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

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  James winced. ‘Yes, that’s the trouble with all of this. In a way, I wish it was a cut and dried murder because some of this sounds absolutely fascinating. But, for all my suspicions, I don’t have an ounce of proof.’

  ‘Well, you have creditable suspicions,’ replied Beth, ’and the fact that George is still a little intrigued counts for something. Shall I throw another ball into your juggling act?’

  James frowned quizzically at her.

  ‘What did you make of the Professor?’ she asked. ‘He seemed reluctant to admit that there could be a Roman settlement here.’

  ‘Yes, he was a bit quick to dismiss it, wasn’t he? I wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else, too,’ added Beth. ‘That man never taught at an Ivy League university.’

  ‘How on earth do you fathom that?’

  ‘He said he taught at Dartford. There’s no such place - it’s Dartmouth. When I asked him again, he nearly bit my head off and changed the subject. Could be a slip of the tongue, but…’

  ‘Can’t imagine a Professor getting something like that wrong. He was pretty keen to move on, I must admit.’

  As Beth went out to the kitchen, James raked the embers in the fire and thought about Beth’s observations. Professor Wilkins certainly appeared a little edgy at times and had been quick to move the conversation on when she’d questioned him about America. He’d also been a little too quick to dismiss the idea of any Roman remains in Cavendish.

  Why would that be so impossible, especially if there are remains all over the county? he wondered to himself. Perhaps Wilkins isn’t what he claims to be? Perhaps he’s annoyed that he hasn’t discovered something? Or perhaps he’s annoyed that someone has discovered something that he thought only he knew about? He’s a secretive chap, never socialises with anyone. Is that why? But, more importantly, did any of this have anything to do with Grimes’ death?

  James’ self-imposed deadline of Bonfire Night loomed close. He hoped to goodness something would come up that proved, once and for all, that his suspicions were worth pursuing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Couldn’t be a more perfect evening for it,’ James mumbled as he poured himself a small brandy at the cocktail cabinet. He turned as Beth popped into the lounge surrounded by several noisy, excitable youngsters.

  ‘Sweetie, the children want to know all about Guy Fawkes.’ She gave him a hopeful look. ‘Do you have time?’

  James couldn’t decline the expectant gaze of the children, so announced his delight at imparting his knowledge of such an historic event.

  Luke and Mark Merryweather, together with Tommy and Susan Hawkins, ran to sit on the sumptuous sofa. They behaved impeccably as Beth handed them their glasses of cream soda, with strict instructions not to spill them. Anne Merryweather and Charlie Hawkins had arrived early to help out with the preparations for Bonfire Night and, along with Bert, were currently busying themselves around the house, inside and out. Stephen was en-route at this moment with Mr and Mrs Keates and her delicious fairy cakes.

  Beth planted a kiss on James’ cheek and wished him good luck. He pulled his armchair a little closer to the sofa and, once seated, leant forward to engage them.

  ‘Well, children, did you know that Bonfire Night exists because of a potential murderer?’

  The children took a startled look at one another, shook their heads and waited in anticipation.

  ‘Well, it all began hundreds of years ago, back in the early 1600s. Elizabeth the First was the Queen of England and she was being pretty horrid to those people who worshipped in the Catholic church. You see, children, in those days, they weren’t as understanding of religion as we are now. She was pretty beastly to them and, when she died, a chap by the name of James the First became King. Unfortunately, he turned out to be just as rotten to these people as the queen and it all got a little unpleasant.’

  Luke’s arm shot up. ‘How old was James the First?’

  ‘Oh, not that old,’ replied James. ‘In his forties, I think.’

  ‘Goodness, that’s old,’ Susan said.

  James frowned. Good Lord, she must think I’m ancient. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Anyway, there was a group of thirteen men who decided they weren’t going to put up with all this persecution. One of them was Mr Guy Fawkes.’

  Tommy put his hand up. ‘What’s persecution?’

  ‘Well, now, that’s a good question. I suppose it’s a bit like being bullied. Lots of people having a go at someone because they don’t fit in.’

  ‘That’s not very nice,’ Susan announced.

