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

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied James. ‘The Harrington special will, most definitely, be available on the night. Oh, by the way, I talked Mrs Keates into doing some baking for us for Bonfire Night. Hope you don’t mind, but she makes the most delicious fairy cakes. In fact, she’s baking a soul cake for their Halloween do. Have you still got your recipe?’

  ‘Why yes! Goodness, I haven’t made that cake in an age. But, do you know,’ Beth added with an assured nod, ‘I think it may be time to revive it.’

  ‘Good show, darling. It’ll be a night to remember.’

  Beth pushed her chair back and perused the recipe books on the shelf beside her. She glanced back to James.

  ‘You know, if you want to know about Halloween, you could do worse than speak with Professor Wilkins.’

  ‘The old Prof? Why?’

  ‘Well, he runs the local historical society. He may know something about the local customs here, or at least have some literature. Then there’s Charlie Hawkins, the librarian. I bet there are some good books in the reference section. Why do you want to know, anyhow?’

  ‘Oh, just curious, you know, with all this business with Grimes. I know you think I may be taking this too far, but I’m sure there’s more to his death. Instinct tells me I’m right to look into it more.’

  ‘Well, James,’ said Beth, ‘all I’ll say is be careful. It’s all very well listening to Paul Temple and reading Maigret, but that’s fiction. The real world is different and that’s why we have a police force.’

  James smirked at his wife’s lecture and assured her that he would tread carefully. Beth gave him a knowing look.

  ‘Well, I hope you do. And Wilkins is around. I saw him in the village earlier. I know he’s not the most approachable man in the world, but I think he is the most knowledgeable one - on that topic, anyway.’

  James said it was a splendid idea. He helped Beth clear away the plates and followed her into the kitchen. His mind buzzed with plans for the up and coming village functions, but Grimes’ death remained a fixture, too.

  He wanted to pursue this matter with Grimes, but his official duties were a priority and the villagers expected him to take them seriously. The life of the Lord of the Manor was, in most parts of the country, beginning to die out, if they had not done so already. James’ determination to keep the tradition alive brought commendations from the villagers but, with this ever-changing and evolving world, he did privately fear for his son’s ambitions to inherit this lifestyle from him.

  The country hotel would be the way forward for him as tourism was stepping up now. He wondered if his ancestors would turn in their graves if they could see the number of strangers who spent their leisure time at the old manor. They should, however, be proud of the annual traditions and, for now, Halloween was this coming Thursday. He’d planned to open up the large, grassy field to the side of the house and, although it had rained that day, the forecast sounded promising with a return to dry, frosty evenings.

  While Beth stacked away the dinner plates, he flicked through the handwritten recipes that she kept stored in a blue folder. He knew exactly the one he wanted. The paper had been folded and unfolded over the years and looked tired and frayed. Grease marks had made parts of it slightly translucent over the course of time, but that added to the sentiment and the ultimate joy of making his beloved grandmother’s apple crumble. For some silly reason, he thought that typing it out on fresh paper would completely spoil the dish itself.

  Beth hummed ‘Three Coins in a Fountain’ as she washed the work surface and James opened the cupboards to check that he had all of the ingredients needed. Butter, flour, brown sugar, cinnamon and cloves. All present and correct.

  They expected around forty villagers for Halloween. The cold weather kept many of the elderly from attending but it was really a night for the children. By contrast, Bonfire Night always saw the numbers double. Indeed, the whole village appeared to turn up for that. Even if it snowed, the older residents stood close enough to the bonfire to keep warm.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ said Beth, ‘Mr Mitchell, from the orchard, popped by with a basket of apples for the apple-bobbing. We have so many. I hope you have ideas for how to use them all.’

  ‘Excellent! Did he leave some half-barrels as well? If not, we’ll have to find some big buckets.’

  ‘Yes, he left three. They’re out the back by the stables. What are you planning?’

