Archie's Battleflat Adventures: The Harriman Mystery

by King, Rebecca

  If he wanted Archie, why wasn’t he trying to get into the house to get him?

  Did he want Archie to know that he was watching? Was he trying to frighten him?

  Archie scowled. He hated bullies, and wasn’t going to be scared by the murderer opposite. After all, the man standing outside was the one who had deliberately taken the life of another person. The man outside was the one who should be afraid.

  He watched in frozen horror when, in a flurry of black, the figure dashed across the cart track toward the house.

  “Oh, no,” Archie whispered, and practically flew across the room. There was no loud crashing of the kitchen door being kicked down; no smashing of glass as the murderer tried to climb through the window. Nothing but silence.

  As quietly as he could, he tiptoed down the stairs, easing open the door to the sitting room. He knew his dad would have bolted the back door, but there was always the window. Creeping inside the sitting room, Archie closed the door behind him. Moving swiftly to the fireplace, he picked up the reassuring solidity of the iron poker and crept toward the window.

  His gulp was loud in the still night air. Halfway around the table he heard the soft rattle of the back door. Closing his eyes briefly, he silently prayed that his dad had thought to bolt the door before going to bed. Hefting the poker high, Archie ignored the hammering of his heart and moved to the kitchen door. Nothing. Moving back into the sitting room, he sidled toward the window, standing to one side with his back to the wall. The curtains were drawn against the cold, and allowed Archie to peep between the flowered material and the wall, without being seen.

  Although, what he saw there made him wish he hadn’t seen anything at all. There, mere inches from his nose, was the shadowed face of the murderer. Although it was buried beneath the hood of his cloak, the cruel twist of the mouth above the pointed chin were fresh in Archie’s memory.

  “What are you doing?” Archie mouthed into the empty room. The scratching sound, although faint, was clearly the sound of something metal being scratched against the glass.

  The murderer was trying to break in.

  Archie’s mind raced with possibilities. Determination swept through him. Squaring his shoulders like a soldier going to battle, he stared at the candlestick sitting in the middle of the table, and frowned, a flicker of an idea beginning to form.

  Dad had stoked the fire up before turning into bed, and it now glowed heartily in the grate. Eyeing the glowing flames, Archie grabbed the candlestick and, grabbing a spill from the metal holder beside the fire, quickly lit the candle. Holding the candlestick aloft, he eyed the distance between the ground and the candle, judging it to be about the same height his father would have carried the flame, and moved toward the kitchen.

  “Ahem,” Archie coughed, as low in his throat as his voice would go. Placing the candlestick on the dresser beside the kitchen door, he raced back toward the sitting room, peering out of the small gap between the curtain and the window frame.

  “Great!” he gasped, delighted to find the dark shadow of the murderer and would-be burglar had vanished. Flushed with success, Archie flew through the sitting room, and took the stairs two at a time. Despite the thrill of excitement, he quietly tiptoed toward the window, keeping a careful eye on a still sleeping Ben and Sammy. Keeping his back to the wall, he cautiously peered out into the gloom, studying the shadows carefully.

  It was the brief flurry of movement further down the lane that captured his attention.

  “It’s a good night from me,” Archie declared, filled with jubilation, a wide grin of satisfaction on his face. Grinning from ear to ear, he quietly closed the shutters. If he was lucky he would be able to catch a wink or two of sleep before it was time to get up.

  Slumping into bed with a yawn, he wriggled and nudged Sammy across to the middle of the bed. Despite the tiredness sapping his waning energy, he couldn’t sleep. His fingers still tingled with the success of scaring away the would-be intruder, and foiling the murderer’s plans. Grinning at the ceiling, Archie placed his hands behind his head and began to think.

  The man was brave. Or stupid; Archie wasn’t sure which. He had clearly been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go out so he could break in and get to Archie. But Archie had other ideas. Nobody was going to get into his house. He had thwarted him once, Archie knew he could do it again.

  He was safe. For now.

