James cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, we won’t ask any questions about those.’
‘Elsie has lent us a huge cast iron pot to heat up the cream of tomato soup,’ continued Beth, ’and Graham is cooking the sausages in advance, so we just need to heat them up for the rolls. We have brown sauce and tomato ketchup, plus salt and pepper.’
‘Wonderful. At the last count, we have over sixty people coming from the village. Will we have enough for everyone?’
‘More than enough. A bowl of soup and a sausage roll for each, plus Mrs Keates’ cakes. From what you’ve said and what I’ve seen today, she’s bound to bring more than we need.’
‘I shall look forward to it with relish,’ James said as he leant forward to top up their glasses. ‘Are you making yourself scarce tonight?’
Beth’s eyes took on a mischievous look. ‘Absolutely not. I may not be keen on the old Professor, but I am interested in what he’s got to say. And, I want to question him.’
James glanced at her quizzically.
‘Well, honestly James, the man has lived here on and off for twenty-five years and we know nothing about him. Anyway, you never know, I may actually find I enjoy his company.’
Professor Wilkins arrived promptly at 8 o’clock that evening. A stocky, well-built man of around forty-five years old; he’d studied at Oxford and taught at a number of universities including, for one year, a leading institution in the United States. His obsession with history, architecture, studying and teaching had shaped him into a serious and somewhat abrupt individual who had, in some aspects, become old before his time.
His looks beguiled most women until they got to know him. He had a presence, there was no doubt about it. He was a good-looking chap with matinee idol looks, soft greying hair and deep-set brown eyes. When he actually put his mind to smiling, he could melt the hardest heart. But, he did not suffer fools, gossip or small-talk gladly, so most villagers never witnessed the lighter side of Professor Wilkins, if it appeared at all.
James cringed as Beth appeared to go overboard with her desire for wanting the Professor to open up. Her welcome, he commented to her later, was gushing to the point of embarrassment and he’d been close to banishing her to the study.
‘Professor Wilkins,’ she enthused with a wide smile, ‘I think this must be a first for you - you know, visiting like this. Let me take your coat and hat and, oh, your gloves too. Can we get you a drink? Tea, coffee? Or would you rather have something stronger?’
Wilkins thrust his coat at her and forced an abrupt smile. ‘Thank you. I’ll have a whisky and soda.’
James stepped in masterly before Beth gushed any further. He steered the Professor through to the lounge and made his way over to the drinks cabinet, where he prepared a whisky and soda on the rocks for all of them. He handed Wilkins his drink and placed the other two on the table.
‘Take a seat, old man. I hope it’s not been too inconvenient, coming here at short notice.’
‘Not inconvenient, no,’ replied the Professor. ‘Although I’m not here for social chit-chat, I hope.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Beth said. ‘I mean, you have led such an interesting and varied life. And the knowledge you have, well, I would have thought you’d jump at the chance of sharing it with people.’
Wilkins frowned. ‘Not really. I’m not a people person. Discovered that when I taught. All those ruddy students. More interested in going down the pub than studying, which was the main reason they were there.’
‘Well, I guess we’re all young once,’ replied Beth. ‘Were you born in Cavendish?’
Wilkins cleared his throat and shifted uneasily, appearing uncomfortable on being questioned. ‘No. I’m a Kent man. Moved to Oxford when I was eighteen.’
‘Oh, did you know the new vicar and his wife are from Kidlington? That’s nearby, isn’t it? And then you went on to teach there, too? How wonderful.’
‘I wouldn’t call it wonderful,’ replied Wilkins gruffly. ‘It was encouraging to have access to the reference books there, though. Shame our library doesn’t come up to the same standard.’
James rolled his eyes as Beth continued with her gentle probing. ‘And I guess you gleaned lots of information from other universities, too?’ she said. ‘I see, in your teaching, you were at an Ivy League university. Which one did you go to?’
‘Dartford.’
‘I’m sorry, where?’
