“Poor Miss Maynard,” said Miss Seeton, and clicked her tongue. “To fall from a ladder—so precarious, I would think, if one leans over too far—angles, and centres of gravity, and balance—though I myself have only ever been on a ladder once in my life, that I recall, and then it was climbing straight upwards—which is far safer, I imagine, than leaning, which I had no occasion to do ...” Whether Miss Seeton’s pursuer on that occasion, he having been struck by her falling handbag and brolly as she climbed, would have considered that going straight upwards on a ladder was safer than leaning sideways must be left unanswered: he had been hoping to kill her, and she had ended by—inadvertently, but effectively—despatching him.
“Which is why,” went on Miss Seeton, pondering Mr. Jessyp’s note as Martha fetched an extra cup and the biscuit-tin, “I never had any great wish to become a sculptor rather than an artist.” She sighed: she doubted, even after hearing dear Mr. Delphick’s kind words this afternoon, whether one could dare to call oneself an artist, with so limited a talent. “Ladders, you see—one can never be entirely sure that the base is firmly fixed, and to slip—as poor Miss Maynard has done ...”
“By all accounts,” said Martha, pouring milk into cups, “it was the steps, and the hinge going—wooden, you see, and riddled with worms that nobody’d noticed, and the screws loosening over the years until, well, it was just a matter of time. Lucky it was her and not you, dear, with being that much younger and healing fast—not,” as Miss Seeton looked shocked, “as she’s broken any bones, but very badly bruised, Mr. Jessyp said, and Dr. Knight’s told her to rest up the next few days, and I’ve rearranged my mornings for the rest o’ the week to pop in every so often and keep an eye on her—see what she wants doing, living alone like she does. So if I’m not here when you expect me, well, if you’re up at the school, it won’t matter too much, will it, dear? Which if you ring Mr. Jessyp now, while I pour the tea, you can get fixed up and then nothing to worry about except the lessons, and there’s books for them, after all, save drawing, which you don’t need. Put your feet up,” said Martha, carrying the tray into the sitting-room, “and maybe watch a bit of telly—there, now! Be forgetting my own name next—but never mind, you just give Mr. Jessyp a ring first and sort yourselves out, then I can tell you all about it.” Gently, Martha pushed Miss Seeton towards the telephone, and, while her employer dialled the well-known number, occupied herself with the tea-tray.
“You know that telly programme about food, dear?”
Miss Seeton, now thankfully sipping tea, nodded, and smiled. “Entertaining as well as educational,” she said. “I confess that the finer points of the cookery have tended to escape me, Martha dear, but I’m sure that you find them most interesting—the history too, of course, as I do, and the costumes are delightful. The Colvedens, you know, with their new colour set, have been kind enough to invite me to supper once or twice. And it is remarkable,” said Miss Seeton, with a puzzled frown, “how it makes one’s old black-and-white set seem rather, well, dingy—colour television, I mean, by comparison. So very strange, when you consider that one of my favourite mediums is charcoal—and most of the old films I so enjoy watching were made in black and white anyway.”
“We’ve thought about getting one on the never-never,” Martha said, “but I don’t know: me and Stan, we’re not ones for liking to be in debt—still, that’s not what I was saying, was it? About the programme, you’ll never guess—Emmy Putts’s mother told me, and I popped into the George on my way home from the shops for a chat with Doris, and she says it’s true. They’re here, dear, in Plummergen. Now, what do you think of that?”
Miss Seeton set down her cup. “The television people? Of course, since the Best Kept Village Competition we have become accustomed to visitors—and Mr. Mountfitchet is bound to be pleased if they should feature his hotel in one of the programmes, although which traditional dish it would be, I am not altogether sure ...”
