CHAPTER TWELVE
Early Sunday evening, James opened the narrow wooden door leading to the village hall and stood to one side, allowing Beth and Anne through before following them into what appeared to be organised chaos.
The hall buzzed with activity as small groups of the Cavendish Players busied themselves in different areas of the building under the watchful eye of Dorothy Forbes. Behind the scenes, at the back of the stage, he heard people hammering and sawing and, on the stage itself, Ian Connell, with his sleeves rolled up, balanced precariously on some paint-stained step ladders to help adjust the main spotlights. Young boys in shorts slid across the recently polished floor and the snoop sisters, plus other ladies from the Women’s Institute, gathered behind a long trestle table distributing steaming cups of tea from a large silver urn that stood to one side.
Dorothy strode across the wooden flooring in her stout shoes. She wore a calf-length tweed skirt and two-piece cardigan and jumper. She peered, sternly, over spectacles that perched on the very end of her nose. James awaited her instructions.
‘Ah, Lord Harrington,’ Dorothy bellowed, clipboard in hand. ‘Your group are over here. Lady Harrington and Mrs Merryweather, I believe you’re costumes.’ She glanced at her clipboard. ‘Yes, costumes. If you go to the back of the stage, through to the green room, we have some sewing machines set up. Excuse the mess, the men are attempting to make hills for the scenery.’ She marched off.
Beth grinned at James. ‘No rest for the wicked.’ She linked arms with Anne. ‘We best not dawdle or we’ll get detention.’
She and Anne chuckled like naughty schoolgirls and happily skipped away to find their fellow costume makers.
James took a cursory look around to locate his particular group. He spotted Graham Porter with Bert where, he surmised from the handshake taking place, that a deal of some sort had been finalised. Bert, he knew, planned to spend some time up at the Smithfield meat market in London and his trip would, no doubt, be a successful one with the bulk purchase of meat, poultry and game. Then, of course, he had to sell it on and, from the hushed discussions taking place, Graham had secured a mutual agreement of terms.
Like many of Bert’s business ventures, James could never quite establish the legalities of it all. But, he never grassed on his friend for a number of reasons. First, he could never do that to a friend; second, in the great scheme of things, he didn’t see the harm; and third, where this venture was concerned, the meat Graham purchased tasted too good - even Didier, his chef at the hotel, requested his inclusion on Bert’s list of contacts.
‘Evening, Graham, Bert,’ James said, shaking hands with the pair of them.
‘Wotcha, Jimmy boy,’ Bert said, waving a brown paper package at him. ‘I’m off to the green room - got some nice material ‘ere for the costumes. Managed to get some from a mate in Petticoat Lane - good price, too.’
James closed his eyes, almost incredulous at Bert’s openness with his wares. Petticoat Lane was the big Sunday morning market in the East End of London. Bert had obviously skedaddled up to the city after the service that morning. The market was a hive of industry for all manner of goods, from materials and foreign delicacies to circus monkeys and parrots. He turned to Graham and put himself down for two rump steaks.
‘I’ll have them wrapped and you can pick ‘em up tomorrow,’ Graham said as he led James away from the crowd to a quieter corner. ‘Tell me, James, is it true that you’ve found one of them golem things up at the farmhouse?’
‘Yes, rather eerie to tell you the truth,’ replied James. ‘Not what I was expecting, anyway. Seems old Grimes was delving into black magic.’
‘Bloody hell! I hope that’s not where all my money went.’
‘Well, you’d like to think not, wouldn’t you? Graham, what exactly was the arrangement that you had with him?’
They unfolded a couple of rickety wooden chairs and sat down. Graham took a deep breath.
‘He came to me saying that he’d got the opportunity to buy the copse-you know, Charn Wood, the area up at the top of the field - and some of the land behind it, as well. It’d come up for auction.’
‘That’s what Grimes had been painting - the morning I found him. Did that land not belong to him, then?’
