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

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘No thanks, I’d best—’

  ‘Glasgow it was,’ Mrs Keates blurted out. ‘I remember now, because he spoke about getting work at the shipyards.’

  James’ eyes beamed as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘Splendid, you’ve been an absolute peach, Mrs K. Sorry to bundle in unannounced, but thank you for the cake. Pity you haven’t got some soul cake, haven’t had that in years. Think it died out in Cavendish.’

  ‘Well, I’m making a couple,’ she replied. ‘I can always make another one.’

  James held his hands up. ‘No, no, I mustn’t impose further. I’m sure my wife has a recipe somewhere. Ought to get her to revive the tradition.’ He secured his hat and made his way down the narrow hallway to the front door.

  ‘Well, cheerio Mrs K. Thanks for your help and I’ll be in touch about Bonfire Night. If not me, it’ll be my wife.’

  ‘Ooh, that’ll be lovely, your Lordship. I shall look forward to it.’

  After filling up the Jaguar with petrol, James decided to make a detour over to Lewes police station and see if George was available.

  James never needed too much of an excuse to visit Lewes. Its history and architecture lured him at every opportunity. Dating back to the 5th century, Lewes began life as a Saxon settlement and later became a bustling town. In the 9th century, King Alfred made it one of many fortified settlements across his kingdom. At the time of the Norman Conquest in 1066, a stone castle and priory were built and Franciscan monks arrived in the area to preach. It then became a busy market town, as well as a small river port trading in grain and wool.

  The town remained, in James’ opinion, an attractive higgledy-piggledy borough with fine examples of Victorian architecture. The Sussex police based their main courtrooms here, with their big ‘case of the decade’ being the acid bath murderer, Kenneth Haigh, who’d been convicted and hanged just a few years ago.

  He could see the preparations for Bonfire Night were well under way. Lewes had become famous for its 5th November festivities and was one of a number of bonfire societies across the south-east. Each society created an effigy for burning and navigated them through the streets to one of several bonfire displays across the region. Most towns and villages across England, including Cavendish, had an effigy of Guy Fawkes - but not Lewes. James recalled the history lesson from school as if it were yesterday.

  Way back in the 16th century, seventeen protestants were burnt during the Catholic reign of Queen Mary. And, this coming Tuesday, seventeen burning crosses would be paraded through the town and barrels of burning tar would be thrown in the river. It was certainly a spectacle to witness.

  James and Beth had attended a couple of these evenings and, although great fun, they wondered how on earth someone hadn’t been seriously hurt with the burning tar and crosses. James often thought it a shame that Cavendish wasn’t a bit nearer - they could have perhaps formed another bonfire society and joined in. Then again, he pondered, our little evening may be a smaller affair, but at least it won’t be bombarded by hundreds of visitors.

  He parked the car, bounded up the steps of the police station and asked for George. The desk sergeant gestured for him to take a seat and put a call through to the main office. After a few minutes, the door to the inner sanctum opened and George’s gruff voice beckoned him in.

  ‘Fancy a cuppa? I’m gasping.’

  ‘Splendid,’ replied James. ‘You all right? You look a bit flustered.’

  After ordering tea from a young policewoman, George continued speaking as he wandered down the wood-panelled corridor.

  ‘Got some old dear who’s lost her cat. Thinks half the force should be out looking for it.’

  He showed James through to a small, but industrious, office. Papers were piled high on top of grey filing cabinets, uniformed police bustled in and out and black phones rang. A woman police constable brought in two chipped mugs of tea and beamed radiantly when James took the trouble to thank her. George rolled his eyes.

  ‘You’ve made her day. No-one thanks anyone for anything around here. Too busy.’

  James quietly sang the words to Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘Policeman’s Life is Not a Happy One’, but stopped when George glared at him.

  ‘Now, if you’ve come over here to prattle on about Alec Grimes, you can drink your tea and go. I’m too busy for amateurs.’

  ‘Too busy looking for cats, I suppose,’ James said with a wry smile as he swung his feet on to George’s desk.

