Nigel, beaming with pleasure, poured custard on treacle sponge with an abandon that set his mother’s teeth on edge. “Twenty-two acres, and sheltered by the wood from the worst of the weather—yes, I agree, Upper Cowdown’s by far the best place. If we can afford to take the risk I’d certainly like to try.” His mother raised her eyebrows in silent query; the enthusiastic alumnus of Wye Agricultural College prepared to expound.
“We’re talking about sowing one of the new continental winter strains of barley now, instead of waiting for spring as we usually do. Dad remembers, though I don’t suppose you do, that I’ve suggested it several times before, but he’s never been convinced the results other people have been getting are good enough—at least, he hasn’t been, until now. But with everything I told him about last night—”
Sir George stroked a thoughtful moustache, above which his eyes danced. “If you’ve told me everything about last night, I’d be surprised, at your age. I remember—ahem! That is—no, I don’t,” as he caught his wife’s warning look, and huffed once or twice before hurriedly swapping Farmers Weekly for the local paper, which had larger pages.
“Really, George, I hardly think the Young Farmers are a hotbed of vice and iniquity—at least, not Nigel’s crowd, I hope.” Lady Colveden chinked her spoon against the rim of her bowl, and pushed treacle into abstract patterns. “You two only ever humour me when I try to show an interest, but am I right if I guess that they had a talk at the meeting last night about this continental barley, and whoever it was thinks it works?”
“And,” said Nigel, “as I was about to say, before Dad began casting nasturtiums—it would seem that Farmers Weekly thinks so, too.” He had picked up the discarded journal, and was scanning the pages which had caught the attention of his father. “The evidence in favour is pretty strong—it’s not just anecdotal, I mean. If the weather conditions are right, winter barley can out-yield the spring varieties in a big way—and you harvest it a good month before the other sort, and save yourself sowing-time in the spring, into the bargain.”
“It sounds marvellous,” said her ladyship. “But your father still has doubts—I can tell. Why, George?”
“Just so.” Sir George coughed. “Ah—why, indeed?” He permitted himself a dry chuckle at this punning reference to Nigel’s alma mater, then sobered. “Boffins can’t guarantee everything, y’know. Needs more fertiliser to establish than the spring sort, for one thing—and you heard what Nigel said about the right weather conditions. Dodgy, and you’ll have the lot going down with disease.”
“Rust,” said Lady Colveden at once. “Or smut, which I always thinks sounds rather silly.”
“Or mildew,” admitted Nigel. “Nobody says there aren’t problems, but, as I said before, I’d certainly like to have a go. I must say I rather fancy the idea of a Rytham Hall barley-sheaf or two at next year’s Harvest Festival alongside the wheat ...”
“Talking of Harvest Festival—” said Lady Colveden; and then she said no more. Her words were drowned out by an indignant explosion from behind the august sheets of The Brettenden Telegraph and Beacon (est. 1847, incorporating [1893] The Iverhurst Chronicle and Argus) as Sir George turned another page.
“Good Gad!”
Lady Colveden blinked. Nigel enquired:
“Shock, horror? Scandal? Surely not in the Beacon, of all places ...”
His father, however, seemed too disturbed by what he was reading to accept this tempting invitation to explain. The future baronet looked at his mother, shrugged, then winked. “All right, Dad, don’t tell me, let me guess. Mrs. Blaine’s up on a charge of procuring? Miss Nuttel’s been arrested for running an illicit still in the garden shed? Miss Seeton and Stan Bloomer have developed a strain of super-intelligent killer chickens?”
“Nigel,” said his mother. “George, do stop popping like that, and put us out of our misery. What is it?”
“Whempstead,” said Sir George, “poor chap. Loses his wife one week, next he’s had burglars. Cleared the sitting-room completely,” he added, above the expressions of shock and dismay from his wife and son. “Carpet, furniture, ornaments, the lot. Too much of that sort of thing going on in this part of the world recently—and he’s only just the other side of Brettenden.” There was a magisterial gravity in his voice as he lowered his newspaper to gaze, frowning, at his attentive family. “Can’t say I really care for the idea of these blighters popping in and out of people’s houses as if they owned them. Not the thing at all ...
