The villagers oo-ed and ah-ed and the children shouted excitedly with every bang, whistle, whoosh and crack. The clear night air turned hazy with smoke as Bert took them into the finale.
With a mighty explosion, twelve glowing balls of fire sped into the sky and burst open, letting loose a palmed canopy of stars that blinkered silver, gold and blue across the sky before drifting slowly back to earth.
When the last speck of light disappeared, the villagers broke into spontaneous applause and cheered the display loudly. Bert, Graham and Ian bowed and patted each other on the back for a job well done.
‘Well, that was an amazingly fine show,’ Beth said, linking arms with James.
‘Wasn’t it just. I think I’d better treat Bert to a bottle of something. I don’t know where he gets these things from, but I’m sure I didn’t pay for all of that.’
George wandered across to them, swallowing the last of his roll. ‘Blimey, you know how to put on a display, James. That really was something. I ‘ope Bert didn’t get any of this stuff from the warehouse job last week. There were some fireworks went missing there.’
James glanced at Beth and grimaced. She suppressed a mischievous giggle.
A huge cheer caught their attention. They turned in time to see the Guy explode into flames, but James silently seethed in frustration, finding it difficult to witness individual reactions. The villagers had spread themselves about and interpreting emotions and body language was impossible in the shadow of the fire.
With the whole bonfire burning and the fireworks discharged, most villagers returned to the trestle tables, where Mrs Keates and Anne dished out the remaining food and drink.
‘See anything unusual?’ asked George.
‘Not a dicky bird, I’m afraid,’ James said as he acknowledged the doctor’s presence. Philip’s daughter, Natasha, had wrapped herself around his neck with her eyes closed.
‘Did she sleep through all that noise?’
He laughed. ‘Yes. James, I hope you don’t mind, but I used your telephone to ring the hospital, just to see what was happening.’
‘Not at all, old chap.’
George swigged the last of his beer. ‘I’d better get down there and take a statement.’
‘That’s going to be difficult,’ replied Philip.
George, James and Beth stared at him, fearing the worse.
‘He’s in a coma.’
‘Oh Lord,’ James said, sliding his hat back. ‘That doesn’t sound too good, does it?’
‘Oi,’ Bert shouted as he trudged toward them. ‘That Professor you were looking for. He went. Waited for the bonfire to go up and then shot off pretty quick.’
James glanced at George and shook his head in disbelief. ‘No. Not him. Why on earth would he want to kill Keith Grimes?’
George pulled his collar tight. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.’
Beth stopped him. ‘George, please be careful.’
He smiled and patted her hand. ‘I’m not as stupid as your husband, Beth. I’ll have two burly constables with me.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’m not fit enough to tackle a blade of grass, let alone a killer.’
Beth squeezed James’ hand as they watched George go.
‘Penny for them,’ she said quietly.
‘I don’t know, darling. Wilkins just doesn’t fit the bill for me.’ He wrapped his arm around her and they strolled toward the bustle of activity. ‘I think our killer is still here.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
James stood thoughtfully in the small churchyard by the grave of Alec Grimes. Alongside him were Beth, George, Bert and Anne. A robin sat in a holly bush, lifting the gloom with its chirpy song. Colin, the grave digger, stood a respectful distance away, leaning on his shovel, his cap on the back of his head. Flurries of sleet tussled in the breeze, unsure whether to transform into snow or turn to a misty rain.
The freezing earth chilled his toes. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his hair back as Stephen came to the end of a brief but poignant service. He’d clearly tried his best to be as personal as possible; James warmed to the new vicar and the way he conducted himself. It was as if he’d been there forever.
James dug his hands in the pockets of his black wool overcoat and looked down at the coffin with a hint of sorrow and regret. Not one person from the village attended, or believed they had a need to attend. No other relatives had come forward to make themselves known. George had only appeared because of the circumstances surrounding his death and, as with the Sunday service, his presence did not yield any clues.
Lilac and Rose Crumb, to James’ amazement, delivered a delicate hand-made wreath at the beginning of the service, but quickly disappeared before the only hymn. Clearly, they thought there’d be some gossip and, on seeing rows of empty pews, decided their efforts were fruitless and left.