  ‘Were they part of a gang?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Well, yes, in a way, they were,’ replied James. ‘The gang leader was a chap called Robert Catersby, and do you know what they decided to do?’

  The children shook their heads.

  ‘They decided to blow up the Houses of Parliament.’

  The children’s eyes opened wide as Mark asked why.

  ‘That’s another very good question. The answer is that they wanted to kill King James and a lot of his friends who’d been with him at Parliament. You see, his friends had also been bullies, and pretty awful bullies too.’

  Seeing the children well and truly hooked, he leant in and whispered.

  ‘So, this gang stored thirty-odd barrels of gunpowder in the cellar under the House of Lords in London. But then something happened that changed everything. Some of the gang felt a little rotten because a lot of innocent people would die - people that weren’t mixed up with all the bullying. So, one of the men sent an anonymous letter to the King, who put plans in place to stop the attack.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Well, on the Fifth of November 1605, Guy Fawkes was in the cellar underneath Parliament getting ready to set the gunpowder off, when soldiers burst in and nabbed him. They eventually rounded up the whole gang and killed the lot of ‘em. Then, King James decided to make the Fifth of November a day to rejoice his safety. People across the land lit bonfires to commemorate that day and, as you can see, we’ve been celebrating it ever since.’

  James settled back in his chair and rubbed his hands.

  ‘So, my young scholars, while you’re all toddling about singing ‘remember, remember, the Fifth of November’, who is it you’re singing about? Who’s the chap sitting on the top of the bonfire?’

  ‘Guy Fawkes!’ the children shouted.

  James eventually decided he’d better lend a hand outside and chivvied the children out to play. After they’d put their outside clothes on, he led them out to the patio and requested they play there and not stray toward the field, where the fireworks were being positioned.

  He stood in the hall studying himself in the mirror. Knowing how chilly the evenings could get, he opted to wear thick, chestnut brown corduroy trousers with a brushed cotton long-sleeved shirt. Over this, a rust-brown cable-knit sweater. On top of that, a wool scarf, a Barbour wax jacket, sheepskin gloves and a tweed flat cap.

  A wall of sound greeted him as he poked his head around the kitchen door. Beth and Anne chatted nine to the dozen as they prepared the refreshments. Helen Jackson came out of the larder balancing bridge rolls on a serving dish. Her pretty little daughter, Natasha, stood shyly by clinging tightly to her apron.

  ‘What-ho, Helen!Is Philip here?’

  ‘Yes, he’s helping Bert sort the fireworks out.’

  ‘Splendid. Right, I’ll leave you ladies to it and go and lend a hand. I’ve transferred the children to the patio with a tennis ball and a skipping rope.’

  He turned his collar up and, armed with a large torch, strolled into the night. The outline of the bonfire became clearer as he sauntered toward it. The schoolchildren had certainly made a splendid job with their efforts. The relatively small bundle of firewood had slowly grown to an impressive height that eventually required a ladder in order to pile more on. Earlier that day, he and Beth had looked to discover t
hat the children’s guy had magically appeared, balanced on the top and sitting forlornly, awaiting its fate.

  He studied the guy perched some twenty feet above him. The children, as always, had done a remarkable job dressing him with what appeared to be quite decent clothes. He wondered if the dads of Cavendish realised their children had raided their wardrobes to dress him. Guy Fawkes’ head bore a moulded lime green cardboard mask topped with a beaten-up old bowler hat.

  James trod a path to the adjacent field where Bert and Philip had sorted out the various fireworks and prepared launch sites for each. Old milk bottles stood to attention in rows of twenty, each one with a rocket sticking out. A number of wooden posts stood in a line along the side with numerous Catherine Wheels hammered into them.

  The Chinese lanterns from the Halloween party, together with a string of Christmas fairy lights, gave plenty of colour to the stark, bare fields. Above them hung a near full moon and a thousand glittering stars and, with no breeze to speak of, this guaranteed almost perfect conditions for Bonfire Night.

  Bert shouted across to him. ‘Jimmy boy, mind where you’re standing!’

