Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘I say, do you two have arrangements for a party afterwards?’

  GJ said that they had discussed it but weren’t sure whether they could really afford it. ‘I know we’re better off than most people, but an artist’s wage is not the best so I don’t want to be too extravagant. Catherine’s family struggle. She lost her dad during the war. We thought about drinks back at my house. It’s only small, as you know, but we could manage. Just the closest of friends and relatives.’

  James remembered the cottage well, but the rooms were tiny and they would be challenged to accommodate everyone.

  ‘Will you allow us to throw you something? You don’t have to say yes; it may not sit well with you, but consider it our wedding present to you both. We generally have a rather lovely setting at Harrington’s over the Christmas period and we always kick the month off with a dinner and dance. We can put a side room by for your guests but you’ll have to share the dance floor with the residents.’

  Catherine almost wept for joy as she brought her hands to her face.

  ‘I think that means we’re saying yes,’ said GJ.

  The chatter continued for some time. Although Beth and Anne were more than happy to share their knowledge and suggestions concerning arrangements, James and Stephen made the excuse of wanting some fresh air and left the group to continue chatting about their plans and possible honeymoon destinations.

  They found themselves heading toward the church. Inside, James rubbed his hands together as Stephen straightened hymn books and cushions.

  ‘A-any news on Cory House?’

  Sitting on the front pew, James outlined everything that had happened to date: the mystery of the locked doors; Jeannie Cameron’s erratic behaviour, and the condition of the lad, Boyd. Stephen gazed up at a white marble carving of Jesus on the cross.

  ‘For s-such a God-fearing man, I cannot h-help but think that Mr Cameron did not appear to have treated his son well.’

  ‘Sons, plural.’

  Stephen stood rooted to the spot. ‘At the house?’

  James explained that the elder brother was in India. ‘Ten years older and left when Boyd was five. Hasn’t been back since, which leads me to believe that he couldn’t wait to get out himself.’

  The vicar stared at the ceiling. Ancient oak beams criss-crossed above him. ‘How did you f-find out about him?’

  ‘The brothers remain in contact. You should have seen the look on Boyd’s face when I noticed the letter. An anticipation: like a child on Christmas Day. And when I mentioned that I knew someone from India, I thought he was going to hug me.’

  Stephen turned to face him. ‘Your f-friend Mr Patel...from your description of him, I believe he could be of great help to Boyd.’

  ‘Yes, I wondered that. If anyone can gain his trust and give him some confidence, he can. What’s happening about Cameron’s funeral – have you been asked to conduct it?’

  ‘F-fortunately, no. I-I say fortunately because I feel I would never m-meet Miss Cameron’s expectations. The funeral is yet to be arranged, but I have suggested that I r-remember him in prayers this Sunday and she agreed to attend.’

  ‘Goodness, you are honoured. You didn’t convince her to attend the scarecrow festival.’

  The vicar shuddered. ‘I-I wouldn’t dare. Do you th-think Boyd would like to come?’

  James thought Boyd would dearly love to come. ‘But the likelihood of me prising him away from the mad aunt is remote.’

  ‘Shame.’

  The tip-tap of heels prompted both men to turn. Beth walked toward them with her coat on. She carried James’ jacket and hat. ‘Here you are. We’re needed at Cory House.’

  James frowned. ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s just George being cautious. Jeannie Cameron apparently called him earlier screaming blue murder at him and telling him he should do his job and arrest Boyd.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what on earth’s the matter with the woman?’ muttered James as he shrugged his jacket on. ‘What does he need us for?’

  ‘Boyd has barricaded the door,’ said Beth. ‘George wanted to take some fingerprints. I think that’s more to convince Miss Cameron that he’s innocent rather than gather evidence. But Boyd’s now frightened to death and won’t let anyone in.’ She gave him a cheesy grin. ‘Except us.’

  James smiled. ‘D’you want to join us, Stephen?’

  ‘I-I’ll leave you to it. I-I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job. I shall see you at the festival tomorrow. Let’s hope that will be less traumatic.’

