“Quite right,” said Sir George, as ever impressed by the good sense of his friend. “Shouldn’t be able to move around the place without tripping over charabancs, coming from Lord knows where. But if that’s what people want ... Up to them, of course, if they ask the blighters in or not—and Froste does a reasonable job, I suppose. Quite interesting, some of the programmes—so Meg tells me,” he added, for he was an honest man, and had dozed on and off through several editions of Not All Roast Beef as his wife watched with keen attention, telling him afterwards of the bits she had most enjoyed. “Educational. But if it means turning Plummergen into a—a bally peep-show ...”
“You never know,” agreed the admiral, “what might happen, with hordes of strangers running here, there, and everywhere taking photographs, writing pieces for the newspapers and so forth. Appreciate they’ve a job to do, but it’s a free country, Colveden. People want ’em, they can have ’em—just as if people don’t like the idea, they’re entitled to say so. They’ve already come knocking at my door asking if they can take a few shots of my bees—ha!” The Buzzard’s eyes glittered, and Sir George stiffened: he and the admiral planned to go into melliferous partnership next spring, and the major-general already felt a proprietorial interest in the golden throng.
“Soon set them straight about that,” the Buzzard briskly reassured him. “Thanks, but no thanks, I said—and they certainly got the message in the end, though it took rather too long, for my liking. Didn’t see why I should encourage the blighters, because it won’t stop there, you can be sure of that—and there’s such a thing as being too popular for your own good. Crowds, litter, vandalism ... Plummergen’s not that large, and I can’t help thinking of the old saying about quarts into pint pots—which reminds me,” glancing over his shoulder at the crimson west, “sun’s well over the yardarm now, talking of pints. No beer in the wardroom at the moment, but if you fancy a spot of something ...”
And Sir George, as he’d known all along he would, thanked Admiral Leighton, and said that he did.
chapter
~ 17 ~
AT THE VERY hub of Plummergen society, as has already been shown, is the post office. Mr. Stillman and his wife Elsie do more than supply the village with provender, pensions, and postal services; they do more than provide a clearing-house for gossip. Their establishment has a far greater value, even if its benefits are basically intangible: the Stillmans see themselves, with justification, as playing an essential part in maintaining the true community spirit in an age when these words are too often mocked, their sentiment scorned.
While the post office counter keeps strictly to the letter of Royal Mail regulations, the shopping area opens at eight in the morning, is the only shop to stay open during the lunch hour, and does not close until six. These extended hours mean that people can pop in before going to work—when slipping out for a breather—and after work is done. Mr. Stillman does not bother staying open past six, for the national television and wireless networks broadcast the News at six o’clock, and everyone is always anxious to find out whether anyone they know—which tends to mean Miss Seeton—has done anything worthy of remark in the past twenty-four hours since the daily papers were printed. And if it turns out that anyone has ... then who knows what additional attention their exploits may bring to the village?
“Television,” sighed Emmy Putts, slicing bacon. “Could be the Chance of a Lifetime, with them filming and on the lookout for Discoveries ...” The wheel spun to a halt as the thought of Discovery distracted the spinner. She sighed again. “He was in here, you know, that Jeremy Froste. Ever so handsome he is, close to, lovely thick hair and all—real distinguished. Bought two pound of apples, so he did, and he winked at me!”
“You needn’t suppose, Emmeline,” said Mrs. Henderson, who had suddenly realised that Emmy’s raptures had resulted in rashers twice as thick as she’d wanted them, “that he meant anything by it. Them telly types, they’re allus all over the girls, it’s part o’ the—the image.”
“Brought one down from Lunnon with him, remember,” cautioned young Mrs. Newport, whose mother-of-four status made her inclined to condescend to her single contemporaries. “That Bethan Broomfield. Researcher, she calls herself, but you’ll not tell me there’s no more to it than that.”
“Your ma’d have a fit,” agreed Mrs. Scillicough, for once in sympathy with her sister, “if she thought you was running after another girl’s bloke, wink or no.”
“Maureen says they got separate rooms.” Emmy, tossing her head, was busy with grease-proof paper. “And everyone knows Nigel Colveden’s bin chatting her up summat rotten, which he’d never do if he thought she was bespoken ...”
