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

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘I must admit,’ he replied, ’I did wonder why he’d been painting at that time. But, then again, I didn’t know him. He always seemed a bit of a strange one. Perhaps that’s just what he did? His house is pretty run down, so maybe he ran the farm like that as well. What did George have to say?’

  ‘Ah, well, he wanted nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I can’t say that surprises me. Perhaps you’re looking for something that’s not there.’ Philip swigged down the last of his beer and placed his glass on the bar. ‘Must dash, need to read Natasha her bedtime story.’

  ‘Right-ho, give her a peck on the cheek from me,’ replied James. He checked his watch and caught Donovan’s eye. ‘Can I have a couple of packets of peanuts, Donovan?’

  Bert appeared, leaning on the bar next to him. ‘So, what are we up to tomorrow?’

  James brought out some change from his pocket and paid for his peanuts. ‘We’re searching for clues, Bert. Searching for clues. Toodle-pip.’

  And, with that cryptic message, he left Bert at the bar scratching his head.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bert dug his fork into the last piece of fried bread and swept it around his plate, soaking up the juices from the bacon fat, tomatoes and baked beans and savouring every last tasty morsel. He pushed his plate away, sat back and closed his eyes in contented bliss.

  ‘That, your very fine Ladyship, was the bee’s knees. I’d even go so far to say that you trumped my old mum on the breakfast front.’

  Beth topped up his cup with tea. ‘Well, it’s a real pleasure feeding you, Bert. I like a man with an appetite and you so enjoy your food.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. You know, you two are getting quite the reputation for cooking around ‘ere. I ‘ope I’m gonna get some more home-made treats at your ‘alloween do.’ He looked at Beth expectantly.

  ‘Well, of course,’ she replied. ‘Mr Mitchell at the orchard said that it’s been a good apple harvest this year, so we’ll have our normal assortment of crumbles and pies for everyone.’

  ‘And Jimmy’s ‘ome-made custard?’

  She assured him that he wouldn’t be disappointed and that home-made custard was very much on the menu.

  ‘Well,’ James said, getting up from his chair, ‘I’m sure that the feast you’ve devoured will keep you going for the morning, at least. Are you going to sit there all day?’

  Bert gulped a couple of mouthfuls of tea and pushed his chair back. ‘You’re in a bit of a rush, Jimmy boy.’ He snatched his scruffy, tweed jacket from the chair and Beth helped him on with it.

  James slipped his own coat on and placed a battered trilby on Bert’s head. ‘Things to do, old chap. Come on.’

  He kissed Beth. ‘Are you here today, darling, or gallivanting off somewhere?’

  ‘I’m with Anne during the morning, helping her unpack and settle in,’ replied Beth. ‘You’ll have to get your own snack at lunchtime - unless, of course, you want to call in at the vicarage?’

  James agreed. It would be nice to keep the welcome going for the young vicar. ‘How about I pop in and grab the lot of you? Tell Anne not to cook. We’ll go to Elsie’s for lunch. My treat.’

  With the arrangements for lunch agreed, James and Bert made their way out to the garage, where Bert sunk into the passenger seat of James’ other car - a sleek, bright red, 4-door Jaguar MKVII saloon. The luxurious interior oozed class and gave off the comforting aroma of old leather and oil. The engine purred under the bonnet as James coaxed her down the drive and out onto the open road.

  Along the way, James updated Bert on what had happened to Grimes and outlined his own suspicions. Bert nodded and raised his eyebrows a few times. He commented on how flimsy it all seemed but, as he didn’t have any real plans for the morning, he was happy to play Watson to James’ Holmes.

  The crisp, winter morning gave the countryside a stark, raw feel - as if everything had disappeared and all life had gone into hibernation. But life - of the human variety - was definitely thriving as they glimpsed families busying themselves inside the cottages along the high street. Lights glimmered through steamy windows as the sun tried its best to warm the frozen earth.

  Enticing smells of egg and bacon occasionally wafted in through the air vents. Children, in buttoned-up duffle coats and polished shoes, dragged their heels to school. Mothers hurried them along impatiently and their fathers either followed behind or had already begun the long commute to London.

