Nigel, grinning, shook his head. His imagination boggled at the very idea of Colonel Windup acting as anyone’s second-in-command, and he explained that Major-General Sir George, leader of the Night Watch Men, was most ably supported, when necessary, by Martin Jessyp. Since Colonel Windup’s preference for privacy was so strong, that preference, as far as possible, was respected.
All of which made Colonel Windup an object of interest to Bethan Broomfield. Her curiosity was considerably piqued by anyone able to maintain such staunch seclusion in a place as friendly as Plummergen ...
So that when, driving Jeremy back from the next day’s excursion with the inevitable Rodney Roydon close behind, Bethan saw in her headlights the colonel striding north—in the opposite direction from the George and Dragon—up The Street, she slowed the car, pulled in to the side, and stayed there with the engine idling, on watch.
Jeremy Froste’s journalistic shadow did the same, though he slumped as low as he could in the driver’s seat, trying to make use of the mirrors in case, twilight or not, Admiral Leighton glanced across and spotted him. Rodney’s nerves were still shaky after the morning’s events, about which he had held forth to his idol at some length.
His idol now addressed Bethan without troubling to open his eyes. “Home already? I could do with a drink.” He stretched, and blinked. His eyes opened wide as he saw where she had parked. “Oh. Forgotten something? If they shut at six, you’d better look sharp about it.”
Through the windows of the post office, Emmy Putts and Mrs. Stillman could be observed, cashing up at the end of the day. Bethan said:
“No, I don’t want anything—I’d just like to know where the colonel’s going. Nigel told me he spends all his time in the pub, when they’re open, and in the house writing letters when they’re shut, so—”
“So if,” scoffed Jeremy, “you avert your gaze from the approaching figure in front of you to the letter-box in the wall at your side, you may possibly—I repeat, possibly—infer the purpose of the colonel’s oh-so-remarkable excursion; and, having drawn the inference, you may also infer that there is no reason to postpone our journey drink-wards.”
Bethan turned pink. “He isn’t carrying any letters—at least, I don’t think so. And he can’t be buying stamps, because the post office part of the shop shuts at five ...”
“Nigel told you that, too, did he?” Jeremy’s tone was even more scornful, since her younger eyes had noticed what his had not, and he didn’t want to let her feel uppity. “Quite a fund of information, our Nigel.”
“Well—yes.” Miss Broomfield blushed again. “I was only thinking ... perhaps for another programme, even if the admiral wouldn’t let us film his bees, I mean, because he—Nigel—told me about the gin pennant, as well, and what it looks like. All those flags he flew for Trafalgar Day—and I couldn’t help noticing there’s a different one now, so I just thought—if he’s throwing a party ...”
Even as she spoke, Colonel Windup stepped sideways off the pavement and, without stopping to check for traffic—fortunately, there was none—marched diagonally across The Street, still heading north. Bethan said:
“After all, we do tell people we want to film anything of interest, don’t we? I don’t just mean what Rodney said about Trafalgar Day—but this gin pennant, if that’s what it is, which does seem likely from what Nigel said—”
Jeremy snorted, then sat up straight as the colonel’s northerly march continued at a slower pace and he came to a halt outside the open gate of Ararat Cottage. “You could be right,” said Jeremy Froste, watching Colonel Windup tramp up Admiral Leighton’s front path and in through the lighted rectangle of his open door. “You could be right—a gin pennant party for Trafalgar Day sounds just the sort of quaint tradition a television show like ours could use, some time or other. Make a note of it, Bethan—and well done. Er—didn’t Nigel tell you it’s as good as saying everyone welcome, or the more, the merrier, when you see it?”
“I—well, yes, I think so—but ...”
“But nothing. And never mind Roy back there—he’s out of this particular adventure, but that admiral doesn’t scare Yours Truly. Switch off the engine and grab your notebook. You and I are going,” said Jeremy Froste, “to a party!”
chapter
~ 22 ~
MISS NUTTEL AND Mrs. Blaine, having found (just in case) a large torch, had probably the best view of the contretemps which eventually ensued. Bethan, for once standing up for herself, insisted on driving down to the George before returning to Ararat Cottage on foot. By the time she and Jeremy—neither of them country-folk, and missing, in the dusk, streetlamps far more than did the natives—were back, with Roy Roydon lurking warily in the rear, two more ex-officers had accepted the admiral’s unspoken invitation, and the Trafalgar Day party was almost full steam ahead.