Graham shook his head. ‘Grimes had the run of the field to the side, but the copse and beyond it I think was something to do with the farmer down the road, or spare land or something. But, it was a natural extension so it made sense for him to have that bit, too. He was gonna do something with it - not sure what.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Prob’ly some sort of ritual gathering! But, to be fair to him, he said he’d raised most of the money and was short of two hundred and fifty quid. He was nice about it - said he’d pay me interest on it and we worked out a monthly payment. We shook hands on it and we were both happy.’ Graham studied his hands, almost embarrassed. ‘Unfortunately, I didn’t put anything in writing and I never got a payment from him - not one.’
‘But he went ahead and bought the copse?’
‘As far as I know, yes. So he must’ve had some money, or else he completely over-stretched himself.’
‘So what happened when he didn’t pay you? Did you confront him?’
Graham’s heavy bulk shifted awkwardly. ‘Well, I went round there. He must’ve been three months behind with paying me and I told him it wasn’t on, you know. I mean, we shook hands, gentleman’s agreement and all that. He laughed at me. Bloody laughed! I couldn’t believe it. So I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him up against the wall. He looked terrified. I said to him, ‘If I don’t get a payment by the end of the month, I’ll kill you.’ Then I punched him, winded him like, in the stomach.’
James chewed his lip.
‘I’m regretting I said it now, of course. I mean, George Lane is gonna have me down as suspect number one.’
James crossed his legs and nodded. ‘Well, he’ll certainly want to question you, I’m sure. But you probably have an alibi, don’t you?’
‘Not really. I was at the shop the day he died, but Sarah and the kids had gone early. They fancied a trip into Brighton, so I was on my own, just pottering about like. I could’ve gone anywhere and no-one would’ve known. I didn’t though –’ad too much to do. And I was at your Halloween do on Thursday, but I don’t stick to Sarah like glue. We were talking to different people. Oliver and Harry were amusing the kids for most of the evening.’
Graham looked James straight in the eye. ‘I could’ve skipped out and knocked out the vicar, but I didn’t, I swear to you,’ he said, becoming agitated. ‘Why would I want to harm Stephen? I don’t even know him – he’s a nice bloke. I’ve got no reason to—’
James patted his knee and assured him that he believed him. Dorothy’s no-nonsense request that they join her in the middle of the hall did not go unheard or unheeded. Graham mooched across to her, his shoulders heavy from the burden of what might be.
James stacked the two chairs against the wall and frowned. Good Lord, how many people have threatened to kill Grimes? He liked to think that George would dismiss Graham from his enquiries, but doubts nagged at him - mainly because George was adamant that it was bound to be a local. And, if it was someone local, it would likely be an acquaintance or a friend.
But then, Graham was a local; been in the village for years. He’d become the quintessential village butcher; the farmer’s friend because he paid extra for the best meat, and the housewife’s favourite because of his jovial and open nature. Even Anne had commented that he had a certain charm about him. Was that charm hiding something? James hoped not as he watched Graham’s sorry demeanour.
‘Chop chop, no dilly-dallying!’ Dorothy clapped her hands chivvying people around.
James went and stood alongside Graham, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the arm. Philip Jackson, Bert and Donovan Delaney joined them.
‘Lord Harrington, where is Inspector Lane?’ Dorothy said with a reproachful look.
James managed an apologetic
smile. ‘He’s on shift until ten this evening - is that a problem?’
‘It will be if he doesn’t attend rehearsals,’ she replied. ‘Do make sure he gets to the next one and please go through this scene with him. It’s the only one he’s in.’
James assured her that he would. Dorothy handed the scripts out for their scene and ordered them to stand in a circle.
‘Right, chop, chop. Dr Jackson, you will begin with your line - and please try to sound menacing. That’s what this scene is about. You are the people who will be summoning up the mud man.’
Philip Jackson took a couple of puffs on his pipe and held up his script. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘To ward away the evil that has brought disease to our people,’ Graham answered.
Bert sniggered but, on seeing Dorothy’s glare, quickly stopped.
‘Then you must make a human image of clay. Make this image and chant the incantations of the elements and you will achieve success in killing the evil that has spread among you.’
After a short silence, James realised that all eyes were on him. He quickly studied his script. ‘Oh, sorry, er… an image of clay?’