The premise upon which Not All Roast Beef was based had been simple, but effective. The British Isles are famous, in culinary terms, for far more than bangers and mash, fish and chips, or beans on toast, traditional though these may be. Not All Roast Beef not only gave recipes, it gave a history lesson at the same time, with costumed actors—regional accents a speciality—bringing to life the birth of such temptations as Cheddar Cheese (much Somerset oh aar, me dear-ing and an abundance of be-smocked cider drinkers); Melton Mowbray Pork Pie (shots of contented Tamworth pigs feeding on the whey from the making of Stilton Cheese, and dedicated cooks raising hot-water pastry crusts by hand); Dundee Cake (kilts, bagpipes, marmalade, and gingerbread); York Ham (Middle White pigs in a Keighley sty); Lancashire Hot Pot (clog-dancing mill girls); and Bakewell Tart and Pudding (a crinoline-clad Mrs. Greaves remonstrating with the incompetent cook at her coaching inn for having baked an almond topping over jam on puff pastry instead of the strawberry tart she’d been asked to produce).
“Course, we enjoyed that Bakewell Tart programme special, me and Stan,” said Martha, twinkling at Miss Seeton, who smiled and nodded. One of the later characters involved in the development of the well-known Derbyshire dish had been one George Bloomer, a baker, whose family had acquired the secret of the recipe for a bottle of whisky a week. Martha had been much amused when her stock among the rest of the village rose appreciably after the transmission of that particular episode, until Stan let slip—she’d kept mum on purpose—that he was, as far as he knew, no relation to the Midlands family. Emmy Putts had stopped presenting her best profile whenever Martha popped in for a pound or two of cheese, Maureen had gone back to her yawning, Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine had stopped putting their hair so obviously in curlers ...
“Dear, dear,” said Martha, chuckling at the memory. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear—these telly people, they’ve got no idea, have they?” She glanced at Miss Seeton, still smiling politely at a joke she couldn’t quite understand. “Nor more have you, dear, so never mind me, it’s just my nonsense.”
But she couldn’t help reflecting that the production team of Not All Roast Beef might just have bitten off more than they could chew when they’d turned up in Plummergen ...
chapter
~ 11 ~
INFORMATION IS DISSEMINATED around Plummergen in a variety of ways. It is generally accepted that most people inform themselves through gossip, whether face-to-face—which can have the ambivalent advantage of involving others at the same time—or on the telephone—which has the definite advantage of privacy, on such occasions as this should be required, but which costs money. Experienced Plummergen gossips know very well that it is not always necessary, when visiting the village shops, to purchase anything ...
Less dedicated shoppers, or people with better things to do with their time than run the gauntlet of clacking tongues whenever they wish for a bar of chocolate or a packet of soap flakes, infinitely prefer the personal touch—or the local paper, though this comes out only once a week, and stale news is no fun—or, in the evenings, the pub.
“A heavy night last night, Nigel?” Lady Colveden passed her son his coffee with a sympathetic smile, as he shook his head when she gestured with the milk, and motioned towards the sugar. “I wouldn’t have said you came in late—and you certainly didn’t start singing sea-shanties at two in the morning the way your father sometimes does.”
The Times quivered indignantly in the baronet’s hands, but he said nothing; as did Nigel, who stirred three spoons absently into his cup as if in a trance.
“Goodness, you must be sickening for something.” It was all her ladyship could do not to reach across and feel her son’s forehead. “This isn’t like you, Nigel—missing a chance to tease your father, I mean. Not, of course,” as The Times rustled in a threatening manner, “that I’d ever encourage you to be—to be disrespectful to either of us, but when you think how often the admiral flies his gin pennant, and how often your father just happens to be passing by to find out there’s a party that evening, and how much everyone see
ms to—to enjoy themselves,” she amended, as a pointed harrumphing erupted from behind Sir George’s paper to drown out any reference to drink. “Well, it’s not like you,” Lady Colveden concluded, buttering a puzzled slice of toast.
Nigel watched her for a moment, and then said dreamily, “If you had cheese on top of that, you’d have Welsh Rabbit, of a sort. Did you know,” as his mother stared, startled at the very idea of mustard-flavoured cheese, cooked in ale and spread on toast, for breakfast, “you shouldn’t call it Rarebit? It’s a common mistake,” he enlarged, in tones of great authority. “But it is a mistake. Everyone who knows what they’re talking about will always say Rabbit. The Welsh part’s the same in either case, though ...”