“Any other time, I’d have hoisted Colours at nine,” the Buzzard was explaining as he poured drinks of triple measure into every glass within reach. “Navy regulations, y’know, once the equinox is past—but Trafalgar Day, that’s quite another matter. As soon as it was light, I—ah,” as foot-steps could be heard in the hall, “here comes the Padre, God bless him. Last, but not—good God!”
“Good evening,” said Jeremy Froste. Beside him, Bethan giggled nervously at the expression on Admiral Leighton’s face, and the angry twitch of his beard. Major Howett and Major-General Sir George stared, and exclaimed; Colonel Windup merely stared, his empty glass in his outstretched hand as he waited for his second refill.
“Evening,” came the admiral’s automatic response, and he nodded to Bethan—was not the Navy’s traditional Saturday-night toast Sweethearts and wives?—before coming to his senses. In his turn he stared, then blinked, and set down the bottle of whisky with a thump which quite dismayed the gallant colonel, who emitted a startled groan.
“Evening,” said the Buzzard again, gruffly. “Don’t believe I heard you ring the bell—or knock, come to that. You’ll excuse me if I ask what the devil you’re doing in my house—though I hardly think I need to. Trespassing, I’d say. Wouldn’t you, Colveden?”
He turned to Justice of the Peace Sir George, who rubbed his chin as he also blinked at the intruders. The law of trespass was one of the trickier statutes on the book, trespass itself being a tort (for which a civil action on the part of the person having suffered the trespass was necessary) rather than a crime directly punishable by the state. Unless identifiable damage should be done, or a theft or other crime committed, during the trespass, Trespassers will be Prosecuted, as land owners knew to their occasional cost, was no more than legal bluff.
“Trespass—yes. Er—ask ’em to leave, if you don’t want ’em here,” came the magistrate’s advice at last.
“Want them here? No, I don’t. I never have!” The admiral squared his shoulders, then shot a quick look at Bethan. “No offence, my dear—but I thought I’d already made it pretty plain I’m having nothing to do with your television nonsense. Barging into a chap’s house without an invitation—no, no, it won’t do, I’m afraid. This is a private party, and—”
“No invitation?” broke in Jeremy Froste, seizing Bethan by the upper arm as she seemed about to blush her apologies and make her way back down the hall. “But what about the gin pennant? Open house, we understood it to mean, and—”
“For officers only,” interjected the admiral, but Jeremy was too busy enthusing to pay any attention.
“—and exactly the sort of thing—traditional, picturesque—we could use in our programme, which is why we’ve dropped in to see what it’s all about. Work up the Nelson connection, Trafalgar and so on—it’s quaint, it’s got character, we could make a real period piece out of it with the right actors—we might even be able to fit you in as an extra, looking the way you do. Of course,” hurriedly, above the admiral’s splutter, above Sir George’s muted rumble of wrath, “you’d have to stage the whole occasion again later for the cameras—but we’d pay you for your time and trouble, no que
stion, and the drinks would be on us. How about if we—?”
“Quaint?” cried the admiral, his beard bristling. “Period piece? What with that chap this morning, and now—actors? Stage the whole thing again for your blasted cameras? I’ve never heard such an outrageous suggestion in my life!”
“Damned cheek,” chimed in Sir George, while the Howitzer nodded beside him, her eyes grim below her iron-grey curls, her forehead resolute as she faced the intruders. The colonel helped himself, unobserved, to whisky, and retreated to a corner to watch the coming battle in comfort.
Battle duly came. “I’ll thank you to leave,” said the admiral, regaining himself with a visible effort. “Leave this minute, if you’d be so good. And I don’t want to see you here again, thank you—begging your pardon, my dear,” automatically to Bethan. “But an Englishman’s home is his castle, and on Trafalgar Day, of all days ...”
