Miss Seeton at the Helm (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 8) Read online

  Miss Seeton at the Helm

  A Miss Seeton Mystery

  Hampton Charles

  Series creator Heron Carvic

  FARRAGO

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Note from the Publisher

  Preview

  Also Available

  About the Miss Seeton series

  About Heron Carvic and Hampton Charles

  Copyright

  chapter

  1

  MISS EMILY SEETON was halfway up the splendid central staircase at the Royal Academy of Arts in Piccadilly early in the afternoon of a fine July day in 1972 when it was embarrassingly drawn to her attention that she had quite forgotten to deposit her umbrella at the cloakroom. This was understandable, since all manner of thoughts loosely connected with chess had been jostling each other in her mind during the twenty-minute walk from Charing Cross. This wasn’t because she knew or cared much about the subject, but because the Reverend Arthur Treeves, the vicar of Plummergen in Kent, was a keen follower of the game and had got it into his head that she was something of an expert.

  Quite how this had come about Miss Seeton was at a loss to understand, but the fact was that ever since Bobby Fischer had arrived in Reykjavik at the beginning of the month to challenge Boris Spassky, the vicar had seized every opportunity to solicit her opinions on the eccentric American’s strengths and weaknesses and his prospects of success. He had indeed raised the subject again that very morning on the way to Brettenden, where he was to attend a meeting called by the Rural Dean. Miss Seeton gave him the chance to do so when she momentarily stopped thanking him for his kindness in giving her a lift to the station in his trusty Morris Minor, in order to admire a fine display of lobelia in the front garden of a cottage they were passing.

  “Yes, yes. It vividly exemplifies the words of the well-loved hymn.” Somewhat to Miss Seeton’s surprise, Mr. Treeves began to sing, in a throaty but professionally forceful tenor. “ ‘He paints the wayside flower, He lights the evening star . . .’ ” She was about to join in when he stopped and coughed in an embarrassed way. “The summer, I gather, is very brief indeed in Iceland, so Spassky and Fischer are hardly likely to see lobelia flourishing there. No doubt it comes as no surprise to you that Spassky won the first two games, Miss Seeton.”

  “Well, to be quite frank, Mr. Treeves, I must confess that—”

  “Of course, of course. For my own part, I had rather hoped that . . . but then I am a complete duffer at the game myself, so who am I to challenge your opinion? It is just as well that I play only very occasionally, against old Mr. Meredith when I go to see him at the Eventide Home and Matron draws me aside to whisper that it happens to be one of his better days.” The vicar sighed. “Alas, even then he tends to confuse the moves with those used in draughts, and one hesitates to . . .”

  Thus it was that when Miss Seeton reached London and emerged from the terminus, almost the first thing that caught her eye was a boldly lettered poster announcing an early edition of the Evening Standard. It bore just the two words SPASSKY RESIGNS, and puzzled her enough to make her buy a newspaper, a thing she had not done for years. She stood beside the news vendor’s stand and studied the brief report under the banner headline on the front page. Yes, it was the same Spassky, the Russian gentleman Mr. Treeves had been mentioning so often during the past few weeks, but it appeared that he hadn’t resigned from anything: merely that he had conceded victory to Mr. Fischer in their current game. Oh, good! How happy the vicar would be!

  After a short debate with herself Miss Seeton decided against keeping the newspaper to take back with her to Plummergen as a present for Mr. Treeves. It was too big to go in her bag, some of the ink had already come off on her fingers, and Mr. Treeves would undoubtedly hear the good news on the wireless during the course of the day. She therefore deposited the paper in a nearby litter bin and set off by way of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields and the National Gallery.

  The latter, with the National Portrait Gallery tucked away behind it, might ordinarily have diverted Miss Seeton from her original plan to proceed directly to Burlington House to visit the Royal Academy’s annual Summer Exhibition. However, she was so lost in thoughts prompted by the newspaper report that she had wandered along the north side of Trafalgar Square and turned into the Haymarket before she had even finished wondering why it was almost always chess, music, and mathematics that produced infant prodigies.

