LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE CORNISH MYSTERY
by
Lynn Florkiewicz
Copyright 2016 Lynn Florkiewicz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Lynn Florkiewicz except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental.
LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE CORNISH MYSTERY
CHAPTER ONE
With no light, there was nothing. It was dark: unbroken dark, unnerving, disorienting.
It was ideal.
Far enough away; close enough to watch.
The plan would work well here. The details were finalised. It was foolproof.
It was nearly time.
CHAPTER TWO
‘It’s no use,’ James said, leaning on one of the kitchen counters leafing through a Hygena brochure. ‘We’ll have to move out. We can’t stay here; it’ll look like a building site.’
Beth groaned, admitting he was right.
‘It should only take a week at the most. We’re going to have to make a decision. We can’t stay at Harrington’s – it’s full.’
Harrington’s, the country house that had been in James’ family for centuries, was now a thriving hotel catering to the rich and famous, its success based on excellent service, quality, and above all, recommendation – this was now the place to stay in Sussex. James and Beth ran the business and lived just up the road in a smaller yet roomy red-brick house on the outskirts of the pretty village of Cavendish.
Their discussion about moving out had gone on for most of the morning. They’d decided to strip the entire kitchen out and install a new, fresh, modern design. Beth insisted she wanted something in keeping with the times; featuring bubble-gum colours that lightened the feel of a room. Beth had reminded James it was 1959 and the existing cupboards belonged in a museum. They’d chosen Formica worktops, fitted cupboards, a washer/drier and room for what the Americans called a breakfast bar. A New World cooker stood in its box ready to be installed.
With Harrington’s full, they had two choices. Live among the rubble and dine out or book a holiday and trust the builders to get on with it. It didn’t take them long to decide. A holiday it was and discussions were now in place about where to go.
CHAPTER THREE
Colm Fiske screwed his face up hoping it would loosen the gag and dislodge the blindfold. He’d stopped fighting the rope: its strands had rubbed into his wrists, leaving them raw and angry.
Kicking his feet did nothing to loosen the bindings around his ankles. His heart banged in his chest. Resting his head back against cold, jagged rock, he took a deep breath. It was cool; a dry air but he could smell the ocean. He jerked forward and roared through the gag knowing, deep down, that no one would answer. Whoever had brought him here had gone.
Or were they watching? A silent observer lurking in the shadows?
He drew his knees up and shivered.
He could stand a gale force storm in the Atlantic, heaving the nets in and risking life and limb to earn a wage; but being kept in a dark hole, more silent than a grave, forced every muscle to tense.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cavendish basked in sunshine as June blazed in and pushed the spring showers into history. The blossoming trees and summer buds had burst into life and Ernest Appleton, the Harringtons’ gardener, was working his magic on the landscape. Those tiny seeds he’d propagated in the winter months had been folded into the soil and were now shouting a big hello to the world.
If it weren’t for the builders’ imminent arrival, James would have happily remained exactly where he was. The English garden was in full bloom and Appleton had planted a wonderful selection of delphiniums, foxgloves, geraniums and roses. Their scents mixed with the smell of freshly mown grass. The borders had flowered into a riot of colour and, although the brochure showing their holiday destination was inviting, at this precise moment he could have easily stayed exactly where he was.
He and Beth were on the terrace that ran the length of their house. Bees hovered above lavender that grew along the wall. Goldfinches, blackbirds and blue tits flittered close by, wary of any sudden movement. The gentle birdsong floated on the breeze. On the wrought iron table in front of them was a jug of Pimms with a combination of fresh summer fruits, lemon slices and sprigs of mint floating on the surface of the liquid.
James rolled his sleeves up, placed a straw hat on his head and studied the map of South West England. ‘Cornwall is certainly one of the most scenic counties in England,’ he said as he sipped his drink. The ice cubes clinked on the side of his glass. He picked out a sodden strawberry and popped it in his mouth.
Beth dragged her chair closer to examine the area. ‘Whereabouts is Polpennarth?’
He leant in; his index finger traced the southern coastline of West Cornwall and finally came to a halt. ‘Here.’
‘Goodness, that’s about as far west as you can go.’
‘Yes, it’s pretty near Land’s End. Full of quaint little coves and inlets and this, according to the brochure, is one of the best. It has a harbour, a pub, a couple of restaurants, a fish market and a few shops. There’s quite a vibrant community; it’s a typical Cornish retreat. You can probably walk around it in an hour; but says there are some lovely rambles along the cliff-tops. There’s also a festival on while we’re there.’
‘Oh, that’ll be perfect. I do hope Stephen and Anne will be happy with our news.’
The Reverend Stephen Merryweather and his wife, Anne, had moved to Cavendish just a couple of years previously and the four of them had hit it off straight away, forging a friendship they knew would last forever. The doorbell chimed. Beth sprang up.
‘That’ll be them.’
Five minutes later, the young couple had joined them on the terrace where Anne was quick to compliment Beth on her outfit.