  James glanced up at the ceiling in thought. ‘Well, for the youngsters we have apple-bobbing, and I thought I’d also do snap-apple. That’s the one where you hang the apples from pieces of string and try and bite it without using your hands.’ He leant back on the work surface. ‘We’ve got Bob Tanner’s little folk band and the Morris dancers to do some seasonal steps. I’m clearing a bit of the field so we can have a ceilidh. Now, if we’ve got loads of apples, perhaps we could do that game where you have to pass an apple to each other from under your chin.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great fun,’ replied Beth. ‘We used to do that at Christmas, do you remember? That’s a real hoot.’

  ‘And, if you’re going to make some soul cakes, we should re-introduce souling.’

  Beth’s forehead furrowed. ‘Now, remind me, what exactly is souling?’

  James held the door open for her as they wandered through to the living room.

  ‘Well, from what I can remember, it’s part of an ancient Christian festival. People make house calls and beg for soul cakes. The person receiving the cake promises to pray for the deceased relatives of the person giving the cake. I’ll get something set up here and we’ll have different people to give out the cakes.’ James winked her. ‘We don’t want everyone praying for your dead ancestors, do we?’

  Beth hit him playfully. ‘And what about mischief night? Is that still going ahead? I mean, it’s on the same night.’

  She had introduced the American tradition two years ago and it had proved such a hit that they’d decided to continue with it.

  “Absolutely, old thing, the children are looking forward to that.”

  He went on to confirm that the party would begin at seven o’clock. Beth’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘Those children are going to be so excited. It’ll certainly be a noisy evening.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said James, ’that’s one thing I do know about Halloween. It’s the night that the dead are said to return; so the more noise you can make the better. It scares away those evil spirits.’

  They chuckled as James pulled her toward him. ‘You know, Stan Jepson’s play is all about bringing people back from the dead. You never know, the ghost of Alec Grimes may pay us a visit.’

  Beth felt goose bumps across her arms - she pushed James away and playfully slapped him. ‘Don’t you spook me, James.’

  James grinned and assured her that he would keep her safe from any evil intentions. He leant forward and gave her a kiss.

  ‘It would be odd if something happened, though, wouldn’t it?’ He crossed over to the cocktail cabinet and refilled their sherry glasses. ‘Come on, let’s go listen to the wireless; part two of Paul Temple’s on. I might get a few ideas about sleuthing.’

  Beth let out a ‘what am I going to do with him’ sigh as he turned the wireless on and wandered across to the sofa. She hoped that nothing sinister would happen. There was no reason for it to, she reminded herself. Although she’d been told Grimes had suffered a heart attack, she had to admit that some of what James had told her had sowed small seeds of doubt in her mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bob Tanner and his folk band, the Taverners, tuned their fiddles and guitars on the make-shift stage and quietly discussed the tunes and dances for the Halloween ceilidh. With some input from Beth, they’d decided to give a little variety to the evening with a selection of Irish reels, Morris tunes and a string of chorus songs that everyone knew and could join in with. On James’ request, they warmed up by belting out a Dublin reel.

  As they rattled the tune out, James carefully looped th
e last of the Chinese lanterns through the long parade of cherry trees that lined the field adjoining their house. He unravelled the wiring to an extension, squatted down and pushed the plug firmly into the socket. The lamps sprang to life, twinkling magnificently among the bare branches.

  ‘Oh, that’s perfect,’ Beth said. ‘Better than last year, I’d say.’

  He looked across and winked at Beth. She’d dressed for the weather and the occasion. Her elegant, wide wool trousers and three-quarter length flared coat kept her fashionable as well as warm. James had opted for dark-blue corduroys, a thick patterned red and white Scandinavian sweater and a cashmere scarf. He straightened up and beamed at the result of his efforts.

  ‘That looks rather jolly, doesn’t it?’ He fingered the lantern above him. ‘I did wonder, you know, if we’d seen the last of these.’

  The lanterns, a family heirloom from the thirties, had looked a little tired and frayed. Over the decades, haphazard repairs ensured their continued use and, in some ways, added to their appeal. Although James spoke about updating them, Beth insisted that they be kept and displayed. Each paper lantern shone a colourful beacon in the clear, winter air. Golden yellows, fiery orange, azure blue and emerald green flickered in the stillness and immediately turned the cold, grassy field into a welcoming hub for the villagers.

