Picture Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 1)

by Heron Carvic

  It was over evidently. She left the window and sat down as Crabbe’s two buses drew up at the garage opposite and spilled out the returning villagers.

  “They’re back, Eric. Too stupid. I can’t think what everybody wanted to go over to Maidstone to the trial for. As if it was a holiday excursion or something.”

  Miss Nuttel was subdued. “Went to the hearing at Ashford ourselves.”

  Mrs. Blaine bridled. “After all, we only went because we thought we ought to support somebody who was living here and give them the benefit of the doubt. We should have known better. Anyway, this time there’s no doubt at all. We’ve learnt far more by staying here and only proved how too right we were all along.”

  Her friend demurred, worried. “Still think we ought to get on to the police, Bunny.”

  “Nonsense, Eric. They’d only believe her and she’d make fools of them as she always does. It’s too obvious to me that she’s in league with this young murderer from London and has been all the time and I’ve always said so. And this afternoon has proved it. Watching him creep into her house like that as soon as everything had quietened down and he thought the village was empty and no one would see. I’ll bet he’s hiding here waiting for her to come back. She hasn’t had a chance before, with the police all over the place. It’s all too clear. As soon as she gets back—and trust her to have wangled a police-car to take her and not use the bus like anybody else—she and that boy’ll get together and there’ll be trouble. You’ll see.”

  Well, it was over and, really, it had not proved as bad as one might have feared. It had been unpleasant, of course, having to give evidence against that young man with the reddish hair, whose name nobody appeared to know and, indeed, his counsel had been almost rude, trying to make out that she and that nice lorry driver had been responsible for damaging his brain—the young man’s brain, that was—by leaving him to roll about in the back of his van; but, after all, it hadn’t been for very long and, as she had pointed out, she had been in the back of the van, rolling about, for much longer—and with a sack over her head—and it hadn’t damaged her brain, only her hat. Actually the whole case was over much quicker than she had expected. The judge—such an understanding-looking man—had made it all so very clear. And then she had imagined that there would have to be a wait while the jury retired, but they hadn’t. As the proceedings hadn’t taken very long, perhaps they hadn’t needed to. So extremely lucky, too, that she wasn’t after all called as a witness in Mr. Trefold Morton’s trial in the afternoon. Though, of course, it had meant waiting about in case. But, apparently, he had admitted to embezzling other people’s money—really, quite shocking for a man in his position. In any event, she didn’t see how she could have helped them over embezzlement, even if they had asked her because, quite frankly, it had never occurred to her that he did.

  The police car drew up at the gate of Sweetbriars and Miss Seeton, thanking the driver who had jumped out to open the door for her, alighted. He smiled at her, saluted, got back into the car and set off on his return journey to Ashford.

  So thoughtful of them to have provided a car for her. Now she came to think of it, she had to admit that she did feel rather tired. Oh dear, should she have tipped the man? It was so difficult to know. He didn’t look as if he’d expected it. But then again, in the ordinary way, the less people looked as if they expected a tip, the more they did in fact expect. No, of course, one never tipped police. It was called bribery. Though, from what she’d read, one did in certain countries abroad. And, of course, in America, where the system was probably quite different.

  Miss Seeton stood for a moment in happiness looking at her cottage before walking up the short path to unlock her front door.

  How nice to be home. To think that there were only two more days before she had to go back to London for the beginning of the new term. How the time had flown. What with one thing and another, she never seemed to have had the chance to get down to learning about gardening as she had meant to do. Though this last week, after that dreadful affair by the pond, had been quite peaceful. Poor Mrs. Venning. Such a relief that she had recovered. And yet, Miss Seeton wondered, would it perhaps have been better if she hadn’t? Should one perhaps not have interfered? The trouble was one acted on the spur of the moment, without really thinking of the consequences. Dr. Knight had told her that Mrs. Venning had now had a complete breakdown and that they had flown her out to some sort of nursing-home in Switzerland, to get her away from all the past unhappy associations. And, of course, the air there—so very pure. Good gracious, what was that?

  A long, flat parcel lay on the table in the passage. Miss Seeton picked it up.

  Now, who could have . . . ? She didn’t remember having ordered anything. Beautifully wrapped. It must be from a shop. And with that clever sticky tape to hold it down that was so quick and easy to do and so quite—she wrestled with it—impossible to undo.

  Eventually there emerged from the tom brown paper a narrow white cardboard box. Inside, wedged into place with tissue paper, gleamed under its polythene sheath a slim black silk umbrella with a card tied to its yellow metal handle.

  But who could have sent her this?

  Miss Seeton pulled the handle towards her in order to read the card. From behind her there came a click.

  What? She turned. Oh, yes, of course, she’d knocked the cupboard door shut. How stupid. One forgot how narrow the passage was. She looked at the umbrella’s ferrule—no, she hadn’t damaged it. Martha had warned her to keep that door bolted because the latch was inclined to slip and one could get a nasty bang in the dark. But, surely—yes, surely—she had bolted it. This morning before she left, after putting the hoover away. Well, obviously she hadn’t. Because Martha had gone to Maidstone this afternoon and nobody else would have been here. And, besides, both the front and back doors had been locked. How very careless, she might easily have been hurt.