  George couldn’t help but smirk and leant back in his chair, waiting for James to elaborate. James cradled his mug.

  ‘I took a look around Grimes’ house this morning, with Bert.’

  ‘Why?’ George frowned. ‘And how d’you get in?’

  James took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and jangled them. ‘I told you I’d tidy up, so I had to take the keys. Anyway, the snoop sisters, you know, Rose and Lilac Crumb, were doing their level best to get in on the act, so I locked everything up so nothing would be disturbed, just in case it does turn out to be a crime scene.’

  George raised his eyebrows as James carried on.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve found out quite a lot that leads me to think that there may have been foul play.’ James watched George nod with little excitement. ‘First thing is, no-one seems to have liked him. There are a couple of people that argued with him these last couple of weeks. He owes people money and his son has nothing to do with him.’

  George gave him a blank look. ‘James, not many people like me. I argue with folk and my brother owes me a fiver. It doesn’t make me a murderer.’

  James pointed a finger. ‘And he was a witch, or wizard…well, someone who practices black magic. His house is full of books on devil worship. And there are pentagrams on the floor.’

  James felt pretty pleased with himself. However, George closed his eyes in resignation and tapped a beige folder on his desk.

  ‘The report I’ve got says he died of a heart attack.’

  ‘What about the bump on the head?’

  ‘Speculation. We can’t explain it, but everyone knocks their head.’

  ‘What about the paint?’

  ‘James, we spoke about this. Just because there’s no red paint doesn’t mean that there wasn’t gonna be red paint.’

  ‘Do you think it’s a recent painting?’

  ‘Well, of course! Why would he be working on it if it weren’t recent? ’

  ‘Ha!’James said, loud enough to alert all of the uniformed staff in the area. George gruffly told them to get on with their work and asked James to explain exactly what ‘Ha!’ meant. James planted his feet on the floor and leant forward with a glint in his eye.

  ‘I have that painting at home and I have a pin. I stuck the pin in the painting several times at various places in the canvas.’

  ‘And that proves what?’

  ‘That he hadn’t worked on that painting in weeks. The paint was bone dry. Oils take ages to dry, weeks sometimes. It may be dry on the surface but, underneath, the oils stay sticky. Every colour on that canvas is dry. And the painting is signed. Why sign a painting you haven’t finished?’

  ‘Okay, I admit that’s a little strange,’ said George, ’but I’ll ask you again. What does it prove?’

  James’ excited eyes dulled as he slumped back in his chair. ‘Well, nothing I suppose. You’ve got to admit, it’s a little odd. I mean, why sit yourself out there with a finished painting? And leave a perfectly good breakfast half-eaten? Come on, George, it screams suspicion.’

  ‘Much as I’d love something a little more exciting than a missing cat, I’m not creating a murder enquiry just because you’re bored. It was a heart attack.’

  James let out a frustrated sigh.

  ‘However,’ George added, ‘I admit, that snippets do appear odd, so I’ll ask around.’

  James’ eyes glinted. George wagged a finger at him. ‘But don’t go running around advertising the fact. I haven’t got too much on at the moment, so
I’ll take another look at the reports and what you’ve supposed to be a bit iffy. That’s all I’m doing, though, and I’ll thank you to leave it alone.’

  Although disappointed at George’s priorities, he understood why his friend trod prudently and made a silent promise to himself to carry on investigating.

  ‘Well, I appreciate you giving it some thought,’ he said. ‘But, in the meantime, I wonder if there’s something you could do as a matter of urgency? This son of Alec’s - young Keith Grimes. The vicar wants to contact him to tell him about the funeral. We know he’s estranged and all that, but it wouldn’t be right to go ahead with the funeral and not let him know, would it? So, we wondered whether you could track him down.’

  George opened up his notepad and asked James for more information. He scrawled down the details and made a couple of phone calls. Placing the receiver back on its cradle, he leant on the desk and linked his fingers.