Lady Colveden’s eyes narrowed as she studied her son, whose own eyes were wide, gazing—presumably—across the hills and valleys of Wales, following who knew what spectre of cheese-eating Celt towards a loaf of bread, a toasting-fork, and a waiting fire.
A loaf of bread ... Lady Colveden sat up. It wasn’t a toasting-fork that came next, as far as she recalled—but the next words rang a very loud bell as she looked at Nigel—at his absent expression as he drank his coffee, at the way his egg was congealing, half-eaten, on his plate ...
“What else did she tell you?” she enquired, returning to her toast as if nothing was further from her mind than finding out what manner of female—Welsh, presumably—had made such a sudden and vivid impression on her ever-susceptible son. “You’re not usually so interested in cookery, any more than your father is.”
“Don’t bring me into it,” muttered the major-general, as he turned a page. “Good plain food’s enough for a working farmer. Can’t be bothered with anything fancy.”
“But that,” said Nigel, blushing, “is the whole point—that British food’s not fancy, it’s good, plain, wholesome nourishment with just a few frills to stop it being boring, the way people who don’t know suppose it is. At least, so Bethan says.” He blushed still more, spearing cold yellow yolk with an embarrassed fork. “That it’s what people who don’t know always think, I mean. And she wants—they want—to change the way they do it—think. I mean. It’s very—very educational.”
“Educational?” Sir George lowered his paper. “Thinking of going back to college? Can’t be done. Busy time of year—need every man we’ve got.”
“Is it ever anything else? But I think, George,” his wife went on gently, as Nigel swallowed poached egg and rendered himself thankfully dumb, “that what Nigel’s saying is—what are you saying, Nigel? Is Bethan someone you’ve met at the Young Farmers? I don’t believe I’ve heard you mention her before.”
Nigel emerged from his egg and affected a careless front which fooled nobody. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I, er, met her in the George last night—they’re staying there for a few days while they research another programme for the new series. Not All Roast Beef—you’ve watched one or two of them, haven’t you, Mother? Bethan—Broomfield,” he added, savouring the name, “is the director’s research and personal assistant—chap called Jeremy Froste. With an e.” Nigel’s pleasant features twisted in a grimace. “He wears a corduroy jacket, and a perfectly ghastly shirt, with the most hideous cravat you’ve ever seen.” He sighed. “Bethan says he’s brilliant, though. I suppose he’d have to be, to get away with an outfit like that.”
Lady Colveden, who had nodded her recognition of Jeremy Froste’s name from the end-of-programme credits, frowned. “What great British food do they expect to find in Plummergen? I mean, we do have a lot of great British cooks, but—don’t snigger like that, Nigel. George, there’s no need,” as The Times scrunched and writhed in her husband’s hands, “to be so—so—”
“Realistic?” Nigel, having broken the news of his most recent infatuation, had at last relaxed. “A good roast, or a casserole, yes, we’ll grant you those, and if Martha keeps a very close eye on you our kitchen has, occasionally, been known to produce an edible fruit cake—but you must accept your limitations, Mother darling. As we do. We cannot, in all honesty, call you great—and anyway,” as his mother feinted at him with the coffee pot, “they aren’t looking for food, they’re looking for fruit. An apple, actually.”
“If apples aren’t food,” retorted Lady Colveden, “then I should very much like to know what is. I think your Bethan has been having you on—unless you’re trying to bamboozle us, which at this hour of the morning ...”
“No bamboozlement,” Nigel assured her, as she paused to think of a suitably aggrieved conclusion. “Old English Apples, they’re making a whole programme about—you’d never believe the numbers there used to be. Local varieties just in one village, perhaps, and never grown elsewhere. As you might say, peculiar to the place—and that’s what they’re looking for, the Plummergen Peculier.” Nigel chuckled. “Also with an e, I’m told. And judging by some of the other names Bethan came up with as examples, I’d call Plummergen Peculier pretty tame.”
The Times was lowered once more. Sir George’s wayward fancy had obviously been caught. “Such as?”
