“No community spirit,” said Miss Nuttel. “If you ask me,” she added, as everyone turned to stare. “Buying the Dawkin place,” she enlarged, “and then not letting anyone in. Can’t help wondering,” she repeated, which was enough for everyone else.
“With all them fruit trees ...”
“Not,” protested someone, “as that’s to say there’s no Plummergen Peculier in someone else’s garden as well, and Jeremy Froste and that girl of his sure to find it before much longer ...”
“I’m sure,” said someone else, virtuous, “it’s only for the good of the village we’ve let ’em poke about our places and take photos and measure and make notes as they’ve wanted. And newspapers bound to be interested as well—stands to reason there’s summat odd about them as’ll not let ’em take so much’s a peep to make certain ...”
“Simply too strange,” said Mrs. Blaine.
And, as everyone paused to contemplate the strangeness of certain Plummergen inhabitants, there came a sudden tinkle at the post office door—and a collective shudder ran around the assembled company as, with a quiet smile, Miss Seeton—strangest of the strange—walked in.
chapter
~ 18 ~
MISS SEETON’S QUIET smile was hardly the pregnant, gloating leer its recipients—rendered uneasy by the coincidence of her sudden appearance—supposed. It was simply a gentlewoman’s acknowledgement of her acquaintance on entering commercial premises in which they, the early arrivals, must have a prior claim for attention. Miss Seeton, observing so many of the post office regulars in attendance, looked for the end of the queue, and, failing to find it in the throng of clustering gossips, smiled again, in an enquiring manner. She meant by her smile to suggest nothing more than that no deliberate discourtesy was being shown should she inadvertently intrude upon someone else’s turn to be served ...
“Oh,” said Mrs. Skinner, as Miss Seeton, having been waved on by Mrs. Flax, Mrs. Scillicough, Miss Nuttel, and Mrs. Blaine, paused beside her. “Oh—that’s all right, Miss Seeton, you go ahead—I’m in no hurry.”
“Same here,” said Mrs. Henderson nastily, as Miss Seeton—nobody in Plummergen could remain unaware of the Flower Rota Feud—glanced politely in her direction before moving forwards through a crowd which parted with some alacrity to let her pass. Miss Seeton nodded, smiled her thanks, murmured of such kindness ...
And arrived at the counter over which presided Mrs. Elsie Stillman, queen of the cotton-wool, antiseptic mouthwashes, and sticking plaster she did not trust Emmy Putts to purvey in a manner sufficiently serious. Mrs. Stillman, who liked Miss Seeton, returned her smile with interest.
“And are the kiddies behaving theirselves, Miss Seeton? And what’s the latest on poor Miss Maynard? A nasty fall, and slow to mend, even at her young age. You’ll be buying something for her backache, perhaps.”
Miss Seeton shook her head as she fumbled in her bag for her list, shifting the handle of her umbrella farther up her arm. “Dear Martha has been running Miss Maynard’s few errands and filling her hot-water bottle, and Dr. Knight has prescribed strict bed-rest with aspirin every four hours, of which I know she has an ample supply. It would be most unwise for anyone without medical knowledge to suggest adding other drugs or medicines to those she is already taking. There are certain combinations, as I understand, which can prove dangerous, if not fatal, even when one is in perfect health ...”
Miss Seeton’s voice fell to an absent babble of whisky, and paracetamol, and proprietary cold cures as she managed at last to unfold the page from her notebook; blinked; and then nodded. She cleared her throat, hoping her informant’s memory had not let her down.
“I should like two ounces of—of saltpetre, Mrs. Stillman, please. And two ounces of salt prunella—and a large bottle of white vinegar, if you have it, although I expect malt would do, at a pinch—oh, and bay-salt,” as she remembered another ingredient previously mentioned as possible, not as essential. “If you have it,” she said again, “and if you have none, I dare say common salt would do. But we really cannot do without the saltpetre and the salt prunella, or so Miss Wicks assures me.”