  But Archie realised that tonight, the man would try again. This time though, Archie would be ready for him.

  Ready – and waiting.

  With a frown at the ceiling, he wondered just how many nights he could keep it up for. To be waiting for the would-be attacker would mean going without sleep, and he was already tired as it was. He had to sleep at some point. Although he could catch forty winks at break time while at work, it wasn’t the same as getting a good night’s sleep.

  That meant only one thing. He had to discover the identity of the murderer, and bring him to justice as quickly as he could.

  “But how do you go about catching a murderer?” Archie whispered to nobody in particular. The sound of his voice in the night air reassured him, and bolstered his courage even further. With the absence of having a friend to confide in, it felt good to be able to put a voice to his thoughts.

  One question that had been plaguing him all day popped into his mind.

  Why murder Mr Harriman?

  Archie thought back to the victim’s strange behaviour, and reluctantly began to think over the events of that fateful afternoon when everything had changed so much. Mr Harriman had been whistling – happy, almost. Which, for a usually dour man like Mr Harriman, was strange behaviour indeed. So what had made him happy? He had been to see his sister? On Sundays, straight after church, Mr Harriman always went to see his sister – everyone knew that. But visiting his sister didn’t usually make Mr Harriman smile.

  So what had happened? Archie frowned, wondering if he had missed something. He thought about the way Mr Harriman had dressed.

  “Nothing unusual there,” Archie muttered, thinking about the man’s clean, starched shirt and Sunday best. He hadn’t been wearing a hat. That left the question of where Lord Brentwood had gotten hold of the murderer’s hat. The man who had tried to break into Archie’s hadn’t been wearing the same cloak that had been worn on the day of Mr Harriman’s murder. The one the murderer was wearing tonight had a hood that had been pulled up to shield the intruder’s face. Had the man swapped the cloak for one with a hood because the Justice had the tricorn?

  Reluctantly, Archie turned his thoughts to the small white piece of – something – Mr Harriman had been holding on the day of his death. Where was it? Had the murderer got it? Was it what the murder had killed Mr Harriman for? If so, had the murderer got it? One thing was for certain, Archie couldn’t get hold of it now. It could still be with Mr Harriman, and he now lay in the cellar of the tavern, awaiting burial.

  An alarming flicker of an idea crept into Archie’s head but, with a shudder of revulsion, he quickly brushed it to one side. There was nothing that could persuade him to go and see Mr Harriman’s dead body.

  Nothing at all.

  Ever.

  He sighed when Sammy rolled over in bed and sleepily draped one arm over his chest and a very heavy leg over his hips, effectively pinning Archie to the bed. Abruptly shoving both limbs off him, Archie rolled over, his eyes landing on the solitary candle sitting on the table inches from his nose.

  “Dad will be really angry,” he gasped, shoving out of bed once more and stumbling toward the door. He didn’t need to rush downstairs to know that the expensive candle would have burnt down to a gloopy stub by now. His dad would be angry at the wasted expense.

  He stood in the doorway to the sitting room, sighing despondently at the waxy lump lying in the middle of the table.

  “What is it, Archie?”

  Archie let out a muffled squeak and spun around on his heel, staring in shock at his father now standing behind him in the
hallway.

  “Dad! I didn’t hear you.”

  “What are you doing out of bed, boy? It’s still early.” Jack scowled down at his son.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Archie mumbled. It was the truth, really. He hadn’t been able to settle down enough to sleep. He glanced warily at his father, but couldn’t see anything except sympathy on his dad’s face.

  Jack clasped his son’s shoulder. “It’s not surprising, I suppose. Given what you saw,” he whispered.

  Archie moved into the sitting room, taking a seat at the table and staring into the ash within the now empty hearth.

  “Huh, what on earth?” Jack mumbled, staring at the candle stub with a frown, a useless spill lying in his hand.

  “It’s my fault,” Archie reluctantly admitted. He was busy staring down at his feet thoughtfully, and missed the worried frown his father sent him.

  “Scared of the dark now?”

