James always wondered why, when some people addressed him, they tried to speak ‘posh’. He didn’t give a hoot about people’s backgrounds; but Elsie, bless her, always felt the need to up her game when speaking to him. He squeezed her hand.
‘Ah, Elsie, fine fodder as always. These kidneys are by far the best I’ve had. By the way, this is Stephen and Anne Merryweather. Stephen’s the new vicar over at Cavendish.’
She wiped her palms on her apron and shook hands with them. ‘Oh, that’s nice. I’m pleased to meet you. Hope you’re enjoying your food.’
‘It-it’s really very good,’ replied Stephen. ‘I can s-see why James brought us here.’
‘Special occasion is it, or is his Lordship showing me off?’ Elsie enquired.
‘Bit of both, really, Els,’ James replied. ‘Just settling the old vicar in, and this is the best place for good food - apart from the manor, that is,’ he winked at her. ‘Poor thing’s hardly got his feet under the pews and he’s got a funeral to do.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?’ asked Elsie.
James had his mouth full of mashed potato, so Beth carried the conversation on. ‘You may do. Alec Grimes, a farmer on the road to Cavendish - do you know him?’
Elsie frowned and repeated the name a couple of times. After a while, a look of recognition flashed across her face. ‘Oh yes, I know. He’s the one that took that farm on a few years back. Not a local man.’
Beth nodded. ‘That’s right. Unfortunately, no-one seems to have known him well. It’s a lovely farmhouse, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone to inherit. I guess the whole thing will have to go to auction.’
‘Oh, but his son will have that, surely?’ Elsie replied.
James almost choked on his potatoes. ‘His son? Alec Grimes has a son? Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes, although I don’t think anyone saw much of him’ Elsie said as her finger and thumb squeezed her bottom lip. ‘Now, what was his name?’ She called over to a lady getting ready to leave with her husband. ‘Mrs Thorp, you remember Alec Grimes, that farmer on the Cavendish road? You know, the one who bought the farm off Ted Basinger. He had a son, didn’t he? Can you remember his name?’
Mrs Thorp didn’t hesitate. ‘Keith,’ she replied as she buttoned up her coat. ‘Moved to Scotland.’
Elsie thanked her and turned her attention back to James. ‘That’s it, Keith. Had a right falling out with his dad. That’s when he moved to Scotland. Hasn’t been back since, as far as I know.’
‘Well,’ Beth said, ‘that’s a turn-up for the books. But how awful that they fell out.’
Anne put her hand on Stephen’s arm. ‘Somebody ought to contact him. He’ll want to be at the funeral. I mean, even if they’ve argued, do you think he could live with himself if he didn’t attend? Not your own father’s funeral.’
Stephen, his mouth full of sausages, mumbled in agreement. James put his knife and fork down.
‘Elsie, old thing,’ he said. ‘Seeing as you seem to have all the gossip, do you know what Keith and his dad fell out about?’
‘No, I’m afraid not, your Lordship,’ replied Elsie. ‘I wouldn’t have known he had a son, to be honest. It’s only because we’ve got someone in the village that did know him for a bit, so I would hear of him being spoken about. That was Mrs Keates, down the road here. She’s at number seven. She worked with Keith for a while. May still be in touch, though I doubt it. He didn’t seem to be the socialising type, especially with older people. But she seemed to know him better than most.’ She smoothed her apron down. ‘Anyway, I’d best get on. Enjoy the rest of your meal.’
‘Well, well,’ James said winking at Anne. ‘I wonder whether Keith has come back? That’s a lead to pursue.’
Beth stared at James. ‘You’re not going to start with the Sherlock Holmes act again? Why don’t you listen to the experts? It was a heart attack.’
Anne’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I like a good mystery.’
James grinned at her with equal enthusiasm. ‘Yes, me too. It’s only for this afternoon, Beth. I’ve got too much on, what with Halloween and Bonfire Night coming up. Won’t hurt to ask around, though. Anyway, she may have a contact for Keith.’
‘W-what if she hasn’t? It doesn’t sound like he’s the sort to stay in touch,’ Stephen said with some concern.