An intake of breath behind her. Miss Seeton, entirely at her ease, was—as ever—oblivious of the stir her words had caused. Mrs. Stillman, at first, was likewise oblivious, too surprised by her customer’s remarkable requirements to notice the way the rest of her customers, crossing nervous fingers behind their backs, casting pleading glances in the direction of Mrs. Flax, were edging as close to the counter as they dared, the better to hear the exact nature of Miss Seeton’s purchases ...
And when—no longer oblivious—Mrs. Stillman recovered herself sufficiently to notice this strange behaviour, she primmed her lips in disapproval, and frowned. Now it was Miss Seeton’s turn to be surprised. She blushed, ventured a timid smile, failed to catch Mrs. Stillman’s eye, and blushed again as, staunchly refusing to stoop to the majority level, Elsie Stillman in stern silence weighed and measured and packaged as she had been requested—while Miss Seeton, wondering what she might have said to cause offence, looked on without further utterance, and the nervous crowd nudged one another, and whispered, and watched, wide-eyed, the postmaster’s wife busying herself with metal spoons, and scales, and green glass jars of powdery crystals, and brown paper bags ...
“Would there be anything else, Miss Seeton?” Mrs. Stillman had retrieved a dusty bottle of white vinegar from a high, distant shelf, and set it now on the counter beside the paper bags. Miss Seeton, relieved she had not, after all, offended, thoughtfully smiled.
Mrs. Stillman smiled back. “Pickling spice?” No harm, Elsie told herself, in just a smidgen of curiosity, with everyone knowing Stan Bloomer’s onions were sure to be among the best in Plummergen, if the flies didn’t sneak over from Murreystone and do their worst—fit to win a ribbon at the Show, by all accounts, if he’d not been so keen to make a fine display in church for Harvest Festival. It’d be some new recipe Martha had found somewhere, and—Mrs. Bloomer being a noted cook—worth trying, if the secret could only be got. “Ginger? Peppercorns? A spot of turmeric, maybe?”
Miss Seeton, suppressing another smile at this kindly—if unorthodox—suggestion, considered it, with a slight, puzzled frown of her own. “Er—thank you. I think not,” she said, after some moments during which the nearby eavesdroppers held their breath. They, like Elsie, had been inspired to wonder whether Miss Seeton might not, for once, have been going to behave more like normal folk than she generally did, even if ’twas more likely Martha Bloomer they would’ve expected to be dealing with Stan’s onions, not her employer, share to sell after the household needs were done or not.
“That is,” Miss Seeton made haste to correct herself, “yes, thank you, there is. How foolish of me to forget, when I was only just now saying to Miss Wicks ... A birch besom, please.”
A thrill of pure horror ran round the post office at her words. Fear’s ice-cold fingers reached out to stroke shuddering spines, to fasten about suddenly-constricted throats. On the grocery counter Emmy Putts, dropping her cheese-wire, snatched up a steel-bladed knife and began muttering through pale lips, her eyes closed in fright. Mrs. Flax essayed a disbelieving sniff for the boasts of this foreign witch, but choked and spluttered instead as envy gnawed at her vitals. Mrs. Blaine squeaked, gasped, and clasped her hands, trying to remember prayers. Miss Nuttel’s face turned green, her legs to jelly, as she staggered and slumped against the book-stand, setting it in a spin ...
Master Church Architecture flew off, falling to the floor at Miss Seeton’s feet as she made her contented way out with her replacement besom under one arm, her brolly under the other, her brown paper bundles in her bag, and her bottle of white vinegar in her hand.
The flight and providential fall was seen as an omen: as protection against the powers of darkness as personified by the little art teacher. That umbrella—a witch’s wand, a sorceress’s staff, disguised? Knees knocking, hands shaking, Miss Nuttel stooped with a groan to pick the p
aperback from the floor, and gripped it in a white-knuckled grasp. Mrs. Blaine, quivering, groaned in sympathy.
“Oh, Eric, too dreadful—I shall faint, I know I shall! The simply brazen way she came right out with it—talking about dangerous drugs, and medicines—potions, she meant, anyone could see that—and asking for those peculiar chemicals—and then to buy a—a broomstick! It’s too, too awful—we’re none of us safe in our beds!”
Before Mrs. Stillman, Miss Seeton’s champion, could utter one syllable of protest, Plummergen’s official witch cleared her throat. All heads turned towards her; all breaths were bated until she should pronounce.
