James leant forward. ‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea to say who it is and that he’s survived? You know, draw the killer out. He may come back and try to finish the job.’
‘I don’t like putting lives a risk, James. We don’t have the manpower. A lot of my constables are helping the Met out at the moment. I’ll think about it, though.’
‘Right-ho. What’s your schedule tomorrow?’
George rose from his chair and accepted Adam’s help with his trench coat.
‘Well, my first stop is to question all of these people we’ve talked about again and try to get hold of those who are proving elusive. There’s motive and opportunity here for most of ‘em. What with all these social events on dark, winter nights. People slip in and out without being noticed. Bloody pain. They always slip up, though, and I intend to be there when they do.’ He pointed his hat at James. ‘And you are not to play amateur detective. This is reality, James, and a killer is on the loose. Don’t offer yourself up as the next victim.’
James held his hands up in surrender. ‘Say no more,’ he chirped and shook hands with him.
George kissed Beth on the cheek and ordered her to keep her husband under control. He strode out of the restaurant, grumbling about all the work he had to do. Beth picked up her clutch bag.
‘So, are you going to take George’s advice and leave it to the professionals?’
James chewed on his lip and gave her a sheepish grin. ‘No.’
He quickly shushed her protest.
‘It’s all to do with that farm. There’s something there, Beth, and I want to find out what it is.’
‘Well, if you’re going, I’m coming too. And Anne,’ she added excitedly. ‘She wouldn’t want to miss this. Safety in numbers.’
‘Darling, after what happened to Stephen, the last thing I want is Anne waking up in a hospital bed. No, I was intending on taking someone with a bit of muscle.’
Beth’s shoulders slumped. ’Bert.’
‘Don’t look so disappointed. I promise I’ll let you and Anne know if something crops up.’
He pushed himself up from his chair and, as he helped Beth slip into her red smock coat, a tingle of excitement ran down his spine in anticipation of the next day’s activities.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Late the following morning, after calling for Bert en-route, James turned the Jaguar onto the grass verge at Grimes’ farm and swiftly controlled the steering as the wheels slid in the mud. The overnight downpour had saturated the ground and the hard frosts of the last few days had now moved on. Although a dry day, ominous grey storm clouds gathered in the distance, threatening more heavy showers. Bert rubbed his hands and looked at James.
‘All right, Jimmy boy?’
James’eyes flickered with hesitation. ‘At the moment, yes. Did you bring that cosh with you?’
‘You expecting trouble?’
James smiled sheepishly as Bert tapped the bulge inside his jacket and opened the passenger door. A gust of wind almost tore it off its hinges.
‘Cor blimey, you’ve picked a fine day to trudge around ‘ere. Couldn’t you have organised a bit of sun with ‘im upstairs?’
James climbed out of the car and buttoned up his Barbour jacket. ‘I have no influence over the Lord and master, Bert. Come on, the sooner we do this, the sooner we can toddle off to the pub for a pint.’
The promise of a beer at the end of their visit spurred Bert into action. After locking the car, they leant into the wind and marched purposely toward the farmhouse. James searched his pockets, brought out the key and unlocked the front door. They stood for a couple of seconds, listening. James’ shoulders relaxed with relief as silence greeted them; he pulled his gloves off and slipped them inside his pockets.
‘Right, Bert, we’re looking for anything that could possibly be of value. Roman bits and pieces. You know, pottery, mosaic, that sort of thing.’
‘Right, shall I take downstairs and you take up?’
‘Splendid - shout if you find anything.’