  James followed Beth down the aisle with thoughts nagging at him. Was Christie Cameron murdered? Until the coroner’s report came through, he couldn’t be sure. If it was Boyd who was responsible, how on earth did he get through two locked doors? Why was Jeannie Cameron so convinced of his guilt? Or was she pointing suspicion away from herself? After all, in his brief meeting with the Cameron siblings, she appeared to have been his skivvy. Had she tired of his bullying ways and killed him herself? Getting rid of Boyd would leave her with an independence she might never have known before.

  ‘No,’ he mumbled, ‘that can’t be right.’

  ‘What’s that, sweetie?’

  ‘If Jeannie Cameron killed her brother, why shout about murder when suicide is a possible verdict?’

  She playfully punched him as they headed for the car. ‘You’re not going into mystery mode, are you?’

  He couldn’t hide his crooked grin as he unlocked the door. ‘Do you know, Beth, I think I am.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bob Tanner and the Taverners belted out a continuous stomping hornpipe on a selection of concertinas and melodeons as they led the scarecrow parade along the high street and toward the village green. Following behind were the local Morris team dancing in time, their bells jangling and handkerchiefs waving. Boys and girls skipped alongside them and villagers and visitors lined the streets to clap and stamp along to the infectious rhythm. Residents with houses along the route waved from upstairs windows and specially-made ‘scarecrow’ flags flapped in the breeze from every available lamp-post. High in the sky swallows dipped and dived as if in time with the music.

  Twenty-five scarecrows kept up with the Morris team, all of them from the village or surrounding farms and each one vying for the title of Best Scarecrow. There had been no rules concerning how the costumes should look and the result was a variety of imaginative figures that enthralled the onlookers.

  To the delight of the children, Dr Philip Jackson and his wife, Helen, skipped along as fictional scarecrows, Worzel Gummidge and Aunt Sally. Philip had fixed a most realistic parsnip on his nose and wore a wig of straw, while Helen wore a beautiful bonnet and had painted her cheeks a bright rosy red. Their daughter, Natasha, copied her mum’s costume and had blacked out a front tooth.

  A number of farmhands had created costumes from old sacking filled with straw, leaving small trails of hay in their wakes. Others had transformed themselves into popular cartoon characters, such as Popeye, Olive Oyl and Betty Boop. Charlie Hawkins, the librarian, was hardly recognisable under his Long John Silver disguise and mad solicitor, Mr Bateson, had dressed as Davy Crockett with a dandy fur hat.

  They came in all shapes and sizes, shaking hands with villagers on the pavements as they skipped from one side of the road to the other; the pounding beat of the music continuing.

  A couple of the younger farmhands had opted for rather scary costumes featuring masks with haunted expressions and long, spindly fingers. They took great delight in chasing young children, who screamed their lungs out as they sprinted to the safety of their laughing parents’ sides.

  James, dressed in a light tweed jacket and brown corduroy trousers, was ahead of the procession and made his way to the green to await its arrival. He stood by the entrance to the marquee.

  The encounter at Cory House the previous evening had gone amicably. He’d convinced George to delay pushing Boyd for fingerprints and suggested that this be requested after everyone had slept on
it. George had, to his surprise, agreed and was quick to depart, muttering something about Jeannie Cameron being as mad as a March hare. He had to agree. There was something quite unhinged about the woman. One minute she was screaming murder, the next they were accused of causing trouble and being told to mind their own business.

  The band came into view. James stood tall and anticipated another successful festival ahead of them. He peered into the marquee.

  ‘I say, everyone, the parade’s coming.’

  A damp mist had descended on proceedings but, as was always the case, this didn’t curb people’s enthusiasm. The ladies of the Women’s Institute had done themselves proud by making the marquee a welcoming finish to proceedings. Coloured light bulbs were dotted across the canopy and red, white and blue bunting draped from the support poles to the marquee walls. Along the back wall of the tent stood rows of trestle tables loaded with cakes, pies, pickles and breads. At one end was a makeshift stage and, at the other, Donovan and Kate Delaney, proprietors of the Half Moon, had set up a bar. Just along from the entrance was Graham’s traditional hog roast and James was already salivating as the smell of pork and crackling reached him.

