Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘W-what a splendid idea,’ said Stephen.

  George pulled a face. ‘What if the girls are guilty?’

  James started. ‘Goodness, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  He observed the girls as they debated their opinions. They’d more or less admitted to hating Christie and his sister. They’d attended the festival and had just announced to Boyd that he was now free to live with them. Was Locksmith Joe responsible, or did the girls plan this? Were he, Beth and the Merryweathers rooting for cold-blooded killers?

  George reminded him that they’d be interviewing the girls later and announced that, provided everything was in order, James’ idea was a good short-term solution. He called Lucy over to explain his decision. Lucy, although flustered, thought it was a good idea.

  ‘We can move in here for a couple of nights. It’s awkward for work, but we’ll manage.’

  ‘I’ll need you down the station first,’ said George. ‘The pair of you.’

  Beth suggested that she and Anne stay with Boyd until they returned. Lucy closed her eyes in thanks and made for the door.

  Suzie skipped up to James and whispered in his ear. ‘Can we meet tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. You have our telephone number.’ He pulled her back. ‘If you want my help, I must insist that you’re honest with me at all times.’

  She met his gaze and gave her promise.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  That evening, James and Beth made their way through the bar of the Half Moon, stopping here and there to chat to villagers, farmers and shopkeepers. The festival was due to finish late afternoon, but had continued on into the evening. Children had been put to bed and those villagers who were able to, flocked to enjoy the hospitality of Donovan and Kate Delaney.

  In the back room of the bar, Bob Tanner and the Taverners were leading a spontaneous ‘come-all-ye’, a folk music session where floor singers were welcome to perform. Someone struck up a chorus and the harmonies around the room sent tingles down James’ spine. On the far end of the bar, Kate had laid out a number of cakes and pastries, left over from the WI tables. Tobacco smoke hung in the air.

  ‘Ah, yer man, Lord Harrington,’ said Donovan in his soft Irish lilt. ‘Are you wanting the Autumn Gold now?’ He took on a sarcastic expression. ‘We’ve no tea, I’m afraid.’

  James offered him a bashful smile and asked for a pint of Gold. Beth opted for a half of mild and a bag of peanuts.

  Ducking under oak beams, they saw Bert commandeer a table and weaved their way to join him.

  ‘Oi, oi,’ he said. ‘You joining me?’

  ‘Unless you’re expecting someone else, yes.’

  Bert nudged two chairs out with his feet, pushed his cap back and began preparing a roll-up. ‘Bit of a rum do, ain’t it? All this business with that Cameron lot? You got yer feet under the table?’

  ‘If you mean am I investigating,’ said James, ‘I may have a little sniff around, yes.’

  Bert’s face became a map of contours when he grinned. ‘Thought as much. You got anything yet?’

  ‘No,’ said James, and then went through the details of the day. Beth added forgotten bits and pieces, including the extra scarecrow.

  Bert let out a low whistle. ‘Someone’s done their ’omework, then?’

  James frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Stands to reason, don’t it? Who’s gotta scarecrow outfit lying about?’

  ‘Sweetie, he’s right,’ said Beth. She lowered her voice. ‘This was premeditated, it must have been. Someone has prepared a scarecrow costume as a disguise.’

  ‘Possibly, although it doesn’t take a costume designer to dress up like a scarecrow,’ replied James. ‘Bert here is a fine example of that.’

  Bert’s eyes went heavenward as James grinned.

  ‘But you may be right,’ he continued. ‘I do feel that someone persuaded her to come to the festival; a festival she’d refused to attend. And, within an hour of arriving, she’s murdered.’ He rapped the table. ‘If that’s the case, then the young lad’s calculations were correct. There were twenty-six scarecrows.’

  ‘I s’pose George is on the case?’

  ‘You suppose correctly, my friend.’

  Beth waved to Anne and Dorothy. ‘I’m going to love you and leave you. I want to speak with Anne about GJ and Catherine.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘Don’t take over. Remember, this is their day.’