“Aah—there’s Halloween, not two weeks away,” said Mrs. Flax, rolling her eyes with relish: the doorstep of the Wise Woman was always laden with boxes and baskets on the night of October the thirty-first. Generations of Plummergenites took pains to run no risks. “The night of All Hallows, when spirits fly abroad,” gloated Mrs. Flax, her gaze sweeping over the trembling assembly, her voice low, throbbing with mystery. “But then, who’s to say what manner o’ spirits they may be as take to the skies—for good, or for evil? And who’s to say,” the mystery deepening with her voice, “what spells they’ll choose to weave, in their heathen, devilish pride, and us in ignorance below?”
She wagged her skinny finger and looked stern. “Devilish I said, and devil I meant—powers of darkness, there’s no mistaking. For what’s more devilish than hell-fire and brimstone?” Her audience, hypnotised and dumb with terror, meekly nodded. Mrs. Flax glowered. She’d best put on a good show now, or there’d be an end to her influence if once that foreign witch was let get away with spells and enchantments as were the rightful business in the village of none but those born to it. She took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes.
“Which brimstone,” she pointed out, “is no more nor less than another name for gunpowder—so if that’s not what Miss Seeton’s bin and bought these five minutes since—”
She need go no further. She’d acted well enough—and more than well, to judge by the gratifying confusion that resulted from those final words. Mrs. Stillman, unable to make herself heard above the horrified hubbub, threw up her hands in defeat and marched out to the back of the shop, where she rattled tins, bottles, and cardboard boxes in a cacophony of—useless, she knew—indignation on Miss Seeton’s innocent behalf.
Mrs. Blaine had stopped babbling prayers, and posed, frozen with fright, in the middle of the floor; Miss Nuttel fanned herself desperately with the flimsy pages of Master Church Architecture in Thirty Minutes. Mrs. Newport, for all Mrs. Scillicough’s vaunted scorn for the abilities of Mrs. Flax, edged close to her sister and tried to coax her (blood being thicker than water, in moments of crisis) towards the Wise Woman for the benefit of her protection and advice. Mrs. Henderson found herself beside Mrs. Spice, both quivering and breathing hard, their eyes on Mrs. Flax, waiting ...
Mrs. Flax savoured her moment. “O’course, with skills such as mine I’m protected, but the rest of you—ah, you’ve a deal to fear and more, I reckon. And it’s doubtful if even I’m strong enough in knowledge to weaken her powers on a night like Halloween ...”
A collective whimper bubbled in fearful throats. Even Mrs. Scillicough, overwhelmed by majority opinion, found it difficult to speak, producing at her second attempt only a dry croak; whereupon her sister, anxious to conform, gasped out the ghastly revelation that had that instant been visited upon her.
“And Miss Wicks, indoors with her wrist broke—but ... but did anybody see her tumble?”
A quavering chorus confirmed that nobody had. Mrs. Newport, satisfied with the effect of her words, yet could not bring herself to utter the next, awful piece of the grim equation. She glanced at her sister. Mrs. Scillicough duly obliged, in a trembling voice:
“So nobody knows for sure how ... how she did it ...”
The silence which followed her remark was pregnant with terrified realisation. Miss Seeton, on this evidence, might well not be the only witch to ride the midnight skies above the sleeping, helpless heads of Plummergen: where there was one, there could be a whole coven. But what could anyone do about it? All eyes turned to Mrs. Flax, who was frowning awfully. If it weren’t enough for this foreign witch to buy broomsticks for her own use, now she’d gone and started teaching other folk to set up in competition ...
But Mrs. Flax’s frown was not recognised as the jealous manifestation it in truth was. She was thought to be weighing up the merits of various villagers, deciding who should be offered her cabbalistic protection, who should not ...
But the Wise Woman waited too long before condescending to pronounce judgement. Mrs. Blaine panted into the breach in characteristic fashion.