  Prizes for the best scarecrows were safely lodged at the back of the stage. They consisted of a box of tea and biscuits, courtesy of Elsie Taylor who owned the café between Cavendish and the neighbouring village, Charnley; a leg of lamb, donated by Graham Porter; and a small hamper from Fortnum and Mason, donated by James and Beth, as first prize.

  As the noise of the parade increased, organisers spilled out of the marquee to watch the scarecrows dance around the green. With no break in the music, the hornpipes turned to jigs and reels as they made their way across the grass. Several members of the folk club walked alongside the Taverners with their own melodeons to provide a rousing finale. Tommy Hawkins, the librarian’s son, rushed to join them and accompanied the beat on his toy drum.

  James felt Beth’s hand in his. ‘Oh James, what a colourful scene.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ James replied as the vibrant and energetic scarecrows danced past them. ‘They seem to get more creative as each year goes by.’

  After one circuit of the green, Bob Tanner led them into the marquee and, on their heels, the Morris team, the scarecrows and, finally, the villagers who had previously lined the streets. The junior school choir, led by Mr Chrichton, immediately launched into their prepared song:

  ‘Oats and beans and barley grow,

  Oats and beans and barley grow

  Can you or I or anyone know how oats and beans and barley grow.’

  ‘How w-wonderful to see the fl-flock together and enjoying the day,’ Stephen observed as he watched the crowd disperse to the various refreshment tables.

  Anne joined them. ‘I think it’s wonderful that you keep these traditions alive.’

  James ushered them in to the centre of the marquee. ‘Villages are not villages unless we have a community, and the only way to do that is ensure we keep our folklore alive. However, I’m not entirely sure that scarecrows are much to do with folklore. But, like you say, Anne, it’s a wonderful spectacle.’

  Donovan attempted to sway James to have a pint of Autumn Gold but James declined. ‘I will partake of your finest ale later. It’s a little early for me and, if I’m being honest, I could really fancy a nice cup of tea.’

  Beth, Stephen and Anne agreed that tea would be most welcome. Assuring Donovan of their custom later in the day, they weaved their way through the crowds to the corner where Elsie had set up a mini version of her café.

  ‘Ah, hello Elsie,’ said James. ‘This is rather splendid.’

  Elsie Taylor, a buxom woman in her mid-thirties, had duplicated her café as best she could with red and white checked tablecloths and white wooden chairs with dimpled cushions tied in place. Her counter consisted of an empty beer barrel for the cash register, a calor gas stove and two planks of wood for preparation. Elsie invited them to take the last available table.

  ‘I’m pleased with it, I must say. I’m doing teas only, I’m afraid. Don’t want to step on the WI’s toes, but I’m quite happy if you want to get something from there and eat it here.’

  Beth suggested they treat themselves to Mrs Keates’ award-winning Victoria sponge. Stephen leapt up and insisted he order and pay for them. In a few moments, they were sipping tea and enjoying feather-light cake with raspberry jam and butter-cream filling.

  Around them, villagers, scarecrows and organisers took full advantage of the refreshments. The parade had begun early and, by the time everyone had reached the marquee, stomachs were rumbling, especially when they saw the delights on offer. Through the crowd, James spotted George with a hog-roast roll clasped in his hand. Alongside him, GJ and Catherine were speaking to two young ladies that he didn’t recognise, so he presumed they were visitors who had come to see the parade.

  Rose and Lilac Crumb, the Snoop Sisters, scurried up to him. James felt his mood change. Their presence meant one thing – gossip.

  Stephen greeted them. ‘Ah l-ladies, how wonderful to see you.’

  ‘Mm,’ replied Rose.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Lilac put in.

  James wondered if they ever went anywhere separately. He’d never actually seen them apart at any time. Rose sidled up to him.

  ‘She’s ’ere.’

  He frowned. ‘Who?’

  Lilac’s thumb signalled behind her. ‘The grieving widow.’

  James shifted in his chair to get a better idea of who the sisters were speaking of. All he could see was Bert having what appeared to be an amusing chat with Graham about an elongated piece of crackling.