  She grinned at James. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  They watched as she threaded her way through the crowd. James cradled his pint jug and turned to Bert.

  ‘You know, that man at the festival I saw – the one that appeared to shock Jeannie Cameron. I wondered whether it was that convict chap - whether he was the extra scarecrow?’

  Bert spluttered over his pint. ‘What, Locksmith Joe?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve only seen a grainy black and white photograph, but he had the right build, a bushy beard and awful eyes.’

  ‘What d’yer mean, awful eyes?’

  ‘Difficult to explain, but quite unnerving.’

  ‘Don’t sound like Joe.’

  James leaned in. ‘I didn’t think you knew him.’

  Bert shifted in his seat and briskly denied any link. ‘I know of him, that’s all. It don’t sound like Locksmith. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Well, there was menace in the eyes and I think Jeannie Cameron saw it too. If you don’t know him, how can you comment?’

  ‘Tch, what is this, the third degree?’ replied Bert. ‘I met him a couple o’ times, at the races, that’s all. And ’e didn’t ’ave awful eyes.’

  James settled back in his chair and studied his old friend, who had resumed drinking and was taking a keen interest in the darts match. He swirled the golden beer in his glass, more convinced than ever that Bert was holding back. He knew Locksmith Joe better than he was letting on. But what did he know? Was he shielding an escaped convict?

  James crossed his legs. ‘Why is he called Locksmith Joe? He’s a killer, isn’t he?’

  Bert denied the accusation. ‘He’s done a few bits o’ time here and there; all of ’em for robbery. That’s how he got ’is nickname. Didn’t always nick anything neither; sometimes he’d be asked to get inside an ’ouse and take photos of antiques and silver. He’d pass that on to dodgy dealers, who’d then do the job ’emselves so they knew they’d get the choice cuts, not the rubbish.’ He leant across and placed his empty glass on the bar. ‘Family man, is Joe. Two grown-up kids and a granddaughter.’

  James was beginning to get an understanding of the man but noted the avoidance of the notion of murder. Although the chatter around the bar was lively, the silence between them became awkward. Bert pulled his chair closer.

  ‘Word on the street is he’s out to clear ’is name.’

  James sat up.

  ‘He’s doing time for murder and he ain’t a killer.’ Bert lifted a finger as if to emphasise his point: ‘That’s the word on the street, not from me. But, when I met ’im, I didn’t see a killer.’

  ‘Why didn’t he hang?’

  Bert shrugged. ‘Mitigating circumstances. And the courts aren’t so keen on ’anging these days as they used to be.’ He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I’m off. I’ll be in touch.’

  James frowned over his friend’s rapid departure, only to realise why when George Lane took his place. He pondered Bert’s behaviour and attitude to the escaped convict and decided he was far more involved than he was letting on. The thought didn’t sit right with him. Now he was sitting opposite another dear friend, a Detective Chief Inspector, who would have hauled Bert in straight away for questioning had he witnessed their earlier conversation.

  ‘Everything all right, James?’

  James broke from his thoughts and convinced his friend that everything was quite satisfactory. ‘How did your chat with the nieces go?’

  ‘Not much to say, really. They used to visit the Camerons a lot when the aunt w
as still alive. Sounds like this Auntie Gwen was quite normal compared to Christie and Jeannie. When she died, their visits became less frequent, although Suzie was always keen to see Boyd.’

  ‘They seem close.’

  ‘Not much difference in their ages and Suzie feels sorry for him. She used to visit Boyd during the summer holidays and spent all her time with him.’

  James studied his hands. ‘Capable of murder?’

  ‘Everyone’s capable of murder, James, in the right circumstances. But I’ve nothing to hold them on. GJ was sure the girls were in the marquee when this was going on although he couldn’t guarantee it. They’ve promised me that they’re not going anywhere – they’re stopping up at Cory House for the time being and I’ve got a constable posted there.’

  ‘What about their parents?’

  ‘Died in a road accident two years ago.’

  ‘Oh Lord.’

  ‘Lucy’s a secretary in a typing pool and Suzie works in Woolworths. They just about make ends meet.’

