Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17)

by Hamilton Crane

  “Then let’s get going, laddie!” Brinton abandoned the coffee without regret and strode out of the office, beckoning to Foxon to follow him in double-quick time. He’d been afraid all along this might—would—happen: it had never been so much a question of when as where, when he’d thought about it, although—like Foxon—he’d hoped he was being unduly pessimistic. But now he definitely knew differently, and he didn’t like it. It wasn’t just a matter of honest thieving, if you could ever call it that, any longer: the Sideboard Swipers had turned nasty ...

  The Sideboard Swipers was the fanciful name given by the more sensational of the daily papers to a gang of discriminating furniture thieves. It wasn’t that they simply stole sideboards. They denuded whole rooms of their ornaments, knick-knacks, and small, portable valuables; sometimes they might remove a display cabinet, or an occasional table, as well; but the tabloid press enjoys alliteration, and Sideboard Swipers has a good ring to it.

  The Swipers’ method of operation was to concentrate, for a few weeks at a time, on different parts of the country, chosen (apparently) at random, before moving on to another area to repeat the process. In each case, they would break into selected houses—their method of selection, one theory had it, would be an excellent clue to nailing them, if only anyone could work out what it was—and, starting in the sitting-room, parlour, or lounge, would remove therefrom not necessarily the most costly items, but the most saleable: saleable being in this instance an unfortunate (for those investigating the robberies, as well as the victims) euphemism for easily disguised and thereafter disposed of. With only a little intelligent “distressing” of a solid piece of work, it could be fenced—or even sold through a legitimate outlet—before anyone had realised what was going on: there was only a small chance that any of those robbed by the Sideboard Swipers would ever see their property again—or that they would recognise it, if they did. Certainly, none of them had as yet done so ...

  “But they’ve always played it canny before,” grumbled Brinton, as the police car sped on its way to the scene of the Swipers’ latest (if suppositious) offence. “It’s not like them to go hitting people, let alone old ladies, over the head. They’ve always waited till the house was empty, even with old Whempstead, and he’s practically a recluse. Wonder what made ’em change their minds this time?”

  “If, sir, it is them.” Foxon sometimes drove his superior mad with his mischievous Devil’s Advocating, although in this case the young man was genuinely trying for the balanced point of view. “Could be it’s just somebody else who’s pinched the basic idea, but this time it’s gone a bit wrong. I mean, never mind them bashing the poor old girl, sir, but they do seem to be rather—rather bobbing around the countryside a bit, if it’s them, and why should they turn up here rather than somewhere else? I mean, from the Midlands to Kent in one fell swoop ...”

  “And the West Country before that, and Lord knows where before that.” Brinton sighed. “Stranger things have happened, laddie. And I know, I’m probably overreacting—getting paranoid—but can you honestly blame me? Some pretty crazy things happen around here, Foxon, you can’t deny.” Foxon (who understood the superintendent’s hidden meaning very well) did not attempt to deny it, though his silence was eloquent. Brinton went on: “So why not the Swipers, turned violent, to add to the list? We’ve had plenty enough gangs of various types hit these parts over the past few years, remember ...”

  There was a further silence, while Foxon, keeping his eye on the road, digested the truth of this. A fair-minded young man, he might have added that there had been gangs in Kent even before the arrival of Miss Seeton—but he didn’t. He simply said:

  “Oh, and Potter rang just before Buckland, sir, to say they’re, er, thinking of reviving the Village Watch.” No need to say in which of the several villages under PC Potter’s care: the superintendent’s grunt was sufficient proof that he’d understood. “Seems old man Whempstead was a pal of the Colvedens in the old days, sir, before his wife was taken ill and he started, er, hibernating. Sir George read about what happened in the Beacon, and thought the Watch might be a good idea ...”