“Might not be such a bad idea if we revived the Village Watch,” he said.
chapter
~ 5 ~
NIGEL PUT DOWN his spoon, and groaned. “Oh, no, not the Night Watch Men! Not now, when the nights are growing longer every day—and we’re all so busy at this time of year, with the end of the harvest and everything. If Dad has his wicked way, I confidently predict that half the village will soon be suffering from sleep deprivation and walking round in a daze—and staying in it for the foreseeable future, as well. Honestly, I had no idea there was such a strong element of sadism in my genetic makeup.”
“Sadism?” Behind his moustache, Sir George bristled. “Plain common sense, that’s all. Can’t have complete strangers wandering where they please helping themselves to whatever they fancy without somebody trying to stop the scoundrels. No good blaming the police—impossible to be in half-a-dozen places at once,” said the magistrate, with some feeling. “As I said, far too much of this sort of thing at the moment. Seems to be a fashion for it. Sitting-room antiques and furniture—sideboards, mostly. Hefty great things, some of ’em—get a good price, according to Szabo,” he added, carelessly expert. “Chippendale—Hepplewhite—all those chaps ...”
The “Szabo” to whom Sir George referred was an acquaintance of comparatively recent date, owner of a Bond Street establishment specialising in rare (and valuable) objets d’art. A naturalised Hungarian who had, for legal purposes, adopted the name of Frank Taylor, Ferencz Szabo was a plump, dandified exotic in a world of exotics, and one of the least likely people to dine with Sir George Colveden, most English of Englishmen, at his club on a regular basis: yet dine, and regularly, he did.
Rytham Hall boasted two of the finest William Morris rooms in the country. Cedric Benbow, noted society and fashion photographer, had used the rooms as background for super-model Marigold Naseby to display to best advantage the Mode magazine collection of high-class gowns. Marigold had worn, at Cedric’s insistence, a selection of priceless Lalique jewellery, borrowed from museums in Lisbon and Paris. An attempt had been made to steal the jewels; and Ferencz, in his Frank Taylor persona, had been one of the persons instrumental in foiling that attempt—in commemoration of which foiling, Sir George had proposed that the principal foilers (except one, whose gender precluded her from participation) should meet at his club every so often for an evening of average food, better wine, and excellent company.
“Sheraton,” added Sir George, then realised he’d run out of names, and hurried on: “But never mind that. Appreciate what you’re saying, Nigel, but there comes a time when other things are more important than sleep. Has to be stopped.”
“It’s disgr-r-r-r-aceful,” said Nigel, being Mr. Growser of Children’s Radio fame. “It ought not to be allowed!”
His father eyed him sternly. “Quite right. Shouldn’t be too much of a hardship for everyone if the rota’s arranged properly—get Jessyp on it.” Headmaster Martin Jessyp was by far the best paper-shuffler in Plummergen, even if Sir George, with his military training, was second to none in matters of general organisation. “Too busy on the farm m’self—but it won’t do any harm at all to let the blackguards know we’re on the lookout for ’em. Fire a warning shot or two across their blasted bows—sorry, m’dear.”
Lady Colveden hid a smile. Since Rear Admiral Bernard “Buzzard” Leighton had moved into Ararat Cottage and made the acquaintance of Major-General Sir George, the baronet’s language had, on occasion, acquired a decidedly nautical ting
e. “I think,” said her ladyship, “it’s a perfectly splendid idea, George. In fact, as I started to say earlier—with Harvest Festival coming up, and the Produce Show the day before, not to mention the Conker Contest ...”
“Murreystone,” supplied Nigel, as his mother paused for breath, “are on the warpath again, and we ought to be ready for them—right?”
Lady Colveden nodded. “Your father will probably say I’m being unduly pessimistic, and you know I never listen to gossip, but—”
The snorts of mirth which erupted now from father and son were identical: it was like being insulted in stereo.
“But,” persisted her ladyship loftily, “one can’t help hearing things when people are talking in the shops ...”
“Which is why, no doubt,” broke in Nigel, as she paused for further breath, “you were so peeved to think you’d missed out on a trip to Brettenden. I should have thought the quality of tittle-tattle in the Plummergen post office was every bit as good as that in Brettenden market—if not better, with knowing everyone who’s being talked about. Having a personal interest, so to speak. Speak no evil,” he added, though not entirely sure why.
