LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1)

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘Yes, I’ll pop by later - see you there.’

  He waved Jackson off and wandered across to the farmhouse and through the front door. His long-time friend, George Lane, was sitting at the wooden dining table in the kitchen, slurping strong tea out of a chipped cup. His stubby fingers held the cup clumsily and his bulky frame swamped the chair supporting him. James could never remember George being slim or agile in any way. His dark suits, bought from Hanningtons in Brighton, rarely fitted, but fashion served no purpose to the inspector.

  George narrowed his eyes at the dull light bulb above him and then put his cup down. Speaking in his normal, gruff voice, he shifted his gaze.

  ‘Nothing better to do, James?’

  James heaved a sigh and pulled out a chair for himself. He sat down and waited for the inevitable lecture on wasting police time.

  ‘You know I’ve got better things to do than check out a farmer with a dodgy ticker,’ continued George. ‘What made you think, for one minute, that there’s anything odd about this? Stick to running the village.’

  James looked at his shoes and felt like a naughty schoolboy. He and George were secure in a twenty-five year friendship and nothing would change that. He remembered George as a young constable during their initial meeting when he’d called at the manor to investigate a robbery. Although from different backgrounds, their mutual love of cricket brought them together and both played for the village team. But, where James had sought marriage, children and discovered ultimate contentment, George had opted for long-term commitment to his job, although frequently acted as if he’d entered into a contract with his worst nightmare. George’s chair creaked as he leant his bulk back.

  ‘I mean, apart from an unfinished breakfast, there’s nothing odd about it.’

  ‘What about the broken plate on the floor?’ said James. ‘The chair halfway across the kitchen? The—’

  ‘James, he’s hardly Mr House Proud, is he? Have you seen the state of this place? I mean, I know Mrs Jepson comes in once a week, but it’s not exactly tidy.’

  James had to admit that George had a point there, but raised a finger.

  ‘Just hear me out,’ James said. ‘Those oils and brushes, the ones he was working with.’

  ‘What about ‘em?’

  James leapt up. ‘Follow me.’

  He heard a groan as George pushed himself up and trudged behind James to where the body was found. The easel had fallen forward and the paints pushed randomly to one side.

  ‘Have you a light, George? It’s getting very gloomy.’

  George felt his pockets and brought out a small, metal torch and handed it to James. Pointing the beam down, he bent over and studied the shadowed scene, carefully turning over the jumble of paints, brushes and rags.

  ‘George, where’s the paint brush? The one Grimes was holding.’

  George shrugged. ‘Dunno, might still be with the body. Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s what I wanted to show you.’ James picked the painting up. ‘You see, there’s none on there.’

  George turned his nose up and squinted at the painting. ‘None of what on where?’

  ‘Red paint. Grimes had red paint on his brush. There’s none on the painting. There’s no red anywhere on this canvas.’

  His friend shrugged again, took the torch away from James and began making his way back to his car. ‘Well, he was prob’ly just about to paint something red, then, wasn’t he?’

  James called after him. ‘How? If there’s no red paint here?’

  George waved a hand in dismissal. James dropped the painting and scrambled over to him.

  ‘So, are you not doing anything about this?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Jackson’s confirmed a heart attack. Believe it or not, I have real crimes to solve back at the station. If you come up with something better than an art critique, let me know.’ He opened the car door and turned to James. ‘Do you know if he’s got any family?’

  ‘No, afraid not, old chap. But I’ll tidy up here; find out a bit more about him. You all right if I lock up?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Jackson’s registering the death, so it’s all in hand. See you at your Halloween do. I’ll be late - don’t finish ‘til ten.’

  ‘Right-ho, but think about the red paint business. Oh, and can I borrow your torch?’

  George rolled his eyes and tossed the torch over. He ordered his officers back to the station and cursed the lack of space as he eased into his car. Turning the key in the ignition, the car choked to life. With his customary curt wave, he drove away, followed by the two constables in a dark blue Anglia.