‘Then I’ll toddle over to George and ask him to search for young Keith Grimes through official channels,’ replied James. He glanced at Beth. ‘Satisfied?’
Beth rolled her eyes as the four finished their lunch, treating themselves to some steaming treacle sponge pudding to ignite a glow inside them before venturing out into the cold and damp.
Back in Cavendish, James dropped Stephen and Anne off at the vicarage and bid them good day. James promised to let Stephen know about Keith’s whereabouts as soon as he had the details.
Beth decided she’d walk back to the house, as she wanted to call in and see Dorothy about the play and what help was required for the costumes.
She’d decided to become a little more involved this year and had volunteered to make some outfits, especially as the village had now established a sewing club. Beth was keen to put her stitching skills to work. Bert’s offer of quality material would, she said, come in very handy and the newly purchased silk he’d acquired would make a perfect evening gown for Christmas.
James wasn’t so sure that purchasing anything from Bert was a good idea. He was certain that, at some stage, his friendship with Bert and Detective Chief Inspector Lane would clash and did his best to avoid discussions of buying and selling when the two were together. He kissed Beth goodbye and watched on fondly until she disappeared from his view.
As he strolled toward his Jag, his ears pricked at the sound of several young voices singing in the distance.
‘Please to remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot. I see no reason, why gunpowder treason, should ever be forgot.’
James stood and waited for the source of the singing to appear and finally saw a group of youngsters, led by young Tommy and Sue Hawkins, whose father ran the local library. Using a beaten-up old pram, they proudly displayed their fully-clothed and very lifelike Guy Fawkes. He had a home-spun red wool beard, a trilby hat and a grotesque cardboard mask across his eyes and nose. His torn trousers and jumper were filled with rolled-up newspaper and straw and he flopped about lethargically as the pram lolled over the uneven pavements.
The Bonfire Night celebrations never failed to inspire. They’d been a part of the community for over two hundred years and every generation of children brought up in the village, including his own, looked forward to the festivities. He was almost grateful to Guy Fawkes for trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament all those years ago. Without it, the Harrington tradition of hosting the Bonfire Night party would never exist. The children sprinted across to him.
‘Penny for the guy, your Lordship?’ Susan said with an angelic smile.
James felt in his pocket and brought out some change. ‘For you, Susan, two shillings.’
Her eyes opened as wide as saucers as the two shillings gleamed in her hand.
‘Thank you.’
James ruffled Tommy’s hair. ‘Vicar and his wife are back. I’m sure if you knock on their door, they’ll give you a couple of coppers.’
‘Brilliant,’ Tommy said. ‘Have we got lots of fireworks, Lord?’
James chuckled. ‘More than we need, Tommy, don’t worry your socks about that. Bonfire’s growing and getting all set to burn. We just need guy here to stick on top and we’ll be set. When are you bringing him over?’
‘Monday lunchtime. Mr Chrichton’s letting us come over in-between lessons. We’re missing out on PE, but that’s all right. Building a bonfire’s much more fun.’
The other children agreed, shouting excitedly.
‘I’m missing netball,’ Susan added with a very serious voice, ‘but that’s all right, too.’
&nb
sp; ‘Jolly good. You collected much?’
The children yelled over one another and, in between interruptions, James discovered that they’d collected over five pounds and all of the money would be going toward the staging of the pantomime. The first night would be performed solely for the old people that lived in the residential home outside the village. James reminded them that what they were doing was a splendid thing and that the elderly folk will be a wonderful audience.
He squatted down to Susan and explained that the vicar’s two boys would be arriving in the next couple of days and put her in charge of making them welcome.
‘They’re going to be here for Halloween, so make sure they become a part of your little gang, won’t you?’
Susan nodded with every ounce of sincerity. The trust from a real Lord and the promise of an extra shilling encouraged her to do just that. The children raced down the vicarage path in a rampage. James chuckled at their excited shrieks of ‘Penny for the guy, penny for the guy’. That’ll shake Stephen from his sherry-induced slumber, he thought to himself.
‘Now James,’ he mumbled as he let himself into his car. ‘Let’s go and call on Mrs Keates.’