“Ah. Yes.” Nigel had clearly been paying more attention to Miss Broomfield herself than to what she’d told him about her work. “Pig’s Snout, I remember that one—better warn the admiral about letting the bees loose on the blossom next spring, if they find any of those. Goodness knows how the honey would taste with a name like that. It’d certainly be different.” Nigel frowned. “Fair Maid was another, and Marriage Maker—and,” as his parents exchanged amused glances, “Morgan Sweet, and Dick’s Favourite—and Bottle Stopper—and something about Jerusalem, as well.”
“Goodness, I shouldn’t fancy going all the way to Jerusalem, just for an apple.” Lady Colveden began to stack plates. “Do they know what these Peculier apples look like? I can just imagine how half the village will be convinced they have one of the trees in the back garden, and if your Bethan and her Mr. Froste aren’t careful, they’ll be dragged into every house in The Street to check.”
“Not coming here, I hope,” muttered Sir George, hastily joining the ranks of those who did not care to worship the great goddess Television, and who would prefer to see no strangers in their homes, Plummergen Peculier or not.
Nigel was undismayed by the reaction of his sire: it was no more than his own had been, as Bethan discoursed on her mission, though he had acknowledged at the time that not everyone would feel the same way. “Oh, there’ll be dozens of places they can visit, without the Hall,” he said. “The more the merrier, Bethan says. She really takes an interest in her work. She’s very thorough ...”
He sighed. “She says this Froste is one of the up-and-coming television Turks, and she’s privileged to be helping him right at the start of his career—and,” said Nigel, sounding puzzled, “she’s not the only one. There’s some kind of reporter following them—him—around wherever he goes for this series, so that he can feature him in a lead article in one of the glossies, and Bethan says he, that’s the reporter, thinks it will help his career, too, if he turns himself into the expert on Jeremy Froste.”
He sighed, still puzzled: there was no accounting for taste, although from his appearance reporter Roy Roydon didn’t have much to begin with. His clothes were even less to Nigel’s liking than those of Jeremy Froste.
“Fool,” said Sir George, loudly.
Nigel jumped, then decided that his father surely couldn’t be referring to his son and heir. He brightened. “I’d no idea you’d ever met the chap, but I’m jolly glad to have my unbiased opinion shared,” he began; then stopped, as Sir George shook his head.
“Fool—I remember now.” He glared over the top of The Times towards his wife, who had stopped stacking and was on the point of rising to her feet. “Thought I’d sleep all the way through it, as I recall. I didn’t.”
Lady Colveden sat down again. “Didn’t you? Oh! No, of course, you didn’t.” She glanced at her spouse in some surprise, then at her son. “Your father’s right, Nigel. You were out, so you didn’t see it, but the
programme last week—or was it the week before? Anyway, it was called Capital Food—London, you know. Boodle’s Fool, although why your father should remember when Boodle’s isn’t his club, I don’t know—but it sounded delicious. Orange and lemon juice, and whipped cream and sponge cake—and Boodle’s Cake, too, if it comes to that. And Omelette Arnold Bennett, at the Savoy—they showed him writing part of The Old Wives’ Tale—and Bismarck drinking Black Velvet at Brooks’s, because until the First World War it was named after him—Guinness in champagne, I mean, not Brooks’s,” as Nigel raised an eye-brow at the notion of one of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs being named for the German chancellor.
“Sounds fascinating,” he said, not being merely polite. If he could impress Bethan that he knew what she was talking about ... “Anything else?”
Lady Colveden giggled. “There was some terrible music called Bubble and Squeak—that’s what woke your father up in time to see the fool.”
“Wow wow,” said Sir George, surfacing again.
Nigel blinked. “Er—you want me to feed the dogs this morning? You only have to say the word. Just pass me the tin opener and the Chummy Chunks, and—”
“Nigel, really.” His mother stifled another giggle. “Not bow-wow, Wow Wow Sauce—that’s what went with Bubble and Squeak—they showed Dr. Kitchiner brewing it, if that’s the right word. Mustard, and red wine, and mushroom ketchup, and pickled walnuts—they would have been rather tough, I should think, after soaking in the other things, but Bubble and Squeak’s not terribly exciting, so I suppose every little helps.”
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 9