His father snorted a second time, and was heard to mutter of nuts. Lady Colveden said:
“That’s exactly what I mean, George, because everyone else was saying it ages before the Nuts took it up, which proves it must be more true than most of the nonsense they talk. Because they didn’t have time to invent it, I mean, before everyone else said it first ...” She frowned. “Maybe that hasn’t come out quite the way I intended—but I’m sure you both understand very well what I meant to say about Murreystone making—making noises, at least. And you know what’s happened in the past,” she added darkly.
“Making threats, you mean,” amended Nigel, as Sir George huffed through his moustache and muttered that you couldn’t trust the rascals as far as you could throw them.
“Which, in the case of the Murreystone mob,” Nigel pointed out, “isn’t very far—some of them are among the ugliest bunch of plug-ugly thugs I’ve ever come across. I say, that wasn’t bad, was it? True, though—I wouldn’t want to meet some of them alone on a dark night. We all know how they’re still brooding about the cricket match—and the Best Kept Village Competition—though they hardly need an excuse for causing trouble, of course.”
Nigel was stating no more than the obvious. The rivalry between Plummergen and Murreystone, five miles to the east in the middle of Romney Marsh, is—as has already been said—of heroic proportions. The fifteenth-century Wars of the Roses are rumoured to have seen its inception: certainly the seventeenth-century Civil War saw it in full, well-documented swing. Plummergen was proud to favour King Charles; Murreystone marched to the support of Protector Cromwell. The Restoration saw Plummergen rejoiced, and Murreystone nursing a grudge which has never been allowed to lapse.
Plummergen’s population is around the five hundred mark; Murreystone never rises much above three hundred and fifty. Plummergen plays more skilful cricket: Murreystone does better at darts. Both villages share a policeman: PC Potter lives in Plummergen. Both parishes—Murreystone has the larger church, which has always irked Plummergen—share a clergyman: the Reverend Arthur Treeves lives, with his sister Molly, in Plummergen. In earlier days, before he lost his faith, the Reverend Arthur frequently attempted a reconciliation between his two warring flocks: disillusioned in more ways than one, he has long since given up the unequal struggle. Plummergenites continue to glance sideways at Murreystoners whenever their paths cross, while Murreystoners continue to plot and scheme against their age-old enemies in a variety of ingenious ways. The recent cricket match and competition mentioned by Nigel were but two examples of the duplicity of the foe ...
“I think,” remarked Lady Colveden, beginning to stack dishes, “that having people patrol The Street every hour, or whatever it was, would do more to show Murreystone we meant business—the burglars too, of course—than any amount of warnings PC Potter might give them—Murreystone, that is, because of course he can’t know who the burglars are any more than anyone else. Assuming he’s heard the goss—the talk, I mean,” as Nigel wagged a reproving finger at her, and Sir George stifled a bark of laughter. “Has heard enough to know to warn them to behave,” explained Meg Colveden, on her dignity. “Which I’m sure he will have done, because Mabel Potter shops in the post office and she’s very careful to let him know whatever’s going on. You know,” said Lady Colveden, “how there’s always so much talk ...”
There is always talk in Plummergen’s post office. Where two or more villagers are met together, their tongues, invariably, wag—and never to more purpose, or with more enthusiasm, than in Mr. Stillman’s post-office-cum-general-stores.
There are, of course, other places to shop in the Plummergen area, though none is more convenient than the post office. The village has a draper’s, run by the Welsted family, which stocks (besides fancy wools, sewing thread, Manchester goods and clothes) china souvenirs and picture postcards. Its range of the last two items has increased dramatically since Plummergen’s second prize (to the inevitable wrath of disqualified Murreystone) in the Best Kept Village Competition earlier in the year.
Like the post office and the draper, the grocer supplies groceries, both green and otherwise; also (again like the other two) sweets, tobacco, wines and spirits. The floor-space in Mr. Takeley’s little shop, however, is by far the smallest of the three main emporia, and his deep-freeze, though theoretically as well-stocked as the other two, is more inclined to break down. Mr. Takeley is given (he has a sense of humour) to frequent Liquidation Sales of goods past their best, followed by periods of refrigerated famine as first the electricians and then the wholesalers put matters to rights: he does not, therefore, play too large a part in the general life of the village, which in any case mistrusts a bachelor with so pronounced a twinkle in his eye.