‘Tch, tch,’ Dorothy said with exasperation. ‘Lord Harrington, it would be far better if you could sound a little less…well…’
James tilted his head quizzically. Bert nudged him.
‘What she means is, don’t sound like a bleedin’ toff.’
James smiled at Bert and glanced at Mrs Forbes. ‘Sorry, Dorothy.’ He cleared his throat and started again with an edgier tone. ‘An image of clay?’
‘But what’re we to do with it?’ Donovan Delaney demanded, impressing everyone with his hard-nosed characterisation.
‘You will need to capture the four elements. Earth, water, fire and air,’ said Philip, pointing at Bert. ‘You will bring the element of earth.’
Dorothy instructed Bert to hold up an imaginary piece of mud. ‘You’ll have the real thing on the night,’ she explained.
‘You,’ Philip pointed to Donovan, ‘will embody the furnace of fire. You,’ he said again, stabbing his finger at James, ’will breathe air into the clay. And you,’ he said, pointing at a space where George should be, ‘must bring a ladle of pure water. On the fourth hour after midnight, we will meet on the high bank where the loam pits may be found. Here, we will fashion the golem and order him to banish all evil from our community.’
‘And cut,’ said Dorothy. ‘Very good. Philip, you do sound menacing, but try to keep in character. You slipped a little on occasion. Maintain the deep and rich resonance of your voice. Right, gentleman, carry on.’
Dorothy turned on her heels and strode off to the next group, as Philip raised his eyebrows and relit his pipe. ‘Did she used to be a headmistress or something?’
James patted him on the back and advised that, no, as far as he could remember she’d always been a housewife and a mother, albeit a fierce one. Jackson looked astonished and likened her to a frustrated dictator.
Ian Connell trotted down the steps from the stage and wandered across to James.
‘Isn’t it a bit weird doing this when one of those things was found up at the farm?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I s’pose it is, really,’ replied James. ‘But, there it is. Unless we change the play completely, there’s not a lot we can do. I say, Ian, if you don’t mind my asking, what was it that you were doing for Grimes?’
Ian scratched the back of his head. ‘Inside toilet. Re-do the plumbing upstairs above the bedroom to accommodate that work, then renovate the kitchen. If there was any money left over, extend the lounge by a couple of feet.’
‘Good Lord, that’s an extensive piece of work,’ said James. ‘Do you still have the plans?’
Ian nodded, a little confused by the question.
‘Could I toddle round and take a peek?’
‘What for?’
‘Have some plans of my own to put to you.’
Ian fished out a card from his jacket pocket. ‘My address is on there. I’m in the office all day tomorrow, so you can pop in when you like. I’ll let my secretary know you’re coming - we’ll have the kettle on.’
Stephen tapped James on the shoulder just as Ian disappeared. ‘H-hello, how’s it going?’
‘Yes, good thanks. Dorothy’s a little put out about George not pitching in, but that’s about it. Any news on Keith Grimes?’
‘Nothing. The police have c-called at his flat but there’s no-one in. The neighbours haven’t seen him for a few days.’
James put his hands in his pockets. ‘Well, that’s all very odd, don’t you think? Keith Grimes must be here, in Cavendish. Where else would he be?’
The vicar pointed out that Keith could, perhaps, just be on holiday. James reluctantly agreed that this was a possibility.
‘H-have you forgotten my sermon already?’ Stephen said with a smile. ‘Don’t be so quick to judge your fellow man.’
Beth tugged James’ sleeve. ‘Dorothy has a couple of suggestions about changing the script, but Mr Jepson’s not here. Do we have any news on where they may be?’
‘Good Lord, I’d forgotten all about them!’ replied James. ‘No, they’ve disappeared completely. Not a dicky bird.’
Stephen rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘Oh Lord, y-you don’t think Mr Jepson had anything to do with this, do you? I mean, I don’t know the man, but it all seems rather unsavoury. And he’s your cleaner’s husband. That puts you in a tricky mess.’
‘To be honest, he’s a good sort, I’m sure,’ said James, waving his script. ‘I’m hoping that this is someone with a bit too much imagination.’