CHAPTER SIX
Storm clouds gathered as James steered the Jaguar back through the narrow country lanes to Charnley. The ancient woodland between the two villages hadn’t changed for centuries and, with no other cars on the road, he could imagine colourful cavaliers and leather-clad roundheads cantering among the sturdy oaks and elms, while blacksmiths fired up their forges deep in the forest.
Heavy, black clouds lolled over the Downs and the heavens opened. Raindrops, the size of marbles, splattered across the windscreen. James switched the wipers on and concentrated on the road. The rain became lighter and turned to sleet.
‘Good Lord,’ he muttered. ‘I hope this doesn’t freeze, it’ll be like an ice-rink. Roll on the spring, when I can get out and play some cricket.’
Like Cavendish, with its village green, cricket pavilion and post office, Charnley welcomed visitors into its cosy, quaint ways. The pub and church took centre place and, as with every other parish, appeared to be the centre of the community. However, from the deserted streets ahead, no-one seemed prepared to show their face during such miserable weather.
James gently stepped on the brake, slowing the car right down. He leant forward and squinted through the foggy windows, trying to locate number seven. The windscreen continued to mist up and he rubbed it furiously, being careful not to veer off the road at the same time. Eventually, number seven came into view.
Mrs Keates lived in a two-up, two-down Victorian terrace house that opened straight onto the main street. With small sash windows, the woodwork outside was painted a glorious canary yellow and recently, too. There wasn’t a touch of grime and it projected a wonderful brightness onto the street. The wooden front door provided a delightfully sunny aspect on such a dismal day and cheered James into believing that someone with a particularly jolly disposition lived there.
He parked directly outside, put his hat on and leapt out of the car, pulling his collar up in a desperate attempt to stop the rain dripping down the back of his neck. Standing as close to the door as possible, he rapped on the iron knocker. He didn’t have to wait long. The door opened a fraction and a round-faced, middle-aged lady peered tentatively at him.
‘Yes?’
James raised his hat. ‘Ah, Mrs Keates?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Keates, I’m Lord James Harrington from the next village, Cavendish. I wonder if—’
The door swung open and Mrs Keates more or less yanked him into the long, polished hallway. She chuckled with embarrassment.
‘Oh my goodness, your Lordship. I’m so sorry to make you stand in the rain.’
James smiled to himself. He didn’t like to rely on his title too much. Sometimes, however, it did come in handy. He folded his collar back down.
‘Quite all right. Didn’t expect you to just invite me in, old thing.’
‘Well, I must admit, I wasn’t expecting anyone today, especially yourself.’ She laughed again and wiped her hands on a fluffy towel. ‘Would you like some tea? Or my ‘usband’s got a nice whisky. I could do you a hot toddy, warm you up a bit.’
James’ eyes brightened as he rubbed his hands together. ‘What a splendid lady you are, Mrs K.’
Mrs Keates directed him to the sitting room, but the aroma wafting in from the kitchen enticed him in that direction and he encouraged her to allow him into her sacred cooking area. She apologised for the mess, as his nose followed the doughy smell of bread and cakes into a tiny square kitchen at the back of the house.
James decided that the women of Cavendish and Charnley must all be food mad. He put Mrs Keates at about fifty years of age; quite a buxom woman, with curly salt and pepper hair and a round, squashed face, with rosy cheeks and jovial countenance. Indeed, as he looked at her, he likened her to a life-size jelly mould.
The kitchen oozed a comforting warmth and James surveyed the floury work surfaces and cakes in their various stages of baking.
‘Dashed good display of sponges, Mrs Keates.’
‘Oh, thank you, your Lordship. We’re having a party at the village hall tonight. It’s one of the villager’s ninetieth birthday, so we thought we’d spoil him. I seem to be the one who always cooks the cakes. Seem to have a knack for ‘em.’
James sniffed the fairy cakes, warm from the oven. ‘You certainly do, Mrs K. Can I be cheeky and pinch one?’
‘Of course! Take a couple home with you if you like. I’ve got to get started on the soul cake soon, as well.’
‘Soul cake? Haven’t had one of those in years.’
‘Oh yes, you know, for Halloween. Always have a soul cake on All Souls.’
