LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1)

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  James studied the menu, always interested in what marvellous concoctions would grace the dinner tables over the next few days. His love of good food and wine made this a joy rather than a chore, and each time he extolled high praise on his talented chef for his innovativeness and flair. Didier’s short and portly frame appeared to grow several inches with this acclaim and promptly did his very best to source only the best of ingredients.

  Launching the business back in the 1930s had, initially, been a struggle. Hitler’s army rumbled across Europe and James wondered if opening a fine hotel at that time would prove a disaster. Thankfully, the spectacular opening night had captured his well-to-do guests. Calling in a few favours from friends, James managed to secure the services of the Joe Loss Orchestra for the inauguration, which generated publicity he never thought possible.

  Things went swimmingly until war broke out and the thought of shutting the house up was not an option. He and Beth decided to do their bit for the war effort, offering the house up to be used in the best way possible.

  With ready-made bedrooms, baths and kitchens, it lent itself to serve as a military hospital for wounded servicemen. James, during this time, served as an engineer in the RAF and observed, first-hand, the horrendous injuries inflicted on the men fighting at the front. It felt it right to give something back to the brave young individuals who risked life and limb for their country.

  With the war a distant memory, the house blossomed once again into a thriving getaway for the wealthy elite who craved a break from the city. Recommendations spread by reviews and word of mouth, ensuring the patronage of regulars and the introduction of new guests, who visited from both the United Kingdom and foreign lands.

  Their stay at the house offered a plethora of things to do. There was a mixture of either complete relaxation or a more energetic pastime; hunting, shooting, walking, archery, tennis, bowls, croquet and fishing were all offered, and taken advantage of, in and around the grounds. James regularly spent time on the side of the river Ouse honing his fishing skills, occasionally surprising Beth with a couple of fresh trout for dinner.

  The carriage clock struck ten and his stomach rumbled as he examined the menu. Appetizers included home-made duckpâté, fresh prawns wrapped in Scottish smoked salmon with a dill sauce and, lastly, pea soup. The entrees consisted of Sussex beef or home-cured pork served with honey-glazed parsnips, crisp roast potatoes, cabbage, sautéed carrots and red wine gravy.

  If this failed to quell hunger pangs, guests could complete their meal with a choice of desserts - apple pie sprinkled with brown sugar and cinnamon smothered with a good helping of creamy, vanilla custard, or lemon tart served with a dollop of double cream. He pulled the phone toward him, picked up the receiver and dialled the kitchen direct. Chef answered immediately.

  ‘As normal, Didier,’ he remarked, ‘you have selected the perfect menu. However, are you going to deprive our guests of some seasonal fish?’

  ‘Oui, oui, un moment,’ Didier replied with a thick French accent. ‘My apologies, Lord ‘arrington, but I was unsure whether ze fish would be available. I ‘ave been offered some local trout. I can serve zis with a lobster and crab mashed potato.’

  ‘Good Lord, that sounds delightful. Listen, I think Beth and I may just have to pop across and taste some of this. Can you book us in on Wednesday, say seven o’clock? Put by a table of four, but it may just be the two of us.’

  ‘Oui, oui, it is my pleasure, always.’

  With the menu agreed, James spent the next couple of hours ensconced in the study, pouring over accounts, bookings and plans for the ‘58 season. He’d received a few brochures in the post that he’d requested, showing similar country houses in various locations around the world.

  Always wanting to keep one step ahead, he scrutinised them closely, hoping to find inspiration to continue the ability to ‘amaze’ his clientele. One particular hotel advertised a grand patio overlooking the Bay of Naples. It comprised solid wicker chairs and sofas with bright yellow cushions and huge navy parasols.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have the Bay of Naples as a backdrop; however, he did have the South Downs and distant sea views. These last couple of days he’d wondered about asking Ian Connell to draw up some plans for an extended summer patio. It could run the length of the house and would be perfect for dining al fresco.

  He tapped the desk with his pencil and gazed out of the window. Eating outside on a summer’s evening with a small band playing. Goodness, yes, what a splendid idea.

