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

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘B-by the way,’ said Stephen, ’I popped by to visit Keith Grimes today.’

  ‘And how’s he doing? Still in the land of nod?’

  Stephen put his drink down. ‘N-no change, according to the nurse. Th-they’ve been chatting to him as if he’s with us. Th-that’s supposed to help, I’m told. Anne’s been reading to him - an Agatha Christie, of all things.’

  The door swung open and Beth shepherded George into the lounge. As usual he was looking gruff and generally annoyed with life. However, it would appear he had good reason - with more than a suspicion of fever and dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘Ah, what-ho, George.’ James made a beeline for the cocktail cabinet. ‘Look like you could do with a whisky, old chap.’

  ‘No thanks,’ replied George. He looked at Beth. ‘You haven’t got any flu remedies, have you? I think I’m going down with something. I’ve been in and out of this weather all day and every person I want to talk to is out. Does everyone in this village disappear into a secret cave or something?’

  Beth assured him that they didn’t and gave an immediate promise of a hot aspirin drink with honey and lemon, insisting that a dash of whisky would also help. As she disappeared through to the kitchen, she called back.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come all this way, George. This could have waited until the morning.’

  ‘I’m glad you did come,’Anne gushed. ‘I’m dying to see this.’

  George commented that her choice of words was a tad inappropriate, especially bearing in mind the attacks that had taken place, but Anne wouldn’t let that diminish her excitement. George flopped back in an armchair and rested his gaze on James.

  ‘Right. Let me clear one thing up. I tell you not to go playing amateur detective and what’s the first thing you do? Break into a victim’s house and search it - without, I might add, any authority.’

  ‘Steady on, old chap. Anyway, I didn’t break in, I still had the key.’

  George held his hand out, his eyes conveying a ‘give it to me’ look. James sighed. He wandered across and opened the drawer to the small occasional table by the piano, took out the key and tossed it over to George.

  ‘Thank you. Now, you left a message with my sergeant about finding some jewellery. What—’

  ‘Oh, do come on, James,’ said Anne. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  ‘Mrs Merryweather!’ said George sternly. ‘This is a murder investigation, not a fashion show.’ He sneezed and quickly rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief.

  Anne raised her eyebrows at George but remained quiet, still a little wary of him. Beth returned with George’s drink as James retrieved the silver biscuit box from the sideboard. A murmur of anticipation spread around the room.

  ‘I found it in the loft, George. There was nothing else up there. In fact, I was on my way down when I fell upon this - quite literally.’

  He placed it on the coffee table in front of them and opened the lid.

  Anne brought her hands to her mouth and gasped.

  ‘H-heavens,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ George said, pulling the box toward him. ‘Has anyone else seen this? Apart from you lot?’

  James confirmed that Bert had been with him at the time, and that it was on his instructions that the information remained with them only.

  ‘Someone with a bit of sense,’ George remarked. ‘Now, before we go off into the realms of fantasy, this wouldn’t be family jewellery, heirlooms and all that?’

  ‘Good Lord no,’ replied James. ‘Not unless Grimes can trace his family back to Caesar. These, my friend, are Roman.’

  The gems glittered and, one by one, they reached out and picked up individual pieces to study, turning them over in their hands and commenting on the intricate artwork and sculpture. James, meanwhile, went to his bookshelf and returned with a large, hardback book and an eyepiece.

  ‘Charlie Hawkins left a couple of books with me,’ he began. ‘This one’s his most detailed reference book about Roman artefacts. Luckily, it has a mass of photographs and I had a good look through before you all came. I can identify a lot of these items from the pictures. At least, they certainly appear to be similar.’

  He peered inside the box and poked around at the objects inside. Finally, he pointed at Anne.

  ‘Ah, Anne, let me have that for a second.’

  Anne handed him a long, dangly earring. James had marked several pages of the library book with scraps of paper. He opened the book and swung it round so that everyone could see.

  ‘This, ladies and gentleman, is an earring dating back, I believe, to the third century.’ He held it gently between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he purred, rotating the s-shaped hoop. Dangling from this were flattened rosette shields with perforated ends. A piece of wire secured a blue glass bead at the very bottom. He returned the piece to Anne, picked up a gold band and leafed through the book to another marked page.

  ‘This also dates back to the same period,’ he said. ‘And this, apparently, is typically Roman. You see that it’s not a solid band of gold, but there are five wires here, all weaved together.’