‘Dart…Look, I’m sorry, but can we get on with what you want?’ replied Wilkins in an exasperated tone. ‘I have lectures to prepare for the historical society in Lewes.’
James sat forward quickly. ‘Absolutely, old man, don’t want to keep you. Time waits for no man and all that, what?’
Aware that Beth would likely launch into another batch of questions, he decided to distract her. ‘Darling, any chance of some cheese and crackers to go with this whisky?’
Beth narrowed her gaze. She stood behind Wilkins smiling sweetly with a sarcastic glint in her eye.
‘Of course. I’ll be right back.’
James took a hand at engaging Wilkins. ‘Professor, I have some questions about certain aspects of history that I thought you could help me with. In particular, witchcraft, pentagrams - that sort of thing. I’d like to know a little, also, about Halloween, Roman artefacts, especially pottery. Can you assist?’
For the first time since arriving, Professor Wilkins appeared delighted to be there. He took a sip of whisky and confirmed that he did know a little about all of those things. What he didn’t know could certainly be researched easily.
‘Probably not necessary,’ said James. ‘I just want a sort of overview of things, really.’
‘Well, as we’re at that time of year, I’ll start with Halloween.’
Beth quickly returned with a wooden board stacked with cream crackers, locally produced cheddar and a jar of Mrs Jepson’s pickles. She handed the plates out and invited everyone to help themselves. Wilkins flashed a rare smile at her.
‘Thank you, Lady Harrington.’
James smirked at Beth. The Professor’s eyes oozed a magnetism that aroused the female of the species. Even he could see there was an aura about him.
‘Oh, call me Beth, please,’ she said dreamily.
Professor Wilkins, oblivious to her swooning, sliced through the cheddar, helped himself to some pickle and crackers and sat back.
‘Right, Halloween. Believe it or not, it was the Celtic people that introduced this to us. The traditional name for it is Samhain. It basically marked the end of the summer and the beginning of the winter. The Celtic new year, you see, started on the first day of November.’
‘So why do we view this as a supernatural festival?’ James asked.
‘Because, in a way, it always has been. The Celts believed that, when the evenings draw in, evil spirits came along with them. So, to frighten off that evil, they built bonfires. The actual ritual of building a bonfire for Halloween died out in England, but was introduced again after the Gunpowder Plot in 1605.’
Beth swallowed her cheese. ‘So, if the bonfires faded, why did Halloween continue?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ replied Wilkins. ‘Ironically, given their take on it now, it was down to the Christian church. The last night of October was re-invented and became known as the vigil of All Saints, or All Souls Night. Christians believe that good will always conquer evil and that Jesus Christ will defeat the fear of darkness. Halloween, effectively, came and went unnoticed for decades. But the name began to appear more and more over the centuries. It’s evolved now, of course, and perceived as something completely different, mainly evil. And, because we have all this mischief night nonsense, or trick or treat, or whatever you want to call it, the tradition continues.’ He shook his head. ‘Hah, if you can call it tradition.’
He continued.
‘There used to be the ancient custom of distributing soul cakes, too. Do you know about that?’
‘Ah yes,’ James said, ‘we’re up to spe
ed with soul cakes. In fact, Beth made some to give out during our little shindig here the other night.’
Wilkins looked at her with a mixture of surprise and new-found admiration. ‘Really? I’d no idea anyone carried that on anymore.’
Beth smiled. ‘Well, we sure did and so did Mrs Keates at Charnley. It’s a shame you didn’t come and join us.’
Wilkins emphasised that it wasn’t his sort of thing really, but he expressed his pleasure at the tradition passing down. He helped himself to another cracker.
‘What else was there?’ he asked. ‘Pentagrams, did you say?’
James confirmed that this was exactly what he wanted to learn more about.
‘Can I ask why you’re interested in all of this?’
‘Well, I’m not aware if you know this,’ replied James, ’but we found a number of pentagrams on the floor of the Grimes farm. I’m just interested, really, especially as the Cavendish Players’ production this year is all to do with golems and suchlike.’