  ‘Must call round to see Ian today,’ he reminded himself.

  The study door opened. The tall, slim frame of Charlie Hawkins, the librarian, stood with a scruffy briefcase in one hand and gesturing a sheepish hello with the other. His hair flopped over his eyes and his wide, honest-as-the-day-is-long smile prompted James to leap up.

  ‘Charlie, how lovely to see you. Come in, come in.’

  ‘Beth said I could come straight through,’ said Charlie. ‘Is that all right, or are you busy?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait. What brings you here?’

  ‘Tommy and Susan, actually. They’re at your far field over there with the rest of the school, doing the last knockings of the bonfire. Mr Chrichton’s given’em a long lunch as a treat.’

  James wandered over to the window and looked out across to the field where he saw about thirty excited children running to and fro, giggling and playing and chucking heaps of wood onto the growing bonfire.

  ‘Jolly good show,’ he said. ‘Should be a cracking night, what? Do you want a drink or something?’

  As if on cue, Beth pushed the door open and came in with a tray of freshly brewed Breakfast tea and two toasted crumpets dripping with butter. She placed the tray between them on the small coffee table by the window.

  ‘Have them while they’re hot,’ she said. ‘Anne and I are doing some sewing in the lounge - for the costumes. Shout if you need anything.’

  She closed the door and left the two men in the more comfortable armchairs by the large bow window. James sat at the edge of his seat and poured the milk and tea.

  ‘Get stuck in, Charlie.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he replied with a twinkle in his eye. He took a large bite and quickly brought his napkin up as the butter trickled down his chin. ‘Blimey, no shortage of butter in these, is there?’

  James pushed a cup and saucer toward him with a smile. ‘Mmm, Beth tends not to do things in halves. If you’re to have a crumpet, it is to be the best crumpet ever tasted.’

  Charlie licked his lips and took a sip of tea. Putting his plate on the table, he reached down, opened up his leather briefcase and brought out two large, hardback books with images of pentagrams, witches and satanic rituals emblazoned on the front.

  ‘I got wind that you were interested in finding out a bit more about devil worship and stuff,’ he said. ‘Are these any use to you?’

  James took the books from him and flicked through pages of references, pictures and diagrams. ‘Excellent. Do you want my library card?’

  ‘Nah, don’t bother,’ replied Charlie. ‘These are from the reference library, so I shouldn’t really be taking ‘em out. But, as it’s you, I don’t mind. Providing I get ‘em back, of course. This is to do with Grimes, isn’t it? You’re playing detective, is that right?’

  James grimaced. ‘Oh, Lord, who told you that?’

  ‘Anne, the Reverend’s wife. Right excited she was - says you’re just like Lord Peter Wimsey.’

  James roared with laughter but quickly squashed the rumour of a hard-hitting investigation.

  ‘I’m really just taking an interest,’ he replied. ‘Anne tends to get a little over-zealous about such matters. It’s endearing, but a little exaggerated.’

  James reached back and carefully placed the books on his desk, assuring Charlie that he’d take good care of them. And he would, too. He had a lot of time for young Hawkins, a widower from South London, who’d lost his wife to pneumonia just three yea
rs ago. He knew it must be hard bringing up Tommy and Susan, his two children, but he seemed to do a grand job and had relatives, friends and most of the village to help out when needed.

  ‘Anyway,’ James said, ‘I’m not sure that I’m going to look into this much further. You know, initially, I was convinced there was foul play with Grimes, but it seems it was a heart attack. Had it confirmed last night.’

  Charlie pushed the last piece of his crumpet into his mouth.

  ‘Well,’ he said, swallowing another swig of tea, ‘I’ll take ‘em back if—’

  ‘No, I’ll hang on to them for a couple more days,’ said James. ‘Make sure I’ve got the facts straight in my head before giving up my little hunt. Anyway, I’m intrigued to see why Grimes was so into this business. What possesses a man to favour this type of literature?’