  At least, that was the conventional wisdom, one seemed to remember. In spite of the fact that in all honesty, one would be hard put to it to name a celebrated infant mathematician. Or indeed any mathematician, unless you counted Albert Einstein, who as it happened was said also to have played the violin, but not very well. Good gracious, Piccadilly Circus already? Now the important thing was to be very careful about crossing the roads, until one reached Swan & Edgar’s. After that it was plain sailing.

  Had this Mr. Fischer, one wondered, been an infant prodigy? Like Mozart? Or Yehudi Menuhin? Mr. Treeves would probably know. From what he had said in the course of earlier conversations, he was not altogether a well-adjusted or happy man. Mr. Fischer, that is, not Mr. Menuhin, of course. Nor Mr. Treeves, even if he was something of a worrier. Perhaps all really outstanding chess players were, well, a little odd. It was, after all, difficult to understand why these two gentlemen should have decided to meet in Iceland, not the first country that sprang to mind as the ideal place to spend several weeks playing chess. Iceland’s geysers were celebrated, of course, and—oh, my goodness, I’m here already and—“You can’t bring that up here, madame!”

  Miss Seeton treasured her splendid, indeed famous umbrella. The Daily Negative’s star reporter Amelita Forby sometimes said she would have liked to claim copyright in the phrase “Battling Brolly,” which appeared at frequent intervals in her pieces and, depending on the context, denoted both the umbrella and its owner. In fact Mel was secretly proud that it had passed into general currency in the tabloid press. The gift of Chief Superintendent Delphick of Scotland Yard, the umbrella had been Miss Seeton’s companion, protector, and usually accidental weapon in many an adventure.

  Nevertheless, as an inveterate visitor to museums and art galleries, Miss Seeton was well aware of the universal and strict rule that such things must be left at the entrance to institutions of that kind, in the cloakroom invariably provided. She fully approved, and was both flustered and filled with a sense of guilt when the uniformed attendant at the top of the staircase began to descend towards her, pointing accusingly at the umbrella tucked comfortably under her arm. No longer young, he had a florid complexion, a large moustache, and an air of authority.

  “Oh, dear, I am so very sorry,” she quavered, even in her discomfiture thinking that the attendant looked quite remarkably like Lord Kitchener in the renowned First World War recruiting poster with its memorable exhortation YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU! Especially pointing like that. “I will take it to the cloakroom at once.”

  She spun round, unfortunately without looking behind her, and the ferrule of the umbrella caught in the
waistcoat of a tall, distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman who was at that moment poised on one foot, the other being in midair as he mounted from one step to the next. Knocked off balance, he sprawled sideways and downwards, bounced off the large bosom of a lady so generously endowed that she absorbed the impact without herself being put off course, and ended up draped against the ornate wrought ironwork of the balustrade several steps farther down, clutching at the highly polished wooden handrail.

  Miss Seeton looked down at him in horror. It was quite bad enough to have caused such an accident through her carelessness and clumsiness. It was a hundred times worse to recognise her victim as Sir Wormelow Tump, the Custodian of the Queen’s Collection of Objets de Vertu.

  “Another cucumber sandwich, Miss Seeton? Or one of these petits fours, perhaps?” Tump enquired politely a couple of hours later. “They’re awfully good here, you know.”

  Miss Seeton shook her head, a regretful smile on her face. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly manage any more. You are so very kind, particularly in view of my unpardonable—”

  “Tush and taradiddle, dear lady! A dramatic reunion, I grant you, but no harm done. And after all, it gave me the pleasure of going round the exhibition in your company. You are no mean critic, if I may say so.” A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth.

  From the moment that he had recognised Miss Seeton and realised at once that there was not the slightest point in making a fuss about the indignity to which she had unwittingly subjected him, Sir Wormelow had been having a fine time. No matter that he had hardly been able to get a word in edgeways. Miss Seeton’s unerring eye for quality was as impressive as her comments were idiosyncratic but unfailingly enlightening. Yet she brimmed over with simple joy in art, and found something positive to say about everything that caught her eye, even daubs so amateurish that the selection committee should never have given them the nod.

