Witch Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 3) Read online

  Dressed in dark slacks and pullovers, they stole forward on plimsolled feet. Fired with enthusiasm, upheld by righteousness, Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine had set out upon a mission, prepared to venture all, to explore during darkness the ill deeds of night, in an attempt to prove themselves, to themselves and to Plummergen, as leaders worthy of respect. Spying upon the enemy in their midst, they would show where guilt lay and become the established saviors of the village from the dangers that encircled it. They crouched; they stealthily advanced; they bent beneath the hedge; they peeped above it; then, greatly daring, pushed the gate. It squeaked.

  “Eric, what shall we do?” gasped Mrs. Blaine. “It squeaks.”

  “Give it a shove and get through quick,” advised Miss Nuttel.

  They did. It squeaked again; but they were through and now deployed, each to one front window of Miss Seeton’s cottage. They peered to no avail; shone flashlights, saw their own frightened faces reflected in black glass, peered closer, saw the rooms empty and innocent. Together they tiptoed round the building, looked through the French window; nothing showed; came to the kitchen window and pressed near. They shone their flashlights and pressed nearer still: two noses flattened against a pane of glass, four staring eyes saw—horror. Above a basin hung a monstrous thing wrapped in white cloth, decapitate. It hung there in the dark and as they watched in frozen fascination a globule formed, enlarged, then fell, a glistening ruby drop, into the bowl beneath, already partly filled with—blood. A baby’s head hung from a beam; was dripping blood. The witches’ prerequirement, blood from a newborn babe, compulsory constituent in all their horrid rites. Two mouths slumped open in soundless screams; two faces fell away, a dropped flashlight clattered. The stumbling, running scamper of distracted feet, the rasping breath of terror, the crunch of trodden flowers, the squeaking of the gate, the slap of rubber soles on pavement as oversized buttocks in undersized pants pistoned the legs.

  “Eric,” wheezed Mrs. Blaine, “did you see? Too awful. Too … Oh, I shall be sick. How could she? It’s too dreadful. But I said so all along. Didn’t I, Eric? Eric.” She stopped. “Eric.” She looked around. “Eric,” she wailed. But Eric was not there; she was alone.

  Back down the Street, back through the squeaking gate, back around the cottage to the corner where, not daring to go farther, Mrs. Blaine stood trembling, grasping the rough brick wall. Above her a lighted window warned of danger. The light was blocked: a head looked out; it looked this way and that, looked down; a skinny arm was thrust into the night, the hand upturned. In supplication? Calling up spirits from infernal climes? Norah Blaine tried to remember prayers. The hand, its dreadful aim accomplished, was withdrawn.

  No—Miss Seeton pulled the window to—it wasn’t raining. Well, that was a good thing. Though it was quite cold. A touch of early frost? One did hope not, for that would spoil the flowers. She was almost sure that she had heard a noise. But no. Everything seemed quiet. It could have been a dog. Or then again, perhaps, more likely, cats. In any case nothing to worry about. She would get back to bed.

  Its malediction done, the head retired; curtains were drawn; the light went out. Shaking, Mrs. Blaine began to move. Her flashlight, obscured by fingers, scoured the ground. She found a broken flashlight. She picked it up. She cast again and found Miss Nuttel lying prone, eyes closed, face waxen. Was she dead? Had that vile woman done her worst?

  “Oh, Eric, has she killed you?” She felt the pulse. It beat. The body breathed. “Speak, oh, please.” She slapped the face. The figure croaked, a guttural sound. A croak? What had that evil woman done? Had she used spells? Was Eric now bewitched? But noise was dangerous. Quickly she laid her hand upon the mouth. Miss Nuttel struggled to sit up.

  “Wha—what’s going on?” she mumbled.

  “Shh,” pleaded Mrs. Blaine. “Oh, Eric, please get up. We must—must get away from here while there’s still time.”