  ‘Takes all sorts to make this world,’ replied Charlie.

  They finished their refreshments and watched the schoolchildren queuing to load more bits and pieces to the bonfire. James smiled. They appeared to be holding anything remotely flammable - old rickety chairs, table legs, broken bits of wood and small sticks from the hedgerows. At the bonfire, Mr Chrichton took the items and tossed them as high as he could. What had been a small pile of twigs was slowly transforming into a mountain and stood at least twenty feet tall already.

  ‘By the way,’ James said, turning back to Charlie, ‘I wanted to thank you for the other night. Well, not you really, rather Tommy and Susan. They did a grand job of making the vicar’s kiddies feel at home.’

  ‘Yes, they’re little blighters most of the time,’ laughed Charlie, ’but their hearts are in the right place. Although I understand there was some blackmail involved by a certain Lord of the Manor.’

  ‘Nothing underhand, old man, all for the sake of charity.’ James glanced back at the books on the desk. ‘I say, Charlie, did you know Grimes at all? It appears he could be a bit of a rotten egg.’

  Charlie quickly nodded his agreement. He delved into the pocket of his jacket and brought out a notebook.

  ‘I made a note of this because I thought it’d interest you. He didn’t come into the library much but, when he did, he borrowed books on religion, the supernatural and devil worship. Nothing else. Bloody odd bloke.’

  James looked at him inquisitively as Charlie continued.

  ‘I mean, I know most farmers in this area and, yes, they’re all busy and can’t always spare the time to chat, but they’d always pass the time of day with you. But Grimes? He was a moody sod. Never made conversation with me at all and I’m sure that a lot of my reference books went missing whenever he came in.’

  ‘I have the key to his house. If you want me to take a look, I will. He’s got stacks of books in his living room. It should be pretty obvious if it’s a library book. To be honest, if his son doesn’t want them, you may as well take his books for the library. It’s a way of paying back any fines.’

  ‘Is that Keith you’re talking about?’

  ‘Yes, d’you know him?’

  ‘I know of him,’ replied Charlie. ‘Heard he got knocked about a bit.’

  ‘Where did you hear that from?’

  ‘Oh, only the other night. Mr Crichton - at the Halloween do. I think you’d been talking to him about it and he carried the conversation on with me. Quite annoyed, ’e was. Seemed to bring back bad memories. Sounds like he was pretty mad with Grimes - almost had a real bust-up with him about how he treated Keith and the other kids.’

  James’ ears pricked up. ‘Other kids?’

  ‘He just hated kids. Well, that’s the impression I got. He walloped Delaney’s son a few months ago.’

  ‘Walloped Delaney’s son? Good Lord, Delaney’s built like a warship.’

  ‘Yeah, no coward, that’s for sure,’ said Charlie. ‘Not just a clip round the ear, neither. A real stinger across the backside.’

  James sank back in his chair. That’s the second incident where Donovan’s concerned, he reflected. First Grimes insults his wife, and now he’s hit one of the Delaney children. And Donovan certainly had a temper.

  ‘Mind you,’ Charlie added, ‘if someone hit one of my kids, I’d knock ‘em senseless. I mean, if they do wrong, you do something about it yourself, don’t you? Well, either you or a teacher. Maybe a copper, but no-one else.’

  James agreed and the two continued talking about children and families in general. Having come to a natural pause in the conversation, James decided it was time he scooted across to Loxfield to see Ian Connell. They wandered through to the hall, where James helped Charlie put his trench coat on. He felt the pockets of his own sheepskin jacket that hung on the coat stand, brought out Ian’s card and gave it a cursory wave at Charlie.

  ‘I’m popping round to Ian Connell. Best give him a quick call first, make sure he’s in. D’you need a lift?’

  Charlie bent down and picked something up from the wooden floor.

  ‘This fell out of your pocket,’ he said. He examined the pottery piece and turned it over in his hand. ‘Where’d you get this?’

  James peered at the glazed piece of pottery. ‘Oh, over at Grimes’ farm. There were quite a few fragments lying around. I put them in my pocket, not sure why. Forgot all about them.’