  “You flatter me, Sir Wormelow.” While walking through the lofty galleries at Burlington House with so much to look at, it had been possible, well, not exactly to forget, but to cope with the fact that he was such an eminent person, and to chatter to him quite freely. Now, tête-à-tête with him in the opulent surroundings of the tea lounge at the Ritz Hotel, the full, appalling recollection of what she had done to him suddenly swamped her consciousness, and Miss Seeton looked around, simply to avoid his gaze. Fortune favoured her by providing the perfect distraction.

  “Oh, look! Over there. Isn’t that Mr. Szabo just sitting down?”

  Tump peered over the top of his gold-rimmed half glasses in the direction indicated. “Good Lord, so it is! Bless my soul, this is turning into a real reunion. Why don’t I ask him to join us?” Without waiting for a reply he stood up and made his way, napkin in hand, to where the dapper dealer in rare antiques and objets d’art was lowering himself into a gilt chair held for him by a deferential waiter. Two minutes later the waiter was laying a third place at their own table while Ferencz Szabo bent low over the back of Miss Seeton’s hand and kissed the air half an inch above its surface.

  “Enchanté, chère madame!” he exclaimed, straightening up. “Eet eese soch a plaisure . . .”

  “Come off it, Frank,” Tump said. “We’re all old friends here.”

  “So we are, Wonky, so we are. Sorry, Miss Seeton,” Szabo said in a perfectly ordinary voice without a trace of foreign accent. He sat down. “Lovely to see you again. I know all the best people have tea at the Ritz, but what brings you all the way from Plummergen?”

  “The Royal Academy summer exhibition.” Miss Seeton gazed earnestly into his eyes, now even more determined to avoid Tump’s. “And I, er, ran into Sir Wormelow on the way in—”

  “Actually, she jolly nearly—” Tump stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “I mean, we jolly nearly missed each other.” Greatly relieved, Miss Seeton glanced at him gratefully. “And now you come breezing in, Frank. Quite takes me back to that extraordinary day at Rytham Hall.”

  The waiter returned with further supplies of tea, miniature sandwiches, and exquisite little cakes, and Miss Seeton took advantage of the resulting bustle to take a good look at the newcomer and wonder whether she ought to continue to address him as Mr. Szabo, or as Mr. Taylor. She knew he had a justifiable claim to both names. Legally he was Frank Taylor, for many years a naturalised Briton, but he had been born Ferencz Szabo in the Hungarian city of Debrecen, and it was as Szabo that he traded, in his exclusive gallery in Bond Street, five minutes’ walk away from where they were sitting. It was a couple of years since she had last seen him, and though he was as beautifully turned out as he had been then, he didn’t look altogether well. Not that one could possibly mention it, of course.

  “Are you quite well, Mr., er?” she heard herself asking not two seconds later. “Do forgive my, that is . . .”

  Szabo cast a surprised look at her. “Goodness, do I look that bad? Or are you telepathic? I’m all right, thanks, but as a matter of fact I have this minute come from Harley Street. My doctor gave me such a wigging that it left me in urgent need of tea and—”

  “Not sympathy, I hope, old boy?”

  “Oh, dear, I do hope . . .”

  “No, no. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.” Miss Seeton and Wormelow Tump had given voice to their concern simultaneously and Szabo looked from one to the other of them, touched. “I have been rather under the weather lately, but I think I’ve just been overdoing things a bit, that’s all. Nothing fundamentally amiss, the medic says. The reason he charged a lot of money to bully me is that he wants me to take a holiday, and I told him it’s out of the question. A cruise, in the sunshine, he said. I ask you, how can I possibly just drop everything and go off on a cruise? Quite apart from the fact that I can’t swim and I’m terrified of water.” He scrutinised the plate of iced cakes rather sternly and selected one that perfectly matched his salmon pink tie.

