“And more than fortunate,” he told her, “that you’d set us on the right track with your drawings—the powder-puff, in particular, encouraging us to look at those who had provided the portable powder-room.” Once more Miss Seeton’s fingers danced on the bedclothes. The chief superintendent kept a fascinated eye upon them as he continued:
“I really must apologise again, Miss Seeton, for having failed to understand soon enough what you were telling us—me, that is. The catering arrangements, the KarriKlozzet connection—they were all there, but we were, I fear, much too slow in a proper interpretation of them, with the result that we had to rely on everyday police work when these were far from everyday crimes. The gamble paid off, but it was a crazy risk to have taken ...”
That twitch again. He couldn’t bear it. “Miss Seeton, is there something you feel you should be telling me—us? The police, I mean—ah, there is. I thought so,” as there came another convulsive leap. “I see that you have been the recipient of several get-well cards: would it disturb you to rough out a few ideas on the back of that monster there, for instance?”
Miss Seeton, across whose face a look of relief for her friend’s understanding had flashed at his words, now looked regretful. She murmured of dear Mr. Potter, or rather Amelia and her mother, who had so kindly brought ...
“The wrapping from my bunch of flowers, then.” Without waiting for her to demur, Delphick seized his bouquet and deftly unrolled the patterned paper, disclosing blank whiteness on the other side. “My ballpoint pen,” he said, “and a firm surface, that’s what you need—as these flowers,” with a quick gesture pulling the over-the-bed table towards her, and collecting the floral assortment with one hand as with the other he dug his pen from his pocket, “as these flowers need water. I’ll just have a word with Major Howett ...”
“I apologise for troubling you, Mrs. Potter.” Delphick stood on the doorstep of the police house with a roll of paper in his hand. “But if I might have a quick word with your husband, I’d be most grateful.”
“Why, he’s not here.” Mabel Potter seemed astonished that anyone should think her spouse neglectful of his duty. “Bin gone these twenty minutes or more, he has, doing his rounds. Course, there’s the radio”—she saw the involuntary shake of his head, and went on quickly—“but if it might be something I could help with ...”
Delphick hesitated. While he had been talking to Miss Seeton, Bob had kicked his heels downstairs, too much in awe of the major to grumble at being denied the bedside of his adopted Aunt Em. It was Miss Seeton herself who had broken the impasse. She’d been dressed and waiting by the time Delphick had returned to see what manner of sketch it had been to set her fingers dancing; and Major Howett, with stern warnings about overdoin’ it, had consented to her patient’s discharge on condition that she went home by car rather than on foot, as she’d wanted. A delighted Bob had done the honours in the Yard’s unmarked car, leaving Delphick to puzzle alone over the wrapping-paper sketch his ballpoint pen had produced ...
“It’s this drawing of Miss Seeton’s,” said Delphick, as Mabel Potter closed the door and led him into the office, realising that he came on police business. “Even with hindsight, I can’t for once quite make out what she’s trying to express, and I wondered ...”
Together, he and Mabel Potter gazed at the image of a hospital bed, neatly made. The corners of its sheets were mitred, its counterpane was crisp and smooth—apart from that part beneath the long-armed table, on which stood a large and ornate vase of flowers, and a bowl of what had at first appeared to be mixed fruit, but which closer inspection showed was an assortment of nuts. Directly under the table, the folds of the counterpane were scooped back by a man’s hand: a man who, in police uniform except for the helmet, crouched under the bed and peered out, his face wild and working—peered out from beneath, not a helmet, but an enormous, upturned china chamber-pot ...
And the man had the face of Police Constable Potter.
Delphick looked at Mabel. Mabel looked at the drawing. For some while, she did not speak.
