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

by Lynn Florkiewicz

‘Not tonight,’ replied Beth. ‘I think I’ll finish off here and then listen to the wireless. The BBC is in the middle of an Edgar Wallace and it’s getting near the end. You can bring me back some peanuts, though.’

  ‘Right-ho, see you later, then.’

  The Half Moon public house overlooked the village green and presented itself, as it had for the last four hundred years, as the hub of Cavendish life. Sleet fluttered in the breeze and the orange glow of the pub’s lights filtered a warm, welcoming beacon to anyone braving the elements.

  The Inn’s sign displayed a crescent moon shining over thatched cottages, with the silhouette of a shepherd walking toward them; a cosy haven from the trials of the working day. James wondered how many weary workers and farm hands had relaxed in the bar over the centuries. He pulled off his gloves, turned the brass-knob handle and walked in.

  The noise, heat and ambience hit him. The sweet aroma of tobacco, malt and hops enticed him, along with the constant chatter and laughter of the villagers.

  Across the ceiling, the ancient oak beams exhibited horse brasses, stiff leather reins and bent horseshoes. Sepia photographs of long dead farmers and smocked shepherds holding pewter mugs of ale adorned the walls. A ragged Union Jack hung above a more recent picture of men from the village who had given their lives during the Great War. A selection of Toby jugs and ancient, dusty beer bottles lined the shelves and, beneath them, numerous optics offering an excellent choice of spirits, old and new.

  The taps on the bar tempted the villagers’ taste buds with ales that, just from name alone, beckoned customers to taste them: Sussex Mild, Harvey Old Ale, Black Stout, Indian Pale Ale, Winter Bitter and the local Old Truman’s Christmas beer delivered earlier that week.

  Behind the bar stood the giant of a landlord, Donovan Delaney, who had taken over the running of the pub five years ago. He’d been a publican in his native Dublin but, on marrying Kate, a Sussex girl, and with a couple of children reaching school-age, they’d moved closer to Brighton to be near his wife’s family.

  As with all newcomers in the village, he had to work hard to win over the locals, but Donovan had sussed them out. By being open to suggestions, together with his loyalty to popular ales and local breweries, it didn’t take long for that acceptance to come.

  He held up a hand in greeting and shouted across to James with a melodic Irish lilt. ‘Evening to you, your Lordship. What is it you’ll be having?’

  James took his cap off and fought his way to the bar. ‘Ah, good evening to you, Donovan. A pint of your new Christmas ale, please, and whatever the people with Bert are having. Have one yourself, as well.’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do. Your man Bert’s in the far corner there.’

  James looked across to where Donovan had nodded. He put the money for the drinks on the dented oak bar and weaved his way through the locals, stopping, occasionally to chat and say hello to the regulars.

  As was normal in these parts, the men of the village descended upon the Half Moon in the evening and spent most of the time chatting and playing darts or skittles in the back bar. The wives remained at home to look after the children, although elderly widows occasionally congregated together in the quieter areas to the side.

  He found Bert in the far booth by the window looking out onto the village green. His craggy face lit up as he shoved his drinking companions along the wooden bench to make room for James.

  ‘Oi, oi, Jimmy boy,’ he said. ‘Take the weight off.’

  James shrugged his coat off and plonked down next to Bert, just as the drinks arrived. He glanced around the table to see who was sitting with him.

  Alongside Bert was Graham Porter, the family butcher and an excellent one to boot. James loved the vast selection of meat and poultry he stocked and was delighted to learn that he’d started a small-holding, keeping pigs and chickens to sell in the shop. His latest offering was thickly sliced home-cured gammon which, the whole village agreed, was the best in the county with awards to prove it.

  Next to him was the Doc, who appeared deep in conversation with the new vicar, Stephen Merryweather. Then came Ian Connell, the builder he’d met at Grimes’ farm and, lastly, Dorothy Forbes, an elderly well-to-do but bossy woman, who insisted on directing all of the Cavendish Players’ dramas. Every few years a brave contender would speak out to take that mantel from her, but their attempts always failed - such was her assertiveness in such confrontations. After a blanket greeting to all, James felt Bert nudge him as he leant towards him and whispered.

