“Me?” Miss Seeton blinked. “Why, Mel, dear, when you spoke of dinner for two, I thought that you and Mr. Banner—” She broke off, a delicate blush pinkening her cheeks. They always seemed so happy together, yet here was dear Mel, and no sign of—one would not wish to be tactless, but—
“Don’t worry, honey.” Mel patted her on the shoulder and chuckled. “Banner and I still loathe each other as much as we ever did—that’s why he’s gone scurrying off to Switzerland without me, the rat.”
Miss Seeton recognised the customary note of affection, and knew all was indeed well. Smiling, relieved, she poured tea as Mel went on:
“He says he’ll give your regards to the highest Alp he sees. Bring back happy memories, he said—isn’t that where the two of you first met?”
“Indeed it was.” Miss Seeton arranged cups beside the biscuits and picked up the tray before Mel could beat her to it. “Such an enjoyable holiday, and most interesting. I had never flown before, you see, and ...”
There was a brief pause, while Miss Seeton recalled the somewhat unusual circumstances which had led to her landing in Genoa, Italy, some hours before she’d arrived, as had originally been intended, in Geneva, Switzerland. She’d never quite understood how the mistake had come to be made, but since everyone had assured her afterwards that it had all worked out for the best ...
“Let me have that.” Mel took the tray before embarrassment sent crockery sideways to the floor. “We’ll go through to the sitting-room,” decreed Miss Forby. “And we’ll take a seat not too far from your bureau—that’s still where you keep your sketching gear, isn’t it? Because I plan to make you sing for your supper, Miss S., even if it is only dinner at the George and not a swanky afternoon tea.”
Miss Seeton, who had forgotten Mel’s invitation to dine in the distraction of memory, blinked, and stared.
Mel laughed. “Think I don’t know the way you’ve been gadding about Town escorted by eligible bachelors with Bond Street galleries, and married men from Scotland Yard? You must’ve had a whale of a time—but, Negative expenses or not, I’m afraid it’s the George for us tonight, not the Ritz—and not even the George until you’ve done me one of your Seeton Specials, Miss S., or, better still, two.” She looked urgently at her hostess from her undoubtedly beautiful eyes, their makeup so much softer, more expressive since one of Miss Seeton’s sketches had shown her there was no real need for the harsh lines she’d affected along with her accent and her abrasive personality.
“Miss S.,” said Mel, “I could do with your help. There’s been another Ram Raid—and I’m relying on you to give me a scoop before anyone else thinks of asking you. Do you think you can do it?”
chapter
~ 23 ~
MISS SEETON CONTINUED to stare. Mel, after a moment, laughed again. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. Suppose we have our tea and biscuits while I tell you all about it, and then we take it from there?”
They sat on easy chairs, with the tray on a low table to one side of them. Miss Seeton, the puzzled pucker fading from between her brows, reverted to the role with which she was most happy, and poured. “Did you have a good journey?” enquired the kindly hostess, handing Mel her cup. “London in the rush hour, I always think, can be very tiring—so many people, in such a great hurry. Do help yourself to a biscuit, unless”—the pucker returned—“that is, one would not wish to spoil your appetite for dinner, but ...”
“The invitation stands,” said Mel quickly, as Miss Seeton blushed for her forwardness in reminding her guest of her earlier remarks. “Whether or not,” went on Mel, “you come up with the goods—though I don’t see why you shouldn’t, because you’ve never let anyone down before. That sketch you drew for the Oracle the other day was right on target.”
Miss Seeton’s brow cleared. “You’ve seen dear Mr. Delphick? I enjoyed myself so much that afternoon, and of course for Mr. Szabo to join us was an unexpected pleasure.”
“I’ve seen him,” said Mel, “Delphick, I mean, though he didn’t say anything about Szabo.” She grinned. “Didn’t say anything about anything much, come to that. The poor man had lost his voice after a press conference about—er, diplomatic relations with Stentoria—and before you ask,” as Miss Seeton’s eyebrows expressed mild surprise, “no, for once it wasn’t me who kept firing awkward questions at him, it was the other reporters, honest.” She giggled. “I was so busy taking notes, I never said a word. You wouldn’t have known me—any more than the Oracle did afterwards,” she added, aside. “At first ...”