  James didn’t envy their journey, especially mid-winter. Their nearest railway station was five miles away at Haywards Heath, which meant getting on the bus before boarding the huge locomotives that thundered up to Victoria and London Bridge every forty minutes.

  It was washing day for many and, although the temperature had barely risen above freezing, windows in many kitchens were left wide open to free the condensation. Wash day consisted of a formulaic process: separating the whites from the colours, boiling the clothes, passing them through the wringer and hanging them on the clothes line in the garden. James smiled fondly. He remembered Harry and Oliver giggling at the sight of frozen washing on the line. Now, here they were, a generation later, witnessing the same process.

  ‘I suppose it’s a little silly to hang wet washing out on a cold day,’ he mused.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Wet washing being hung outside.’

  Bert gave him a quizzical look. ‘Suppose so. My old mum used to hang ‘ers across the alleyways. Used to come in dirtier than when it went out.’

  As they passed through the village and out the other side, the houses became few and far between. In contrast to the buzz and activity in the village, Grimes’ house appeared bleak and desolate, as if standing in a lonely vigil for its now departed owner. James parked close to the house and the pair of them strolled to the front door.

  James searched for the key in his inside pocket. Bert rubbed his hands together and blew warm air into his palms. Cold, misty air escaped as he spoke.

  ‘What exactly are you ‘oping to find ‘ere, Jimmy boy?’

  James opened the door. ‘Just humour me, Bert,’ replied James. ‘Something that may stick out as being unusual.’

  Bert stepped in and looked around the kitchen.

  ‘Crikey, he weren’t exactly house-proud, was he?’

  ‘Mmm, that’s what George said.’

  The kitchen chair still stood halfway across the floor. The broken crockery remained on the lino. The ornamental robin sat, as before, staring into space.

  Bert opened the cupboards and drawers and found all the things he’d expected to find - cutlery, sieves, saucepans - and the staple foods such as bread, flour, oats, eggs and milk. A tin of Bird’s custard powder stood by the side of the cooker alongside a half-eaten apple pie. Bert pointed at it.

  ‘Nice bit o’ pie. Looks all right - I think I’ll ‘ave a piece of that.’

  James stared in disbelief. ‘Good grief, man, you’ve only just had breakfast.’

  Bert sniffed it and rummaged around in a drawer for a spoon. ‘One of your cleaner’s specials, if I’m not mistaken.’ He took a mouthful. ‘Not quite up to your standards, though.’

  James, bemused, shook his head and stepped through to the back room. The sparseness of it all depressed him. This had the hallmarks of a man down on his luck -threadbare carpets, curtains in need of a good wash, a shabby armchair and sunken sofa. However, one thing there wasn’t anything of was dust. Mrs Jepson obviously did a thorough job when she came to clean. There appeared to be a severe lack of personal mementos anywhere; no photographs, ornaments or anything that would mean anything to anyone or shed any light on Alec Grimes, the man and his life.

  James slid open the drawers in the sideboard and rummaged through a pile of invoices for animal feed, farming materials and two copies of a farming magazine. In another drawer were bank statements, which he went to look at, but hesitated. It didn’t seem right to be so nosy. But Grimes did owe Graham money. Perhaps he had some cash tucked away to r
epay him?

  He leafed through the statements, the most recent being at the top. James raised his eyebrows. Grimes had the sum total of fifty-seven pounds, seven shillings and sixpence. Hardly any money seemed to be going in. He checked the back of the drawer with no success. He stroked his chin. Wonder if he had a will? Perhaps the bank has it? He pushed the drawer to. Perhaps he has other accounts or stocks? There’s certainly no sign of Graham’s money being deposited in this one.

  James pondered as he viewed his surroundings. Where on earth was Grimes getting the money to have building work done? Connell hadn’t been paid. Doesn’t look as if he had two farthings to rub together. His eyes scanned the book titles on the shelves above.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he mumbled, frowning as his fingers tapped their spines. Two shelves were dedicated entirely to the supernatural and a family bible right at the end. Gosh. Perhaps that’s why Stan Jepson was here? Getting information for his play, maybe?

  ‘Oi, oi,’ Bert shouted from the kitchen.