  “Depends on the cruise, I’d say.” There was a mysterious little smile on Tump’s aristocratic face. “Why not book yourself on a Heron Halcyon Holiday? They do provide lifeboats, you know.”

  “Halcyon Holidays? What an extraordinary coincidence! Just the other day Lady Colveden told me that she and Sir George are going on one of their cruises next month. To celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

  “I know.”

  “I was confused, because halcyon days are in the winter, aren’t they, but it seems that—did you say you know, Sir Wormelow?”

  “Yes. A ten-day cruise on the liner Eurydice, stopping here and there among the Greek islands to visit various historic sites and antiquities. Aegean Idyll, this particular holiday’s called, in spite of the fact that it begins in Venice. Actually, I was the one who suggested it to George Colveden. He wanted to surprise his wife.”

  “Surprise her? She must have been utterly astounded!” Szabo turned to Miss Seeton, a distinct sparkle now in his eyes. “I ought to explain. Since that business with the Lalique jewelry, Wormelow and I have kept in touch with George Colveden. His idea, originally, but I must admit we all—not forgetting Cedric Benbow, of course—we all enjoy getting together now and then for dinner at his club. Our last reunion was getting on for six months ago, which is why all this is news to me. George is a marvellous old boy, but hardly one to come up spontaneously with the idea of going to look at a lot of old ruins, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Oh, but it sounds wonderful,” Miss Seeton said, trying hard to keep the wistfulness out of her voice. “I’m so happy for Lady Colveden. But what made you think of it, Sir Wormelow?”

  “Well, there are always three or four guest lecturers on board these Heron cruises, you see. So-called experts—”

  “He’s only saying ‘so-called’ because he’s one himself, Miss Seeton. They’re genuine experts, all right. Top people in their fields. I know about Heron Holiday cruises, and they really are rather special. It’s just that I can’t somehow see George Colveden fitting in altogether happily with a lot of, well, fairly dedicated seek
ers after culture.”

  “You’re being jolly hard on the people who sign up, Frank. Making ’em sound like a lot of bores. Whereas, dash it all, you meet some thoroughly nice people on board the Eurydice. I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise. I mean it, you know. Why don’t you come too? Follow doctor’s orders and brush up your professional patter at the same time?”

  Szabo shook his head. “Not me. If and when I do take a holiday it won’t be of the busman’s variety. And it won’t be afloat.”

  An expression of low cunning crept into Wormelow Tump’s face. “Forgot to mention the other lecturers they’ve invited. The bishop—they always seem to have one—is a chap I’d never heard of before I saw the brochure, name of Ashley Bowdler. Bishop of Bromwich. Used to lecture in classics at Cambridge. Then there’s Dr. Blodwen Griffiths, the coin expert, and, um, Adrian Witley.”

  “Witley?” Szabo’s face reddened with anger, and Miss Seeton felt quite anxious about him until, with what looked like a considerable effort of will, he recovered most of his customary debonair poise. “My dear Wonky, you can’t seriously suppose that I would contemplate spending ten days on board a ship in the company of that ghastly man? No. Come what may, I’m afraid that not even the prospect of George Colveden’s company—and yours, needless to say—could induce me to sign up for that particular Aegean Idyll.”

  chapter

  2

  “HAS HE REALLY? By Jove, that’s good news! Hang on a jiffy while I tell Meg . . . oh, I can’t. Just remembered, she’s gone to Brettenden to get her hair done or something. She’ll be delighted when she hears. Met him in the Ritz, did you? With Miss Seeton? Good Lord, d’you mean to say Frank Taylor’s started squiring Miss Seeton about? Wonders will never cease.”

  “No, no, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, George . . .” Major-General (retired) Sir George Colveden, Bt, DSO, JP, settled back in his battered old leather armchair and listened obediently while Tump again explained the circumstances that had led to his encounter with Miss Seeton, and their subsequent conversation over tea with Ferencz Szabo. Meantime he absentmindedly reached down and fondled the head of the dog that had followed him into the library at Rytham Hall when he went to answer the telephone, and was now slumped at his feet.