Words failed him. Unfortunately, they did not fail Jeremy Froste, whose eyes darted about the sitting-room—presumably for further evidence of the quaint, the traditional, and the picturesque—as he said, “Aren’t you being a little hasty about this, Admiral Leighton? I’m sure if you only thought things over calmly, you’d see—”
“Hasty?” Admiral Leighton took two furious steps in the direction of the television producer: who took three swift steps sideways, moving closer to Bethan Broomfield than he’d ever been in his life. “Young man,” said the admiral, dangerously quiet, “believe me, I’m not being hasty. Neither, more’s the pity, are you. I’ve asked you to leave my house, and you haven’t. I give you fair warning—if you and your young lady don’t make haste to clear the decks, I’ll have to throw you out—so are you going, or do you mean to stand there gaping like a lunatic making idiotic speeches until I clap you both in irons?”
Before Sir George could warn his friend that the threat of violence, if carried out, rendered the sufferer of the trespass more guilty, in the eyes of the law, than the trespasser, Bethan seized her hero by the sleeve, and tugged.
“I’m so sorry, Admiral Leighton,” she said quickly. “We are sorry,” she amended, as Jeremy stared at this unexpected turning of the meek researcher worm. “We didn’t really mean to upset you—it’s just that—well, I suppose we just didn’t understand properly, so we’ll go away now and not bother you again.” She tugged again at Jeremy’s sleeve as she began, blushing and unhappy, to retreat.
The admiral looked almost as unhappy as she: officers of the Royal Navy are rightly renowned for their gallantry towards the fair sex; but, while he might have been willing to stretch a point on Bethan’s behalf, Jeremy Froste—with his floral cravat, his flared trousers (entirely different in concept and style from a naval rating’s bell-bottoms), and, worst of all, his corduroy jacket—was more than several points too far for Rear Admiral Leighton.
“See you on your way,” he muttered, as Bethan continued to move slowly backwards, her eyes as restless under his scrutiny as ever Jeremy’s could be. Major Howett and Major-General Sir George looked on in silence. Colonel Windup wandered out of his corner to fill his own glass.
The explosion occurred just as everyone was starting to think the incident safely over. Rodney Roydon, having lurked for a while on the far side of The Street, had at last ventured across it to hover, with bated breath, at the very gate of Ararat Cottage, peering up the path towards the open door through which the television team had disappeared.
He was concentrating so hard on the likely response of the admiral to his unexpected visitors that he did not hear, until they were close behind him, the footsteps of an impending vicar. The Reverend Arthur Treeves, finding his way blocked by Rodney’s rear end, cleared his throat; and Rodney—whose conscience at the best of times was tender—jumped several inches into the air.
“Dear, dear—I do most sincerely beg your pardon,” said the Reverend Arthur, before the reporter’s teeth had stopped chattering. “Startling a fellow guest—though we have not, I believe, been introduced—my, er, name is Treeves.” He was never at his best with strangers: Molly was always the one to handle these awkwardnesses—but Molly Treeves (whose wartime service had been on the land rather than with His Majesty’s Forces) was, to her brother’s regret, more than a quarter of a mile away. He drew a deep breath: the situation demanded more than the normal courtesies: he must explain himself further. “I was in the Home Guard, you know, though I have also played my part as an air raid warden.” Rodney blinked. The Reverend Arthur smiled a nervous smile. “But you will, I trust, not take it amiss if I say”—looking closely at Mr. Roydon for the first time—“that your experience must surely have been in far happier times, times of peace. Peace on earth,” enthused the Reverend Arthur, forgetting his original drift. “Goodwill to all men—friends, so very important ...”
While Rodney gaped, the vicar recollected himself. “Er—talking of friends, have you know him long? You will not mind if I accompany you up the path? Crowds, you see,” putting the stranger at his ease. Molly Treeves would know that her brother was seeking protection rather than offering it, although why the thought of meeting three persons, long known to him, in the house of a fourth should make him nervous, she could never hope to understand.
“Er,” said Rodney, uneasily echoing the vicar’s words, unable to find any of his own. “Well. I ...”
