Picture Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 1) by Carvic Heron

Author:Carvic, Heron [Carvic, Heron]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9780993576300
Publisher: Farrago
Published: 2016-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

chapter

~7~

REALLY, IT WAS VERY MUDDLING. “Tread the earth well down when planting so that no air-pockets are left round the roots.” That seemed clear and sensible enough. Then, a few pages later, under “Care and Attention”, it said, “Fork well round the roots to let in air.” Surely it seemed a pity not to have left the air there in the first place. And now it said on page fifty-three, “Never fork roses as, being suface rooters, you may damage the roots.” Miss Seeton closed the book and put it on the grass beside her. Greenfinger Points the Way. Yes, but which way? It pointed in so many directions. Was gardening, perhaps, like some of the other professions, she wondered? One knew that, in many cases, unsuccessful singers taught singing, unsuccessful authors taught writing and, as one knew oneself only too well, unsuccessful artists taught drawing. In fact one liked to console oneself that such persons made the best teachers. And there was no question that, if one were successful, one would hardly have the time to teach. So could it be, she mused, that unsuccessful gardeners wrote gardening books? Or was that heresy? Certainly one got the impression that if one did half the things that appeared to be vital if any plant were to survive, one would have no time at all, even for meals. It really was very muddling indeed. She must ask Stan. She heard a tapping. Probably someone who had tried the front door and failed to get an answer. She got up, crossed the lawn, took the key off its nail and opened the side door in the wall.

“C’n I int’rest you in sump’n, miss?” Bright eyes gleamed under a tangle of ginger. The sinuous, eager movements of youth—appealing; the clear complexion fading, the puppy-fat receding; guileless cherub yielding to disingenuous ferret.

Miss Seeton was puzzled. “Interest me? In what?”

“Anything, miss, for gossakes. Fresh veg., bottles of pop, eggs, cheese, canned stuff. No kidd’n—you name it, we got it.”

“Really, I don’t think there’s anything I need just at the moment, thank you.”

“Aw, c’mon! Cheaper y’see, cuts out the middleman. We bring it right to your door f’you to choose. C’mon, take a look-see,” he wheedled, “can’t hurt you none to take a look.”

Miss Seeton moved forward as he stepped to one side. Backed at right angles across the lane, the back doors open and touching the wall on either side of her, was an elderly car, the rear half converted to a van. On the floor inside were two or three cabbages in sere and yellow leaf, some bottles of ginger beer and a cardboard box out of which were sticking tins of soup and packets of detergent.

Miss Seeton regarded the disheartening array. “I’m afraid I really don’t think that . . .”

Her sentence finished in a muffled squawk as a sack descended over her head, her ankles were seized and she was pitched among the merchandise. The doors were slammed, a jolt as the

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