As well as its post office, draper’s, and grocer’s, the village has a butcher, whose splendid strings of sausages are made to an old and secret family recipe: and a baker, who no longer has to bake his own bread, having become part of the county-wide Winesart chain. Mrs. Wyght, the baker’s wife, is not kept so busy in the shop that she has no time to serve in the newly-opened tea-room, through the tiny bow windows of which one can gaze across The Street at the magnificent facade of Plummergen’s favourite hostelry, the George and Dragon. The bakery is on the Marsh Road corner of The Street, near the village’s one telephone box; farther up The Street, on the same side, is the blacksmith’s double-doored forge, with its display cases outside for visitors and locals alike to admire ...
And farther still up The Street, on the opposite side, is Mr. Stillman’s post office, the clearing house for every rumour, slander, and supposition that village imagination can conceive.
“... a packet of sponge fingers, and a tin of peaches, please, Emmy love—oh, mustn’t forget the custard powder, neither. Just a small tin,” added Mrs. Henderson. It was her husband’s birthday next day: he had dropped hints about trifle, and she was willing to oblige, but there was no need to spoil him.
Mrs. Skinner remarked, to nobody in particular, that when she made trifle she used Swiss roll with jam in it instead of sponge fingers—which were cheaper, goodness only knew, but didn’t taste nothing like so good as Swiss roll no matter how much red jelly people might pour on trying to disguise them.
“And a bottle of sherry—a large bottle,” Mrs. Henderson instructed, pretending to consult her shopping list. “That one’ll do, ta,” as Emmeline Putts, running a questing finger along the shelf, touched the price-label of the Phylloxera brand: cheap, cheerful, but undeniably alcoholic. “That’s good and sweet for trifle, ain’t it?”
Emmy’s shrug suggested that she didn’t know, and didn’t much care. Mrs. Skinner’s sniff suggested that anyone choosing to drink Quinta Phylloxera deserved everything they got.
“Weren’t that the one,” enquired Mrs. Skinner of the shop at large, “as them drugger
s in that gang used to poison the old folk and burgle their houses? Don’t think I’d fancy giving that to any of my family, I must say.”
As Plummergen and Murreystone, so Mrs. Skinner and Mrs. Henderson. The feuding is equally intense, although in the latter case is of rather more recent date, and not so much political or ideological in origin as horticultural. The Church Flower Rota, as arranged by Miss Molly Treeves, is as fine an example of organised paperwork as anything drawn up by Mr. Jessyp or Sir George Colveden. In the case, however, of the Rota, the paper in question is pinned up just inside the church porch where it may be consulted when necessary, since Molly is often out of the house at meetings, and the Reverend Arthur cannot—it is generally accepted—answer the telephone or even give face-to-face messages with any degree of reliability. The porch system of consultation thus presents opportunities for abuse and double-dealing of the most dastardly kind: and Mrs. Henderson had, in Mrs. Skinner’s opinion, abused the system to the uttermost when she took pencil and rubber to amend the Rota in her own favour, moving Mrs. Skinner’s promised turn to a date three weeks in the future, when her peonies—on which she prided herself—would be past their prime. Even the repeated assurances of Miss Treeves that Mrs. Henderson had made the amendment on her authority had failed to convince Mrs. Skinner, in her secret soul, that she was not the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice; and matters had taken a still more serious turn after the choice of who should decorate the church for the coming Harvest Festival had finally been made.
Mrs. Henderson seized her purchases and stuffed them into her string bag with a defiant air. Emmy Putts held out a weary hand for the money, frowning over how much change she should give.
“I’ll take two pound o’ strong Cheddar, Emmeline, when you’ve quite finished,” said Mrs. Skinner sharply. “Begging your pardon if you’d already decided, Mrs. Flax,” in hurried apology to the village Wise Woman, who had waived her right to be served first while she pondered the varying merits of Oxo cubes or a small jar of Bovril for tonight’s stew. Mrs. Flax, frowning still in thought, after a nerve-racking pause nodded regally, accepting the apology as no more than her due. There are few in Plummergen who would willingly cross Mother Flax, and she is sensible of the need to maintain appearances at all times.
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 4