Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  “And a large sliced white—and two pound of onions,” gabbled Mrs. Skinner, eager to assemble all the ingredients for tonight’s cheese pudding before the Wise Woman could change her mind and Overlook her. Curdled milk or addled eggs—Mrs. Skinner doubted even Mother Flax’s ability to do much to a loaf of bread—would be the least of her worries, if the witch took it into her head to bear a grudge ...

  “Saving your onions for the Produce Show, Mrs. Skinner?” Young Mrs. Scillicough, whose respect for Mother Flax was minimal, cared nothing for the Produce Show, but enjoyed a good squabble as much as anyone in the village: the antics of her triplet toddlers, unsuppressed even by the most fearsome herbal remedies the Wise Woman could brew, had long since accustomed her to more disharmony and dispute than Mrs. Skinner and Mrs. Henderson could be expected to achieve in a lifetime. “Pity,” said Mrs. Scillicough, “to waste a good crop on eating, I allus say.”

  “I’ve heard,” remarked Mrs. Henderson to young Mrs. Newport, Mrs. Scillicough’s sister, “as there’s a regular plague of onion flies over to Murreystone. Costing ’em a fortune in sprays, I’ve heard—maggots everywhere, and the crop ruined—and o’ course we’ve no way o’ telling how far them flies can fly, have we? A fairish way, though, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Shame if they’ve reached so far as here,” agreed Mrs. Newport at once. “Especially for them as’ve bin saying all summer how they’re sure to win, and now—”

  “And now,” broke in Mrs. Spice, who usually took sides but this afternoon felt her nerves weren’t up to it, “it’s Murreystone bound to win, if they’re breeding them flies and sending ’em over here. Not as I’m saying I hold with entering the Show this year, meself, but for them as does it’s a black day, make no mistake. If there’s dirty tricks to be played,” Mrs. Spice reminded the post office grimly, “it’s Murreystone as’ll play ’em, no question.”

  This ominous warning united—insofar as Plummergen can ever be united—the post office shoppers against the common foe. Forgotten were the Flower Rota, the failure of Mrs. Flax’s nostrums to subdue the Scillicough triplets, the fact that young Mrs. Newport’s quartet of under-fives was as much a village byword for good behaviour as their three cousins were for bad. The very idea of Murreystone could be enough, on occasion, to induce apoplexy in the most phlegmatic—and as most Plummergen emotions had a tendency to run high on the slightest provocation, those who managed to stay calm must be phlegmatic indeed.

  “There’s talk as how Sir George might be startin’ up the Night Watch Men again,” said Mrs. Flax, with a sniff. “Could save hisself the bother, if he’d but ask me to send an ill wish across the Marsh—though ’tis tiring work, ill-wishing at a distance, and I’ve no mind to put meself forward and use my powers when there’s clearly none with intent to be thankful after for what I might do for ’em.”

  Since nobody was prepared to express gratitude for what she had not yet achieved, and everybody feared to be thought ungrateful, all eyes turned as one to the shelves of tinned baby-food, before which little Mrs. Hosigg had been hovering throughout the previous exchange. Lily Hosigg’s husband Len being farm foreman at Rytham Hall, young Lil could be regarded as an authority on the Colvedens’ future plans; but as she seldom spoke unless directly addressed, there was a moment’s pause for someone to establish conversational pre-eminence ...

  When a sudden outcry brought eyes away from the blushing Lily towards Mrs. Henderson, now over by the door.

  “Blooming cheek! Bold as brass, that Murreystone lot—see ’em marching down The Street as if they owns the place! At least”—as there came a concerted rush to the door and windows to obtain the best view—“driving down it. Stands to reason it’s them, for the weather’s not good enough for tourists today, and if there’s an honest face in either o’ them cars, then I’m Murreystone born and bred ...”

  “Strangers,” said Mrs. Skinner, forced for once to agree with Mrs. Henderson.

  “Spying out the land,” said Mrs. Flax.

  And the two unknown cars drove slowly down The Street, watched in silence by the post office shoppers.

  chapter

  ~ 6 ~

  TO MRS. HENDERSON—she having been first to spot the strangers—fell the honour of scurrying out of the post office to stand, as if admiring the soaring beauties of the autumnal cloud-cover, on the edge of the paved footpath, staring down The Street.