Neither did Delphick. Then, as Mrs. Potter seemed to be struggling with herself, he sighed. “It’s my fault, I dare say.” He took the sketch and rolled it up again. “Preferring all the loose ends to be tied up, I mean—one can’t, every time, have everything. I believe that, while I was talking to her, I said something about someone-or-other being, well, crazy ... It was she who spoke of your family’s kindness in sending her a card—and the vase of flowers is obvious, of course, though I confess I didn’t notice any nuts, or even fruit, while I was there. We must, I think, assume it is the shock of her recent experience which has—has somewhat distorted her usual good sense. I do hope you aren’t too offended ...”
But Mabel wasn’t in the least offended. Her struggle had been not to erupt into giggles rather than not to explode in anger; and now the struggle was lost. She laughed out loud. “Bless you—sir,” she added, “Potter’s used to it—and so’m I, being married this long. What else could we expect? And young Amelia, now she’s started school.” She saw Delphick stare, and giggled still more.
“He,” said Mabel, indicating ballpoint Potter under the bed, “looks barmy, don’t he? Potty, you might say—and that’s what she’s drawn, see? Grew up with ’em making jokes like that at school, he did. Water off a duck’s back.” She twinkled at the chief superintendent. “Why,” she quizzed him, “does a madman hide under the bed?”
Delphick struck himself lightly on the forehead as she waited, grinning, for his reply. “Of course! Because he thinks he’s a little ... oh, dear, to be caught out by that old chestnut. I haven’t heard it in years—but what, in a case like this, could be a more apposite conclusion?” He joined Mabel in her laughter. “Why, she’s even drawn the blessed chestnuts for us, to tell us it’s a joke ...”
Delphick and Bob—leaving Brinton to charge the Kelshalls and begin the laborious task of getting the paperwork in order—returned to London, confident that they had tied up every loose end.
But they weren’t, for once, altogether right.
It was some days later that—unknown to anyone directly concerned with the case—the true meaning of Miss Seeton’s final sketch was made plain: although those who made it so, being no great friends to Miss Seeton, would have been most annoyed had they realised the truth.
“Too clever of Eric, I think.” Mrs. Blaine beamed, all sulks and tantrums forgotten. “No, Eric, don’t blush—you shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel. I’m willing to admit,” said Mrs. Blaine bravely, looking about the post office to make sure her magnanimity didn’t go unnoticed, “that I was wrong. Though you must admit that to use my best sieves and buckets to wash the clay—”
“Body,” corrected Miss Nuttel, in knowledgeable tones.
Mrs. Blaine tittered. “I’m sorry, Eric. Body. That’s the technical name for it,” she explained, whether or not anyone wished to know. “To rinse all the stones out of the body: clay from deep in our garden, of course, because Eric keeps the topsoil in such splendid condition—”
“Heart,” came the next correction from Miss Nuttel. Mrs. Blaine scowled, then quickly recovered herself.
“Keeps the soil so splendidly,” she amended, “that she had to dig positively yards down before she reached the subsoil. And then all the straining, and rinsing—”
“Slurry,” said Miss Nuttel.
“And drying in great plaster-of-Paris beds,” said Mrs. Blaine, ignoring her. “And then having to cut it with wire over and over and over again to squeeze all the air out—”
“Wedging.”
Bunny shot Eric a very nasty look. “And then to have our own—that is, a home-made potter’s wheel, and a kiln—and Eric taught herself all about electricity from the book, which I think too clever for words ...”
Somebody sniggered, remembering how all the lights had gone out in Lilikot, and the Nutty outcry there had been.
“Anyway,” said Mrs. Blaine, proudly, “to think we might
never need to buy a plate or a pot or a vase ever again!”
And, on this note of triumph, the Nuts departed.
There was a pause. The sniggerer sniggered again, more loudly. “Make your own plates—they’re mad,” she concluded. “Nutty as fruitcakes, they really are!”
But another conclusion—had the speaker but known it—was even more apposite: providing, as it did, the punchline to Delphick’s—to Miss Seeton’s—last little joke.
“Potty,” she said: and nobody disagreed.
Note from the Publisher
While he was alive, series creator Heron Carvic had tremendous fun imagining Emily Seeton and the supporting cast of characters.