Beth smoothed down her floral sleeveless frock. ‘Thank you. You know I made it years ago but it’s one of those dresses I simply can’t throw out.’
‘And why should you?’ said Anne, feeling the fabric, ‘The cotton is crisp and it’s so summery, perfect for this weather.’
Stephen, also sporting a straw hat, peered at the map. ‘You’re th-thinking of Cornwall too?’
James gave the Merryweathers a knowing look and winked at Beth.
Anne narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you planning?’
‘Well, old thing, we rather hoped you wouldn’t mind if we joined you in Cornwall. I know it’s your anniversary and all but-’
‘Oh James, how wonderful,’ said Anne. She turned to Stephen. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’
‘That i-is marvellous news but what about Harrington’s? This is y-your busy time, isn’t it?’
James topped their glasses up and explained that their twins, Harry and Oliver, who were on their summer break from Oxford, would be taking the reins.
‘They’re staying here to make sure the builders behave. Harry did a pretty good job of being Lord of the Manor over Christmas and I believe it’s time for him to fly solo. Paul and the regulars are there so they can put them right if they slip up. And we’re only away for a week.’
James had called a staff meeting at Harrington’s to tell them of their plans to take a holiday. Paul, their experienced and professional maître d’hô
tel, assured him that he and his staff would oversee things, along with Harry and Oliver.
‘W-well, Harry certainly sh-showed his worth when you were sorting out that awful business with Olivia Dupree and the Major.’
James groaned. It had been just before Christmas that the famous singer, Olivia Dupree, was poisoned at Harrington’s, leading to an interesting yet disturbing mystery to solve. He smiled to himself. Harry had been quick to insist he didn’t want anything to do with detective work but then had actually found himself enjoying it. James sent a silent prayer up to ask that nothing untoward should happen in their absence. Anne broke his thoughts.
‘Are you actually going to stay in Polpennarth?’
Beth took up the conversation. ‘Yes. When you said you were going there for your anniversary, we thought we’d try and get accommodation nearby and take you out to dinner to celebrate.’
‘Oh, what a perfect time we’re going to have! And it’s so kind of you to remember us.’
‘A-are you not stopping at the same caravan site as us?’ Stephen’s eyes twinkled as he held his hands up. ‘I-I’m sorry James. I w-would like to see you living in a caravan.’
James allowed Stephen his witticism. ‘I’ll have you know that I spent quite a bit of time in my youth, camping, but I make no bones about it, my preference is for something a little more luxurious. I will visit your caravan and I’m sure I’ll find it quite acceptable but I know I’d rather be in a hotel.’
Beth confirmed that they’d booked bed and breakfast accommodation at The Polpennarth Hotel on the quayside. ‘We’re fortunate they had a cancellation. It only has six rooms and overlooks the harbour and the beach. And you know there’s a festival on at the moment.’
‘No, we didn’t,’ said Anne. ‘What is it?’
James lifted the map and retrieved a small brochure. ‘The Cornish Legends festival. They hold it every year and it celebrates all the local folklore down there: giants, pixies, mermaids, pirates, smugglers. If it’s related to Cornwall, it’s likely to be celebrated.’ He flicked through the pages. ‘Some of these characters are really quite dark.’
He went on to describe mermaids that lure swimmers into the ocean, murderous smugglers, hobgoblins that lurk in the shadows of fishermen’s cottages and mischievous fairies who prance about playing tricks.
‘Ooh,’ said Anne, ‘it sounds spooky, doesn’t it?’
‘It does rather and they’re all part of a number of parades that go on throughout the week. And there’s a fairground too.’
‘Th-that sounds pretty jolly, doesn’t it? We must spend p-plenty of time together.’
James wagged a finger at him. ‘No no no; this is your wedding anniversary and we’ll meet up when you feel you want to. You booked this some time ago and I’m sure you’ve made plans of your own. We felt a little cheeky barging in on your celebrations but—.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Anne. ‘It’ll be wonderful to meet up and explore together.’
‘And are the children coming?’ said Beth, adding her concern over whether they would all squeeze into a caravan, especially with two boys aged nine and eleven.
‘Oh, yes. The dog too. We’ve hired one of the larger caravans so there’s plenty of room. It’s got two single beds for the boys, one double and a kitchen.’
During the next hour, the four of them pored over the map and the various brochures Beth had sent for. They exchanged the addresses and telephone numbers of where they were staying and arranged a meeting point for the first evening: they settled on a pub called The Pilchard Inn. The leaflet depicted an ancient pub that looked out to sea, with the harbour wall to one side and the beach the other. A swing and slide occupied a tiny garden for the children to play on. With arrangements in place, they said goodbye to the Merryweathers.
Beth tidied the glasses away and James stepped into the lounge and switched the radiogram on. It was an old relic and although they’d purchased a more modern transistor for the kitchen, James had a soft spot for it because it had belonged to his parents. Although it took some minutes to spring to life he couldn’t imagine parting with it. He hoped that when they decided to decorate this room, there’d be a place for it. He turned a dial to tune it in clearly. The news had already begun.