She giggled again at the memory, then smiled as Miss Seeton regarded her with courteous interest. “Don’t mind me, Miss S., I’m just rambling. Thinking about the Oracle, I guess—you know I’ve always had a soft spot for the man, though as far as I can tell the feeling’s mutual. Why else do you think he let me take a look at the latest addition to the Seeton Collection?”
The results of this inspired remark pleased Mel greatly. Miss Seeton smiled, hesitated, and then nodded, intimating her willingness to draw—since dear Mel had now explained that Mr. Delphick would have no objections—another of the cartoons on which, since they paid her an annual retainer, Scotland Yard must naturally have the first claim.
“He won’t object,” Mel assured her. “You needn’t worry I’m trying to do the dirty on him by sneaking in ahead of him—Banner, yes, any time, but the Oracle, never. The man’s my personal hotline to high places—you think I’d risk blowing that, with every other journalist on The Street out to do me down?”
Miss Seeton could see the force of this argument. Her smile was sympathetic as she nodded again, before once more frowning. “I fear,” she said slowly, “that I know almost nothing—if, indeed, anything at all—about the kingdom of Stentoria, though it has been much in the news of late, as I understand—except, of course, that I don’t. International politics ...” Miss Seeton sighed. “But then, as you know, I have very little interest in the papers—oh, I do beg your pardon, Mel dear.” Miss Seeton blushed. “I meant nothing personal, for naturally I appreciate that reporters, like everyone else, have their living to earn. Perhaps I should rather say that I have little time to read them—the papers, I mean. There is always so much to do, especially when one is a householder.”
Her gaze wandered round the sitting-room, with all its mementoes—furniture, pictures, ornaments—of dear Cousin Flora, and she smiled fondly before, with a sigh, picking up the teapot; then shook her head for her absent-mindedness, and put it down again. “Another biscuit?” she enquired, gesturing towards the plate. “After your journey from Town—which I trust was a pleasant one ...”
“The journey,” said Mel, “was fine. Right up to the last part, that is, when I was practically on your doorstep. There wasn’t time to phone ahead for Jack Crabbe to meet me—one minute I heard about the Raid, the next I was grabbing my overnight bag and rushing for the train—so I had to take Mr. Baxter’s taxi from Brettenden, and you know what that means.” Miss Seeton sighed faintly: she, in common with the rest of Plummergen, knew.
Mel grinned. “Well, it could have been worse. I guess, because the car didn’t break down, or the engine blow up, or anything of the sort you locals must’ve been expecting for years. Nor’s Mr. Baxter half as doddery as I always thought he was—nor his brakes, come to that, though I have to say it was pretty close ...” She shuddered expressively, and Miss Seeton gave a little anxious cry. Mel grimaced.
“A darn sight too close for comfort, believe me. We’d just about reached the post office, and I was looking over at the pennant on the admiral’s flagpole, when three people just appeared, right out of the blue, and charged straight into the middle of the road slap bang in front of the taxi.” Miss Seeton gasped. Mel said quickly:
“If any three characters were asking to be splatted for their pains—but by some miracle they weren’t, they managed to keep running to the other side of The Street. And”—Mel chuckled, though it sounded rather forced—
“that cranky old car, would you believe, still stayed in one piece? No headlamps exploding, no brake lights going bang with the excitement, no wheels flying off, and even the seat-belts only kind of hiccupped. It was amazing. And then all Mr. Baxter did was check he hadn’t hit anyone, and drive on down to the George without batting an eyelid, so of course Amelita Forby had to act calm, as well. Fleet Street expects every hack to do her duty—but you’d never think it to look at him, would you?”
“Appearances,” agreed Miss Seeton, as tactfully as she could, “can certainly—impressions, that is—be deceptive. In my own case ...”
“I’ll second that.” Mel supposed Miss Seeton to have meant no more than that her own impressions were often quite unlike those of everyone else, if not, indeed, unique. What Mel had meant as she seconded Miss Seeton’s innocent remark was something else entirely. The little art teacher, with her grey hair and quiet demeanour, was, after all, one of the most deceptive crime-busting forces around ...