  ‘Right, I’ve got someone on to that. They’ll find out where he is and let him know about his dad. I’ll let you know what he says, or if he’s coming down. When’s the funeral?’

  ‘Not sure, but if you give the vicar his details I’m sure the two can sort it out between them.’ James bit his lip. ‘Tell me, George, d’you know much about Halloween? You know, black magic and all that?’

  George groaned. ‘Bloody Halloween. And Bonfire Night. The only thing I know is that we get some right idiots setting off fireworks.’

  James chuckled at him and slid his chair back. ‘Thanks for the tea, old man. Are you involved in this play we’re putting on, The Devil Incarnate?’

  George groaned again and confirmed that he was. He’d wanted to do the lighting or something back stage, but that awful woman, Dorothy Forbes, insisted that he don the greasepaint and tread the boards. At least, George said with some relief, he’d managed to secure a bit part with just a couple of lines. James acknowledged his feelings.

  ‘Mmm, that’s what she’s saddled me with. I’ve taken over the part that Grimes was supposed to be playing. You’re at rehearsals this weekend?’

  George grunted and James took that as a yes. For someone in such a senior position, he wondered how George managed to saddle himself with things he didn’t want to do. Although, at the same time, he understood how the rather fierce and bossy Dorothy Forbes could manipulate people into all manner of unfamiliar situations. He shook hands with George and saw himself out after thanking the policewoman again for the lovely tea.

  As James negotiated the dark roads back to Cavendish, his mind wandered to Alec Grimes. George had said that the bump on the head couldn’t be explained. He supposed that he could have received that doing anything. But, no matter what argument George put up, that painting had been finished months ago. And why be in such a rush to button your coat up the wrong way? And the heels on his shoes! Good Lord, he’d forgotten to mention that! It’s as if he’d been dragged to his seat. Reaching a straight part of the road, James put his foot down on the accelerator and gritted his teeth.

  ‘Time to take the bull by the horns, James. Dig and delve deeper and get the proof that George is looking for.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Arriving home, James slammed the door on the blustery weather and brushed the soles of his shoes on the mat. Beth swung open the door from the kitchen.

  ‘Hey, I wondered where you’d disappeared to.’

  She helped him slip out of his coat and he rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Darling, is the water hot? If it is, I’m going up for a bath. I’ve been in and out of this damned rain and cold all day and I need to warm up - I feel chilled through to my bones.’

  ‘Well, I guess you’d best go and run your bath and I’ll bring a nice warming drink to you,’ said Beth. ’What do you fancy?’

  James looked at the clock. ‘I know it’s a little early, but I’ll have a small cognac, thanks. Won’t be long, I’ve lots to tell you. Are we on our own for dinner, or do we have guests?’

  ‘Well, much as I love company, I’m pleased to say that we’re on our own tonight.’

  ‘Splendid,’ replied James. ‘We can have the evening to ourselves.’ He trotted up the wide staircase and straight along the landing to the bathroom, a large airy room with polished navy blue and white tiling and primrose yellow accessories.

  He turned the taps full on, then filtered bath salts and oil into the water and swirled the ingredients around the tub. Padding across the tiles to the marble corner-shelf, he turned the wireless on and was greeted by the mellow voice of Danny Kaye singing ‘Ball in the Jack’. James hummed along in the background, quietly shuffling the steps that accompanied the lyrics. The mirror steamed up and the walls dripped with condensation as James stepped into the hot water and sunk down until only his head appeared above the foaming bubbles. Beth popped in with his cognac and set it down on the table behind him.

  ‘I’m doing toad in the hole, so it’ll be a little while,’ she said. ‘Now, you take your time. Tell me all about your afternoon after you’ve relaxed in that tub.’ She kissed his forehead and disappeared back downstairs.

  James closed his eyes and pondered the origins of toad in the hole. How had sausages baked in Yorkshire pudding resulted in being given such a ridiculous name? His stomach growled and it was then that he realised how hungry he was, even more so when Beth was cooking.