  Miss Nuttel focused her recovering mind. Despite a gruff manner and laconic speech, she was always undone by the sight of blood. Between them they got her length erect. Her knees would not support her; she clung to her small and rounded friend, and thus entwined they tottered to the corner of the cottage; they teetered to the front; went weaving down the path—the long and short of it, inarticulated angles balanced on a sphere—and the gate gave one final squeak of protest behind two old hens with staggers on their way home to roost.

  chapter

  ~4~

  “It was definitely there on the hall table yesterday afternoon; I was in the middle of packing it when you arrived. I can’t think what’s happened to it; I’ve looked everywhere. You don’t think—Oh, thank you.” She helped herself to vegetables. Nigel served his father and himself, put the dishes on the sideboard and returned to his place. “You don’t think,” ventured Lady Colveden, “that Basil might have picked it up when he brought your luggage in and put it in his car by mistake?”

  “Are you”—the turkey neck extended, the reddened wattles wagged, the beaky nose was lifted high—“are you,” brayed Honoria Trenthorne, “suggesting that my son would steal a doll?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Lady Colveden retreated. “It’s just that I thought he might have. I mean,” she amended hastily, “he might’ve taken it by mistake; or for a joke or something. Nobody else was there and …”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret. My son doesn’t play jokes. In any case what could a boy of twenty possibly want with a doll, d’you imagine?”

  “Imagination boggles,” murmured Nigel.

  “Nigel, be quiet.” Meg Colveden was worried. “I had it out on the hall table ready to pack. The tissue paper, the wrapping paper, the shavings and the box are all still there, but the doll’s gone. I simply can’t understand it.”

  “Ridiculous fuss to make about some footling doll,” rasped Mrs. Trenthorne.

  “It isn’t footling,” protested Lady Colveden. “It’s a beautiful doll. Miss Seeton brought it here for Janie, but because of the train strike yesterday they’d gone home early and she missed them. I was going to send it on, but now I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell Miss Seeton; it’d be so disappointing, and she might go and buy another. And I can’t ask Mr. Stillman at the post office to get me one; if it got out it would be all over the village and Miss Seeton might hear and that would be awful. I’ll have to try and find one in London and make Julia and Janie promise not to tell.”

  “Seeton?” Mrs. Trenthorne looked down a Roman nose. “Is that that vulgar umbrella woman who’s always in the papers? Then I can’t say I’m surprised. She probably stole it back herself to get advertisement. It’s a mistake to know such people.” She turned to her host. “As a local justice, George, you should know better.”

  “Fiddle,” said Sir George.

  “There’s no excuse to be rude, George, just because I’m family.”

  Mrs. Trenthorne’s family claims were marginal. She was the cousin of a cousin of Sir George. The name Aunt Bray had been bestowed on her by Nigel, who, hearing her raucous voice for the first time at the age of five, had noted the likeness to a donkey’s plaint. When told indulgently to kiss her and call her Auntie, he had stood back, fixed her with a look and said, “Aunt Bray.” Unaware of its derivation, the lady had assumed the nickname to be a child’s expression of affection; a mistake excusable in that she had little experience of affection, given or taken, to guide her. Meg Colveden had seized upon the affection angle, thankful only that her son had not said Auntie Heehaw. Nigel’s elder sister, Julia, had endorsed the nickname and thereafter to the Colveden family she had become Aunt Bray, an infrequent and unwelcome visitor. Not recognizing that in her voice nature had given her a foghorn which no one could ignore, she had evolved her own method of gaining the attention of any company in which she found herself. She quarrelled vociferously with everyone she met and if faced with placatory agreement would immediately reverse her views to ensure an argument. She liked, she declared, a good fight; she found it stimulating. She had m
arried money meek and mild whose only recorded defiance had been his retirement to an early grave. Whether her only son’s precocious aptitude for petty thieving and later for forging checks was the result of his environment or an intuitive knack was a question for the psychiatrists to answer. He had been alternately described as mentally retarded or advanced according to his mentors’ individual opinions, or depending on how much the boy had pinched. Lady Colveden sought to change the conversation.

  “Tell me, Aunt Bray, what is this meeting you’re going to, and that Basil’s playing at?”