  Brinton’s reply surprised his sidekick, who’d half expected the usual groans, oaths, or even frantic clutchings of the superintendent’s hair, though the seat-belt might be a hindrance in the latter case; but Old Brimstone’s voice was not so much calm as resigned as he remarked that the Village Watch could indeed be a good idea. “Sir George has a head on his shoulders,” he pointed out. “And they didn’t do so badly last time he had ’em on parade, did they? He won’t let ’em get carried away and start blasting off with shotguns at folk they don’t know in the middle of the night—but they could just get a good look at the blighters if, by any chance, they turn up in Plummergen.” He snorted. “If! Seeing as we’ve already had dealings with one of the natives today, if you can call Miss Seeton a native when she wasn’t born there, then chance doesn’t enter into it. They might as well be prepared for the worst before it happens, which knowing Miss Seeton it will, sooner or later.” Foxon, with an effort—he was very fond of Miss Seeton—said nothing, and concentrated on his driving.

  Brinton suddenly chuckled. “You know, I feel almost sorry for the poor devils—the Swipers, I mean, or whoever they are. They don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for. For a start, they’ll have to sneak past the Nuts and the rest of that goggle-eyed gang if they want to try anything in daytime—I wish ’em the best of luck, knowing how strangers stick out like a sore thumb in Plummergen even at the best of times ...”

  Emmy Putts of Plummergen was born, she believed, for great things—the films, perhaps, or the telly. Anything to get her out of the dump where she’d lived all her life and bin stuck working since school. A grocery counter in the post office! Why, her mum had a better job nor that, over to Brettenden in the biscuit factory—not that it was exactly the bright lights, but at least in Brettenden there was usually summat going on. Nothing ever happened in Plummergen: nobody interesting ever came there, just tourists and that—by which poor Emmy meant no producers, no film stars who would instantly recognise the bone structure (if not the long blonde wig) of one who had twice been crowned Miss Plummergen. Emmeline, she’d call herself, once she’d hit the big time. Just the one name, like Sabrina, or Capucine. Look real classy up in lights, and not as if she’d have to invent it, the way some of ’em did ...

  Emmy was not alone in dreaming of stardom. Maureen, her best friend, waitress and part-time barmaid at the George and Dragon, also had visions of Discovery by Hollywood, the stage, or television. She viewed each new hotel guest, especially those who smoked cigars, with considerable interest until she’d managed to find out what their real jobs might be: whereupon, brooding, she would lapse into her habitual state of near-suspended animation. But, like Emmy, Maureen never gave up hope ...

  It was late afternoon. Emmy was surreptitiously checking the official clock behind the grille to see if there was really an hour to go before they shut, when the door of the post office burst open, and Maureen came running in.

  Maureen? Running? This was unheard-of. Conversations stopped, heads turned, mouths gaped in much the same manner Maureen’s so often did as she yawned and slouched her weary way through her daily round.

  “Guess what?” breathed Maureen, ignoring the rest of her audience and concentrating on Emmy. “Go on—you’ll never guess, not in a million years you won’t!”

  Emmy shot a glance at Maureen’s left hand, then frowned. If Wayne hadn’t popped the question, what else could possibly make her friend so excited? “Your Wayne’s bought himself a car?” she suggested, though she didn’t really think it very likely. Wayne was proud of his Kawasaki motorbike, and Maureen, in a confidential mood, had once confessed to having a bit of a Thing about black leather.

  “Car? Wayne?” From Maureen’s stare, it seemed that the meaning of neither word was recogniseable in her present state of mind. “Oh, no,” with great scorn, “nothing like that—it’s t
hem at the George, come this dinner-time and bin mooching about the place ever since ...”

  Emmy’s nod and quickening interest were accompanied by a chorus of curious murmurs as everyone else in the post office, ears flapping, pressed closer. Maureen, oblivious to all except Emmy, leaned across the counter and whispered, in thrilling tones:

  “They’re from the telly—and the newspapers—and they want to make a film about us!”

  The resulting sensation was all that she could have wanted. After a double-take lasting just three seconds, the entire shop erupted into a babble of questions, exclamations, and high-pitched—the only male present, Mr. Stillman, remained silent behind his grille—demands to know more.

  Maureen had dreamed all her life of being the centre of attention with every word she spoke, and at last her dream was fulfilled. She drew in a deep breath, tossed her head, and cleared her throat.

  “It’s that cooking programme on the telly, you know, Not All Roast Beef.” Everyone nodded: they knew it well. For a subject-matter potentially so esoteric, the series had, by its unique method of presentation, garnered a surprisingly large audience across the entire country. “Looking to make a second series, they are,” gloated Maureen, “and using Plummergen as a base while they does their research.” She simpered. “Extras, they say they’ll be wanting—and paying ’em, what’s more.”