  Archie’s brows flew upward and he glanced at his father. He had expected a stern reminder that candles were expensive and not to be wasted. The last thing he had thought his dad would do was smile gently at him, and ruefully shake his head.

  Archie shook his head briefly and glanced up at his dad. “I thought I heard someone trying to break in.” He watched his father’s brows shoot skyward.

  “When?” The brisk question shot across the room.

  Archie could feel the tension reverberate between them, and mentally winced. “A couple of hours ago. It could have been an animal or something, but I came down to check. By the time I lit the candle, whatever it was had gone.”

  Jack sat down at the table with a thump, staring cautiously at his son. Even in the early morning gloom, he could see the dark shadows beneath Archie’s eyes, and wondered if he had slept at all.

  “What did you hear?” Jack asked, intrigued and worried in equal measure.

  “Scratching at the window,” Archie replied, nodding toward the solitary window beside the kitchen doorway.

  Jack nodded slowly, studying his son. He had no doubt that Archie had been terrified by witnessing a murder. Anyone would have been scared witless. It was possible that his imagination was running wild with him and, given that he was undoubtedly unnerved by the whole experience, was to be expected for a while. In all conscience, although they could do without wasting too many candles, he couldn’t begrudge the boy a bit of light if he got scared. He worked hard enough for it, after all.

  “I’ll check it out later, Archie. Meantime, off to bed with you and try to get some sleep.”

  “But it will soon be time to get up. There isn’t any point in going to bed now,” Archie argued. He thought longingly of the warm, soft sheets currently occupied by his brothers, and wished he hadn’t been so hasty to leave the bed. Tiredness drew him down, and he smothered a yawn.

  “Take today off, Archie. I am sure Mr Tompkins will understand,” Jack suggested reluctantly. In reality they needed every penny they could get, but the last thing he wanted was for anything to happen to Archie because tiredness had made him clumsy. So many children died working in mills these days. The last thing Jack wanted was for any of his children to be one of them.

  Archie was already thinking along the same lines. The family couldn’t afford to lose another day’s wages. They had already lost one day waiting in for the Justice. It would make life very difficult to lose two days’ worth of money. Still, the draw to climb between the soft sheets upstairs was so strong that Archie seriously contemplated sending his apologies to Mr Tompkins for a second day running. Reluctantly, he shook his head, sending his dad a tired smile.

  “I’m fine. I’ll get an early night tonight, that’s all.” He jumped when his mum appeared beside him. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard her come downstairs. Rubbing a weary hand down his face, he pushed to his feet.

  “I’ll go and feed the chickens,” he muttered around a yawn.

  “No you won’t.” Jack’s voice was stern. “You will stay here and get some breakfast. I’ll do the chickens.” Jack shot his wife a warning look. “Archie heard someone in the night, and hasn’t had much sleep. He isn’t to leave until he has had some rest and a good breakfast inside him.”

  Archie almost groaned as his mother immediately launched into a flurry of fussing and fluttering. Ushering him back down into the chair, she disappeared into the kitchen and began banging plates and pots.

  Smothering a yawn, Archie listened to the blessedly familiar sounds of his mum making breakfast and lay his head down on the table for a brief rest.

  Within seconds he was sound asleep.

  Outside, Jack paused beside the back door. Studying the ground for a moment, he couldn’t see anything amiss on the cobbled path that ran from the back door to the small gate at the back of the house. It was the window that drew his attention. At the bottom corner, the wood had been scratched away, leaving bare wood open to the morning air. Beneath the window was a small pile of the wooden scratchings. Although there was no sign of the tool that had been used, someone had definitely tried to break in by trying to get the window out of the frame. Making a mental note to repair the window at the first opportunity, Jack donned his cap. His eyes scanned every nook and cranny of the garden as he headed toward the pig pens to feed the animals.

  Lost in thought, he missed the shadowy figure that slipped silently back into the trees and vanished.