  James scampered back and found Bert holding the doormat up. Bert glanced down and James followed his gaze to find a pentagram crudely chalked on the lino.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said James. ‘Well, I must say, that ties in with the books in the back room. Rows of titles on devil worship and black magic.’

  Bert, intrigued, followed James into the back room to look at the books. He then went and folded back the rug by the door frame. James peered over Bert’s shoulder to see another pentagram carved into the floorboards.

  ‘How extraordinary.’

  Bert replaced the rug and shrugged. ‘So ‘e was into black magic. It doesn’t prove anything, Jimmy boy. Lots of things go on behind closed doors, mate. A village looks very quaint from the outside, but on the inside? Well, it’s the same as everywhere else.’

  James heaved a sigh. ‘God, this is frustrating.’ He wandered back to the kitchen and across to the dresser. ‘That’s odd.’

  Bert joined him. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s some more of these pottery pieces. There were some of these on the ground where he died.’

  ‘So he broke a bowl. Hardly murder.’ Bert squatted down and reached in between the dresser and a small cupboard. He pulled out a dinner knife coated in dried egg yolk.

  James glanced across at the table and studied the now dried-up, half-eaten breakfast and could only see a fork by the side of it. A solitary fly feasted on the grease.

  ‘Well, now, what on earth was he doing throwing a knife over here?’ James remarked.

  ‘How d’you know he threw it?’ Bert opened the cupboard above and pointed to the brown sauce on the shelf. ‘He prob’ly popped over ‘ere for sauce and dropped it.’ He waved the knife at James. ‘Not everything’s got a sinister twist, you know.’

  James clenched his jaw and Bert, chuckling, slapped him on the back and placed the knife in his hand.

  ‘There’s nothing ‘ere, Jimmy. You’ve got a dry paintbrush, some books on devil worship and a couple of pentagrams. Stan Jepson’s into the same thing, by the sounds of it. Don’t mean he’s gonna get struck down, does it?’ Bert swung round and faced James. ‘Hey, you don’t think it’s our new vicar, do you?’

  James’ frustration turned to laughter. ‘I can’t imagine such an unassuming chap doing anything untoward, can you?’

  ‘They’re always the worst,’ replied Bert. ‘You know what it’s like when the neighbours get interviewed about a murderer. Always such a quiet bloke, they say. Never ‘ad a bad word about anyone.’ He peered through the window. ‘So what’s gonna ‘appen with all the livestock?’

  ‘Not sure. I believe, they’re being looked after by the farmer along the road, but I suppose they’ll go to be sold off.’

  ‘Graham might get ‘is dosh back if he can prove he’s owed it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ James said putting the dirty knife on the wooden draining board. He threw a tea towel to Bert. ‘Come on, help me out with these plates and I’ll run you home. I’ll wash, you wipe.’

  After dropping Bert off on the outskirts of Brighton, James made his way back to Cavendish and called in to the vicarage. There, he picked up Beth, Stephen and Anne and chauffeured them to Elsie’s, a small, independently-run café-come-restaurant in Charnley, the next village along from Cavendish. The converted cottage had become a firm favourite with the locals because of its home cooking. Their cheese scones were a particular favourite with the afternoon tea brigade, but James preferred to partake of lunch if given the option.

  Settling into cushioned bay-window seats, all four ordered a sherry aperitif and Anne requested some advice from Beth with the food.

  ‘Oh Anne, everything on this menu is divine,’ said Beth. ‘From the liver paté starter to the steam pudding desserts. You can’t go wrong and most of it is made from scratch. I believe that Elsie uses her granny’s recipe book for many of the meals they serve. Whatever you choose, you’re going to love, I promise.’

  James enjoyed the sweet taste of cream sherry as he swirled it around his mouth before swallowing it with a satisfied sigh. ‘Well, I’m going for devilled kidneys and mash.’

  The waitress, dressed in black with a pristine white cotton apron, jotted the order down. Beth handed her the menu.

  ‘I’ll have the lemon sole with fresh peas and a slice of bread and butter on the side.’

  Anne took Stephen’s menu from him. ‘We’re both having the same - herb sausages with onion gravy and mashed potatoes.’