  ‘You got any more?’

  James fished around in the pockets and brought out several small fragments and handed them to Charlie. ‘Looks like it’s all from the same thing,’ he added. ‘Probably a broken jug or something. There seemed to be some broken crockery in the kitchen when I was there.’

  Charlie’s twinkling eyes took on a serious gaze.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘These are old. I don’t mean Victorian old, I mean old.’

  James raised his eyebrows and studied the pieces. ‘How do you define old?’

  ‘See this glazing?’ said Charlie, pointing to one of the shards. ‘Here, on the rim? That’s something you normally find on jugs and bowls from ‘undreds of years ago. I only know because we’ve got a few books on pottery at the library. You flick through ‘em now and again and, funnily enough, some of it sinks in.’ He laughed at himself. ‘You should go and see Professor Wilkins, over at the Historical Society. He’ll probably let you know what this is.’

  ‘Yes, Beth suggested I speak to him about the devil worship stuff. Seems he’s the man to talk to.’

  James took the pieces from him and laid them on the occasional table.

  ‘Good luck,’ Charlie added. ‘He’s not the most welcoming bloke in the village. Thinks he’s a cut above everyone. Got right shirty with me when I corrected him on some history the other day.’

  James assured Charlie that he thought he could handle Wilkins. Charlie put his gloves and scarf on, shook hands with James and began walking down the drive. James closed the door thoughtfully and examined the piece of pottery.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The village of Loxfield, seven miles of meandering, country roads north of Cavendish, had grown rapidly due to its location by the railway; a branch line that fed the main commuter links to London. Unfortunately, the high influx of new residents over that time impacted hugely on the local community and the village had rapidly lost its charm.

  James discovered that the bigger the metropolis, the less community spirit there seemed to be and, having collided accidentally with a couple of people on the main thoroughfare, this philosophy had proved him right. Neither gave nor accepted an apology, but chose to glare accusingly before striding on.

  He regretted such attitudes within people and blamed it solely on the village expanding too quickly. New residents remained strangers and, disappointingly, the resentful locals had failed to make them welcome. As a result, the village transformed itself into a society of friendless individuals. He’d seen it happen in the suburbs of London and hoped that Cavendish wouldn’t go the same way. Such a downhill slide seemed, at the moment, highly unlikely. Although tide turns for no man, he made a mental vow to do his level best to keep the village friendly and sociall
y interactive.

  The shops and cottages he passed appeared tired and in need of repair. Clearly, those living here took no pride in their village. Indeed, the encroaching grey clouds further dampened his mood and he took an instant dislike of the place.

  Ian Connell’s office stood at the end of the high street. James looked at the sign above the smeared window. Sutherland Property Agents and Auctioneers. This same title appeared on a gleaming polished bronzed plate screwed into the wall to the side of the door. Underneath, in brackets, he read Resident Builder and Architect, Ian Connell’. The plaque looked expensive. What a shame the same sort of money wasn’t spent on the shop front, James mused.

  The bell above the door rang an irritating jangle as he entered and three pairs of eyes glanced up with little enthusiasm. Finally, one young lady deemed to show him a degree of courtesy, although it took her some time to summon the energy to get up.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Ah yes - I’m looking for Ian Connell.’

  Ian’s voice shouted, unseen, from the back of the office. ‘Lord Harrington, I’ll be two seconds. D’you want tea, or something a little stronger?’

  James smiled at the young woman and made his way toward the rear. Ian’s ‘office’ turned out to be a desk at the back of Sutherlands - quite a small one, at that. He looked in the direction of the whistling kettle and saw Ian through a small alcove, with a tea caddy in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

  ‘Well, as it’s gone mid-day and it’s rather damp out there, I’ll go with a shot,’ James said, brightening. ‘Just a small one, though.’

  Ian, dressed in a wool jacket and open neck shirt, reached up for two shot glasses and opened the bottle.

  ‘Sorry about the office - it’s a bit drab, I know.’