Mrs. Flax said, “Gentry’s different to the likes o’ you, young Emmy, and don’t you never forget it.”
“’Sides,” someone pointed out, “Nigel’s never that lucky for long, is he? The number o’ girls he’s gone out with, yet no nearer the altar than when he was a babby. Most like she were only trying to make him jealous, Jeremy Froste—same as he’ll have bin trying with her and you, Em.” The speaker turned to Mrs. Flax. “But if they’d only ask you, now, Mrs. Flax, things’d mebbe work out well for all concerned, wouldn’t they?”
The village’s faith in her love-potions was great, and Mrs. Flax was too shrewd to risk the slightest loss of face. She nodded, slowly, and spoke in a voice throbbing with portent. “There’s none that can’t be helped, if they’ve a mind to ask—and if I’m so minded to help them,” as she saw the request bubbling up to Emmy’s eager lips. “But gentry-folk have never any faith in the old ways. I’ll not offer meself to their scorn, for there’s none rightly cares to be shown disrespect, and I’ve a sense of my worth above such demeaning. And as for you, Emmeline, there’s folly in the belief that a man’s only to light his eye upon you and he’s promised—but my skills go beyond the brewing of such philtres and charms as would make it so, if ’twas the right thing to be done.” She drew a deep breath and allowed her eyes to gaze into unseen worlds.
“There’s an insight,” she intoned, as everyone shuddered, recognising the mood of prophecy, “as warns me ’twould be wilful meddling in the fated path, even for powers such as mine, to make him look favourable on you, Emmeline Putts, and take you from here. For your destiny’s plain enough, to them with eyes to see, never to be linked with such a furriner, in chains it’d be unwise to sever ...”
Her audience was suitably impressed by this performance, as Mrs. Flax had known they would be. Her histrionic skills had been refined over many years: it was almost automatic for her to conjure up an atmosphere of menace and mystery on the slightest provocation; and since All Hallows Eve wasn’t that far away, it would do no harm to remind a few folk that the Wise Woman was best kept the right side of. Mrs. Flax saw no reason why she need ever dig her garden for vegetables, tend her fruit-trees, or keep chickens, geese, or turkeys, when credulous villagers were prepared to leave on her doorstep their silent requests for her goodwill, their pleas for her to remove the ill-luck she took no trouble to advise them she hadn’t wished on them in the first place ...
The dark presence of a pagan past shadowed the post office as Mrs. Flax put her chappy finger to her lips and hinted at matters beyond the understanding of all save herself. Whereupon all save herself—even Mrs. Scillicough, whose opinion of the powers of Mrs. Flax was hardly high—shuddered again ...
And then there came the welcome tinkle of the bell above the door, and in walked the twentieth century. The Nuts had come to the rescue.
“It’s simply too bad, Eric,” Mrs. Blaine was saying, as Miss Nuttel, looking disillusioned, closed the door, glancing back across The Street and shaking her head. “You have to admit—and too unfair, as well. I mean—one knows the Royal Navy is supposed to have tradition, and authority, and—and that sort of thing, but I’m sure I can’t see why they had to pay quite so much attention to what the admiral told them, when goodness knows there are plenty of other people in this village who
wouldn’t mind at all helping with the research. And if,” said Mrs. Blaine bravely, “the sort of help required meant that one had to nerve oneself to appear before the cameras—well, I should think that anyone with the very least hint of community spirit would be only too glad to volunteer.”
Mrs. Blaine—whose indignation had impelled her into speech without giving her time to check her audience—could have been on shaky ground here: it was already accepted that not everyone welcomed the idea of helping Jeremy Froste with his research, or volunteering to nerve themselves to appear before the cameras. The numbing effects of Mrs. Flax’s performance, however, had not yet worn off, and before anyone could start to feel aggrieved, Miss Nuttel—who’d had time to glance about her as Mrs. Blaine was speaking—hurried to extricate Bunny from committing further indiscretions.