  Bert stood up from building a pile of logs in the middle of the field and had already made attempts to light it. Although there was hot food and cider ready for the guests, the night air was too chilly for standing around without some heat. Little flickers of flame lapped around the base of the logs and he blew gently, encouraging them to take hold.

  Beth put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job, Bert.’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll put a rope fence around so people don’t fall into it.’

  An enormous hog roast, delivered by Graham Porter earlier in the evening, stood on a spit just by the entrance to the field. Cooking now, for just on an hour, James turned the meat on the huge rotary and licked his lips as the fatty juices dripped onto the spitting flames. The salted skin from the hog had already turned crisp and brown, forming a wonderful crackling shell.

  The sweet smell of Bramley apples, cinnamon and warm bread wafted out of the kitchen and this, coupled with the aroma of fresh pork, compounded his hunger pangs. He patted his stomach. He decided he must have a good metabolism to stay in the shape he did, especially with all this lovely food to eat.

  Anne stood in the kitchen, buttering fifty bread rolls and slicing sage and onion stuffing to serve with the hog roast. A typical vicar’s wife, she’d immersed herself into the social scene immediately, contributing even in the smallest way to village events. But, unlike her predecessor, she wasn’t tee-total and loved a drink with everyone else. James stepped inside and poured her a large glass of sweet sherry.

  ‘Oh goodness, I shouldn’t really,’ she said, snatching the glass with a cheeky grin. ‘Luke and Mark have arrived and Stephen’s getting them dressed, so they’ll probably look a complete mess. He has no sense when it comes to dressing children.’ She glanced through the window at the clear skies. ‘Looks like the weather’s going to hold, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly does, and thank you so much for what you’ve done. I think my wife is overjoyed to have your help, and your company. You’re a lot more fun than the last vicar’s wife.’

  Beth, making minor adjustments to the lanterns, shouted across.

  ‘You’re an absolute star, Anne, you really are. We could never have done this on our own.’

  Anne, no longer overcome by being so intimate with a Lord and Lady, carried on buttering and shouted back. ‘It’s the least I can do. How’re we doing for time?’

  ‘It’s coming up to a quarter to seven.’ Beth replied as she made her way to the kitchen.

  James checked his own watch. Goodness, how the time flies, he thought to himself. Soon, the annual conveyor belt would begin and all the prior planning would ensure a splendid party for all concerned - just as in previous years.

  The children would soon finish mischief night and their families would arrive at any minute. In no time at all, he’d be standing in position dishing out thick slices of juicy pork from the spit in warm, doughy rolls. Beth would secure them in red paper napkins and Bert would ladle hot cider and soft drinks to all and sundry. Indigestion, here we come!

  The first batch of signature apple crumbles browned on a low gas in the oven. James had made six in total and always did the custard last thing. That way it all came out piping hot. He didn’t realise, all those years ago, that such a simple dish would be so popular. With Beth’s encouragement, he’d discovered a natural talent for baking. Now, at any village ‘do’, he happily provided some sort of pudding, usually Grandma’s recipe. Winter, of course, meant making good use of the Bramley cooking apple.

  Earlier in the day, Bert had helped lay some wooden panels on the grass for the ceilidh and attached paper bunting around the make-shift stage, which consisted of web matting and upturned tea-chests for chairs. Surrounding the dance floor were barrels of water for the apple-bobbing contests and apples, secured on string, hung from the trees for snap-apple.

  The children from the village school had also shown their skills with some creative pumpkin carving. Beth scurried around placing candles inside them, while Bert followed close on her heels with matches to light them. Haunting pumpkin faces gazed across the field in ghoulish glee. James made his customary walk around the field; no matter how many times he hosted these events, a slight worry always lurked in his stomach before the guests arrived. He so wanted everyone to enjoy themselves.