James tucked into his fluffy, iced fairy cake with hundreds and thousands sprinkled on the top. He closed his eyes in delight as the light, vanilla sponge melted dreamily in his mouth.
‘I say,’ he said after swallowing the rest of the cake whole. ‘You wouldn’t fancy doing some of these for my Bonfire Night, would you? It’s a bit short notice and all, but—’
‘I’d be happy to, your Lordship. That’s on the fifth, isn’t it? The Tuesday. Or are you doing it at the weekend?’
‘No, no, always do it on the fifth,’ replied James. ‘I could come and pick you and hubby up. We’re having quite a feast and a whole hoard of fireworks.’
Mrs Keates agreed that it would be lovely and she speedily accepted his invitation. She began stirring a pot of tea for herself and a hot toddy for James.
James watched keenly as she poured the smooth malt whisky in the glass and added a spoonful of runny honey and hot water. She squeezed in some lemon juice, added a pinch of cloves and mixed it all together. James bowed as he accepted the steamy dram from her. He took a sip and remarked on its mellow taste. Mrs Keates invited him to sit down and asked, for the umpteenth time, whether he was sure he was comfortable sitting in the kitchen.
‘Everything is absolutely lovely, Mrs K,’ James assured her. ‘Elsie at the restaurant told me where you lived. She said you knew Alec Grimes’ son, Keith.’
She sat down with her tea and looked at him in astonishment. ‘Keith Grimes! Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a few years. What d’you want to know about ‘im for? Beggin’ your pardon, your Lordship - that must have sounded inappropriate. It’s none of my business, of course.’
James waved aside her concerns and took her through what had happened to Alec Grimes, but didn’t let on about any of his suspicions. He was, he told her, trying to contact Keith so that he could get to the funeral in time.
‘Well, we worked together at the sweet factory just outside of Brighton,’ explained Mrs Keates. ‘I was on the lollipop line and he had sherbet fountains. I felt a bit sorry for him, really. Didn’t seem to have any friends to speak of, and he was stuck out on that farm, which he didn’t like at all.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘Hated it, he did. I mean, that farm came under the Cavendish parish, but it was quite a way from the village. He seemed to be more of a city boy. Didn’t like farming or the countryside; he wanted some life, girls, music. You know what they’re like these days. All that rock ‘n’ roll nonsense.’
‘So what did Alec think of that?’
‘Now I never met him, but I do know they didn’t get on. They had big arguments about the farm. Alec wanted to keep it in the family and Keith wanted nothing to do with it. I remember Keith came into work once with a black eye and split lip.’
James raised his eyebrows and Mrs Keates nodded knowingly.
‘I said to him, Keith, what have you done? And he came straight out with it. He said his dad had beaten him up. Not for the first time, either, from what I gather.’
‘Good Lord,’ James exclaimed. ‘I mean, it’s not as if it was an old family farm.’
‘Wasn’t just that,’ she said softly. ‘There was the other stuff as well.’
James leant in and whispered. ‘What other stuff?’
‘Supernatural business, I’ve heard.’
James stared at her and Mrs Keates nodded with a ‘what do you think of that?’ look and lowered her voice further.
‘Some say he was very religious ‑ although, from what I gather, no-one saw him in church, if at all. Others say he was a wizard or something, dabbling in the dark arts. Now that makes more sense, don’t it, if he don’t go to church?’
James gave her a quick smile as she continued telling him what she thought and supposed about a man she’d never met. Clearly she was influenced by what others told her and, on probing further, those others hadn’t met Alec either. This was like listening to the snoop sisters all over again. James decided he wouldn’t get much more from her. He took a swig of his hot toddy.
‘So, do you know whereabouts in Scotland he moved to?’
‘Oh, gawd, now you’re asking. Such a long time ago. Now, he spoke about Edinburgh and Glasgow.’ She got up and rinsed her hands under the tap, grabbed a towel to wipe them. ‘I said to him, why ever do you want to move all the way up there? Said he wanted to get as far away from his dad as possible.’ She grabbed a cloth and wiped the table. ‘D’you want a top-up?’
LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 6