  James shone his torch along the ground and saw three narrow, shallow trenches that stretched about fifty feet in length. At intervals, Bert had dug in an array of exotic-sounding fireworks. James aimed his beam on each to see what was in store for them: roman candles, snow storm fountains, star bombs, rainbow pathfinders, helicopters and bangers, among others.

  ‘Good Lord, Bert,’ he said. ‘Where on earth did you get all of this?’

  Bert tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Ask no questions, tell no lies.’

  Philip wandered across to join them. ‘This is going to be a fantastic display, James. Bert, you’ve really done Cavendish proud. My daughter won’t sleep tonight after seeing all of this.’

  ‘Yep, don’t like to let the kids down,’ replied Bert. ‘Deserve it, too, with the bonfire they’ve built - blimey, it gets taller every year. And that guy’s been well stuffed, too. Should take a while to burn.’

  He bent down and, with a small crowbar, levered the lid from another box of Standard fireworks. James’ eyes opened wide as he looked on layer upon layer of assorted rockets and bangers.

  Bert stood up, took off his cap and wiped his brow. ‘We’ve ‘ad about forty boxes in total. Once it’s up and running, we should ‘ave around ten to fifteen minutes of display time. I’ll need some ‘elp with getting everything lit.’

  Philip delved in his pocket for his pipe. ‘Well, there’s plenty of men here tonight, so just pull us across. I’m sure we can rope in as many as we need.’

  ‘I say,’ James said, ‘do you have something there to add a bit of a climax to the whole thing?’

  Bert pointed. ‘All I could lay my ‘ands on were those astral things in that far box. They’re a bit bigger than the normal, so we’ll set ‘em off together. Should ‘ave about ten of each so, although they’re not massive, we’ll ‘ave plenty of noise and colour if they go off all at once.’

  James slapped Bert on the back and bid them cheerio, reminding them at the same time to call in and get a hot drink when they get back to the house. As he approached the patio, he heard the side-door bell ring and checked his watch. Six o’clock. Must be more helpers.

  As he reached the kitchen, Beth welcomed Stephen as he ushered in Mrs Keates and her husband, Stan. Anne and Helen helped them off with their coats as Beth levered the lid off of one of the round cake tins.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Keates,’ she said. ‘These are divine.’

  She breathed in the fresh vanilla smell of sponge fairy cakes. Helen and Anne agreed that Mrs Keates had surpassed their expectations with her individually wrapped cakes, splashed with shades of pink, blue and yellow icing and topped with multi-coloured hundreds and thousands. She flushed at the praise, her body shaking as she chuckled, almost embarrassed, by the attention.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, your Ladyship,’ she replied. ‘I’m pleased to be able to do something. And thank you for inviting us. I must say, I’ve always wanted to come and see your house.’

  ‘Well, we must give you a tour,’ James said, taking off his gloves.

  Mrs Keates nudged her husband and gestured for him to take his cap off. ‘This is my husband, Stan.’

  ‘What-ho, Stan,’ James said with an outstretched hand.

  Stan grabbed his cap in one hand and mumbled a quick hello, unsure as to whether to bow or not. James took his hand and shook it warmly.

  ‘Listen, you two, don’t stand on ceremony. I’m James and this is Beth. We’re more than happy with that, if you feel the same way.’

  Mrs Keates frowned. ‘Oh, I’m not sure that I would be comfortable with that. Not at the moment. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not in the least, but I’m afraid I can’t keep calling you Mrs Keates. Do you have a first name, Mrs Keates?’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s Gladys.’

  ‘Right-ho, Gladys. Well, should you suddenly be overcome with the need to be a little less formal, don’t ask permission, just get stuck in.’

  She curtseyed and assured James that she would try. Stan glared at her and James saw the discomfort in his face. Must come from the old school, thought James, where those from perceived lower classes must not be seen mixing with those of a higher standing. Perhaps he’ll come round eventually.

  Luckily, another vagrant from the alleged lower classes, Donovan Delaney, found his way into the large kitchen, his arms wrapped around a barrel of King and Barnes ale.

  ‘Ah, yer man, James - I’ve got another one in the van,’ he said heaving the wooden cask onto the pine table and disappeared back outside.

