful affair last night, there must have been more in it than meets the eye. How much?” she echoed. “Well, you see, I’ve decided to do the patterned, instead of the plain with the border. I mean, Eric, you don’t get mixed up in murders and things without good reason, do you?”

  Mrs. Welsted called her daughter. “Margery, how many ounces of magenta will Mrs. Blaine need if she’s doing the patterned twin-set?”

  “Matter of fact, Bunny, I don’t get mixed up with murders at all myself.” Miss Nuttel held out a pair of stout gardening gloves. “How much?”

  “Ten and six,” said Mrs. Welsted, “and very good value.”

  “I’ll take ’em.”

  Margery Welsted finished her calculations. “Mrs. Blaine will need sixteen ounces.”

  “Well, there you are, Eric,” Mrs. Blaine exclaimed, “it must have been some of those terrible people she’d be bound to know, to do with—you know what—and that sort of thing always leads to trouble.”

  “There’s the wool and gloves.” Mrs. Welsted handed her the parcel. “I’ll credit any of the mustard wool that’s over to your account. Is there anything else you want, Mrs. Blaine?”

  “No, nothing else, thank you, Mrs. Welsted.” She accepted the parcel and turned to go. “In my opinion that would explain about Mrs. V., I mean why she suddenly took to staying at home and seeing no one. If you want to know what I think,” she held the door open, “I think Mrs. V.’s frightened.”

  Miss Seeton put on her hat. Yes, that coxcomb effect in stiff ribbon gave it character, she considered. Half-past three; goodness, she’d slept over an hour and a half. How right Martha had been; she felt much less tired now. Some air, yes, that’s what she needed and with the sun shining, it was an ideal moment: she must go round the garden. She went down the stairs.

  She’d always liked the cottage; but it was curious how much more personal—no, to be honest—how much more lovable a place became when it belonged to you, when you got that first little awareness that, perhaps, you belonged to it. Good gracious, what were all those? She turned from the kitchen door and moved down the passage. Beside the telephone, on the narrow table just inside the front door, were several parcels with notes stuck into the wrapping. These weren’t here before. Who in the world . . . had people been calling while she was asleep? Oh dear, she hoped they hadn’t thought her rude not to have answered the door. She began to read the labels. But she didn’t know any of these people. It was plain, and naturally one understood, it was for cousin Flora’s sake; she must have been much loved in the village. But, for all that, to make her, a stranger, welcome like this was so kind—so kind . . . There was a knock at the door. She opened it.

  “Miss—er—Seeton, is it?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m—er—Treeves, your—the vicar.”

  “How do you do, but how nice of you to call.” She stood back. “Won’t you come in?”

  “Oh—er—I—” Arthur Treeves hesitated, then took the plunge. “How very good of you. I—er, that is, it’s so nice to meet you.”

  Miss Seeton closed the door and started for the kitchen. “Can I offer you some tea?”

  “Tea? Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble.”

  “But it’s no trouble.”

  “Oh well, in that case—but, no, my sister wouldn’t approve.”

  “Your sister?” She stopped in surprise. “Doesn’t approve of tea?”

  “Oh no, good heavens, no. No, she drinks a lot, she lives with me. She wouldn’t approve of my imposing on you.”

  “But it’s not an imposition, I promise you. It’s all laid ready. I’ll just put the kettle on, if you’d like to go into the sitting-room.”

  She repaired to the kitchen, switched on the electric kettle and came back to find the vicar still hovering in the sitting-room doorway. He stood aside, bumping into the hall table.

  “Ah, been shopping, I see,” he remarked as he followed her in. “What do you think of our local stores?”