‘Boat-builder, Christopher Cockerell, will be testing a revolutionary new form of transport in the Solent, Hampshire. Described as a cross between a boat and land vehicle, the hovercraft is propelled on a cushion of air created by its own fan power.’
James felt his pockets and brought out his cigarettes. ‘Good Lord,’ he muttered as he listened to the rest of the story. Beth joined him, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘I say, Beth, there’s a chap here who’s developed a boat that hovers across the sea.’ They continued listening.
‘Following the launch of this particular prototype, there are now plans to build a 40-ton vehicle capable of crossing the English Channel.’
They gave each other an astonished look. He lit his cigarette as the next news item came on.
‘And finally, police in Polpennarth are perplexed over the disappearance of a man who mysteriously vanished on Monday.’ James turned the volume up. ‘The man, a resident of the village in West Cornwall, went missing whilst taking part in a busy festival parade.’
Beth’s jaw dropped. ‘I don’t believe it. James, you must have a sign on your head that advertises for mysteries.’ She shook her head, folded the towel and gave him a look worthy of a headmistress. ‘Don’t you dare get involved in any shenanigans down there.’ She returned to the kitchen.
James picked up the Daily Express and examined each page until he came to a small heading: Polpennarth Man Missing – Are Pixies to Blame? He folded the newspaper into a more manageable size and read it.
‘Mr Colm Fiske, 30, went missing in the small fishing village of Polpennarth on Monday. Mr Fiske, born in the village, was taking part in the opening of the Cornish Legends festival when he vanished. Although the main street was busy, no witnesses have come forward. Mr Fiske is a fisherman and knows the area and tides well; but searches to date have proved unsuccessful. Locals insist that Cornish Pixies are to blame. The police have dismissed these rumours and continue to search the area.’
James let the paper fall onto the table. He stood at the window and watched Appleton tend to the rose bushes. ‘How can a man simply vanish off the face of the earth in a busy village? How can no one have seen that?’
Beth announced she was taking some books back to the library. ‘I’ll call in to Graham’s and get a couple of pork chops for tonight.’
James went through to the study where he scanned the shelves for books on folklore and traditional customs. He tapped the spine of one that caught his eye, slipped it out and sat at his desk.
‘’ere he is,’ said Bert, peering around the door.
Surprised to see his old friend, James said, ‘I thought you were at the races?’
‘Derby day was yesterday, Jimmy boy.’
‘Of course it was.’ He couldn’t imagine Bert being anywhere else that week. His Cockney friend was a frequent visitor to horse-racing meetings and the Epsom Derby was one of the premier events on the calendar. Though Bert was a gambler and a wheeler-dealer, he and James had formed an unlikely friendship since childhood. James had no idea where he actually lived or what he did. The wily character always seemed to steer clear of the subject or give an ambiguous answer. He certainly didn’t hold down a regular job. If James needed to contact Bert Briggs, he had three telephone numbers: the bookmaker’s, a pub in Brighton and a man who ran a stall at Petticoat Lane market in London’s East End.
Judging by the items Bert sold, James had come to the conclusion quite early on in their relationship that his friend ‘procured’ stock from somewhere other than legal sources. Personally, he turned a blind eye, preferring the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss’, especially as his other good friend, George Lane, happened to be a Detective Chief Inspector.
‘Whatcha doin’?’
&n
bsp; ‘Trying to find out about pixies.’
Bert let out an infectious and suggestive chuckle and the many lines on his face creased like the contours on a map. James couldn’t help but giggle along with him.
‘Blimey, you gone soft or somethin’? What d’you wanna know about pixies for?’
James mentioned the festival in Polpennarth and Bert was not slow to mention the missing local, Colm Fiske. James knew he must have looked astonished. ‘How on earth did you know about that?’
‘Same as you – I listen to the news. And I know it’s intrigued you ’cos you’re staying there in a few days. You’re nosing about aren’t you?’
‘We’re celebrating the Merryweathers’—’
‘Don’t give me that, d’you think I’m stupid? Bloody pixies. You don’t believe any of that codswallop, do you?’
‘Of course not. I’m interested to know why the locals do though. Myths and legends occasionally have their roots in something factual.’
Bert sat down next to him. His sleeves were rolled up and he smelt of Golden Virginia. He pulled the open book toward him. ‘I though’ pixies were s’posed to be the ghosts of small babies. What’s that gotta do with this bloke going AWOL?’
James held a finger up to suggest that he had discovered more. He pointed at the text. ‘That’s only part of the story. According to this, the pixies in the south-west also have a different connotation. They cause people to lose their way, even if they’re familiar with the area. Now this Colm Fiske chap is apparently a local, a fisherman and resident who knows the place like the back of his hand.’
‘Load o’ cobblers. If it is a pixie, it’s someone dressed up as one. The papers haven’t got any news this week, they’re grasping at whatever they can find. They turned up something yesterday about some woman who reckons she’s a reincarnation of Queen Victoria. What time you leaving?’
Lord James Harrington and the Cornish Mystery Page 1