  She smirked, and tossed her head again, casting a scornful glance at Emmy’s short dark hair, pleased with her own longer, wavy, genuinely—well, helped just a bit from a bottle, as if that counted, which o’course there was no need to mention, really—blonde locks. “Filming in a few weeks, they’ll be, once they’ve found the right locations.” Maureen brought out the jargon as if to the manner born.

  “Gardens mostly, so they said,” she went on, enjoying the sight of the whole shop holding its breath, wide-eyed, eager for every syllable. “People in ’em, o’course, and in costume—crinolines and top hats and feather bonnets and all sorts, if they find what they want, and mebbe in houses too, if there’s the right ...” The manner wavered, though only for an instant. “The right setting,” said Maureen, recovering herself, the village’s expert on all matters televisual. She frowned. Had the research team—or that reporter; he’d had a look in his eye—been having her on? “Looking for an apple tree, they said ...”

  That second hesitation lost Maureen her place centre-stage. Once more babbling, questioning, and exclaiming, the shoppers of Plummergen hurled themselves at once into arguments as to the wisdom or otherwise of exposing one’s house and garden (and possibly person) to the public gaze; and, if the attendant risks were deemed worth taking, whose houses, whose persons might be found worthy of appearing in a television series ...

  And when the first of the mothers with school-age children arrived with their titbit of news, they had to shout to make themselves heard above the din—while Mr. Stillman, for once bending the law and not caring in the least, pulled down the metal shutter, thus separating the post office from the rest of the shop, and put ear-plugs in his ears.

  chapter

  ~ 10 ~

  AFTER TEA, THERE was a brief skirmish (which Miss Seeton eventually lost) over whether or not Scotland Yard should pay for her taxi to Charing Cross. So expensive, and so difficult to find one, at the start of the rush hour. She could (she insisted) walk the distance very well: living in the country as she did ...

  Delphick having won that round by speaking over her protests and asking Ferencz Szabo to slip outside, there’s a good chap, and whistle up a cab. Miss Seeton firmly, though politely, refused the chief superintendent’s offer to telephone Ashford and arrange for a plainclothes officer to meet her from Brettenden station. She had, she said, felt rather guilty at letting anyone collect her from home earlier on, even though Mr. Brinton—according to the charming young man who had so kindly driven her to catch the London train—had been most persuasive that he, that was the young man, had had official business in the neighbourhood in any case, so that she hadn’t really been taking him out of his way, or at least—if she had—not too much. But going home, now that her assignment—Miss Seeton stuttered over the word, and blushed for the melodrama of it all—now that her little task was complete, there was no particular hurry, was there? She would see if Mr. Baxter’s car was there when she arrived, or, failing that, she would ring Jack Crabbe, who would be sure to come for her. Or his father, if Jack was busy ...

  An afternoon in Town is not, no matter how pleasant the company, the most refreshing of occasions. Miss Seeton had much enjoyed her tea, and meeting Mr. Szabo again—so very knowledgeable, so amusing in his conversation, so complimentary about her foolish doodles—and the Ritz, of course, had been magnificent. But, once one’s little excursion was over, it was even more pleasant to be driven down The Street and see one’s own dear, peaceful cottage at the end; to find a kettle full and waiting in the kitchen, a cake in the larder, chocolate biscuits in the tin ...

  And Martha Bloomer, to Miss Seeton’s surprise, on the doorstep.

  “Why, Martha, how nice to see you. Do come in—I was just about to make myself a cup of tea, though it would in any case have been easy enough to add another spoonful before it has been standing too long. Or two,” she added, remembering that Martha preferred her tea far stronger than did her employer—which, Miss Seeton knew only too well, was not an uncommon preference. “One forgets how very dusty a day in London can make one feel, even though Mr. Delphick was kind enough to treat me to tea, you know, at the Ritz. Such delicious sandwiches—though the cakes, of course,” in a hurry, “were nowhere near as delicious as yours.”

  Martha’s eyes twinkled as she followed Miss Seeton along the hall. Good cook though she knew herself to be, she doubted if even her tarts and pastries could equal the lavish concoctions served, as she’d seen on the telly and read about in the papers, at establishments like the Ritz.