  James wandered back to the painting and held it up. He edged closer to the farmhouse to catch the light from the kitchen window. The painting appeared to show the copse at the far end of the top field. He looked over to Charn Wood, struggling to see any trace of the view in the darkness. As far as he could recall, the wood held various shades of green, but no red.

  What on earth was going to be red? Getting his bearings, he decided that the sun didn’t appear in that direction at all. He retraced his steps to where he’d found Grimes, squatted down and rummaged through the few paints on the ground. He selected them one at a time, shining the torch on the labels: turquoise, bright yellow, burnt ochre, pale blue. It made no sense. This was a traditional landscape, not modernist or cubist. Most of these colours aren’t on the painting, so why have them there? Perhaps he was going to add them?

  The sound of a car door slamming broke his train of thought. He swung round. A man in his mid-twenties walked toward him. Dressed in black trousers, flared sports jacket and a black polo-necked jumper, he held a number of long, rolled-up papers in his tan driving gloves.

  ‘Alec Grimes about?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not, old chap. You a friend?’

  ‘No, mate. Don’t know him that well. Why?’

  ‘Well, unfortunately, he died this morning.’

  The man started at the news. ‘Died? How?’

  ‘Heart attack.’

  The man scratched his head and appeared to be unsure of what to do next. He looked at James. ‘I don’t think I caught your name.’

  ‘Don’t think I pitched it,’ James said as he held his hand out. ‘Harrington, Lord James Harrington.’

  A moment of recognition flashed across the young man’s face. ‘Of course.’ He shook hands with James. ‘Sorry, I’m fairly new to the area, but I’ve seen you around the village. I’m Ian Connell, a builder. I live in the next village along - Loxfield. I work with a firm of property agents and do a bit of building work here and there. Mr Grimes was planning some improvements and I just popped round with a draft copy of the plans.’

  ‘Improvements? What for?’

  ‘An indoor toilet, plus quite a bit of renovation. He was asking if I could do something inside the house, maybe convert the spare bedroom above the kitchen. Makes the plumbing a bit easier.’

  James studied the young man, who looked a little lost. Connell glanced across at the farmhouse and then at the painting in James’ hand. He waved the plans at him.

  ‘Well, I s’pose I’d better ditch these. No use to him now.’ As he turned to go, he called back to James. ‘And he never paid me. I spent ages on these. Time’s money, you know.’

  James watched him mooch away in disappointment. He chewed his lip. It didn’t look as if Grimes had two pennies to rub together, let alone enough to pay for improvements.

  He watched Connell drive off and began tidying away the paints and easel, placing them inside the kitchen. The last thing to pack up was the small wooden chair that Grimes had used; a painting chair spattered with oils and smelling faintly of turpentine. As he picked it up, another car arrived - a vintage Citroen with sweeping running boards and huge, bulbous headlights.

  James cursed under his breath. Rose and Lilac Crum or, as James preferred to call them, the snoop sisters. Well into their eighties, they had lived together all their lives, having never married. They’d only been r
esidents in Cavendish for about ten years and appeared to move, rumour had it, whenever they fell out with someone.

  James had it on good authority that, in their last village in Wiltshire, they enjoyed the position of joint treasurers for the Women’s Institute. Within a few months, money disappeared and the sisters were accused of pinching the funds. Although never proven, soon after the theft the sisters treated themselves to front row seats to see The Mousetrap in London and accusations flew like daggers to their door.

  Villagers demanded retribution but, without proof, their legal efforts proved fruitless. Instead, the locals plotted to make their lives unbearable, ignoring them and gossiping in a most undignified manner. Three months later, the sisters moved to Cavendish and, over the years, made themselves just as unpopular with their opinions, judgements and criticisms.

  James shook his head in disbelief. Did they have some sort of secret radar planted in their heads? As soon as anything happened in the village, they seemed to know before anyone else. He guessed that Mrs Jepson had placed a few phone calls and they’d arrived, no doubt, with numerous unnecessary reasons for being here. It was no wonder the residents and neighbours preferred to keep them at a distance.