  ‘Got some nice quality gear come in today. Beth’ll be interested - good silky satins, ideal for ball-gowns and what ‘ave yer. They’re ‘alf the price of what you’d pay up town in Bond Street.’

  James smirked. He’d known Bert Briggs all his life and, although they came from opposite ends of the social scale, they’d become firm friends. They’d both met when they were eight years old whilst on a school trip to London. James’ class, from a small private school near Lewes, had journeyed to the Natural History Museum as part of their biology studies. Bert’s class was from Bethnal Green, one of the roughest areas in London’s East End, and had arrived on the same day. Fate transpired that they would bump into each other throughout the whole day.

  Two things remained in James’ memory. Firstly, Bert never stopped asking questions - he became infuriatingly annoying as he bombarded the teacher, the resident guide and any other passers-by with endless queries about the exhibits, the building and the people. Secondly, he ribbed James rotten about his upper-crust accent and his ‘toff’ background, likening him to a by-gone era of Jeeves and Wooster. In spite of this, Bert did nothing but win James over with his humour, his knowledge and intriguing stories of the East End.

  Much to his parents’ chagrin, James had insisted on keeping in touch with him from that day and the pair regularly corresponded, although James always found it difficult to read Bert’s untidy scrawl. That untidiness also transmitted itself to his dress sense, especially in the winter, from his scuffed hobnail boots to a moth-eaten check flat cap that was permanently perched on the side of his head.

  They’d both turned forty-five and, where James had stayed slim and relatively fit, Bert had become thick-set, expanded at the waist and appeared to have turned grey quite early. His craggy face reminded James of the tight isobars on a weather map. He’d married for a short while, but tired of being under the thumb of a nagging spouse and moved out. He ended up living in the Brighton area, where he spent most days on the markets or at the racecourse.

  James watched Bert expertly roll a cigarette and slam the tobacco tin on the table.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘Plenty more where that came from - ‘alf the price than in the shops.’

  James grinned at the horrified look on Reverend Merryweather’s face. Bert did take a bit of getting used to; everything he sold ‘fell off the back of a lorry’, but you never asked where things came from. He never enquired about anything Bert did, preferring, instead, to ignore any criminal activities, especially considering the occupation of his other close friend, George Lane.

  Dorothy’s bony knuckles rapped on the table.

  ‘Attention everyone, please. I knew some of my bit-part Players would be here tonight. I want to remind you that we start rehearsals for The Devil Incarnate this weekend. I expect you’re all going to be there, yes?’

  A few mumbled that they supposed they would. Stephen shifted uneasily in his seat.

  ‘Is the title absolutely nnecessary? It all sounds very evil.’

  Bert leant forward. ‘You ‘ave to ‘ave some evil in your life, vicar. Can’t ‘ave good without evil.’

  ‘W-well, that’s true, but—’

  ‘No ‘buts’, me old codger,’ replied Bert. ‘A good play always ‘as a bit of bad in it. A nice conflict, warts an all. But, I bet you a pound to a penny, good’ll overcome evil in this one. That ‘appens in every story you read.’ He glanced at Dorothy. ‘That’s right, innit, love? ’

  Dor
othy glowered at him, not caring for such a common man. However, for the sake of Lord Harrington, she put up with him. ‘You’re correct with your assumptions, yes.’

  Graham took a deep breath and let it out as a big sigh. James couldn’t imagine him being anything other than a butcher, with meat cleaver hands and a fiery red face with hair to match.

  ‘Does anyone know what it’s about?’ asked Graham. ‘I’m supposed to be playing a priest or something.’ He glanced at Stephen. ‘You’ll have to give me a few pointers.’

  Stephen smiled politely at the man three times his size.

  ‘Well,’ Dorothy said, ‘Stan Jepson’s written it. He’s not here at the moment, but I’m sure he can explain the storyline in a little more detail. It has something to do with people that come back from the dead. Mud men, I believe he calls them.’

  Ian Connell burst out laughing. ‘Mud men! Sounds like some sort of horror film.’

  James could understand Ian’s astonishment. He had to admit that it did sound a bit odd.