  “Kind of you to say so, dear—but anyway, I’m glad you had a good time. The Ritz, eh? Nothing but the best for you, and I’m glad Mr. Delphick’s got the sense to know it.” Mrs. Bloomer watched as boiling water was poured into the pot, swirled round, and tipped away before two-and-a-half spoons of tea were added. Not that you couldn’t trust Miss Emily to make a proper cuppa, because of course you could, but it never did any harm to make certain ...

  “Been keeping an eye out for you,” Martha continued, “with not being sure when you’d be back, and I was afraid you’d miss the message, for all I left it where I thought you’d see it on the table—which I couldn’t help but notice,” as Miss Seeton gave a little start, and looked guilty, “you’d popped your hat and bag right on top of, dear, so it’s lucky I come over after all, though I suppose you’d’ve spotted it when you went up later. Except it might have been a bit too late for ringing back, or else he’d’ve rung you first and you not knowing what it was about, and couldn’t say no even if you wanted, caught on the hop like that. Though you might not want to, of course, so long as you’re not too tired after today—it’s Mr. Jessyp,” she said, as Miss Seeton looked rather bewildered. “He rang and asked me to make sure you knew, and would you ring and tell him once you’d had a chance to think about it—”

  “Oh, dear.” Miss Seeton understood at once what Martha meant. “Not poor Miss Maynard’s mother again? How dreadful—and so very unfortunate that nothing ever seems to help her for very long, although I, naturally, will be only too happy to assist in any way I can.”

  “I knew you would—but no, it isn’t her, it’s young Alice in the wars, Mr. Jessyp said. Put her back out something cruel, poor Miss Maynard, fell off a ladder pinning pictures on the walls—Harvest Flowers and things she’d got the kiddies drawing on and off all day to keep ’em quiet, seeing as they’re starting to get worked up about this Grand Conker Contest with Murreystone, and a lot of foolish talk,” with a disapproving sniff, “from their parents egging them on, I don’t doubt—which won’t bother you, of course, dear, them always behaving beautiful whenev
er you teach them.”

  Indeed they do. Miss Seeton’s control over the Junior Mixed Infants of Plummergen’s village school is regarded, by the parents and families of these high-spirited juveniles, as nothing less than miraculous. Sinister, some say, while others applaud it: for, though the children rarely misbehave for headmaster Martin Jessyp, and only on occasion let rip in the presence of Alice Maynard, when Miss Seeton is their instructor they can never be faulted for courtesy, punctuality, or willingness to learn. Half the parents, mistrusting Miss Seeton’s influence, insist that such enthusiasm for school isn’t natural, that Miss Seeton—as everyone knows, a witch—must be casting a spell on the kiddies to keep em quiet, or else she’d not be paid for her teaching, and stands to reason she needs money to keep that cottage of hers going, for all the police pay her for her drawings and there’s the times she’s written about in the papers, you can’t tell anyone she’ll not be getting good money for that, no matter what Other People say ...

  Other People included, of course, the Bloomers. Stan once came to blows with someone casting aspersions upon his employer’s character; Martha was noted for her temper whenever Miss Emily’s reputation was besmirched. Mrs. Bloomer in a Grand Slam was a sight—and sound—best avoided, and there were those who still shuddered when they recalled the tongue-lashing she’d given them for believing the story, put about by the Nuts, that Miss Seeton sacrificed babies, strung them up, and collected their blood in a bowl for purposes of sorcery. If it wouldn’t have been a waste of good, honest bramble jelly, Martha was sorely tempted to rub the noses of the worsted Nuts in their humiliation by presenting them publicly with a jar of the product of eight pounds of blackberries strained overnight through muslin ...

  “Behave beautiful,” said Martha, as Miss Seeton, leaving the tea to brew, hurried back down the hall to retrieve the note her henchwoman had placed where she’d thought it couldn’t be missed. And if Miss Seeton hadn’t been just a little weary from her afternoon out, she wouldn’t have missed it—but how fortunate that dear Martha took such good care of her that she had come across in person to make sure she knew of Mr. Jessyp’s urgent wish to speak with her.