“This Ram Raid,” said Mel, now that the conversation seemed to have reached a convenient pause. “You’ve heard all about the others, haven’t you, from the Oracle, when you drew that sketch for him? Well, this is another one, almost exactly the same as the rest—masked men, a stolen car, backwards at full speed into a shop window, help themselves to the best of the stock, and gone before anyone’s had time to dial nine-nine-nine.”
Miss Seeton clicked her tongue, and looked disapproving. Mel did not notice the look: she was watching, not Miss Seeton’s face, but her fingers, as they rested quietly on her lap. “Almost the same, I said, but there’s one thing that’s changed. The other raids have all been during the night, or early in the morning, before anyone’s in the shop to raise the alarm too soon—but now they’re getting cocky, Miss S. They don’t seem to be worried any longer about people spotting them—they think they’ve got it down to a fine art, if that’s not too horrible a pun.”
Mel paused to allow Miss Seeton to raise twinkling eyes from her lap—those as-yet-not-dancing fingers seemed to intrigue their owner quite as much as they intrigued her guest—and twinkled right back at her. “Sorry. Guess I couldn’t resist trying out my headline on you beforehand—except that the Ram Raiders haven’t actually, uh, refined their technique quite as well as they thought they had.”
Lowering her gaze again to Miss Seeton’s still-peaceful hands, Mel chuckled. “They really should’ve checked things out a little better this time—I told you they were getting cocky, and cocky means careless—because the car they stole was nowhere near such a bargain as the Stentorian ambassador’s Rolls.” She chuckled again. “Talk about appearances being deceptive! The engine was fine, nice and powerful, and the steering could turn the thing on a sixpence, and there was a whole tank of petrol—but when they tried to load up with the loot, they found it was about an inch too small for a couple of the pictures, so when they couldn’t close the lid of the boot on them, they had to dump them back on the pavement. Seems they didn’t have time,” as her hostess clicked her tongue for such vandalism, “to start cutting the canvases out of the frames.”
Miss Seeton’s wince was almost audible—and her fingers twitched on her lap. Mel, allowing herself to notice the twitching only from a distance, went on: “But while they were busy messing about trying to make the pictures go in the boot, that gave the owner of the shop time to dial nine-nine-nine—and to get a look at them. This was about half-past four, you see, so it wasn’t properly dark. And as far as I know,” said Mel, watching Miss Seeton’s digital dance as it became ever more pronounced, “this man’s still at the Yard being interviewed, with a crowd of the Street’s second-best hacks hanging around, waiting for someone official to tell them what’s been going on. Fleet Street’s very best,” she continued, with a wink and another smile, “is right here with you, Miss S. Amelita Forby’s never been one for queues and crowds and the same old story as everyone else—not when there’s you and your sketchbook to help her on her way to another scoop, she hasn’t! After all, with Banner out of the country, someone’s got to show the rest of them how it should be done.”
Miss Seeton smiled at her young friend’s exuberant self-confidence, but in an absent-minded way. Her fingers were noticeably restless now, her eyes pondering invisible visions as the pucker returned between her brows. Mel held her breath as the smile faded without the one who had smiled uttering a word ...
And Miss Seeton’s eyes drifted at last to the bureau in the corner—the bureau which held her sketching gear.
Mel sighed with quiet relief. “I’ll slip out to the kitchen to top up the pot,” she volunteered, as Miss Seeton began to look mildly embarrassed. Mel knew that expression of old. Nobody could ever understand why Miss Seeton should be so uncomfortable about her cartoons, but uncomfortable she undoubtedly was. Seemed to think they weren’t quite proper—was always surprised Scotland Yard should pay good money for them—refused to let Mel show them to the art editor of the Daily Negative, who would be only too glad to publish them ...
“The teapot? Oh, dear.” Miss Seeton blushed, brought back to her hostessly duty by her guest’s remark. “I should really have remembered—I’m so sorry ...”
“Not to worry, honey.” Mel, jumping from her seat to take the teapot from the table, waved her away. “If I don’t know where things are in the kitchen by now—unless you’ve been spring cleaning, of course, like Admiral Leighton with his pennant drying high on the line.”
Miss Seeton blinked, then ventured a chuckle, her embarrassment forgotten. “Spring cleaning, in October?” Mel’s idea of a joke, no doubt—and yet, perhaps ...