Stephen cleared his throat. ‘Well, th-that’s it, then. Shall we adjourn to the vicarage and have some tea?’
George excused himself due to work commitments, but the others made their way along the gravel path and through the wooden gate to the vicarage, a small, brick cottage just next door to the church.
Anne’s assumption that villagers would not turn out in force proved correct and her catering reflected that. She distributed pale blue plates, each with a paper napkin. Two small three-tier china cake-stands stood on the polished sideboard with a selection of fondant iced cakes, jam tarts and biscuits. Stephen poured the tea and told everyone to make themselves comfortable. Beth seated herself next to James on the two-seater sofa.
‘Well, I know that funerals are sad affairs,’ she said, ’but did anyone else feel this was…well, depressing?’
Anne drew her hair behind her ears. ‘I thought so, too. I mean, he farmed here for years, yet not one person came to pay their respects.’
Bert tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand and put it in his mouth.
‘People aren’t gonna mourn who they don’t like, and ‘e didn’t go out of his way to be friendly, that’s for sure.’ He frowned. ‘It’s strange, though. He ‘ad no friends, but he got involved in that play. Why would ‘e do that? Had’e been involved in other productions?’
‘Not that I can remember,’ Beth said. ‘I guess that is strange. I wonder who asked him to take part?’
James crossed his legs and sipped his tea. ‘I don’t know. Dorothy Forbes usually does all the casting, but I can’t see that she’d even know Grimes, let alone befriend him for a part.’
‘P-perhaps it was this Mr Jepson?’ said Stephen. ‘I mean, th-they were both into this devil worship business.’
James almost choked on his tea. ‘Goodness Stephen, that went completely out of my head. You know, it’s unlikely that Grimes was into devil worship. Not the way we were thinking. He was totally opposed to it.’
With the help of Beth, he went through the information that Professor Wilkins had explained to them on Monday night.
‘Bloody hell,’ Bert said shaking his head. ‘So, deep down, he was a zealous bible basher and believed he’d be sucked down to hell.’
James cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’m not sure it was quite like that….’
‘G-goodness, I wish you’d said before the service,’ said Stephen. ‘I could have made it a little more in keeping with his b-beliefs.’
‘Sorry, Stephen, went completely out of my head. But you gave a wonderful service. I expect if Alec was listening he would have enjoyed your little rant about leading a good Christian life.’
‘Mmm, I-I should be preaching to myself after deceiving my parishioners last night. And I missed a rather g-good firework display, I understand.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid you did, but all in the name of the law and all that. Has anyone dropped by to ask what was wrong with you?’
Stephen explained that he’d received a number of calls from the locals asking after his welfare. He glanced around the room sheepishly.
‘I told them I’d fainted.
B-blood pressure caused by my bosh on the head last week.’
Anne sat forward. ‘Is your friend Inspector Lane any nearer to knowing what happened?’
James sighed and licked the crumbs off of his lips. ‘I don’t think so, although he hasn’t contacted me since last evening. We’re catching up with him tonight. We’re treating him to dinner at the manor.’
A glint crossed Beth’s eyes. ‘Yes, that’ll be interesting. George doesn’t divulge a lot of information, but serve him a scrummy dinner and his tongue loosens up a little.’
Anne, totally intrigued and wrapped up in the whole mystery, insisted that Beth pop by tomorrow and let her know what happens.
‘I know this is a dreadful business,’ said Anne, ’but I can’t help but be a little excited by it all. It’s like an Agatha Christie novel, isn’t it?’
‘H-hardly,’ replied Stephen, a little taken aback by his wife’s relish. ‘When it’s on your doorstep, it’s not quite that exciting. And, as the vicar’s wife, you do need to ttemper your excitement.’
Bert’s disgusting laugh broke the silence. He put his arm around Anne’s shoulders and squeezed her. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, Mrs Merryweather,’ he said. ‘Better than that crispy old bat that was in ‘ere before. What with ‘er and that bah humbug of a vicar, you’d think hell had frozen over every Sunday at ‘is service.’