‘I-I feel as if there’s a huge ‘but’ at the end of that sentence.’
James heaved a sigh and commented on the difficulty in keeping that line of thought going. ‘The facts of the matter are that he’s written a play about a golem. He knows all about devil worship; he was the last person to see Grimes alive; he’s argued with him and now he’s disappeared, along with his wife. If his wife is anything to go by, it’s very uncharacteristic behaviour.’
He looked almost apologetically at Stephen.
‘So yes, although it pains me to say it, I do think he has something to do with it. He’s also not doing himself any favours by staying away.’
To James’ relief, the rest of the evening passed pleasantly and little else was mentioned about Grimes’ death, or Stephen’s blow to the head.
Amateur dramatics always brought out the humour in everyone as the villagers contributed to the play as best they could. Actors stood patiently to be measured for costumes, panels of wood were slowly transformed into hills and cottages, and the Women’s Institute were on hand to keep thirsty mouths supplied with tea and orange squash.
The small groups practised their lines, repeating them time and again, many promising Dorothy to have them memorised by the next rehearsal. Although they knew they’d never be a match for Gregory Peck or Grace Kelly, they did their best and that’s all anyone could ask.
At just after quarter past ten, George Lane plodded into the hall. He took off his hat and mumbled his apologies to Dorothy, who shot him an icy stare.
‘It’s a good job you don’t have many lines to learn - three at the most,’Dorothy said. ‘Lord Harrington will go through the scene with you. But, please, do make sure you’re here next week.’
George, normally a bull-dog of a man, did as all others in Dorothy’s wake and vowed that he would, most definitely, do his best to get here on time. James laughed and slapped him on the back.
‘So, Detective Chief Inspector Lane, are our streets safe from robbers and murderers tonight?’
George mumbled that they were and then pulled him to one side. ‘I won’t be pursuing the Grimes death, though.’
James frowned. ‘Why on earth not?’
‘The medical reports agree with Philip. It was a heart attack. No evidence of foul play.’
‘What about the knock on the head?’
‘It�
��s recent, but not conclusive. Could’ve been done during a fall.’
‘But what about the golem and Stephen being coshed?’
‘I ‘ad a word with the boss,’ replied George. ‘We’ve got a couple of major crimes that ‘ave taken place. They’re outside our jurisdiction, but the Met needs some officers, so we’re ditching what isn’t important.’
James laughed in disbelief. ‘Not important! The man could have died. There’s already been one death.’
‘We’ve taken some fingerprints, blood samples and logged the details. But, if it’s a heart attack, it’s going to be difficult to prove it’s something more sinister. Stephen’s case is an assault, probably poachers, and we’ll continue to look into that officially. I’ve got the local bobby on the beat looking into that. But, you’ve gotta be honest, James, there’s not much evidence.’
‘And the golem?’ said James.
‘I think it was a practical joke – youngsters having a laugh,’ replied George. ‘It’s not a secret that this play’s about a mud man. I mean, word gets around. There were poachers in the area, coz one of my officers picked ‘em up. They swear blind they weren’t anywhere near the farm, but unless I get a good witness, I can’t charge ‘em. Unofficially, I’ll make a few more enquiries about Grimes, but I can’t spend a lot of time on it, boss’s orders.’
George then made a beeline for the WI refreshment bench. James grudgingly bowed to George’s decision and remained diplomatic with his opinion. He even began to question himself. Was he looking into it in too much detail? Was he seeing things that just weren’t there? Had he been listening to too many episodes of Paul Temple? He made a conscious decision to carry on investigating until Bonfire Night. That gave him until Tuesday at the latest. If no leads cropped up, he’d ditch his enquiries all together.
‘That leaves me with three days,’ he mused. ‘Three days to find some sort of evidence.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Early the next day, James sat in his study, using the balls of his feet to swivel gently, back and forth, in his Captain’s chair, quietly contemplating the week’s meals for Harrington’s country hotel. Didier, his Paris-born chef, refreshed the dinner menu every second Wednesday and always sought approval from James before buying the produce.
LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 13