James unbuttoned his jacket and trotted up the stairs. The threadbare carpet gave no cushion and each step on the creaking floorboards echoed through the house. He peered into the main bedroom, his eyes searching every nook and cranny. It smelt musty and damp. A thin layer of dust coated the bedside table and windowsill. Beside a solitary single bed with a sunken mattress, there was a slim bookshelf, a wardrobe and a chest of three drawers. On the wall, a crude sculpture of Jesus on the cross; opposite this, an oil painting. James took a second glance.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured, recognising a similar painting to the one Grimes had been painting the morning of his death. This one, clearly painted during the summer, showed the copse in all its glory with the rays of the sun catching the glossy green leaves on the treetops. He knelt down and peered under the bed. An enamel potty and a tatty pair of tartan slippers greeted him. Mmm, no hidden treasure there. He snaked his arm under the mattress and beneath the pillows with no success.
Opening the wardrobe, James reaffirmed to himself that Alec Grimes hadn’t had two farthings to rub together. He examined the bad tailoring of Grimes’ only suit and felt in the pockets, finding only faded receipts and a cigarette butt. Aside from the suit, he counted three collarless shirts and two pairs of work trousers. The shelves to the side, normally reserved for hats and shoes, stood empty. James sighed, disappointedly.
He clicked the doors shut and shifted his attention to the chest of drawers. Sliding the top drawer out, he leafed through everyday garments - underpants, vests and socks, all in need of repair. James cleared them to one side in the hope that something may be underneath but, again, no joy. Jumpers, cardigans and long-johns made up the next draw, along with a 1953 first day cover of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.
He pulled at the third draw. His eyes lit up - a solitary cardboard box. He reached down and pushed the lid off. Photographs. Not valuable, but at least something that may give some insight into Grimes’ life.
The aged bed springs groaned as James sat down to leaf through the handful of grainy black and white photographs. Obviously taken years ago, James uncovered an Alec Grimes in happier, more carefree days; a young man in an ill-fitting suit with jet black hair grinning broadly, his arm around a pretty young blonde in a cardigan.
‘Mrs Grimes, I presume,’ James mumbled and the next photo proved him right: their wedding day. Joy radiated from their faces like sun on a buttercup. What hopes and dreams did they have back then? So much in love and how young and full of ambition, too. His gaze lifted and he cast his eye around the bedroom. How on earth did you end up like this, Alec Grimes?
The next image he found most poignant. His finger traced the outline of a young boy, no more than five, standing proudly in his school uniform and cap. He glanced at the back and, in pencil, someone had written ‘Keith Grimes aged 5, first day at school’.
James recalled his own emotions on seeing Harry and Oliver leaving home for their first day at school. A mixture of pride, joy and poignancy had washed through him at varying degrees. Pride at seeing his two sons looking so smart and grown-up; joy at their own excitement; and poignant that this stage heralded the start of a new period in all their lives. He wondered if Alec had felt the same way. He pushed the drawer shut with his foot, replaced the lid and secured the box under his arm.
The second bedroom appeared to be a storage space for Alec’s hobby. Several canvasses reclined against the wall in the corner and various oil paints and frayed brushes lay on wooden trays on the floor. James slowly browsed through the paintings, ten in all, each one providing an exquisite image of the copse from every angle. He frowned. What on earth is all this about? Why does he keep painting the same place?
On the table under the window, a smaller canvas caught his eye. He picked it up and, without knowing why, decided to take this with him.
Stepping over the paints, he pulled at the door of a small wardrobe that stood in the corner. His fingers gently parted hangers of
clothes that must have belonged to the late Mrs Grimes. How touching that Alec had kept them and he wondered how long it had been since she had died. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that Alec had become increasingly affected by her passing as time went on. The loss of a loved one can tear at your very soul but, eventually, time eases the hurt and clothing and mementos are either given away or discarded. In this case, Alec had clung on to his photographs and her clothes - how incredibly upsetting for the poor chap. Bert tapped on the door.
‘Any luck, Jimmy boy?’
James pointed to the box he’d found. ‘Photos of happier times. D’you think Keith will want them?’
Bert scratched his ear. ‘Maybe, maybe not. What’s all that?’
‘Mrs Grimes’ clothes. I’m guessing she died a few years ago. I mean, women tend to follow fashion, don’t they? These appear to be all pre-war items.’