  Anne gave James an appealing gaze. ‘That really needs to be outside.’

  ‘I’ll sort that in just a jiffy.’ He opened a cupboard, brought out two pewter mugs and turned to Stan. ‘Stan, how about a beer?’

  Stan’s face relaxed a little as he accepted the invitation. Mrs Keates, a natural domestic, began helping the rest of the women by transferring cakes, pies and rolls onto plates and cake stands. Bert and Philip soon joined them in the kitchen and gratefully wrapped their chilled hands around steaming mugs of hot chocolate.

  ‘Where d’you want these?’ Graham boomed, standing in the doorway with a deep baking tray filled to the brim with browned home-made sausages.

  ‘Oh, Graham,’ Beth gushed, ‘they look fantastic.’

  ‘Those pigs were running around the farm a couple of days ago, so these are the freshest sausages you’ll get. They’re still warm, but you may need to heat them up again.’ He handed her a flat parcel wrapped in paper and kissed her on the cheek. ‘There’s a couple of pork chops here for you and James.’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart!’ Beth put the chops in the fridge. ‘I’ve got the oven on, so let’s put those sausages in now.’

  She turned to Graham’s wife, Sarah, who appeared from behind her husband with their two children, Thomas and Georgina.

  ‘Sarah, would you mind helping Mrs Keates with the trestle table - I need to get the food out there before the whole village descends on us. The rest of the children are playing on the patio, I think.’

  As Thomas and Georgina raced to the patio, the women busied themselves scurrying back and forth with food, plates and cutlery, while the men sorted out the drinks and set up the two barrels of King and Barnes ale - one at each end of the food line.

  ‘Good to have a local brew,’ Stan said, sipping his beer and feeling more comfortable with his peers. The men with him agreed. Formed in 1800, the King and Barnes family lived just a few miles from Cavendish and produced a decent pint by fermenting the brew in ancient wooden casks.

  The children ran down from the patio and helped themselves to glasses of lemonade and squash. Pretty soon, families and individual villagers arrived in dribs and drabs. Once one guest had received a drink, others appeared and so it went on. At seven o’clock, Beth and Anne wheeled out the huge cast iron pot of cream of tomato soup, kept warm
by a small camping stove carefully positioned underneath.

  Before long, a crowd of villagers had congregated in the grounds of the manor house. Excited youngsters raced up and down, yelling to their parents and whoever else cared to listen.

  ‘Look at the bonfire!’

  ‘Look at the guy!’

  ‘Look at the food!’

  ‘Look at the fireworks!’

  ‘Cor, Mum, look! Sausage rolls and soup.’

  Many wore grotesque Guy Fawkes masks and had smuggled in the only fireworks they could play with - Jumping Jacks. Once lit, they threw them to the ground and squealed with delight as the Jacks darted and jerked noisily across the grass and in between their ankles.

  Their mums and dads mingled by the tables, chatting, and laughter filled the air. Others stood quietly savouring the hot, creamy soup. Beth distributed sparklers to everyone that had a free hand and Anne followed behind lighting them. The villagers waved them furiously, sending out twinkling shards of glitter as they drew shapes in the night.

  Pete Mitchell turned up and, to James’ relief, had no reports of mysterious goings-on at the Grimes farm. He also appeared a lot more relaxed than he had done during their previous meeting.

  Stephen Merryweather, minus his dog collar, ran and leapt like a free spirit among the children that now numbered at least thirty. James chuckled at the sight. How odd to see a vicar behaving as a human being and getting so involved in the mood of the evening. Totally different to his predecessor, that’s for sure.

  The snoop sisters, Rose and Lilac Crumb, arrived with their normal dogged determination. James watched them from a distance, shaking his head in disbelief. Helping themselves to sherry and cake, they blatantly eavesdropped on every conversation and criticised the arrangements in their own inimitable way. One of those sentenced to an early ticking-off was Bert who, unfortunately, violently cursed his burnt sausage for being too hot.

  ‘Disgusting, swearing, disgusting. There’s children about,’ they said, more or less simultaneously as they moved on to their next target.