  Later that day, Archie was practically weaving on his feet. He was so tired, he was beyond yawning and had taken to simply rubbing his eyes and trying hard not to growl. He had just had probably the worst day of his entire life, and couldn’t wait to get home so he could get to bed. The few minutes’ sleep he had managed to snatch that morning had done little more than make him tireder. He had been woken by his mum holding a plate of eggs and toast over his head, and the abrupt arrival of Ben and Sammy who were loudly squabbling over who had run down the stairs the fastest.

  His dad had reappeared briefly to escort Martha and Emilie to work, warning Archie to be on his guard and tell Mr Tompkins if he got too tired. Knowing he wouldn’t risk causing the family more worry, Archie merely nodded, having no intention of telling Mr Tompkins anything of the kind. He was paid to do a day’s work; and a day’s work he would do.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t realised just how bad his day would get.

  Dark storm clouds had gathered with increasing determination throughout the day, causing everyone’s mood to darken with it. The harvest had only just begun and would have to be suspended for several days to allow the corn to dry out if it rained too heavily. Nobody was looking forward to the prospect of sitting around for a few days and, desperate to get as much of the crop in before it rained, everyone worked twice as hard. Unfortunately, that meant that more carts appeared at the mill faster, as the workers tried to get the grain under cover. There was money to be earned, and grain to be harvested. The welfare of not only their families, but the livestock, was at risk if the crops were ruined by heavy storms, and that thought alone was enough to ensure everyone who was able bodied was working as frantically as possible.

  Dropping the empty sacks at his feet, Archie stood and stretched his back, yawning widely as he stared out of the window. In the far distance a bright flash of lightening lit the sky, warning of an impending deluge. Wrinkling his nose at the thought of the soaking he would get walking home in the pouring rain, Archie took a moment to study the area. From three floors up, the top of the corn mill was as high as the old oak tree in the spinney. Located at the furthest corner of the village, it gave an unhindered view of the surrounding countryside that couldn’t be seen from the oak tree.

  Oblivious to the low rumbling of the millstones beneath him, Archie studied the long line of trees running across the horizon. Ambleton woods, they were called, and bordered the main road out of the village toward the larger town of Hampton four miles away. Running his gaze along the treeline, Archie paused at the sight of the run-down shack sheltered, barely visible, to the far left of
the woods.

  “Mr Harriman’s house,” Archie whispered, frowning at the ramshackle, single-storey building with a shudder. Even from a distance the house looked old and haunted. Archie frowned thoughtfully at the building. It wasn’t too far away, and would only take a couple of minutes to get there. There were no trees lining the road, only tallish hedges that could be used for protection from prying eyes.

  If he could get to Mr Harriman’s house, then he could take a look inside and see for himself if there was anything amiss that could give him a clue about what had made Mr Harriman so happy on the day he had died.

  Quickly running his eyes over the rolling fields before him, Archie frowned absently as his mind raced with possibilities. A flurry of movement directly below him snapped him out of his thoughts, and his eyes dropped down to the ground several feet below.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered, his eyes meeting those of the Justice, who was staring up at him. Archie wondered if Lord Brentwood had come to ask more questions, and glared down at the aristocratic man defiantly. His heart thumped heavily in his chest as the image of the cloaked figure standing at the side of the cart track beside his house flew into his mind. The size of the man was very similar to the Justice. Even from three floors up, his eyes met and held the Justice’s for several long moments until, just as quickly, the Justice broke eye contact and walked away.

  Quickly moving toward the window, Archie peered sideways as far as the window would allow, trying to see if the Justice had entered the corn mill, but couldn’t see anything. With a frown he moved away, stumbling as he fell over the pile of sacks he had dropped earlier. Sitting on the floor, he rubbed his sore bottom and contemplated what to do next. Although it was unlikely, the Justice could be the one responsible for killing Mr Harriman. There was certainly something hauntingly familiar about the Justice that Archie still couldn’t put a finger on. Until he realised what it was, he couldn’t take any risks and had to evade more questioning from the Justice whenever possible.