  ‘Not there,’ Lilac said. ‘There.’

  James froze. Standing at the entrance of the marquee was Jeannie Cameron. ‘Good Lord!’

  Beth followed his gaze. Her jaw dropped. Stephen and Anne both rose and dashed over to welcome her.

  Beth frowned at James. ‘What on earth is she doing here?’

  Rose huffed. ‘Can’t be the grieving widow – coming to a festival.’

  Lilac echoed her sister’s statement.

  James forced a smile. ‘Ladies, she was the sister, not the wife.’ He jerked a head at their trestle table. ‘You have customers.’

  They scurried away and Beth gave a disapproving shake of the head. ‘Goodness, I do find those women most rude at times.’

  ‘Ye…es.’ His thoughts were more on Miss Cameron than the Snoop Sisters. She stood by the entrance of the marquee, wearing a dull brown coat. Pinched and upright, she was listening to whatever Anne was saying. ‘But, like you say, darling. What on earth is she doing here?’

  On James’ visits to Cory House, she and her brother had made it quite clear that this festival would not be graced by their presence. The very idea of it appeared to horrify them. Was Jeannie more open to socialising than her brother would have had them think? He had no further time to ponder as the Merryweathers were escorting her toward them.

  James and Beth stood to greet her. Stephen pulled a chair out where she sat upright with both hands on her handbag, her wool coat buttoned to the neck. She had the appearance of someone who would not be staying. James asked Elsie for some more tea. He took out a cigarette.

  ‘I must admit, Miss Cameron, I’m somewhat surprised to see you here.’

  ‘I was in the village.’ Her hollow eyes looked past James as if searching for something, or someone.

  The villagers chatted and laughed and children raced to and fro playing tag. Dorothy Forbes patted the microphone on the stage. Piercing feedback through the speaker caused everyone to grimace.

  James chuckled. ‘That’s one way to quieten everyone down.’

  ‘Hello. Hello, can you all hear me?’ The villagers gathered. ‘The voting for the scarecrows has finished and the counting is taking place as we speak. We should have the results through in the next five minutes.’

  James noticed Dorothy’s aloof stare at his friend, Bert. It didn’t matter what the occasion was,
Bert dressed as Bert. He could have been mistaken as one of the scarecrows in his shabby tweed jacket, baggy trousers and flat cap.

  Beth nudged him and drew his attention to Jeannie Cameron, whose complexion was as white as chalk. Her eyes narrowed and scanned the crowd. James followed her gaze. Everyone was facing the stage with the exception of one man; a large, bulky individual with a bobble hat, a wool coat and scuffed boots. He had thick, wiry hair curling from under his hat and an unruly beard. When James turned his attention back to Jeannie, she was already making her way out. James looked across at the man again but he’d disappeared. His eyes searched the crowd. Where on earth did he go?

  Beth shrugged his concern away and hinted that he was making too much of things.

  Dorothy cleared her throat. ‘Lord Harrington asked that Professor Wilkins announce this year’s winners. Professor, if you don’t mind putting your drink down.’ She pushed the microphone away. ‘It doesn’t come across as very professional.’

  Professor Wilkins mounted the stage with his pint firmly in his grip. Dorothy looked on with disapproval as he held up his glass. She turned on her heels and marched off.

  James grinned, eased back in his chair and folded his arms in anticipation. It made a change to sit back and enjoy someone else’s speech.

  ‘Right,’ said the Professor. ‘I’m not going to speak for too long. I’m sure you’re all keen to enjoy the food and music.’

  ‘Here, here,’ shouted a scarecrow.

  He settled the crowd down. ‘Lord Harrington asked that I tell you a little about scarecrows while the votes are counted.’ He took a sip of his pint. ‘Although not an ancient English tradition, scarecrows are part of our folklore. They began life here around the 15th century in medieval Britain. In those days, we had young lads who’d run around throwing stones at birds to startle them. But, when the Great Plague came a couple of hundred years later, farmers couldn’t find enough lads to do the job. So, the scarecrow we know and love today was born – a sack stuffed with straw with a turnip face.’