“Oh,” moaned Mrs. Blaine, “where will it all end? It’s too, too dreadful—it’s unnatural—it’s blasphemous! Oh, Eric—what on earth will happen next?”
chapter
~ 19 ~
MARTHA, WHISKING HER impatient duster over the newly-closed lid of Miss Seeton’s bureau, said, “Oh, and that reminds me—you did know that reporter’s here, didn’t you, dear? Not here here,” as Miss Seeton, setting down the portfolio she’d just picked up, looked at first bemused, then delighted, starting along the hall towards the front door.
“I mean here, in the village,” elaborated Mrs. Bloomer, “staying. So you’d best be careful going up The Street, knowing the way things will happen when you’re around, and not wanting to put ideas in anyone’s head about”—ominously—“Front Pages. Stan’s seen him in the George a few times when he’s dropped in for a couple of pints and his dominoes, not to mention,” smiling despite herself, “getting in some practice with the conkers, knowing the way Murreystone can play dirty when they’ve a mind, which after the cricket Stan says it’d never surprise him if they did.”
Miss Seeton sighed her regret for the frailties of human nature, shook her head, and then forgot all about the feud as she once more picked up her portfolio, checked the contents of her handbag, turned a deaf ear to Martha’s warnings about front-page news—why should anyone from the papers be interested in her quiet doings?—and continued to radiate pleasure at the thought of seeing Mel again.
Martha realised her mistake. “Oh—no, dear—sorry, it’s not that Miss Forby I meant. No more it’s Mr. Banner, neither, though sometimes,” with the hint of a sniff, “I reckon those two might as well book rooms here permanent, the number of times you get up to your tricks and down they come from Town to write you up all over the place.” Which was unfair of Mrs. Bloomer, for there was a marked conspiracy, capably headed by Mel and Thrudd, to keep Miss Seeton’s name—if not her adventures—out of the papers as far as possible; and, given the pair’s growing influence in Fleet Street, “possible” went farther than even their sternest critics might expect.
Miss Seeton, still busy assembling her paraphernalia before setting off to school, murmured an acknowledgement of Martha’s remark, but said nothing more. It seemed the safest response: for—as she had found on previous occasions—should she venture to speak in defence of dear Mel and Mr. Banner—who were after all only doing the job for which they were paid—then Martha, for some reason her employer could never quite make out, would be—it was an impression, but, she was fairly certain, a correct impression—upset. In anyone less sensible than Martha (and if she herself had not been so modest as to the strength of the affection she aroused in others) Miss Seeton might have wondered whether jealousy played some part in this curious reaction: but she knew Martha to be undoubtedly sensible, a most kind, devoted friend, the nearest to family Miss Seeton now possessed: surely Martha must know she could have no reason to be jealous? And to disapprove of the reporters on one’s own behalf when, naturally, they caused little, if any, disturbance in one’s quiet, uneventful life—well, it was kindly meant, of course—but there was no need ...
“And, surely, so very tiring,” murmured Miss Seeton, whose emotions were seldom raised from that same quiet, uneventful level, so that
she could only ever attempt to imagine—Miss Seeton’s imagination being peculiarly limited—what the experience of strong emotion might be like.
“Tired, dear?” Martha eyed her sternly over the duster. “You’re sure those kids aren’t too much for you? We all know you’re a blooming marvel with them, but Miss Maynard’ll worry herself to death if she thinks you’ve been overdoing it, not that I’d be one to tell her so, but you know how some people love to bring bad news—there now!” above Miss Seeton’s hasty assurance that she was not tired in the least. “News—forget my own name, next. That reporter I was telling you about, he’s the one going to write up the telly man for the papers, that Jeremy Froste. Roy Roydon, his name is—not that I’d expect you to have heard of him, dear, with only reading your Times once in a while, and the Beacon, but it doesn’t ring any bells with us neither, so if he comes up to you and starts chatting, you make sure you don’t talk to him, won’t you? We wouldn’t,” warned Martha again, “want people to go getting the Wrong Idea ...”
Meekly, Miss Seeton promised that she would allow herself to fall into conversation on the way to school with none but persons already known to her. She had to hide a smile. Martha put her so much in mind of her dear mother, cautioning the young Emily not to accept sweets from strange men—not, of course, that a gentlewoman, of whatever age, would accept gifts of any kind from anyone not already among her acquaintance, but ...
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 15