She coughed. “If you will forgive me, Mel dear, I think it most unlikely that the admiral can have been so—so unorthodox in his habits, even though the Royal Navy is noted for tidiness and efficiency. He might, I suppose, have felt a sudden wish ... but I rather think,” with another cough, “that the pennant is in commemoration—or rather,” in the interests of accuracy, “the flags this morning, a splendid display—a celebration of Trafalgar Day, or so dear Lady Colveden led me to understand when I spoke to her on the telephone earlier this evening. The Christmas pantomime, you know—and Sir George, naturally, has been invited. She asked if I would be prepared to help with the scenery, since I fear I have few other talents, and certainly none for acting—or singing,” with a sigh, “or dancing. Miss Maynard, I believe, is to arrange these matters, although naturally, I would be more than willing to do my best, if nobody more suitable could be found, but ...”
Miss Seeton shook her head, then brightened. “Prompting, of course, once she knew that I had acted in that capacity in one or two of Mrs. Benn’s little productions—following the script, and judging exactly when to speak, which can be difficult when one is unsure whether the actor has forgotten the lines or is merely pausing for emphasis. But at least one may refer to the written word, which is a great help. So many people,” said Miss Seeton earnestly, “have, I fear, a tendency to—to ramble, in their everyday speech, which can make it rather difficult to know exactly what they mean.”
Mel, hovering by the door, could say nothing, though the teapot lid rattled in its china neck as she quivered. Miss Seeton sighed again. “And certainly not sewing. The costumes can be so elaborate—but there is, fortunately, no need, with dear Martha such an expert, and Miss Armitage, of course—though I rather believe him to have brought them with him, rather than having asked Martha or Miss Armitage to make them once he had come to live in Plummergen.”
Mel blinked; the teapot rattled again. Oblivious as she rose to her feet, Miss Seeton rambled on: “Mementoes of his old ship, one imagines. A splendid display, indeed, though I had always supposed that one brought them down—the Girl Guides, you know—except that I believe the correct term is strike—like tents. Unless the gin pennant doesn’t count. At sunset—or gongs, which could be most confusing if one was not careful, though he must be accustomed to them, I imagine, from the war. Sir George, that is, not the admiral. One
could hardly use them at sea without considerable difficulty, and the idea that the navy would be unable to find an easier way ... Tents, of course. Except that the term is used by members of Her Majesty’s Forces to describe medals, is it not? Gongs, I mean, which of course they have, being all most gallant and courageous gentlemen—Sir George, and the admiral, and Colonel Windup, though I confess ...”
Miss Seeton hesitated. The colonel was a decidedly private individual, and from what Martha had said of his habits would hardly care to have one gossip about him, even in so—surely—innocuous a manner. She blushed. “Their individual meaning, of course, was a mystery to me—the flags of the admiral’s signal, I mean—but Sir George, no doubt, with his army background, must be able to understand them. Dear Nigel, you know, is rather naughty, and teases his father about it. He says that all Sir George needs to understand is the gin pennant, when there is a party as there is this evening ...”
She blushed again. Would dear Mel take this careless remark as another reminder of that kind invitation to dinner? In confusion, Miss Seeton stared about her—and found that her guest, nodding and smiling, was slipping into the hall; while she herself had somehow arrived—she did not recall crossing the floor, but she must have done—had arrived at her bureau, and was on the point of opening it. Mel could have told Miss Seeton that her verbal ramblings were no more than precursors of the equally vague, trance-like state in which she would most happily Draw in her own special way ...
Miss Seeton did not know this—had never known it. She only knew that the tingle in her fingers was uncomfortable now—and that the sooner she worked her mental turmoil out on paper, the more comfortable her fingers would be.
chapter
~ 24 ~
AS THE TAIL-LIGHTS of aged Mr. Baxter’s almost-as-aged car moved off steadily down The Street, Admiral Leighton let out a thankful sigh that there could be no blood (he believed he might assume) on the taxi’s unbattered (he further reasoned) front bumper. He then squared his shoulders, stiffened his spine, and brandished his fist in the direction of the post office, against the subdued out-of-hours lights of which were silhouetted the nervous figures of Rodney Roydon, Bethan Broomfield, and television supremo Jeremy Froste.
Miss Seeton Undercover (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 17) Page 19