  “They’ve slowed,” she reported to an enthralled audience with its ears as close to the open doorway as it could comfortably press them, given that almost everyone else—Lily Hosigg remained resolutely by the baby-foods, but Emmy Putts emerged from behind her counter to make up the numbers—was pressing likewise. “They’ve gone on again—past the forge—down to the end o’ The Street, they’ve gone—and now turning in at the George, so far’s I can tell.”

  She sighed, regretting, as did her eager listeners, the slight curve in the road which meant one could never be entirely sure. Still, it was near enough: where else would the strangers be going, except the George? Admittedly, the church stood beside the pub, and was well worth a visit, but it seemed unlikely that godless Murreystone would visit the rival place of worship unless there was a service on ...

  Lily made her final selection, paid for the tins, and hurried out to the infant Dulcie Rose, dreaming peacefully in the pram Mrs. Henderson hadn’t quite summed up the courage to rock as she snooped.

  With Lily’s departure, the tongues could wag more freely—and did. The people in the cars had parked on the forecourt of the George pretending to visit the church: which was sacrilege, and Just What Murreystone Would Do. Or, they really planned to stay at the hotel: which was A Downright Nerve, being Right On The Spot—rather than drive too obviously back to perfidious Murreystone across the Marsh, taking the narrow lane between the high brick walls and the cottage gardens at the far end of The Street ...

  At which point, it was a mere matter of time before somebody said what everyone was thinking: and several bodies duly did.

  “Near Old Mrs. Bannet’s,” cried a gleeful chorus: and nothing more was needed to make pleasure complete. They all knew who now lived in Old Mrs. Bannet’s house—and they rejoiced that Lily Hosigg (who lived farther down the lane, in the old Dunnihoe cottage, and was known to be particularly fond of the inhabitant of Sweetbriars) was no longer present to prevent the seething cauldron of speculation and surmise from coming to the boil.

  “Miss Seeton,” breathed the chorus, in delight ...

  Exactly what Miss Seeton’s fell purpose might be in encouraging the dark powers of Murreystone to do their worst was undecided. Had she, with Stan Bloomer, formed an alliance with the foe to wangle the (already unreliable) results at the Produce Show? Was there some plot afoot to sabotage the church decorations for Harvest Festival? This from Mrs. Henderson, seconded (to the amazement of all, herself included) by Mrs. Skinner. Did Miss Seeton plan to unleash some diabolical Murreystone contrivance upon the home team in the Grand Conker Contest?

  An excellent time was had by all. Not a soul in the post office was making even a pretence at buying groceries, confectionery, or—the last resort—stamps. It was, perhaps, a pity that no one could be absolutely certain of what was going on, though they were confident they’d find out, in time. It only needed the bell over the door to ring, and the Ones Who Always Knew to enter ...

  And, right on cue, the doorbell did ring. And the Ones Who Always Knew made their most welcome entrance: two eager female forms, one tall and equine of feature, one dumpy and bright-eyed with malice. The Nuts had arrived!

  Miss Erica Nuttel, of the bony elbows, and Mrs. Norah Blaine, of the snapping blackcurrant eyes, are Plummergen’s definitive information service. Rabid vegetarians (which rabidity in part explains their collective nickname), these ladies—there are those who would dispute their right to so courteous a title, but for now it will suffice—have lived in the village for upwards of a dozen years, in their little house with its plate-glass windows
conveniently overlooking the post office and the garage next door, outside which the bus stop stands. Whatever happens, whoever travels, in and around Plummergen, the Nuts know the full facts before the happening is complete, the traveller arrived—and if (by any chance) they don’t know, they invent.

  Their powers of invention are remarkable, even for Plummergen, which prides itself on the general efficiency of its intelligence-gathering network. What the Nuts invent, however, always has a certain basis—no matter how distorted—in truth. It is, therefore, not often easy to be sure where Real Truth ends and Nutty Truth begins: indeed, since most people much prefer the latter, few trouble to make the distinction. If one Nut or other (though the pair usually work as a team) makes a pronouncement that Something Is So, then So, in the eyes of Plummergen, it will remain, carved on the stone tablets of collective memory and there stored for all eternity.