“Said he didn’t approve, Bunny—fair enough, of course, not everyone does—but it was the way he said it. Seems a sight too keen to keep them out of his garden, if you ask me. More than just bothered he’d be putting on a poor show. Suspicious. Can’t help wondering why.”
“You certainly can’t.” Mrs. Blaine elected to wonder at full volume, though there had never been any previous indication that Miss Nuttel might be hard of hearing. “Especially when everyone must know by now that the television people are looking for old apples—and the Dawkins never did anything in their garden from one year to the next, which means when that Manuden man cut down all the brambles it was just in time for the admiral to come along and put his beehives down among simply dozens of trees”—the exaggeration went unchallenged as her eager listeners crowded closer—“and all of them different varieties, I heard him say so myself.” Norah Blaine primmed her plump mouth and looked disapproving. She saw no need to enlarge on the manner in which she had chanced to hear the admiral explaining to a visiting Sir George the theory of cross-pollination and the benefits of a choice of blossom. It was nobody’s business but hers and Eric’s if she chose to polish the outside upper windows by leaning out with an elastic rope around her waist in case she slipped in the evening gloom ...
“Anxious to find one, by all accounts.” Miss Nuttel was absently twirling the circular book-stand, staring at titles such as Master Pot-Throwing in 30 Minutes as if nothing else were currently on her mind. “Peculier.”
“And suspicious,” said Mrs. Blaine; then she tittered. “Oh, Eric, of course, too silly of me! You didn’t mean peculiar, you meant Peculier—the Plummergen Peculier! At least, you meant both, because you said it was suspicious, and I must say I agree with you—that he was so adamant about not letting the television people into his garden, I mean, when I’m sure everyone else is only too happy to co-operate, and if they’re not, at least they’ve been polite about it—to look for the Plummergen Peculier, I mean. Which it is—too peculiar.” She tittered once more, then became serious.
“Too strange, I can’t help thinking, with Sir George involved as well, trying to drive these television people out of the village”—somehow, she managed to remain deaf to the chorus of gasps which greeted this announcement—“when really they have as much right to be here as anyone else, I should have thought. All that talk about disturbing the bees, when they’re bound to be hibernating at this time of year, aren’t they? Or as good as, so I’m sure I don’t see that it would upset them in the least. You’re so right, Eric, it’s suspicious, to say the least of it—but with Sir George positively in collusion with the admiral, I don’t see there’s anything to be done. These forces types,” said Mrs. Blaine, with a sniff—Humphrey, her flat-footed former husband, had not been allowed to take the King’s Shilling in World War II, emerging from the time of trial with neither decoration nor commendation to his name—“always stick together, of course.”
“Gin pennants,” said Miss Nuttel, with a look that spoke volumes—slanderous volumes, for Sir George, while always happy to accept the ready invitation of Admiral Leighton’s favourite green-and-white flag, was ever mindful of his position in the village. Seldom indeed was Plummergen’s squire to be seen in public under the influence of alcohol, no matter that the Buzzard poured a pinker gin, a stiffer whisky, a more muscular Horse’s Neck than any of his fellow drinkers had experienced before.
“You don’t suppose”—this from Mrs. Blaine, still oblivious of the eager ears flapping around her—“it’s anything to do with that business about the air raid bunker, do you? Too sinister, I always thought, that there was nothing inside after all, when the Manudens were making such a tremendous fuss about raffle-tickets to open it.” Betsy and Dennis Manuden, the previous occupants of Ararat Cottage, had discovered, while tidying their garden, a disused air raid bunker. In an apparent attempt to curry favour with Plummergen, the pair had proposed a Grand Raffle for the chance to open the bunker’s long-locked door: but the raffle, in reality, had been no more than a cover for the Manudens’ various criminal activities in and around the neighbourhood, and the bunker had eventually proved as empty as the Manudens’ original favour-currying gesture. Mrs. Blaine had been talked—against the advice of Miss Nuttel—into buying three tickets, at ten pence each. The loss of six shillings in old money continued to rankle, despite repeated assurances from Miss Treeves that it had all been for the benefit of the church roof fund.
Miss Nuttel shook a regretful head for innocent Bunny’s lack of logic. “Plenty of time to shift any evidence after they were arrested, remember. Influence, old girl. Said yourself, these types always stick together.”