  Miss Seeton shot the bolt. Prudently she moved into the sitting-room to read the card.

  ‘Superintendent Alan Delphick, C.I.D. New Scotland Yard.’ But why?

  Miss Seeton turned the card over; on the back there was a handwritten note.

  ‘In reparation for your loss in the course of duty. A.D.’ She felt quite overwhelmed. Really, how very kind. And to realise that one preferred a crook handle, so much more practical, to a strap whose stitching was always giving way.

  Miss Seeton noticed a mark on the handle; looked closer.

  But good gracious, it wasn’t metal at all. It was gold.

  Proudly, Miss Seeton placed her new umbrella in one of the clips on the passage wall above the drip-tray.

  It was a little late for tea now. And she was tired. No, she would go upstairs and do her exercises. It would be a pity to miss them as they did seem to be doing her a great deal of good. And then she would fetch her tray, take it up and treat herself to supper in bed.

  The bell of the egg-timer rang and Miss Seeton, in the corner of her bedroom, lowered her feet to the floor.

  She was improving. She was coming down much more slowly now. Though her feet did seem to have landed with rather a thud. She remained huddled on the floor for a moment with her head down, taking deep, regular breaths. Surely . . . Perhaps it hadn’t been her feet. Yes, surely someone was knocking downstairs. She caught up her dressing-gown, hurried into the front bedroom and looked out of the window. No—there was no one there. Either she must have been mistaken, or it must have been at some other house.

  Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . She stopped counting her breaths in order to listen. There was quite definitely someone knocking. And it was here—she could feel the vibration. She pulled her feet off her thighs, straightened her legs, got up quickly and staggered. Oh dear, of course one should take one’s time—a little massage and then bend forward—before trying to walk. She put on her dressing-gown again and went downstairs.

  There was no one at the front door. She hesitated. Two more taps sounded, fainter than the previous ones.
It was probably a branch against a window, decided Miss Seeton. She repaired to the kitchen.

  She’d collect her supper-tray and take it up now that she was down. After all there was only one exercise that she hadn’t completed, and really she didn’t feel that she could start again.

  At the foot of the stairs, she heard a slithering sound and then a bump against the cupboard door. She stooped to lower the tray.

  Oh dear. Probably the hoover. She’d been in a hurry this morning and she hadn’t been sure at the time that she’d balanced it correctly on that box. She must have a proper clear-out of that cupboard and make more room. But—no. Not tonight. She was too tired. Miss Seeton straightened and began to mount the stairs. Martha and she could sort it out tomorrow. Whatever it was that had fallen down in there could be picked up in the morning.

  Note from the Publisher

  While he was alive, Heron Carvic had tremendous fun creating Emily Seeton and the cast of Plummergen residents who make the series what it is. We hope you enjoyed reading the novel as much.

  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

  Also, one of the joys of humorous fiction—and Miss Seeton is definitely at the light end of the mystery genre—is sharing the reaction of others. Did Miss Seeton drive you up the wall? Or drive you to tears of laughter? If you enjoyed the story, we would be thrilled if you could leave a short review. Getting feedback from readers makes all the difference and can help persuade others to pick up the series for the first time.

  Thank you for reading, and here’s to the Battling Brolly …

  Also Available

  OUT NOW

  A Picture is Worth . . .

  “You see, I was trying to draw Effie Goffer. I tried three times, and each time it came out the same, only quite dreadful.”

  “May I look at it?” urged Anne, “Come on, bring forth your dead and we’ll give them a decent burial.”

  Reluctantly Miss Seeton went to her writing desk, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a bulky portfolio. “I think I pushed them in somewhere near the bottom because they were horrid,” said Miss Seeton. “But somehow I didn’t like to destroy them – at least, not until I understood what was wrong.”

  “Come on,” Anne started on the drawings. “Oh!” She pulled out one of the sketches of Effie Goffer. From underneath Miss Seeton retrieved the other two. Oh . . . Anne wished she hadn’t said, “Bring forth your dead.” Because that was what they were. Obviously. Three portraits of death.

  Buy here

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  COMING SOON

  A Most Bewitching Murder . . .

  A sudden interest in the occult swept through the English village of Plummergen, with Ouija Boards replacing the best china in many a cozy cottage. It might be quite the thing for maiden ladies and persnickity aunts, but it wasn’t Miss Seeton’s cup of tea . . . until Scotland Yard requested she go undercover to investigate some sinister shenanigans in the Kentish countryside. A flim-flam was afoot in the local witches coven . . . and magic could be a prelude to murder most foul.

  Can’t wait? Buy it here now!

  About the Miss Seeton series

  Retired art teacher Miss Seeton steps in where Scotland Yard stumbles. Armed with only her sketch pad and umbrella, she is every inch an eccentric English spinster and at every turn the most lovable and unlikely master of detection.