  Mrs. Trenthorne was affronted. “Playing at? I don’t understand you, Margaret. Nuscience is not a game. It’s wonderful. For those who believe, it’s basic and fundamental; it relates the spirit to the Great Beyond.”

  “Beyond what?” asked Sir George.

  “Beyond this planet, George; beyond this life; beyond beyond.” She waved a fork and sent potato flying to indicate the distance. “And you have the face to suggest that Basil’s playing at it?”

  Lady Colveden was baffled. “But it was you, Aunt Bray: you said in your letter that he played the trumpet.”

  “I said nothing of the kind. I said that Basil was a Trumpeter. It’s wonderful. A Trumpeter’s the highest office you can reach—except for a Serene. Beside the Master himself, of course. I,” announced Aunt Bray, “am a Serene. That”—she dropped her knife and extended her hand—“is my badge to prove it.” Upon the third finger was a white plastic ring. “Basil’s is blue. And the Master himself wears yellow: his naturally is gold. The less ranks have other colors to distinguish them.”

  Nigel scooped potato from the carpet. “Like grading chickens?” he inquired.

  “Nothing of the kind,” she snapped. “It’s simply that people must recognize one’s rank. You can’t expect Serenes to mingle with the lesser fry like Greenhorns.”

  “Greenhorns?” echoed Lady Colveden.

  “Greenhorns,” Aunt Bray explained, “are the beginners; they’re green. Then come the Servers, they’re red; then Majordomes, they’re black; then blue for Trumpeters, and white for the Serenes. It’s wonderful. You’ve no idea what it all means.”

  “Well, no, I haven’t,” admitted Lady Colveden. “But I expect it’s all very satisfactory if you like that sort of thing.”

  “You’re coming with me to the meeting at Maidstone and shall hear the Master himself. He’s wonderful.”

  “Did you start as a Greenhorn?” Nigel asked.

  “Certainly not,” replied Aunt Bray. “But Basil did. The dear boy became so enthusiastic that I let him give a small donation, and then when they recognized his worth they moved him up.”

  Sir George was paying attention. “You give a small donation?”

  For a moment Mrs. Trenthorne was thrown off balance, then she said quickly, “A trifle—a mere five thousand pounds. I could hardly have done less, considering they had made me a Serene. They recognized my subliminals, you see.”

  “What’s this secret place?” he asked.

  “Only the chosen few—” She stopped; her face flamed. “Secret? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “In your letter.”

  “It was not. A secret? Really, George. A secret place?” she honked derisively. “I never mentioned such a thing. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He let it ride. Didn’t like the sound of it. Not the drill at all. Look into it.

  Plummergen church was full; but not for prayer.

  On Sunday the shops were closed; the church was then the easy place for villagers to congregate when gossiping was warm upon the tongue. The service over, they could meet outside, discuss the latest tidbit, destroy new characters, then strew the seared remains among the gravestones before returning home for well-earned roast and spuds.

  This morning gossip was at boiling point and overspilled before its time, to ripple through the pews in murmurous buzz. The Reverend Arthur Treeves took to the pulpit, talked to air. His sermon for today was not inspired, which was just as well, since no one paid attention. Even his sister Molly, up in front, allowed her mind to wander. What were they up to now, with all this whispering? Thank heaven Arthur never noticed things till they were forced on him. But this was really quite disgraceful; she’d never known them to be so bad. Not even through the row when Mrs. Welsted, down with flu, refused to let Miss Pydell have the key for daily practice at the organ, with the result that poor Pydell now attended Rye, which made for awkwardness. She looked around, looked stern and shh’d. To no effect—or only for a space. She leaned back, closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to catch odd words, determined to gather if she could what all this chatter was about. She heard the words “Its eyes were starin’.” Well, no villager who was worth his salt ever saw eyes that weren’t. “She waved ’er brolly round and cursed the Nut, who come all over queer.” Miss Nuttel feeling queer? A cold perhaps. “Poor little mite, she ’acked its ’ead off, ’ung it up and left it there to drip.” Cut what off? They must be talking of Miss Seeton since they’d mentioned an umbrella. Poor Miss Seeton. Such an asset to the village. Couldn’t these silly people ever learn to mind their own affairs? “Ought to be burn, she ought.” What was this? “Good duckin’s what she needs.” “Flew straight out through the window on ’er brolly—they, saw it plain as plain.” “Dangerous.” “I’m keeping Eileen back from school, that’s certain.”