  ‘Any luck with finding Locksmith Joe?’

  George took out his pipe. James watched as he filled the bowl and carefully lit the tobacco. Taking two or three quick puffs, he settled back with an air of contentment.

  James grinned. ‘You have something, don’t you?’

  George allowed himself a brief smile. ‘I do and I don’t, but it’ll interest your enquiring brain.’

  James brightened. ‘Well, spit it out, man.’

  ‘Locksmith Joe was jailed for the murder of Mrs Gwen Cameron, wife of Christie.’

  ‘Good Lord. I mean... well, good Lord.’ James stared at George. ‘But does that help?’

  ‘Of course it helps! It connects the escaped convict with the Camerons, but I don’t know why he’d want to kill off the whole family. As far as I can make out from the reports, it was a robbery gone wrong. But he’s more of a suspect than the girls or Boyd.’ George took a puff. ‘Our people have established that Christie had had a heavy dose of a sleeping draught and Jackson was right to question those marks on his neck - there seemed to be a mixture of strangulation and smothering.’

  ‘So definitely murder,’ said James. ‘And, if he was doped up with sleeping powders, he was an easier target to kill.’

  ‘Could be, although I’m keeping my options open. Something doesn’t sit right with me about this. Regardless of who killed Cameron Christie, how did they get into a room locked from the inside? The family have more access around the house. If Locksmith Joe was involved, surely he’d nab Christie outside – not chance it inside the house.’ He checked his watch. ‘Best get back to the station. Suzie Cameron let slip that she was seeing you tomorrow, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, she rang earlier to arrange everything.’

  ‘Let me know what she says.’ He made his way out.

  James picked up a beer mat and rotated it through his fingers. Bert was up to something with Locksmith Joe – had he got too involved? Locksmith Joe killed Christie’s wife and had now escaped from prison. Why kill again if he was trying to clear his name. Bert refused to believe Joe was a killer and he felt he had to respect that. He’d always placed great trust in his friend’s instinct and he wouldn’t normally question that. But the evidence must have been there to put him in prison. The Camerons moved from Yorkshire to Cavendish, the area where Locksmith Joe was hiding - was that a coincidence? Did Jeannie Cameron drug her brother and then kill him? It would certainly be easier to strangle someone if they were in a drug-induced sleep. Was she trying to set up Boyd? A boy unwanted by the family? Did Boyd find out and kill the aunt?

  James snapped out of his thoughts when Beth plonked herself down in the chair opposite.

  ‘Well, sweetie, we’ve some ideas to put to GJ and Catherine about decorating the church at Christmas for their wedding.’

  He fell back into a daydream and only came out of it when Beth patted his hand. ‘James?’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’

  He feigned innocence as Beth’s beady-eyed stare met his. ‘You’re putting your Sherlock hat on.’

  James said that he was and updated her about his discussion with George, finally adding that he would make a few enquiries. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘people appear happy to divulge things to me that they wouldn’t normally tell the police.’

  Beth gave him a ‘be careful’ look. He held his hand up. ‘I’ll let George know if I find anything.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The following morning, Elsie’s café buzzed as customers from surrounding villages met for tea, pastries and gossip. James held the door open for Beth to enter, before undoing his overcoat. The delightful aroma of cinnamon-toasted teacakes and freshly baked scones greeted them. Most of the tables were full, but Beth had called ahead to ask if Elsie would mind holding a table. True to form, she’d placed a ‘Reserved’ sign on their favourite table by the bow window. They negotiated their way to it with a few ‘hellos’ to familiar faces en route.

  Elsie appeared at the counter, a little flustered by the heat in the kitchen and the sudden influx of customers. She made a beeline for them.

  ‘Hello, Lord Harrington, Lady Harrington. Lovely to see you.’

  The door swung open and Suzie burst in with a smile. ‘So sorry I’m late, the bus almost forgot to stop.’ She joined them at the table, where James introduced her to Elsie.