‘No Roman togas anywhere?’
James chuckled and closed the wardrobe. He put his hands in his pockets. ‘There’s another picture of the copse in his room. Same view as the one I found him with - just a different season. And look at these - different angles of the same copse. Do you think that’s relevant?’
Bert pulled a face. ‘Nah, just knew what he was good at. Like that bloke Magritte bloke. He went through a phase of painting people with sheets on their ‘eads. Don’t mean anything, just means he likes painting the same thing. P’haps that’s all he could do.’
‘Like you on that damned ukulele.’
Bert laughed. He had managed to master one song on the ukulele. So well, in fact, that everyone who heard him thought him brilliant and raved of his strumming talents; that was, until they asked for an encore, when the listener discovered it was the only song he’d ever learnt. James picked up the box of photographs and the small painting.
‘Come on, we’ll have a quick scout outside.’
On the landing, he stopped dead in his tracks and pulled Bert back.
‘What?’ Bert said.
James pointed to the ceiling. ‘We forgot the loft.’
‘Blimey, how’d we forget that?’
Excited at the possibility of finding something, James bundled the photos and canvas onto Bert, dashed into the bedroom for a chair and placed it under the loft hatch. Slipping out of his coat, he stepped up and manoeuvred a badly-fitting piece of wood to one side.
‘Bert, give me a hoist up.’
Bert linked his fingers together and James used it as a stirrup to heave himself into the darkness.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘I can’t see a blasted thing.’
Bert ordered him to stay put. ‘There’s a torch in the kitchen.’ He trotted down the stairs and returned within minutes, throwing the silver tube up to James.
James shone the torchlight through the beams of what was a tiny loft with very little headroom. He stooped, treading carefully over the boards, shining the light into every recess. From what he could tell, Grimes simply hadn’t appeared to hoard anything, not even the obligatory Christmas tree. He pursed his lips together, annoyed at the fact that absolutely no clues were surfacing about this man. It’s as if he’d obliterated his whole life, save only for a few photos.
‘Any luck?’ Bert shouted.
‘Not a dicky bird. I’m beginning to get very frustrated with our man Grimes.’
He began to make his way back to the hatch, when a false move caused him to turn violently on his ankle. His body jolted painfully as he dropped the torch and stumbled ungainly against a supporting beam.
‘Damn.’
‘You all right?’
James, leaning against the beam, winced and rubbed his ankle. ‘Yes thanks, just twisted my ankle. Blast.’
He pushed himself off the wooden frame, wiggled his foot around and gingerly placed it down. By his feet, the light of the torch caught a glint of something. Now, what could that be? He stepped onto another wooden frame and squatted down. It was a box of some sort, covered in an oily rag, which he quickly pushed off. Underneath was a silver box, oval in shape, about nine inches wide and seven inches deep.
‘Good Lord,’ he mumbled as he picked the object up.
Bert hollered up. ‘What’s going on? You found something?’
‘Yes, I’ll bring it down.’
His hands ran over the craftsmanship of what appeared to be an antique biscuit box. He didn’t know much about silver, but he remembered his Grandfather owning something similar to this.
‘What an exquisite thing you are,’ James murmured as he marvelled at the beaded borders, drop ring lion mask handles and tortoise finial. Not wishing to damage it in any way, he gently opened the lid. His eyes, wide with incredulity, gaped in stunned silence.
After a few seconds, Bert shouted again.
‘Whatcha got?’
James closed the lid and, ignoring the slight pain in his foot, clambered back to the hatch and passed the biscuit box down to Bert with strict instructions to be careful with it. Bert placed it on the floor and helped James locate the chair with his feet as he climbed out from the loft.
James secured the hatch, stepped onto the landing and brushed himself down. Bert shot an interested glance at the box as he pushed the chair up against the wall.