  Reviews of the Miss Seeton series:

  “Miss Seeton gets into wild drama with fine touches of farce . . . This is a lovely mixture of the funny and the exciting.”

  San Francisco Chronicle

  “A most beguiling protagonist!”

  New York Times

  “This is not so much black comedy as black-currant comedy . . . You can’t stop reading. Or laughing.”

  The Sun

  “She’s a joy!”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Not since Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple has there been a more lovable female dabbler in crime and suspense.”

  Amarillo News

  “Depth of description and lively characters bring this English village to life.”

  Publishers Weekly

  Further titles in the series:

  Picture Miss Seeton

  A night at the opera strikes a chord of danger when Miss Seeton witnesses a murder . . . and paints a portrait of the killer.

  Miss Seeton Draws the Line

  Miss Seeton is enlisted by Scotland Yard when her paintings of a little girl turn the young subject into a model for murder.

  Witch Miss Seeton

  Double, double, toil and trouble sweep through the village when Miss Seeton goes undercover . . . to investigate a local witches’ coven!

  Miss Seeton Sings

  Miss Seeton boards the wrong plane and lands amidst a gang of European counterfeiters. One false note, and her new destination is deadly indeed.

  Odds on Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton in diamonds and furs at the roulette table? It’s all a clever disguise for the high-rolling spinster . . . but the game of money and murder is all too real.

  Advantage, Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton’s summer outing to a tennis match serves up more than expected when Britain’s up-and-coming female tennis star is hounded by mysterious death threats.

  Miss Seeton at the Helm

  Miss Seeton takes a whirlwind cruise to the Mediterranean—bound for disaster. A murder on board leads the seafaring sleuth into some very stormy waters.

  Miss Seeton, By Appointment

  Miss Seeton is off to Buckingham Palace on a secret mission—but to foil a jewel heist, she must risk losing the Queen’s head . . . and her own neck!

  Miss Seeton Cracks the Case

  It’s highway robbery for the innocent passengers of a motor coach tour. When Miss Seeton sketches the roadside bandits, she becomes a moving target herself.

  Miss Seeton Paints the Town

  The Best Kept Village Competition inspires Miss Seeton’s most unusual artwork—a burning cottage—and clears the smoke of suspicion in a series of local fires.

  Hands Up, Miss Seeton

  The gentle Miss Seeton? A thief? A preposterous notion—until she’s accused of helping a pickpocket . . . and stumbles into a nest of crime.

  Miss Seeton by Moonlight

  Scotland Yard borrows one of Miss Seeton’s paintings to bait an art thief . . . when suddenly a second thief strikes.

  Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle

  It takes all of Miss Seeton’s best instincts—maternal and otherwise—to solve a crime that’s hardly child’s play.

  Miss Seeton Goes to Bat

  Miss Seeton’s in on the action when a cricket game leads to mayhem in the village of Plummergen . . . and gives her a shot at smashing Britain’s most baffling burglary ring.

  Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion

  Miss Seeton was tending her garden when a local youth was arrested for murder. Now she has to find out who’s really at the root of the crime.

  Starring Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton’s playing a backstage role in the village’s annual Christmas pageant. But the real drama is behind the scenes . . . when the next act turns out to be murder!

  Miss Seeton Undercover

  The village is abuzz, as a TV crew searches for a rare apple, the Plummergen Peculier—while police hunt a murderous thief . . . and with Miss Seeton at the centre of it all.

  Miss Seeton Rules

  Royalty comes to Plummergen, and the villagers are plotting a grand impression. But when Princess Georgina goes missing, Miss Seeton herself has questions to
answer.

  Sold to Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton accidentally buys a mysterious antique box at auction . . . and finds herself crossing paths with some very dangerous characters!

  Sweet Miss Seeton

  Miss Seeton is stalked by a confectionary sculptor, just as a spate of suspicious deaths among the village’s elderly residents calls for her attention.

  Bonjour, Miss Seeton

  After a trip to explore the French countryside, a case of murder awaits Miss Seeton back in the village . . . and a shocking revelation.

  Miss Seeton’s Finest Hour

  War-time England, and a young Miss Emily Seeton’s suspicious sketches call her loyalty into question—until she is recruited to uncover a case of sabotage.

  About Heron Carvic

  Heron Carvic was an actor and writer, most recognisable today for his voice portrayal of the character Gandalf in the first BBC Radio broadcast version of The Hobbit, and appearances in several television productions, including early series of The Avengers and Dr Who.

  Born Geoffrey Richard William Harris in 1913, he held several early jobs including as a interior designer and florist, before developing a successful dramatic career and his public persona of Heron Carvic. He only started writing the Miss Seeton novels in the 1960s, after using her in a short story.

  Heron Carvic died in a car accident in Kent in 1980. The Miss Seeton series was continued after his death by Roy Peter Martin writing as Hampton Charles, and subsequently by Sarah J. Mason under the pseudonym Hamilton Crane.

  This edition published in 2016 by Farrago, an imprint of Prelude Books Ltd