  At seven, the first villagers arrived along with their children, who quickly pointed out which pumpkins they’d carved and shouted excitedly at the games, the band and the enormous hog turning on the spit. Many of them raced straight to the dance area and leapt around to the jigs and reels.

  Although more traditionally associated with Bonfire Night, Beth couldn’t resist handing out sparklers to all of the children as they filed in. She would always be, James believed, a child at heart and her youthful and exuberant outlook made these evenings a real success, even for the more serious-minded adults.

  By seven-thirty, the evening was in full swing. Villagers chatted and laughed, children whooped and yelled, playing and shouting to one another. Bob Tanner and his foot-tapping folk group launched into a set of Irish jigs, non-stop skiffle and chorus songs. James carved generous slices from the hog roast, but stopped suddenly when two unexpected voices chirped.

  ‘Hello Dad.’

  He glanced up and blinked in surprise to see his sons, Harry and Oliver, standing either side of Beth. Although twins, they were not identical. The noticeable differences meant that people didn’t get confused. Both stood taller than James with a similar lean build. But, since joining the rowing team, they had become more muscular. The most striking feature that differentiated them was their hair. Harry had taken Beth’s dark colouring with deep brown eyes, while Oliver had his father’s fairer tone.

  James stabbed the carving knife into the hog. ‘Good Lord! What are you doing here?’

  Oliver shook hands with him.’ Got a lift down from a friend. He’s visiting his cousin in Brighton, so we bundled in and told him to do a quick detour.’

  Harry skirted around to James and pulled out the carving knife. ‘Anyway, you always get to do the good jobs. If I’m going to help out here when I leave Oxford I need to learn how to distribute the old hog.’

  ‘Looks like a natural butcher,’ Graham Porter chipped in as he held out an open roll. ‘Shove a pile of that pork in here, Harry. I’ll have some of that stuffing, too.’

  Harry loaded three slices of hog roast into Graham’s roll and squashed a layer of stuffing on top. Graham sunk his teeth in and pulled off a strip of crackling to take with him. Seeing one person munching on such generous portions soon enticed the rest of the villagers to stand in a queue behind him. Stephen and Anne b
eckoned James and Beth over urgently.

  ‘James, Beth,’ said Anne. ‘These are our boys, Luke and Mark.’

  James and Beth made a huge fuss of welcoming the two youngsters, who seemed completely overwhelmed by the noise and activities going on around them. James’ gaze roamed the field until he saw the person he sought. He beckoned young Susan Hawkins over, who dragged her brother, Tommy, with her.

  ‘Susan, this is Luke and Mark,’ James said, squatting down to her level. ‘They’re the Reverend and Mrs Merryweather’s boys. Now, they’re going to be a little shy with all these strangers, so why don’t you and Tommy introduce them to everyone and make them welcome?’

  Susan, taking her duties seriously, nodded and both she and Tommy led their two new friends away, to the delight of Stephen and Anne. Beth squeezed Anne’s hand.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said, ‘more villagers arriving. I’d better keep up with the hostess role until everyone’s here.’

  James led Stephen and Anne over to the spit.

  ‘Got a surprise myself, tonight,’ he said. ‘Harry and Oli blagged a lift for the weekend. Boys, this is our new vicar, Stephen Merryweather, and his wife, Anne.’

  ‘What-ho Stephen, Anne,’ Harry said. ‘Crikey, you’re a lot younger than the other Rev. Are you going to be doing some triple Ss?’

  ‘S-some what?’

  ‘Seriously super sermons,’ Oliver explained. ‘The old vicar used to do seriously sleepy sermons.’ The twins laughed and shook hands with Stephen and Anne. ‘Seriously, though, you look a lot more twentieth century than that antique we had before. Harry and I will try and get to one of your services when we’ve more time. We’re back at Oxford tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Quite-quite all right. I-I’m sure you’d rather be there than church,’ replied Stephen.

  ‘Oliver!’ Beth called. ‘Could you help your father with the apple crumbles?’

  ‘Ah ha, duty calls.’ Oliver saluted Stephen and Anne and strode off toward the house.