  Like most girls, she had learnt the majority of her cooking skills standing next to her mother, who had attended a cookery school before she’d married. Although Beth could copy her style and turn out some excellent Cordon Bleu cuisine, she was equally at home doing the normal everyday fodder. Toad in the hole was, she knew, one of his favourites and was torn between a good long soak in the bath and rushing down to hurry dinner along. But, mortal man cannot rush such a fine dish, so he opted to sink back and allow the stresses of the day to melt away.

  After Danny Kaye, Connie Francis, Frank Sinatra and Pat Boone all serenaded James as the steaming water opened his pores and warmed him to the core. The small cognac sent a fiery glow down to his stomach and banished any remaining chills, both inside and out. Beth’s warning shout announcing that dinner would be ready in ten minutes made him stir, albeit reluctantly.

  Dressed in dark grey wool trousers, a white open-necked shirt and a powder blue sweater, a reinvigorated James trotted down the stairs and made his way through to the dining room. The table looked inviting, with a peach tablecloth and matching napkins and, in the centre, the normal condiments along with a lidded gravy boat.

  James licked his lips, picked up the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured the pair of them a glass of sherry. Beth came through from the kitchen carrying two plates and placed them on the table.

  ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘Gravy’s on the side.’

  Making himself comfortable in a carver chair, James flicked out his napkin and drew it across his lap, then leant in and smelt the aroma of sausages, encased in crispy Yorkshire pudding with peas to the side. In a separate dish, Beth had whipped up fresh mashed potatoes and, in the gravy, had stirred fried onions and mushrooms.

  James salivated at the thought of it all and, in no time, he’d loaded his plate until there was no room except for the smothering of gravy. He tucked in with relish. Beth looked across at him in amusement.

  ‘Well, I guess I won’t get anything from you about your day until the meal is over.’

  ‘Oh, gosh. Sorry darling,’ James said with his mouth full. ‘I’m being terribly rude. If you weren’t such a damned good cook, I wouldn’t go at it like a ravenous dog.’

  He savoured the mouthful he had and made a conscious effort to slow down and speak with his wife. In between the juicy texture of pork sausages and onion gravy, James enthusiastically updated Beth on his afternoon with Mrs Keates, his discussion with George Lane and the likely whereabouts of Keith Grimes.

  Beth nodded with interest and commented on how tragic it was that Keith would never have the opportunity of making it up with his fat
her. James waved a fork at her.

  ‘Don’t feel too sorry for him, darling. He may well have killed him.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you think you’re taking this a little too seriously? Why would he want to kill him? I know they didn’t like each other, but it sounds like he had his own life up there and never came back.’

  ‘But how do you know? He may be skulking around here and we don’t know it. Anyway, who’s to say what went on between them? For all we know, they may have made up and were still in contact.’

  ‘But then, surely you would have found some correspondence or something?’ asked Beth. ‘Grimes doesn’t have a phone, does he? And it sounds like that farmhouse was bare.’

  James frowned and shook his head. ‘Yes, you’re quite right. That house had nothing in it. It’s as if he’d wiped his entire life out. Quite distressing, really. You wonder what got him to that point. He must have been married, had a sweetheart an’ all. But all I found - where I looked, anyway - was just invoices and old magazines. No photographs or family mementos. Couldn’t even find an address book.’

  Beth gazed at the ceiling and swallowed her food thoughtfully. ‘Not much to show for your life, is it? Something happened in his life that made him what he was. I wonder what it could have been?’

  They continued to dissect life and discuss what people leave behind when they shuffle off this mortal coil and agreed that, when push came to shove, you truly did go out of this world the same way that you came in - with nothing. Scraping every last morsel from his dinner plate, James sat back with a sense of deep satisfaction.

  ‘By the way, how much do you know about Halloween?’ he asked. ‘You know, the superstition side? Black magic and all that?’

  Beth frowned and said she didn’t really know anything except the normal games people played.

  ‘That reminds me, are you going to make your apple crumble for the Halloween party?’ said Beth. ‘You make such a nice recipe and everyone enjoys it.’