In an enjoyable 1977 essay Carvic recalled how, after having first used her in a short story, “Miss Seeton upped and demanded a book”—and that if “she wanted to satirize detective novels in general and elderly lady detectives in particular, he would let her have her head ...”
You can now read Heron Carvic’s essay about the genesis of Miss Seeton, in full, as well as receive updates on further releases in the series, by signing up at http://eepurl.com/b2GCqr
Preview
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Sold to Miss Seeton ...
“If anything,” said Lady Colveden, changing gear to slow the Hillman round a corner, “I’d say it’s raining harder than ever, wouldn’t you? Oh, dear, I do hope George will be sensible. I’d rather not spend the next week hearing him sneeze his head off all over the house. Having him and Nigel grumbling everywhere is quite bad enough, and then of course there’s always the worry it might turn to pneumonia.”
Miss Seeton offered the reassurance that Sir George—with dear Nigel to assist, perhaps, in the trickier spots, whatever they might be, for even after seven years in the country she must confess she had very little knowledge of farming—that Sir George was unlikely to come to much harm, no matter how muddy the ditch or how deep the water. She thought. If Lady Colveden didn’t mind her saying so.
Meg Colveden smiled. “Oh, if it was just the farm I wouldn’t worry, because you’re right, Nigel and the others are sure to stop him doing anything silly, like working for hours with leaky boots knee-deep in freezing water. But he’s not on the farm.”
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The Fox Among the Chickens ...
The squawking from the hen-houses continued unabated. Miss Seeton arrived at the runs. She beat the wire door with her umbrella.
“Stop that,” she called. “Stop that at once, do you hear me?”
“Sure, lady. I hear you.”
She gasped. A shadow moved forward, reached through the wire and unhooked the door. With the moon behind him Miss Seeton could see little but a dark shape muffled in a coat, a hat pulled low. But the moon shone on the barrel of the pistol he held.
“Now, just take it nice and easy, lady. Back to the house and no noise, see.”
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About the Miss Seeton series
Retired art teacher Miss Seeton steps in where Scotland Yard stumbles. Armed with only her sketch pad and umbrella, she is every inch an eccentric English spinster and at every turn the most lovable and unlikely master of detection.
Reviews of the Miss Seeton series:
“Miss Seeton gets into wild drama with fine touches of farce ... This is a lovely mixture of the funny and the exciting.”
San Francisco Chronicle
“A most beguiling protagonist!”
New York Times
“This is not so much black comedy as black-currant comedy ... You can’t stop reading. Or laughing.”
The Sun
“She’s a joy!”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Not since Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple has there been a more lovable female dabbler in crime and suspense.”
Amarillo News
“Depth of description and lively characters bring this English village to life.”
Publishers Weekly
Further titles in the series:
Picture Miss Seeton
A night at the opera strikes a chord of danger when Miss Seeton witnesses a murder ... and paints a portrait of the killer.
Miss Seeton Draws the Line
Miss Seeton is enlisted by Scotland Yard when her paintings of a little girl turn the young subject into a model for murder.
Witch Miss Seeton
Double, double, toil and trouble sweep through the village when Miss Seeton goes undercover ... to investigate a local witches’ coven!
Miss Seeton Sings
Miss Seeton boards the wrong plane and lands amidst a gang of European counterfeiters. One false note, and her new destination is deadly indeed.
Odds on Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton in diamonds and furs at the roulette table? It’s all a clever disguise for the high-rolling spinster ... but the game of money and murder is all too real.
Miss Seeton, By Appointment
Miss Seeton is off to Buckingham Palace on a secret mission—but to foil a jewel heist, she must risk losing the Queen’s head ... and her own neck!
Advantage, Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton’s summer outing to a tennis match serves up more than expected when Britain’s up-and-coming female tennis star is hounded by mysterious death threats.