  They hurried across to James, egging each other to go faster and shouting out questions along the way.

  ‘Oh Lord Harrington, what’s happened?’

  ‘He did go peacefully, didn’t he?’

  ‘Or was he in pain?’

  ‘Has the body gone?’

  ‘No-one liked him, you know. Miserable bugger, always has been.’

  James listened to their unpleasant ramblings for a couple of minutes. He gathered that, according to the sisters Crumb, Grimes was uneducated, grumpy, lacking social niceties and exceptionally rude. James suppressed a grin - everything they displayed themselves. He had only met the man a couple of times and felt these descriptions were exaggerated. He guessed Grimes came across like that to the snoop sisters because he wouldn’t tell them anything.

  Rose prodded him.

  ‘Lord Harrington, are you listening?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I said, you know he had a part in that Devil Incarnate play, don’t you? Who’s going to take his place?’ She huffed. ‘Devil Incarnate! Disgusting, having the views of Satan paraded in a church hall.’

  Lilac leant forward. ‘I heard he wanted nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Really? ’James said.

  Rose bundled past him. ‘Stan Jepson bullied him into it. Shall we go inside and tidy up? Make it look nice.’

  Lilac followed her. ‘We could start going through his things. Makes it easier when the house sells.’

  The sisters marched toward the farmhouse. James rushed ahead and held up his hands.

  ‘Ladies, no!’

  Rose and Lilac stared indignantly. He drew his shoulders back and glared at them.

  ‘I’m sorry, ladies, but it’s not your place, or mine, to do that. I’ll get in touch with the relevant authorities and they can sort it out.’

  Rose went to walk past him, but James blocked the doorway. ‘Miss Crumb, I do believe that trespassing is against the law. And, if I may say so, it’s terribly bad taste to go through a person’s things without permission of the family.’

  The sisters huffed in unison.

  ‘You may huff all you like, I’m getting on to the right people to do this. It’s nothing to do with you, now, is it ladies?’

  James willed them to turn around and depart. He didn’t want to be abrupt with two elderly spinsters but, if circumstances dictated, he would. Although put out, the two sisters turned as one and returned to their car, muttering and moaning about how unfair James was. That, just because he was Lord of the Manor, it didn’t mean he could dictate to them.

  James closed his eyes in relief and retraced his steps, checking that he’d retrieved everything from outside. As he shone his torch down, the beam glinted on shards of glazed clay scattered on the ground. He scooped the pieces up and studied them. They appeared to be fragments of hand-made pottery. James raised his eyebrows. It seemed that Grimes had a creative side to him - painting, pottery, amateur dramatics, although the latter appeared to be less favoured.

  He slipped the pieces in his pocket and returned to the house. Keeping the painting, he took the key from the kitchen shelf, closed and locked the door and turned the handle once to make sure it was secure. He ambled back to the Austin with Grimes’ painting under his arm.

  With the engine running and the heater blowing, he sat in the driver’s seat with the canvas leaning against the steering wheel. He folded the lapel back on his jacket and took out a pin. Reaching up, he turned on the interior light and examined the painting. Feeling the ridges of oil on canvas, he dug the pin into several areas of paint. With every sharp stab, he looked at the pin with increasing concern and his efforts became more determined. Finally, he placed the painting on the passenger seat and turned off the overhead light.

  ‘Well, Detective Chief Inspector Lane,’ he said as he put the car in gear. ‘You may not agree, old chap, but there’s more to this than meets the eye and I intend to prove it to you.’

  The Austin’s tyres screeched as James spun the car onto the road and accelerated into the distance.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That evening, Beth prepared a sumptuous dinner to keep the winter blues at bay. Braised beef casserole with feather-light dumplings, Brussel sprouts served with cubes of crispy bacon and chopped walnuts, together with mashed potatoes creamed with milk and butter.