  ‘Suzie and her sister are going to be staying up at Cory House for a short while.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Elsie said in a whisper. ‘That’s where that fella died, isn’t it? And weren’t his sister...’ She brought a hand to her chest. ‘You all right staying there?’

  Suzie checked her hair in a compact mirror. ‘It’s cold and damp, but Uncle Christie had arranged workmen to come in over the next few months, so it’ll be nice eventually. At least we’ll have loads more room than at that awful place in Hove. And no rent to pay.’

  ‘They’re nieces to the Camerons,’ Beth put in.

  ‘Indirectly,’ Suzie asserted. ‘Our aunt married into the family.’ She perused the menu and then mumbled. ‘Must have been mad.’

  James wiped the condensation on the window and stared out. ‘Is Lucy not coming?’

  ‘I told her to come later. She’s always telling me to be quiet. Anyway, she has to come later because that stuffy Inspector called by to talk to Boyd.’ She teased her hair. ‘I can’t see why he keeps pestering him. He hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  Elsie smiled at James and cleared her throat. ‘We’re still serving morning coffee and tea. We’ve also got hot buttered crumpets, toasted teacakes and a fresh batch of scones. But, if you like, I could cook something from the lunch menu.’

  ‘No need for that, old thing. I think we’re all fine with tea.’

  ‘Not for me,’ Suzie said. ‘It’s more modern to have coffee now. You know, in London they do that sort of thing all the time. I’ve been to the 2i’s. I bet you’ve never been there.’

  James repressed a grin. How old did this girl think he was? Just because he lived in the sticks didn’t mean he was detached from modernity. The 2i’s was the coffee bar to be seen in as a youngster in London, an extra draw being the number of skiffle groups and rock’n roll singers it featured. He corrected the order.

  ‘Do your scones come with strawberry jam and cream?’

  ‘Of course. Mrs Keates’ home-made jam. She made up quite a bit during the summer and popped in with a few jars yesterday.’

  James had met Mrs Keates the previous year, when she’d charmed him with her baking skills. They put an order in.

  ‘It’ll all be with you in five minutes.’ Elsie went back to the kitchen.

  James continued gazing through the window. ‘Autumn is a beautiful season, don’t you think?’

  Beth agreed. Opposite them was ancient woodland that stretched the length of the road between Cavendish and Charnley. The mixture of trees presented a living tapestry of reds, golds, yellows and rusts. James felt contentment flow through him as he took
the view in. All was right in the world when nature could blast your senses so spectacularly.

  Suzie broke into his thoughts. ‘Are we going to talk about trees or something interesting, like the reason I’m here?’

  She shrank back from James’ stern expression.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s just that I’m worried about Boyd.’

  Elsie presented their refreshments. There was a plate of scones with individual dishes of Mrs Keates’ jam and Cornish clotted cream delivered, apparently, by a family friend who lived in Penzance.

  Beth played mother and slid a cup of coffee across the table. ‘What would you like to talk about, Suzie?’

  ‘You don’t think Boyd’s going to be murdered, do you?’ Suzie asked, her voice ringing out dramatically.

  The people at the neighbouring table hushed. James smiled an apology and requested that Suzie keep her voice down. The young girl shrugged.

  ‘I’m only being realistic. I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to him.’

  ‘Why would someone want Boyd killed?’

  Suzie shrugged again.

  ‘You spent quite a bit of time with him when he was younger,’ said James. ‘Is that true?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Oh, we had so much fun. I used to spend all of my school holidays with him. When Auntie Gwen was alive, she was so welcoming. She used to dress Boyd up from head to toe to protect his skin and give him sunglasses, too. He reminded me of a spy or someone undercover.’ She laughed. ‘We used to collect frogspawn and he’d keep it in a tank in his room. Auntie Gwen was such a wonderful mother.’

  Beth stirred her tea. ‘And when your auntie died?’

  The young girl slumped. ‘It was horrid. I’d still go up, but it wasn’t because I was invited. But if I didn’t go up, then Boyd had no one to play with and I wanted to make sure he got Calvin’s letters. And we had to play inside.’