‘How odd. Hardly a Christmas theme, is it? You should be doing a Mummers Play or something. Who on earth knows about golems around here?’
‘My cleaner’s husband, would you believe. Mr Jepson. He wrote the play.’
Wilkins blew his cheeks out in surprise, then leant over and picked up one of the library books James had brought back from the Grimes farm. He flicked through it slowly.
‘There’s all sorts of pentagrams and, interestingly, you talking about the golem, they can be linked with the elements of the earth. Again, we’re harking back to ancient beliefs and traditions.’
James’ ears pricked up. ‘Really? What, all the earth, fire, water, air sort of thing?’
‘That’s right. The pentagram is to witchcraft what the cross is to the church, or the six-pointed star to Judaism.’
James looked at Beth and gestured for Wilkins to stop.
‘Are you saying that these are not used for devil worship?’
Wilkins frowned. ‘Absolutely not. That’s more of a myth. Unfortunately, this type of image is associated more with Satanic ritual than its true meaning. Like the swastika. That has the most awful image now, but not in the eastern religions. No, see here.’ Wilkins pointed to a picture of a pentagram in the book. ‘Those you’ve seen at the Grimes place, are they like this - with the circle around it?’
‘Yes, more or less.’
‘Well, these are inverted pentagrams - they’re more to do with warding off evil. They generally represent the spirits or gods that control the elements. And this circle that goes around the pentagram, well, that’s a sign of protection. It shows infinity to the cycles of life and nature.’
‘So, if Grimes was a religious man, although he never went to church—’
‘He was probably a very religious man,’ said Wilkins. ‘Doesn’t matter if he didn’t go to church. If he worshipped at home and drew pentagrams to help stop any evil coming into his home, he didn’t need to. Probably just his way.’
James sat back in wonder. ‘Good Lord.’
Beth topped up the Professor’s glass. ‘This sure is interesting,’ she said, ’and you put it across so well. Have you taught this?’
Wilkins’ face softened. ‘No, I don’t teach it,’ he replied. ‘But Sussex has such a wealth of this sort of history, especially around these small villages. It’s interesting to see what’s on the doorstep. One of the places that’s renowned for Satanic activity is Clapham, near Littlehampton. I believe some people were arrested at some point for some sort of evil cult practice.’
‘Good Lord,’ said James again to himself and took a deep breath. He’d got Grimes all wrong. He was no devil worshipper, after all. If anything, he was the other way; a religious fanatic who frowned on all things evil, probably even little things like drink. He drained his glass, suddenly recalling the fact that he’d seen no alcohol whatsoever at the farmhouse.
‘Well, Professor Wilkins, you’re certainly shedding plenty of light on my enquiring mind. My last little quandary is this.’
He felt in his pocket and brought out four shards of glazed pottery.
‘Are these from a broken jug from Woolworths, or would you say they’re something else?’
Wilkins swallowed hard, then sat forward and took the pieces from him. He rolled them over in the palm of his hand. Finally, he put them on the table and got a small magnifying glass from the inside pocket of his jacket. From the expression on his face, James could see that this jug had not been purchased from the local hardware store.
‘What are your thoughts, Professor?’ he said at last.
Wilkins fondled the pieces on the table. ‘Roman, no doubt about it. Where did you get them?’
James opted to ignore the question. ‘Did the Romans come this far?’
A look of contempt flashed across Wilkins’ face. James held his hand up.
‘I’m sorry Professor, but Roman history isn’t my thing.’
‘Clearly,’ Wilkins responded with some indignation. ‘Sussex is awash with relics from the Roman period. All across the county, we have Roman roads, towns, villas, farms, burial sites. The two nearest roads to us would be at Burgess Hill and Slinfold - good examples, too.’
‘Anything closer to home?’
‘Yes, at Barcombe, near Lewes, there’s a villa.’
Beth’s face lit up. ‘Of course, I’d forgotten about that. I remember wanting to see that some years ago. Would I be able to view it? It sounds great.’