‘Bert,’ James frowned, ‘remember where you are, old chap.’ He glanced at Stephen, who rolled his eyes and joined in with the general banter.
‘Y-you needn’t worry about me, Bert. God has a sense of humour. Probably felt the same way about our predecessors, you never know.’
Anne put her tea down. ‘Have you heard from your Mrs Jepson yet?’
James sank back in his chair with a puzzled and concerned expression. ‘No.’ He looked at Beth. ‘That’s very odd, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t think where they’ve gone,’ replied Beth. ‘But if Mr Jepson is responsible for what happened with Keith Grimes, he must still be here.’
‘Nah, nah.’ Bert pushed a cupcake in his mouth and shook his head purposely as he mumbled a response. ‘Mr Jepson’s a small bloke and in his sixties. There’s no way he could have dragged Keith to the top of that bonfire.’
Anne’s eyes opened wide. ‘Then who could?’
‘P-plenty, my dear,’ replied Stephen. ‘If you’re looking for men with enough muscle to carry K-Keith, there’s plenty of people that fit that d-description in the village.’
James sipped his tea and contemplated. Stephen was right. A lot of the men in Cavendish were fit, stocky chaps who wouldn’t buckle at lifting such a weight. Perhaps George would have some ideas to put to them this evening.
The head waiter of Harringtons Country Hotel bid James and Beth a warm welcome and escorted them to their usual table. Situated at the back of the Elizabethan house, the elegant restaurant area had twenty tables covered with pristine, snow-white Irish linen table cloths and pale blue napkins shaped as swans. A petite fresh flower posy added a splash of colour. Each table had four maple, high-back Mackintosh-style chairs. A deep blue wall-to-wall Axminster and Italian wall sconces in cobalt blue gave the room a homely, yet modern, feel.
When renovating the house, James insisted that the stuffy oil paintings that once graced the walls be replaced by something a little more modern and, at every visit, he knew the vibrant angles of Kandinsky proved a good choice. The ugly, glass chandelier was, to James, a complete eyesore from the start and builders removed this completely, replacing it with a centre piece on the floor: a large, round table displaying a cascade of seasonal flowers, ferns and herbs that projected the most wonderful perfumes of lavender, mint and thyme.
In the corner, dressed in smart tuxedos, the Eddie Harper Trio eased into a set of Dean Martin classics. The numerous guests chatted and laughed between themselves; some danced on the rectangular, wooden floor and all applauded the band politely.
Their regular table, situated by the wide, Georgian windows, normally provided a grand view of the old estate and, in the summer, one could witness spectacular sunsets across the sprawling South Downs. Tonight, though, the view gave glimpses of dark shadows as heavy clouds moved across the sky. The moon occasionally peeked through and bathed the lawn with a soft light.
A young waiter, dressed in a crisp, white cotton shirt, an ankle-length black wraparound apron and a turquoise bow tie, held a seat back for Beth.
‘Thank you, Adam. How are you this evening?’
Adam smiled nervously as he handed them their menu. ‘Very well, thanks, your Ladyship. You’re looking very glamorous, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Beth looked down at her cocktail dress - a black, velvet flocked taffeta skirt and subtle polka dot pattern decorated with diamante. She thanked him for noticing. James contained a smile. He always thought young Adam had a soft spot for Beth. Adam blushed but remained composed.
‘I hope you’re both well,’ he added.
James took the menu from him. ‘We’re splendid, thanks. Quite a few diners in tonight?’
‘Yes, sir. We’ve been pretty well booked up over Halloween and Bonfire Night.’
‘Excellent. Any recommendations, food wise?’
Adam smiled and shook his head. ‘No, your Lordship. But you know our chef doesn’t do drab dishes.’
James laughed. ‘We could have that as a slogan. Didier doesn’t do drab dishes. Has a ring to it, don’t you think? Listen, Adam, we have a guest joining us, Detective Chief Inspector George Lane. Should be here any minute. He’ll have a pint of Sussex, I’ll have a cream sherry - what about you, darling?’