But the Reverend Arthur was sturdy of build as well as (occasionally) firm of purpose. It was his plain duty, having startled this fellow guest, to make amends by accompanying him to the Admiral’s door. Accordingly he bowed, took the reporter by the arm, and steered him through the gate of Ararat Cottage in the direction of the front steps ...
On the topmost of which now appeared the rear-to-sideways views of Bethan Broomfield and Jeremy Froste ...
Followed, as the pair presented a more frontal aspect as they made their way together down the steps, by the Admiral.
“Good God!” The roar could be heard halfway down The Street. Inhabitants of nearby houses dropped whatever they were doing and hurried out to their front gardens, peering through the gloom to find out what was going on.
“You again! Hell’s bells, I thought I’d told you to—sorry, Padre.” In his rage, the Buzzard had failed to notice the vicar until now. “Didn’t realise this ... this chap was with you.” He gritted his teeth, and remembered that England expected every man to do his duty. “Better come on in, the pair of you, and—and join the party. Any friend of yours, Padre ...”
He was unable to continue: he felt as demoralised as any of Her Majesty’s officers has a right to feel—and puzzled, as well. Why hadn’t the miserable landlubber said this morning that he’d be coming to the party later on? There might just have been some excuse for his nonsensical questions—
“A friend? Of mine?” The vicar blinked. “One’s fellow man, of course, but ...” Shaking his head, he dropped the stranger’s arm and took a step backwards in order to gaze from Rodney to the Admiral, then back again. “I thought—that is, there appears to have been some ... I understood him to say ... I may, of course, have been mistaken, but—I thought he was a friend of yours, Admiral.”
Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine, discussing the subsequent chase later with their less conveniently situated (and torchless) cronies, agreed that it was remarkable how much faster the reporter had run down the path in the evening than he had in the morning. They would have expected him to be tired after the day’s outing (about which the entire village had managed to inform itself the previous afternoon) with Jeremy Froste and Bethan Broomfield, but he’d put on an amazing turn of speed, and the television people hadn’t been much slower ...
Admiral Leighton, crying aloud for a cutlass to repel boarders, for a cannon to blast them from the face of the earth—this time, he didn’t even try to beg the vicar’s pardon—pursued the intrusive trio to his very gate, and only dropped his reluctant anchor there with Sir George’s warning shout from the doorstep. He contented himself then with slamming the gate behind the fugitive guests
, and shaking his fist as they hurried towards the post office ...
To a chorus of further warning shouts and cries from all who recognised the dull amber headlights and wheezing roar of the aged, smoke-exhausted motor chugging its southerly way down The Street—who knew the likely condition of its brakes: which screamed in an agony of asbestos and steel and panic pressure as old Mr. Baxter stamped, just in time, on the pedal, and the taxi squealed to a halt.
The passenger window was wound down. “You certainly,” said a well-known voice of the female gender, in clearly audible tones, “see life in this place, don’t you? Nobody hurt? Okay, then—let’s get on to the George and Dragon!” Amelita Forby was back in town.
“I’d love a cup, if you’re offering,” Mel told Miss Seeton, five minutes later. The young reporter had popped her head around the George’s front door and caught the eye of Doris, head waitress-cum-receptionist, to let her know she’d arrived safely on the train she’d hoped to catch when she rang from Town to make the booking. Would Doris take it as read she’d check in properly in about an hour, and book a table for half-past seven? Doris was a doll, and Mel was really grateful!
“Told her I’d see her later,” Miss Forby now explained, “at dinner—for two, with luck. Have you eaten yet?”
Miss Seeton, taking biscuits from a tin while she waited for the kettle to boil, said that she had not, but there was plenty to choose from in the larder. She supposed dear Mel must be hungry after her journey from London and the lengthy—she sighed, but there was really no other word for it—the lengthy wait for Mr. Baxter’s car, since this was one of the days the bus didn’t run. Would Mel care for some of Martha’s cake as well? Or—
“Or nothing, Miss S., thanks. Nothing for me apart from the tea—nor for you, if you can hold out another hour or so, because I’d like you to join me at the George for a bite to eat and a glass or two of something.”
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 18