  ‘Dorothy, have you read this play?’ he asked. ‘I mean, no disrespect to Mr J and all that, but is it, you know, is it any good?’

  Dorothy pushed her shoulders back as if ready to defend herself, but she then shrugged.

  ‘To be honest, your Lordship, I haven’t,’ she replied. ‘It’s the first read through this weekend. But Dr Jackson has read a few pages and it seemed well-written, so I’m being guided by him. After all, he’s a professional, so I trust him.’

  Philip puffed on his pipe with a bemused look.

  ‘Mmm, professional in the sense of being a Doctor, not a playwright,’ he responded. ‘Don’t know if the whole thing is going to be any good. I only read the first act, but he certainly knows how to write an opening if that’s any help.’

  Stephen took a sip of stout and his face brightened. ‘Well, if we feel it’s not right, we can j-join the children and the pantomime.’

  He groaned as Bert kicked him under the table. ‘In your dreams, Stevie boy. This is the juiciest bit of drama Cavendish ‘as ever put on.’

  ‘Lord Harrington,’ Dorothy said, ‘Alec Grimes was supposed to be playing a minor part - just a few lines. Would you be able to take that role on? I know you’re organising Halloween and Bonfire Night, but…’

  James gestured for her to stop. ‘Say no more, Dorothy, director of all good plays. Lord H will be there.’

  Bert rolled his eyes as Dorothy zealously thanked him. Stephen swallowed nervously.

  ‘S-so what are the mud men?’

  Graham straightened up, making himself appear even bigger than he was, let out a low moan and, zombie-like, groped the air with his hands. Ian chuckled and Dorothy glared at him.

  ‘If you’re going to be childish…’

  James settled everyone down. ‘No, come on, Dorothy,’ he said. ‘We are genuinely interested.’

  She chewed her bottom lip and gave them a sheepish look. ‘To be honest, gentlemen, I’m afraid I don’t really know. It all sounded rather far-fetched to me. Something about making a man out of mud and it comes to life. What an imagination!’

  Everyone stared inquiringly at one another, except for Bert, who swigged the last of his pint down and let out a huge satisfied sigh at the end of it.

  ‘A golem,’ he announced as he waved his glass in the air. ‘Donovan, another round over ‘ere, mate.’

  James frowned. ‘A what?’

  ‘Mud men. They’re called golems.’

  ‘Golems? D’you mean to say they actually exist?’

  Bert gestured a ‘maybe’ or ‘maybe not’ with his hands.

  ‘Literally, no,’ he replied. ‘It’s a story, a myth. The stories I’ve ‘eard come from Jewish folklore. Now, if the Jews felt they was being persecuted in some way, well, that’s when they’d summon up a golem. They make this geezer out of the earth - so they go out somewhere and model a life-size man from mud or clay. Then, they ‘ave special prayers and fings and ‘ave to include the four elements - nature elements, you know, fire, earth, water, wind. Then, the people making the golem circle around the mud man seven times, chanting prayers and mimicking the elements.’

  Bert’s audience sat enthralled.

  Graham folded his arms. ‘And what happens when they’ve done that?’

  ‘Well, then the golem comes to life and seeks out the enemy, or whatever they’re asked to do.’

  ‘Y-you mean, it’s like a k-killing machine?’ Stephen said with a look of alarm.

  Bert shook his head. ‘Nah, vicar, nothing like that. It’s made to protect ‘em from their enemies. The blokes who make it will ask it to seek out who’s persecuting them - so it goes out and finds ‘em. Then it’s up to those who are persecuted to decide what to do. I don’t fink it ends up as a massacre or anything.’

  Stephen chewed his lip. Graham took a swig of beer, while Ian raised his eyebrows. Philip, as usual, took it all in his stride and continued puffing on his pipe. Dorothy studied Bert with some trepidation.

  ‘How on earth do you know all of this?’

  ‘I’m from the East End, love. Lots of Jews up there, so you get to hear lots of stories, ‘specially folklore and all that. Every culture ‘as similar things about people coming back from the dead.’ He leant forward. ‘Now, the Bulgarians, they ‘ave a water nymph that supposedly killed a man. To bring the man back to life, she had to fly to the moon and back and take him to the gardens of Magda. Then there’s all the fertility stuff like the holly parade.’