  The Nuts, then, had arrived; but nobody, until their appearance at the post office door, had noticed their arrival. This meant that they could not have crossed The Street from plate-glassed Lilikot, but must instead have come along the pavement on the post office side of the road, where those inside could see nothing of them as they came. Which, in turn, meant that it was more than likely they had not come southwards down The Street, for there was little of interest north of the post office and its neighbouring bus stop apart from the council houses, the playing field, the police station, and the village hall. There was nothing happening at the village hall that day; PC Potter was known to be in league with Miss Seeton, and therefore suspect, and therefore (by the Nuts, at least) to be avoided ...

  Which left the inescapable conclusion that the Nuts had come northwards up The Street from the far end, where it narrowed to a lane between high brick walls and cottage gardens. Up from the end where Miss Seeton’s house stood diagonally opposite the George and Dragon—where the mysterious Murreystone strangers had parked their cars and vanished.

  Miss Nuttel, with a murmured greeting to the assembled audience, stationed herself by the revolving book-stand and made to consult Master Hand-Loom Weaving in Thirty Minutes. Mrs. Blaine, beaming about her, fumbled in her pocket for the back-of-an-envelope shopping list she didn’t really need.

  “Bit of a nip in the air this afternoon, Mrs. Blaine,” said Mrs. Spice. “For all the sun’s still so high—but not so cold a body can’t enjoy a bit of a walk, though.”

  This was clever of Mrs. Spice. The Nuts never respond to any direct invitation to spill whatever beans they’ve discovered, preferring to weasel their way around the subject in what they fondly believe are frustrating circumlocutions. Plummergen, however, knows the Nuts of old, and refuses to grant them the satisfaction of such frustration by ignoring every circumlocution, hint, or lead-in, and by conversing quite naturally on everyday topics until, themselves frustrated, the Nuts crack wide open.

  “Too bracing,” agreed Mrs. Blaine, while Miss Nuttel turned a casual page and appeared oblivious to conversation. “Emmy”—Mrs. Blaine beamed round on the lingering shoppers, and received their tacit permission to jump the queue—“two packets of dates, please, and a lemon, and some digestives—better make it two packets, then I’ll have enough over for a mock cheesecake base tomorrow.”

  Miss Nuttel stirred. “What’s that, Bunny? Cheesecake? Told me to remind you we’ve run out of that seaweed stuff.”

  “Carrageen extract, Eric. Yes, thank you—but they don’t stock it here, do you, Emmy? Only gelatine, which of course, being an animal product, we never use.”

  “No. No seaweed, Mrs. Blaine.” Emmy Putts wearily dropped the digestive biscuits on the counter from a height of some inches, reasoning that if Mrs. Blaine was going to crush them anyway, it wouldn’t matter if a few broke now. “Do you some frozen spinach, if you like.”

  Mrs. Blaine shuddered. “No, Emmy, as you know we grow most of our own vegetables”—Miss Nuttel preened herself and moved across from the book-stand—“but in any case spinach has no setting agent as carrageenin has, and a green cheesecake ... Or agar-agar, perhaps, though if you have no carrageenin, I don’t suppose you’ll have that, either.”

  Emmy added two sticky cellophane packages either side of the digestive cylinders, and said she’d never heard of such a thing. Mrs. Blaine nodded in triumph.

  “Rather too specialised, I can see, though I’ve always said Mr. Stillman holds a surprising range, and one would have thought that for regular customers ... but never mind, we can easily take the bus into Brettenden for the health food shop.”

  “Bus?” Miss Nuttel shot out a long arm and snatched at the lemon as Emmy rolled it casually from the bin end of the counter towards the rest of Mrs. Blaine’s purchases. “No go today, old girl—early closing.”

  “Early closing? Oh, and a tin of those delicious minced nut meatballs, please. Of course, the bus doesn’t run when it’s early closing, so that would explain the taxi. I did wonder. A box of cornflakes, I think—or would you prefer Wheaty Wonders, Eric? And don’t say”—to Emmy—“that you don’t stock those, either, or I’ll start to wish—although one hates, naturally, to intrude—that we’d asked Miss Seeton to give us a lift in her taxi.”