  James devoured every morsel and even finished the spare onion gravy served in a jug on the side. He relaxed back in his carver chair, patted his stomach and puffed out his cheeks. Although he prided himself on maintaining a good physique, Beth’s cooking would be the undoing of him over the next few years.

  He placed his palms on his knees and pushed himself up, picked up his bowl glass of Courvoisier and wandered through to the kitchen, where Beth had cleared the plates and now busied herself wiping down the worktops. He put his glass down and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  ‘Anyone ever tell you how lovely you are?’

  ‘Yes, you,’ she laughed. ‘I didn’t do dessert. Thought we could finish off what was left of the cakes from this afternoon.’

  He released her and let out a relieved sigh. ‘Thank the Lord for that. One more dumpling and you would have had an explosion of Harrington in the dining area.’

  She grinned. ‘Oh, by the way, Bert rang. He’s going to the Half Moon tonight and asked if you were going. I said yes.’

  ‘Oh, jolly good,’ said James, who always looked forward to seeing his old chum. ‘Did he say a time?’

  ‘Around eight. I’ll stay here, if that’s all right? I’ve got some bits and bobs to do.’

  ‘I hope Jackson’s still going.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  James sipped his drink and sauntered out of the kitchen. ‘Just wanted to ask him a little more about Grimes.’

  Beth wiped her hands on a towel and followed him out. ‘Oh goodness, you’re not going to pursue this, are you? You’re clutching at very fine straws, if you ask me.’

  James swigged the last of his brandy and picked up the oil painting he’d brought back from the farm. He perched on the edge of the sofa and studied it. Beth sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Now, you’re looking at this as if it’s a code to decipher,’ she said. ‘Do you see some sort of hidden message in there?’

  He rolled his eyes at Beth and reached into her sewing bag for a pin and repeated his stabbing of the canvas. Beth looked, bemused. After a few seconds, James held the pin up in triumph. Beth frowned and suggested he had gone slightly mad.

  ‘Honey, I don’t see what you’re looking at,’ she said, looking at the pin. ‘There’s nothing on there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ James enthused as Beth announced that she had ironing to do.

  She shook her head and stood up. ‘George is r
ight,’ she called back. ‘You do need to get out more.’

  ‘But don’t you see, darling? There’s no fresh paint on there.’

  ‘James, I know you fancy yourself as Paul Temple, but this is real life. You’ve called in two professionals so far, one official, one unofficial. Philip Jackson diagnosed a heart attack and George said no case to answer.’

  James went to interrupt, but Beth held up her finger to silence him.

  ‘I know it’s suspicious that he was out painting but, if that’s the official cause of death, you can’t change that. And the unofficial one? Well, don’t you think George would spot a murder if he saw one? And goodness knows, if I were in his position, I’d love to investigate a murder. But, he didn’t see anything, did he?’

  She nodded in satisfaction as James reluctantly agreed with her. He gave her a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Indulge me, darling,’ he replied. ‘Let me play around with it for a day or two.’

  Beth closed her eyes in resignation and made her way back to the kitchen. James spent the next hour trying to sort out the thoughts and ideas that tumbled in his head. No red paint on the canvas; the paintbrush, as far as he could remember, was bone dry. Grimes had a bump on his head. That could have been recent, but doubts lingered. There had been a layer of mud and frost on his heels and broken crockery across the floor. The morning, surely, was the one time you find all farmers working - so why would Grimes be painting? The snoop sisters insisted that no-one liked him.

  He winced. Mustn’t take too much notice of what they say. Medical prognosis, as Beth had been quick to point out, was a heart attack. There was no getting over that. Perhaps George and Beth were right - perhaps he was making too much of it.

  The elegant brass clock on the bookcase chimed eight.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ he mumbled as he leapt up and bounded into the hall. He slipped on his sheepskin jacket and secured his cap. Checking his pockets for gloves and keys, he peered around the kitchen door.

  ‘I’m off to meet Bert. D’you want me to come back and get you later?’