‘Sherry will suit me fine,’ said Beth.
Adam smiled, bowed graciously and left them to peruse the menu. Five minutes later, George strode into the reception of the hotel, handed his trench coat and trilby to the front desk and strode through the dining room to them. Adam delivered the drinks just as he arrived at the table.
George took a couple of large swigs from the beer and closed his eyes in delight, savouring the taste of malt and hops.
‘Cor, blimey, that reaches the spot.’
‘I thought it would do, old chap,’ said James smiling. ‘Hope you’ve an appetite, as our chef has a rather good menu this week.’
The decision over food always took a little longer than normal at Harringtons. Not because of the volume, but more the quality that went into each choice. Every dish sounded so mouth-wateringly wonderful. But, after several minutes and much deliberation, they finally called Adam over.
‘Beth and I are having the trout with the lobster and crab mash,’ said James, ’and our guest here is going all in with the home-cured pork and all the trimmings.’
Adam jotted the order down. ‘Do you want soup or paté to start with? I can definitely recommend the paté. Chef’s home-made.’
‘No, no we’re diving straight in with the main course.’
James returned the menus to him, pushed his chair out and sipped his sherry.
‘So, George, what news?’
George heaved a sigh. ‘Well, last night I went off to see Professor Wilkins, but he’d either stayed out or he’d gone to bed and was ignoring me. So, after the funeral this morning, I went round again. Still no answer. I want to know why he disappeared so quickly last night.’
‘And,’ Beth added, ‘without the good manners to thank us or say goodbye. The man has no etiquette.’
George gave her a quick smile. ‘Mmm, quite. Well, anyway, there’s no answer and, as he doesn’t exactly ingratiate himself with the neighbours, I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. Same goes with Peter Mitchell. His lorry isn’t about and, again, no idea when he’ll be back. I’ve left a message with both of ‘em.’
‘Pete’s been pretty busy with his orchard,’ James said, ‘and I know he’s been helping to deliver sprouts and runner beans, too. You probably need to get to him early or late in the day. As for Professor Wilkins, Bert wasn’t surprised that he’d decided to up st
icks and leave early last night. First time he’d pitched up for anything, to be honest.’
‘Well, that makes it even more suspicious, don’t you think?’ replied George. ‘Coming out to something like that when you never do normally. And on an evening when someone was about to be burnt alive?’ He rubbed his chin. ‘And Keith Grimes is showing no signs of recovery. Whoever hit him, hit him hard.’
Beth grimaced. ‘Do you know what with?’
‘Not at the moment, but there looked to be a few splinters in his hair. Probably a plank of wood or something similar.’
‘Who’s top of your list, old man?’ asked James. ‘You seemed to be homing in on the old Prof last night. Does he cut the mustard?’
George shrugged. ‘To be brutally honest, I don’t know. Last night was a knee-jerk reaction. I’ve got no reason to suspect him, or anyone else. On the other hand, there’s probably lots of reasons I can suspect ‘em all, but all circumstantial. I believe I’m looking for a man. There’s no way a woman could have heaved Keith’s body to the top of that bonfire.’
‘Good thinking, what—’
‘One thing I did find out, though,’ continued George. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt you, James, but this was a turn up for the books.’ He leant in. ‘Kate Delaney, the landlord’s wife. Did you know she’s got a record?’
James and Beth stared at each other and then at George.
‘Are you serious?’ James said.
George nodded and cradled his beer. Beth ran her fingers around the rim of her glass.
‘It’s nothing serious though, is it?’ she asked.
George lowered his voice. ‘Shoplifting with violence.’
James gawped, hardly knowing what to say. ‘Kate? I don’t believe it.’ He glanced at Beth, wondering if he’d heard correctly.
‘I’m with James,’ she said. ‘George, are you sure you’ve checked the right person?’
‘Of course I ‘ave, I’m not an idiot. It was a few years ago, mind, just before she married Donovan. I don’t even know if Donovan knew her then.’
LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 19