  Graham cocked his head inquisitively and Bert stared back at him in amazement.

  ‘Well, you’ve gotta know about that, surely?’ he said. ‘Villagers go parading holly down the streets during the winter days and that encourages growth and new life. The Morris men get involved in all of that. You do it in Cavendish, for God’s sake.’

  Philip nodded. ‘Yes, we do. I’ve never really known why, though.’

  Bert winked at Dorothy. ‘I’m not just an ‘andsome face, Mrs Forbes. I bet you think there’s something pretty special about me now, don’t you?’

  James pressed his lips together as Bert roared with laughter. He had one of the most disgusting laughs he’d ever heard and this was now resounding loudly through the bar. Those in earshot laughed along with him, even though most had little idea why they were doing so. Dorothy gathered her bag and papers.

  ‘I’ve more Players to see,’ she said, flustered. ‘I’ll see you at rehearsals. In fact, I’ll see you at the Halloween do first.’ She scurried away to the sound of muffled laughter.

  Once everyone had settled down, James looked across at Graham. ‘Do you know what part I’m going to be playing?’

  ‘No idea, James. Bloody glad that Grimes fella isn’t in it, though.’

  James’ eyebrows raised. ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t be like this,’ replied Graham, ‘him just being dead and all, but he owed me money. I got right annoyed when I heard he’d employed Ian here to do some building work. Now, if he could afford that, why couldn’t he afford to pay me what he owed? And, more to the point, how am I gonna get that money back?’

  ‘D’you mind me asking how much?’ asked James.

  ‘Near on two hundred and fifty quid.’

  Philip’s pipe fell into his hands. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘Yeah. He had the option to buy some extra land or something and didn’t have the money. He knew I’d had a windfall from an inheritance. He’d agreed to pay it back monthly, but I never got anything from him.’

  Bert stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Well, I can nip over there and retrieve two ‘undred and fifty quid’s worth—’

  ‘Bert,’ James interrupted. ‘Nothing underhand, please. Anyway, I don’t think you’d find anything worth that much.’ He turned to Graham. ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘About eight months.’ A guilty look crossed his face. ‘I got that angry with him a couple of weeks ago, I threatened to kill him.’

  Stephen
glared and Graham fidgeted.

  ‘I didn’t, of course,’ he continued. ‘I may look like a giant idiot, but I wouldn’t have killed him. Christ.’ He glanced at Stephen. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, vicar, I mean, I thought it was about time I put the frighteners on, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ Philip added. ‘The snoop sisters are doing the rounds after getting the news from Mrs Jepson about him. They said Stan Jepson had a run-in with him this morning. Not sure whether that’s true, though. Have to take what they say with a pinch of salt.’

  James stroked his chin.

  ‘He didn’t sound very well liked,’ said Stephen.

  James raised his eyebrows and encouraged the vicar to spill the beans.

  ‘I-I thought I’d try and f-find out a little bit about him - for the funeral. No-one seemed to have a good word to say. Well, those that knew him, anyway.’

  They sipped their drinks and sat for a while in thoughtful and contented silence. James lost himself in a daydream. After a while, Bert nudged him.

  ‘All right, Jimmy boy?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, yes I think so. Bert, what are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Ducking and diving, mate. Ducking and diving.’

  ‘Could you spare a couple of hours first thing in the morning?’

  ‘For you, boy, anything.’

  ‘Come for breakfast. Eight o’clock suit?’

  ‘Get Beth to dish up an extra sausage and I’m there.’

  Philip leant across the table and tapped James on the arm. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  James gestured for him to leave the table and join him at the bar. They stood at the far end, away from any eavesdroppers.

  ‘Listen, old chap, re this Grimes business,’ began James. ‘I know you said it was a heart attack and all that, but could you have been wrong?’

  Jackson shook his head slowly and studied his pipe. ‘I don’t think so. It was pretty cut and dried. Why?’

  James went through his suspicions over the state of the kitchen and his concerns over Grimes’ decision to go out painting at odd times of the day. Philip re-lit his pipe and allowed the smoke to dissipate before replying.