‘So, he’s not as ‘ard up as we thought. Got a stash of money here?’
The glint in James’ eye did not go unnoticed. Bert’s face took on a look of suspicion as he glanced back at the box.
‘What is it then?’
‘A motive, Bert. A motive for wanting someone dead.’
He grabbed the box and opened the lid, then did his best to ignore Bert’s colourful language as they gazed incredulously at its contents. James knew little of antiquities, whether Roman or Celt, Victorian or Georgian. He was more of a modernist in art and fashion, so he only remembered snippets of information during school lessons and the few photos he’d seen in the reference books that Charlie Hawkins had shown him.
He did know, however, that the gold rings, sapphire necklaces and brooches of rubies and emeralds that glittered enticingly inside the silver box did not come from the local market. If his memory served him correctly, they bore similar markings and shapes to those images in the library books.
‘Well, my friend,’ he said. ‘Professor Wilkins was wrong about there not being a Roman interest here.’
Bert studied the large bracelet and gave him a knowing look. ‘Either that, or he doesn’t want you to know it’s ‘ere.’
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
‘Ssshh!’ James closed the lid down, thrust the silver box at Bert and pointed downstairs. He leant over the wooden banister and let out a sigh of relief. ‘Philip, what’re you doing here?’
Philip Jackson’s head peered up from the hall. ‘Could ask you the same,’ he replied. ‘Saw your car outside, wondered what you were up to.’
Bert, standing behind James, tugged his sleeve and gestured for him to say nothing. He covered the silver container with James’ coat. James frowned at him, but played along. He picked up the painting and box of photographs, waving at them nonchalantly as he wandered down the stairs.
‘Just found these bits and pieces of Alec’s that Keith may want. Has he come out of his coma yet?’
‘No, he hasn’t. Must have taken one hell of a bash. Anything I can do?’
James, feeling a little embarrassed at being so secretive, told Philip that they’d finished here and were heading off to the pub for a lunchtime snifter. Philip groaned a reluctant refusal.
‘Got to dash, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I’m off to see a patient.’
They made their way back through the hall and out of the front door. James locked up as Philip strolled back to his car.
‘Probably see you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘The rehearsal - tomorrow night.’
‘Oh Lord, yes. I’ll be there.’
He saluted Philip, bemoaning the fact that he had better learn the script. He turned to
Bert.
‘What was all that about, playing innocent with Jackson? You don’t suspect him, surely?’
‘Jimmy boy, the less people that know about this, the better. If this gets out, something pretty nasty could ‘appen. People turn ugly if there’s money to be ‘ad. You said yourself, there’s a motive ‘ere and, judging by your chat with George last night, no-one knows anyone deep down. You need to speak with George, Jimmy boy - this is serious.’
James tossed his car keys high and caught them as they fell. ‘You’re right, of course. Listen, I’d better give the pub a miss. I don’t like the idea of leaving all this in the car. Come on, those clouds are almost upon us. We’ll investigate outside another day.’
James put the finds on the back seat of the Jag and covered them with a tartan blanket. He then climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life and he checked the road, left and right. Bert grabbed his arm.
‘Oi, look over there.’
James followed Bert’s gaze. Emerging from a dirt track that led to the copse, a green Land Rover turned left onto the main road and headed away from them toward Cavendish. Bert stared at him.
‘Do you know who that was?’
James released the brake and crept forward. ‘Yes,’ he answered, not quite believing what he’d seen. ‘That’s Professor Wilkins.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Stephen and Anne perched on the sofa sipping cream sherry and nibbling toast with mackerel paté. Anne, her eyes sparkling mischievously, couldn’t contain her excitement.
‘Oh come on, James. Let’s have a peek before you hand it over.’
James raised a finger as if to admonish her and then smiled.
‘All good things come to those who wait, my child.’ He checked his watch. ‘Anyway, he’ll be here any minute, so this agonising lull in proceedings will soon be over.’
LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 21