  Ears pricked. Eyes brightened. Bodies, oh so casually, crowded close. Mrs. Blaine, oblivious, continued to consult her envelope. Miss Nuttel said:

  “Wouldn’t have been any use, Bunny. With being early closing, I mean—can’t have been going to Brettenden.”

  “You’re so right, Eric, too muddled of me not to think of that. No, thank you, Emmy, nothing more for now, since it seems we’ll be going to Brettenden tomorrow and the market is really a great deal cheaper. How much will that be altogether?”

  “Bus is cheaper, too,” said Miss Nuttel. “Than a taxi, I mean.” She frowned. “Hire car, rather—no sign.” She frowned again. “Must have been going somewhere important, not to wait until tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Blaine was busy counting coins from her purse and could only reply in a murmur. This left the field wide open for everyone else.

  “Miss Seeton gone off in a taxi, has she?” Mrs. Henderson, untroubled by the nice distinction, was all enthralled theory. “I’m surprised she never rode her bicycle, with no bus, to save money—”

  “Except,” flashed Mrs. Skinner automatically—that amazing alliance had been brief as well as fragile—“she’d be in a hurry, like Miss Nuttel said. You don’t ride a bike when you’re in a hurry, ’specially when it’s uphill most o’ the way to Brettenden, as anyone knows, though admittedly not steep, but all of six miles, which for someone her age, and the weather so uncertain this time o’ year ...”

  Everyone nodded: they’d seen Miss Seeton on her bicycle, pedalling against the wind from the Marsh, wobbling as she went, keeping herself fit and scaring other road users into a thousand nervous fits in the process.

  “And this time o’ year,” Mrs. Spice pointed out, “there’s the days growing shorter to worry about, too. Clocks go back in a week or so, remember, but even now the sun’s down close on five, and the roads darkening—and you can’t say a bicycle lamp’s that good for seeing where you’re going.”

  “Wherever,” said Mrs. Flax, “that is.” She wagged her head, preparing to pronounce. “A fair distance, though, stands to reason. She knows she’ll not be back by nightfall—and that’s why the bike’s no good ...”

  There was a moment’s silence as speculation seethed in the post office. Mrs. Blaine swept her purchases into her string bag. “Of course, we aren’t ones to gossip ...”

  Heads nodded sagely, tongues murmured polite untruths.

  “But it did strike us as rather odd,” said Mrs. Blaine, “too furtive, in fact, the way that taxi turned up just a few minutes after those people arrived at the George. Now, some people might call it a coincidence”—Mrs. Blaine looked round as if daring her audience to do so; there was nobody daring within earshot—“but I’m not so sure. I mean, we could hardly help noticing them as we came out of the church—the flowers for Harvest Festiv
al, you know, Eric and I had gone in search of Inspiration”—plump hands, Inspired, made to clasp themselves, and tangled in string netting—“and as we came out of the lychgate, I noticed a stone in my shoe, so of course I had to bend down to take it off, and Eric had to bend as well, for me to lean on, so naturally none of the people in the cars could see us—but we could distinctly see them—and they were looking across the road straight at Sweetbriars before they went into the George—and not five minutes later Miss Seeton’s hire car arrived!”

  A chorus confirmed Norah Blaine’s view that such concomitant events as the arrival of strangers and the prompt departure of Miss Seeton were more than coincidence. Furtive, some said, was insufficiently strong: sinister was surely more to the point ...

  “Especially,” said Mrs. Blaine, producing her trump card, “as it wasn’t Crabbe’s taxi she went in!”

  Sensation. Generations of Crabbes have fulfilled the transport requirements of Plummergen’s earless for as long as anyone can remember. Old Crabbe, founding father of the garage beside the post office, lost his son (Young Crabbe) in the War, but had a grandson, Very Young Crabbe, to take his place once the boy had done his National Service. By the time Old Crabbe had grown rather too Old for driving buses and clambering down into inspection pits on a regular basis, Jack, son and heir of Lance-Corporal Crabbe, had conveniently come to years of discretion. Jack now not only drives the twice-weekly bus into Brettenden on days when the county service doesn’t run, but will act as a taxi service when his father is busy and his great-grandfather otherwise engaged. Crabbe’s taxis are a village byword for reliability—and for cheapness ...