Mrs. Blaine’s horrified gasp was drowned out by a chorus of surely not Sir George from an audience of which only now did Eric and Bunny appear to become aware, as its members crowded ever closer. Tongues were clicked, eyes sparkled, voices throbbed with indignation and dismay as the spiteful seeds prepared to shoot—though even spite has its limits. Sir George’s position—magistrate as well as squire—meant that prudence must quickly absolve him of all crimes save companionable collusion before the admiral, a virtual stranger, could come under full-scale attack.
It was Mrs. Spice who reminded everyone that the Colvedens had not come to the village until after the war. “And nothing to do with the Dawkins,” she went on, in tones which hinted at some slight regret for scandal lost, “on account of Queer Albie so set against joining up. He’ll be obliging a friend, no more—Sir George, I mean.”
“But there’s never no smoke without fire,” said Mrs. Henderson at once.
“And the rest of us knowing we’ve nothing to hide ...”
The ground shook again a little here. Until now, the reasons for those refusing to cooperate with Jeremy Froste had been considered, by those who had no intention of refusing, strange, to say the least. It was suspected that—as Miss Nuttel had said earlier—the refusers simply feared to allow outsiders to enter their property in case they found that all was not as well as public boasts suggested: neither Mrs. Skinner nor Mrs. Henderson, for instance—in agreement for the first time in years—was prepared to invite Bethan and her notebook to view her garden, in case the researcher should accept one, and reject the other. This argument, in a village so given to feuding as Plummergen, was acceptable, though open to misinterpretation; a strong preference for personal privacy was not.
But the pleasures of slanderous speculation now outweighed all other considerations; the torrent of wild surmise roared on regardless.
“Them telly folk’ve bin in half the gardens in Plummergen, and never refused till now ...”
“Chose the Dawkin place special, so he did, as everyone knows ...”
Indeed the admiral had, deeming anywhere called “Ararat Cottage” the ideal landfall for a sailor home from the sea, but to congenitally-suspicious Plummergen there had to be more to this choice than the results of a sense of humour coupled with a knowledge of Holy Writ. Village minds—most of whose owners had, during the last war, worked in reserved occupations on the land—would find it hard to credit just how many of the signals exchanged between ships of the Royal Navy, even while on
active service, were on public record as having a strongly scriptural slant.
“Psalm 17 verse 4,” came the cryptic message from a submarine returning after a week’s patrol, followed by a smug silence as the flotilla captain thumbed rapidly through his Bible, to read: Concerning the works of men by the word of thy lips, I have kept me from the paths of the destroyers. “Hebrews 12 verse 8, repeat final word,” signalled an irritable commander to his squadron, whose ability to follow instructions had left something to be desired: If ye be without chastisement whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards. Or, in a brief moment of congratulation and response as an officer’s promotion was confirmed, “Psalm 140, second half verse 5.” They have set gins for me ...
The signalling method best understood by most of Plummergen was the admiral’s gin pennant, herald of officerial jollification in the former Dawkin sitting-room every time it was hoisted up his purpose-built flagpole. While acknowledging the validity of the long, green-and-white triangular flag and its hospitable message, the Nuts were nevertheless always ready to leap to conclusions undreamed-of even by their fellow villagers, for, when Admiral Leighton had first moved into his new home, their curiosity had been aroused by the quaint structures quickly erected in his back garden among the flowers and fruit trees. A few anxious days had been spent, by Mrs. Blaine in particular, waiting for broomstick-mounted flyers—Miss Seeton’s name went unspoken, but unforgotten—to answer the summons and swoop from the skies to join the Buzzard warlock in his sorcerous celebrations. The eventual arrival of four beehives from distant heather moors to stand atop the brick-and-timber rectangles had been an anticlimax, to say the least; and the hives’ next-door neighbours were still not entirely sure whether or not to afford Sir George’s new friend the benefit of the doubt. This business with the Dawkin air raid bunker and the body which everyone had thought would be inside, but wasn’t—and now the television people being refused access in so very forceful a manner by a man with such a bogus-looking ginger beard ...
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 14