  The sermon and Miss Treeves’ patience ended. The service wound to its conclusion and they all trooped out to fill the graveyard with excited clack. A group of parents seethed in protest around the schoolmaster. Mr. Jessyp put his foot down hard and kept it there. Any parent whose child was absent from school without a medical certificate on Monday would be in trouble, he advised. Martha Bloomer held a raging court. To think that people could be that daft to think her bramble jelly was a baby. You wouldn’t credit it. And as for those Nuts, she’d give ’em peeping toms, the prying cats. And as for Miss Nuttel’s fainting, serve her right. Pity she ever came round, in her opinion. The Colvedens, without Aunt Bray, who’d stayed at home to nurse her new religion, learned of the latest rumors from Miss Treeves. Miss Nuttel and Mrs. Blaine maintained that Miss Seeton was boiling babies’ heads for supper. Well, Meg Colveden had always thought, but now she knew, that both the Nuts were mad.

  Dinnertime sent the villagers home split into two camps: which meant that everything was normal and the village was itself. Was, or was not, Miss Seeton a real witch? Some children said she wasn’t; their parents swore she was. Some parents laughed the idea to scorn; their children had seen her, brolly-mounted, riding the night sky. The garage owner feared there might of course be something in it; the postmaster on the other hand saw nothing there to fear. The Reverend Arthur and Miss Treeves refuted the idea; the Welsteds from the draper’s shop accepted it as true. Miss Nuttel and her friend insisted that they knew it for a fact; Lady Colveden said that fact only proved both them were fools.

  There was only one person undisturbed. Miss Seeton did not know of the discussion, knew nothing of witchcraft—a subject which she might, perhaps, have felt was not, in common sense, a subject to discuss.

  • • •

  On Monday morning Miss Seeton looked down at the teacher’s desk. There was a typed schedule for her guidance and a book, General Mathematics. Oh, dear. And she had so hoped … But it couldn’t be helped now. She sat down and faced the class. She smiled and said, “Good morning.” They chorused back, “Good morning, miss,” and appeared to settle down to work. Well, that was a good thing. So long as the children knew what to do perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. She looked at the book again. At the bottom of the cover it said “With Answers.” Thank goodness for that. She checked the schedule, opened the book and found the page to see what they were at. Mutterings and sniggerings had been growing at the desks. The leader of the class, a wag, held up his hand.

  “Please, miss. You gonna teach us t’ fly?” They waited, thrilled, expectant: that should finish her.
r />   Miss Seeton raised her head in mild surprise. She studied them. Wishful Peter Pans? No, with the modern boy it would be space ships, she supposed, jet airplanes. And for the girls, one imagined, air hostess. “I’m afraid I have no pilot’s license,” she regretted.

  A shout of laughter greeted this riposte. A real comic. Bang on with the snappy answers. Need to watch your step with this one. Quick as you please and real sarky with it.

  Miss Seeton examined the questions. Express each of the following ratios as simply as possible in the form a : b. Q.13. 12cm: 4cm. She turned to Answers. Yes, here it was. 13.3.1. Miss Seeton frowned, reread the question. 3 : 1? Then what had happened to the a and b? And where were c and m? Really, it was very worrying. Perhaps, she hoped, the children knew. She glanced down the page. Two headings met her eye. Taxation. For eleven-year-olds? Good gracious. And Rates. Oh, dear. But these were just the problems that were worrying her. She took a piece of paper and began to note things down. Q.9 was House rent £60 with tax at £18. It seemed extremely cheap. But then, of course, she hadn’t rent. But had she house tax? What was house tax anyway? She certainly had rates. She looked again. It didn’t mention rates. Was house tax rates, or were rates house tax? Q.8 said Income £1000 tax £400. Well, yes. But if your income was £400, what then? It didn’t say. She wrote again. A voice piped up.