  “No, I haven’t been out. I’ve only just seen those parcels and I’m rather overcome; they’re presents, I think, a form of greeting from some of the people in the village, I imagine. I was about to read the cards when you called.” She sat in an arm-chair near the fireplace. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Ah,” he brightened as he perched on the edge of the chair opposite her, “that shows generosity of spirit, that pleases me very much. That’s how I see people, you know—like to see them, that is—warm-hearted, well-intentioned friends. Friends,” he assured her, “that’s what people should be. And to see a true example of it here, makes me very happy indeed.” The brightness clouded. “But, dear me, I’m forgetting one of the chief reasons for my call. To offer our condolences, my sister’s and mine, and our sympathy in your loss. Your grandmother was an old and valued friend.”

  Miss Seeton smiled. “Not grand—, Mr. Treeves, but god—.”

  Not Grand, but God? The vicar flinched. A Deist possibly? And fanatical at that. “Quite, quite.” He jumped to his feet. “We all have our own views, beliefs, faith—call it what you will. Live and let live is my creed. Dogma and doctrine may differ, but at bottom—or perhaps I should say, heart—I like to feel we’re all the same. And now I really must go, I mustn’t keep you.”

  “But, vicar, your tea? The kettle must be on the boil.” She rose.

  “Tea? Oh no, certainly not. Wouldn’t dream of giving you the trouble.” He hurried from the room. “I’m late already, I must fly. Good-bye, Miss—er——” He grabbed the latch. “So nice to have met.” He threw open the door. “Oh . . .” Confronted by a policeman in uniform, he stepped back hastily, knocking against the table; the parcels teetered, Miss Seeton was in time to save them. “I’m so sorry, clumsy of me.”

  “It’s all right, there’s no damage done. Excuse me for one minute, I must switch off the kettle.” She hastened to the kitchen.

  “Ah, Potter,” the vicar was geniality itself—law and order had come to his rescue, “you were looking for me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?” Pure chance then—providence was abetting his flight. “In that case I must be off. Nothing I can do, eh? I quite thought for a moment you were coming here.”

  “I was, sir. A Miss Seeton is here, I understand.”

  “Seeton?” The Rev. Arthur hesitated—and was lost. “Yes, that’s right. But you don’t want her, my boy, there’s nothing she can do for you, she’s only just arrived.” But a small doubt was burgeoning in his mind. Something Molly had said. Something he should have said. Something—what was it—London? Trouble of some sort. Something distressing. And one of his people. He must stay. He might be needed; perhaps be able to help.

  Miss Seeton came back. “I’m so sorry to have kept yo
u waiting, I had to open the kitchen door to clear the steam.”

  “Miss Seeton?” P.C. Potter inquired.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been instructed to give you notice of the date of the proceedings that you are required to attend.”

  “Proceedings, Potter?” The vicar took up mental cudgels and waved them. “I can’t have this . . .”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Treeves,” Miss Seeton reassured him, “I think I understand.”

  “But I don’t.” He was stern. “Attend what? Explain yourself, Potter.”

  “The inquest, sir. Miss Seeton is required as witness.”

  Arthur Treeves was shaken. “Inquest? Good heavens, but nobody’s died.” But somebody had. Wasn’t that what Molly had said? Somebody dead in a brawl in London. And this Miss Seeton—oh dear, oh dear. Doubtless not wholly to blame. Extenuating circumstances, if only one understood. His duty was plain. He must go with her; lend support. “When and where is this inquest, Potter?”

  “The day after tomorrow, sir, at eleven-thirty. I took down the details for you here.” He handed a paper to Miss Seeton.

  “Eleven-thirty, good heavens, that means an early train. Leave it to me, Potter, we shall be there.”

  “No, not you, Mr. Treeves,” Miss Seeton protested, “I wouldn’t hear of it. They told me it would be quite short. It’s all most unfortunate.”

  “The more reason for me to be there.”

  “No, really, it’s very kind of you, but . . .”

  “Not another word; I go with you. I’ll let you know tomorrow the time of the train and I’ll order a car from Crabbe’s. Well, I must go on my way. In the meantime, don’t let yourself dwell on this unhappy affair. We must face things as they come.” He went on his way and P.C. Potter went with him. “All most unfortunate,” murmured the vicar, “but I feel it is my duty to be there.”