Miss Seeton at the Helm
Miss Seeton takes a whirlwind cruise to the Mediterranean—bound for disaster. A murder on board leads the seafaring sleuth into some very stormy waters.
Miss Seeton Cracks the Case
It’s highway robbery for the innocent passengers of a motor coach tour. When Miss Seeton sketches the roadside bandits, she becomes a moving target herself.
Miss Seeton Paints the Town
The Best Kept Village Competition inspires Miss Seeton’s most unusual artwork—a burning cottage—and clears the smoke of suspicion in a series of local fires.
Hands Up, Miss Seeton
The gentle Miss Seeton? A thief? A preposterous notion—until she’s accused of helping a pickpocket ... and stumbles into a nest of crime.
Miss Seeton by Moonlight
Scotland Yard borrows one of Miss Seeton’s paintings to bait an art thief ... when suddenly a second thief strikes.
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle
It takes all of Miss Seeton’s best instincts—maternal and otherwise—to solve a crime that’s hardly child’s play.
Miss Seeton Goes to Bat
Miss Seeton’s in on the action when a cricket game leads to mayhem in the village of Plummergen ... and gives her a shot at smashing Britain’s most baffling burglary ring.
Miss Seeton Plants Suspicion
Miss Seeton was tending her garden when a local youth was arrested for murder. Now she has to find out who’s really at the root of the crime.
Starring Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton’s playing a backstage role in the village’s annual Christmas pageant. But the real drama is behind the scenes ... when the next act turns out to be murder!
Miss Seeton Undercover
The village is abuzz, as a TV crew searches for a rare apple, the Plummergen Peculier—while police hunt a murderous thief ... and with Miss Seeton at the centre of it all.
Miss Seeton Rules
Royalty comes to Plummergen, and the villagers are plotting a grand impression. But when Princess Georgina goes missing, Miss Seeton herself has questions to answer.
Sold to Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton accidentally buys a mysterious antique box at auction ... and finds herself crossing paths with some very dangerous characters!
Sweet Miss Seeton
Miss Seeton is stalked by a confectionary sculptor, just as a spate of suspicious deaths among the village’s elderly residents calls for her attention.
Bonjour, Miss Seeton
After a trip to explore the French countryside, a case of murder awaits Miss Seeton back in the village ... and a shocking revela
tion.
Miss Seeton’s Finest Hour (A Prequel)
War-time England, and a young Miss Emily Seeton’s suspicious sketches call her loyalty into question—until she is recruited to uncover a case of sabotage.
Miss Seeton Quilts the Village
Miss Seeton lends her talents to the village scheme to create a giant quilted tapestry. But her intuitive sketches reveal a startlingly different perspective, involving murder.
About Heron Carvic and Hamilton Crane
The Miss Seeton series was created by Heron Carvic; and continued after his death first by Peter Martin writing as Hampton Charles, and later by Sarah J. Mason under the pseudonym Hamilton Crane.
Heron Carvic was an actor and writer, most recognisable today for his voice portrayal of the character Gandalf in the first BBC Radio broadcast version of The Hobbit, and appearances in several television productions, including early series of The Avengers and Dr Who.
Born Geoffrey Richard William Harris in 1913, he held several early jobs including as an interior designer and florist, before developing a successful dramatic career and his public persona of Heron Carvic. He only started writing the Miss Seeton novels in the 1960s, after using her in a short story.
Heron Carvic died in a car accident in Kent in 1980.
Hamilton Crane is the pseudonym used by Sarah J. Mason when writing 13 sequels and one prequel to the Miss Seeton series. She has also written detective fiction under her own name, but should not be confused with the Sarah Mason (no middle initial) who writes a rather different kind of book.
After half a century in Hertfordshire (if we ignore four years in Scotland and one in New Zealand), Sarah J. Mason now lives in Somerset—within easy reach of the beautiful city of Wells, and just far enough from Glastonbury to avoid the annual traffic jams.
Miss Seeton Rules (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 18) Page 26