‘I could arrange it - if you were really interested,’ replied Wilkins. ‘There’s not much to see at the moment. Just a trench, terrace, artefacts - you know. There’s evidence of a roundhouse, too.’
‘So,’ said James, anxious to stay on the subject, ‘these pieces of pottery. How do you know they’re Roman?’
Professor Wilkins baulked. ‘It’s my job to know. It’s what I studied for. It’s everything, Lord Harrington - the glaze, the form, the clay that it’s made from. It all contributes to knowing that it’s Roman.’
‘So, looking at these shards, Wilkins, what is it that convinces you?’ persisted James.
Wilkins picked up the pieces and turned them over in his hands. He then went on to explain that the Romans were living in the area between AD50 and AD400 and that most of the pieces found were used for serving food and drink. They were stored in flagons or jugs which had narrow mouths.
‘This,’ he continued, ‘I would say is Samian Ware. It’s a term used to describe red-slip bowls and dishes imported from Gaul. This looks like part of a cup, used for drinking.’
On the sofa, James flipped open a cigarette case and offered it to Wilkins, who waved it away. James took one, tapped it on the lid and put it between his lips. Beth leant across and lit it for him. Blowing the smoke out slowly, he pondered his next question.
‘If I told you that this was found here in Cavendish, would that surprise you?’
Wilkins head snapped to attention and he stared at James, then Beth, and back again. ‘Well, that’s rubbish. Nothing has ever been found here.’
James shrugged his shoulders. The professor scrutinised him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Found them myself.’
James wondered if he was imagining things, but Wilkins appeared a little put out by the statement. Even annoyed. He put it to the back of his mind.
‘Wilkins, old chap, what is this likely to be a part of?’
‘A community - a villa, a farm, certainly living quarters of some sort. Can I ask where you found it?’
‘I’d rather not say at the moment, old man’ replied James. ‘But, rest assured, you’ll be the first to know once I’m sure in my own mind. I tell you what you could do for me, though, Professor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can you trawl through your books, maps and whatever else you have? Just see if there’s any record of a Roman settlement here, even if it’s a rumour. I’d like to know about it.’
‘I can tell you now, there isn’t,’ Wilkins snapped. �
��I’d know if there was something on my own doorstep.’
‘Well, give it a shot will you?’
Wilkins seemed flustered, but assured him that he would certainly check everything he had if it meant being part of a new find. However, he reiterated its improbability with some force.
With nothing more to discuss, he gathered his belongings and, in the hall, Beth helped him on with his overcoat and kissed him on the cheek. He flushed.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said, composing himself.
‘Professor, I know it’s not your thing,’ said Beth, ’but you are welcome to come to the bonfire celebrations tomorrow. After all, it is a part of our history, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘I’m not keen on big functions, that’s all. And I can’t stand chit-chat. Such a waste of time.’
‘Well, we’ll make you very welcome if you do decide to call,’ continued Beth. ‘Mr Hawkins the librarian will be coming.’
James smirked as Wilkins reverted to being a pompous historian. ‘Why, Lady Harrington, would I want to know that? The man’s an idiot.’
‘On the contrary, old man.’ James felt he had to stick up for Charlie. ‘He comes across as a wide boy, but he spends a lot of time reading those books he stacks - you’d be surprised at the knowledge he has.’
Wilkins said that he would see about coming, but they were not to hold their breath. He shook hands with James and saw himself out. Beth closed the door, looked across at James and laughed.
‘Wow, he blows hot and cold. He’s lovely, arrogant, wilful, childish, prudish, angry, lovable and rude all in one go. It’s no wonder he’s a bachelor! I wouldn’t know any sane woman that would take him on.’
They returned to the lounge where Beth tidied up the plates and glasses.
‘So, did you get the information you wanted?’
‘Mmm, interesting wasn’t it?’ said James. ‘That man Grimes was clearly not into devil worship, more a religious zealot. But, more importantly, what was he doing with Roman pottery? Do you think he found it on the farm?’
‘Could be, but what has that got to do with anything? Grimes died of a heart attack, James. There is no foul play.’
LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 16