  Expectancy murmured around the table as James topped up Stephen’s glass. The vicar gestured for him to stop.

  ‘B-best be careful, James. Need to write a ser-sermon today.’

  ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ replied James. ‘The old herb sausies will soak it all up. Reminds me of our twins - do you remember, darling? They always loved sausages. Still do - have them every day if they could.’

  ‘Oh yes, I meant to ask,’Anne said. ‘How old are your boys?’

  ‘Twenty,’ James replied. ‘They’re both at Oxford, studying. Well, supposedly studying.’

  Beth explained that James was convinced, from their last visit that Oxford had turned into an enormous social club. Hardly any studying appeared to go on and the two boys flitted from one social gathering to the next. But, and it was more to convince James than anything, she was sure they would come out well-qualified for their respective jobs.

  ‘W-what do they want to do?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Well,’ said James, ‘Harry wants to take over here and help run the country house. I think he sees my job as a life of old riley - which, on the surface, it may appear to be, but the engine room has to stay well-oiled. Oliver’s keen to teach. He’s pretty musical, plays the piano and what-not, so I think he’ll end up doing something in that line.’

  ‘Well, they’re both admirable ambitions, aren’t they?’Anne said.

  Beth smiled. ‘We think so, and you can probably steer Oliver in the right direction with your teaching experience. You’ll meet them when they get home for Christmas. And, I expect to meet your two this weekend. Will they be here in time for Halloween?’

  ‘Oh yes,’Anne gushed. ‘I’ve already told them about that and they’re getting really quite excited.’

  ‘Remind me, how old are they?’

  ‘Luke is eight and Mark is coming up for ten.’

  James and Beth both remarked on what a nice age that was and, as they reminisced about the adventures and toys available to children nowadays, the waitress delivered their steaming hot meals.

  James salivated over the smell of his lightly-spiced lamb kidneys lapped with thick mushroom gravy. Stephen and Anne’s sausages, made by a local butcher, had a hint of mixed herbs with sage and onion, while Beth’s succulent and delicate sole had been freshly caught that morning further down the coast at Hastings. All four tucked in.

  After several minutes of quiet dining, Anne took a break and leant toward James. ‘I heard you went back to Mr Grimes’ farm today.’

  ‘Y
es,’ he replied. ‘Didn’t find anything to convince Bert of my little theory, but I did find one or two oddities of interest.’

  Beth glanced at James. ‘What do you mean - oddities?’

  ‘Well, a stack of books on devil worship and pentagrams under the carpets for starters. Broken crockery and his breakfast knife halfway across the floor.’

  ‘G-good Lord,’ said Stephen. ‘That does s-sound somewhat alarming.’

  ‘Yes, struck me as being a bit odd, but Bert seemed to think we all have little secrets going on behind the drapes. Not that Grimes had any drapes to speak of.’

  Anne agreed. ‘Kidlington, where we were before, is only a small village - a little bigger than Cavendish, but the gossip! Well, it’s unreal and much of it is without foundation; just people with too much time on their hands.’

  Beth nodded in agreement. ‘Village life - the more people know about each other, the more they gossip. And, let’s face it, it’s very English to be a little nosy about the people down the road.’

  Stephen’s face paled. ‘Oh, Lord, what on earth do you talk about if y-you’re giving a funeral service for someone who’s been d-dabbling in the dark arts? Perhaps I sh-should ring the Bishop for some advice?’

  James raised his eyebrows. ‘Mmm, yes, I think perhaps you may have to ring the old Bish, get his thoughts. I s’pose he’s due a Christian burial, the same as everyone else. I mean, forgive and forget and all that.’

  Stephen’s concern became the topic of conversation until the owner of the restaurant, Elsie, waddled over to them. James and Beth were convinced that Elsie tasted all of the meals before they were served - her whole body being round and yet, James thought, extremely cuddly with it.

  At thirty-five, Elsie had remained unmarried, her single passion being food - cooking it, eating it and sharing the finished article with her customers. She’d tied her wiry, blonde hair back into a pony tail and her face glowed from the heat of the kitchen. She fanned herself with her podgy hands as she approached the table.

  ‘Good afternoon, your Lordship. How nice to see you in our establishment again.’