  ‘Do you know what the blue glass is?’ asked Anne. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Now, that is called…ah, here it is. Cabochon. Oh, and if you look closely at that piece, there’s some rather wonderful engraving. Not sure what it is, maybe a horse.’ James handed the ring to Stephen who, in turn, passed it around the group. ‘There’s also quite a few in here with garnets fixed in. Quite extraordinary.’

  One by one, rings, earrings and bangles were passed around the room and, where possible, James tried to find a corresponding image in the book - or, at least, close to it. The eyepiece went back and forth from person to person, closely followed by mumbles of appreciation and wonder. Anne pinned an oval pendant to her deep yellow cardigan. Beth leant in to take a closer look.

  ‘This is staggeringly beautiful,’ she said. ‘The yellow sets it off, but look here. There are two figures there. One has a spear and shield, the other one looks like it’s holding something - not sure what.’

  Beth took the eyepiece and studied the brooch carefully as James checked the book.

  ‘That may be Minerva and Fortune,’ he said. ‘She should be holding a cornucopia.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Beth. ‘That’s exactly right. Oh my goodness, it’s stunning.’

  James closed the book and leapt up. ‘And now, ladies, I’ve saved the best until last. There’s one more little treasure in here, but it really is too lovely to throw in with the rest.’

  He dashed across to the sideboard and took out a bundle of tissue paper. Eager eyes followed his every move as he returned to his seat. Slowly, with the utmost delicacy, he unfolded the tissue and let the contents slip on to his palm. There was a sharp intake of breath. Beth reached out and carefully laid the most beautiful, intricate necklace across the palm of her hand.

  ‘This,’ James said, ‘would date back to around the first century. It’s pure gold, and I’m sure you ladies don’t need to be told that those precious stones are pearls and diamonds.’

  George puffed out his cheeks and glanced at Stephen, who shook his head in amazement. Beth, Stephen and Anne continued to discuss the style, age and artwork of the jewels and compared notes with those in the book, but James went across and sat by George, who sipped his flu remedy gratefully.

  ‘I say, George,’ he said quietly. ‘Couple of odd things to tell you - apart from the jewellery, that is.’

  His friend placed his mug down and gave James his undivided attention.

  ‘Bert seemed to think it was nothing, but all of Grimes’ paintings - well, there must have been a dozen in all - showed the same view of the copse. Different aspects, seasons and all that, but…well, anyway, it may be nothing.’

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘We were just pulling out from the farm and we saw Wilkins’ Land Rover driving out. Nothing much to that, but he came out from the road leading
to that same copse.’

  ‘Professor Wilkins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Anne stared at them, intrigued. ‘Do you think he’s the killer?’

  Uncharacteristically for Beth, she launched a scathing attack on Wilkins’ character and general demeanour until she caught James’ reproachful eye.

  ‘Well, you have to admit,’ she finished, ‘he’s a bad-tempered, rude specimen of a man.’

  ‘No, he isn’t, darling,’ replied James. ‘He’s simply a man who hates social niceties. There are plenty of them around.’

  Stephen nodded his agreement. ‘A-Alec Grimes sounded a bit like that.’

  ‘See, it doesn’t make Wilkins a killer, ’James added, although he didn’t know why he was sticking up for him.

  ‘But,’Anne said, replacing some bangles in the box, ‘it’s interesting that both are victims.’ All eyes were on her. ‘Well, Alec Grimes wasn’t the most social man in the world, and he’s been murdered. His son, from what we know, was a loner, and he was nearly murdered. And this man, Wilkins, well… he’s ill-tempered enough to kill someone.’

  George held his hands up despairingly. ‘Mrs Merryweather, that’s the most illogical argument I’ve ever heard. Everyone is capable of killing, not just loners who don’t socialise. It’s not your personality that makes you a murderer, it is motive. If someone was to attack your children and threaten to kill them, what would you do?’

  Anne shrivelled back.

  ‘You see? You’d do what any mother would do if their child was threatened. It doesn’t mean you’re a natural killer. Circumstances make a killer. It could be love, jealousy, hate…’

  ‘Greed,’ James added, to which George nodded agreement.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘and that’s what we have here. A form of greed. Money equals power to people who kill for it. Who do you know would want this sort of money? This sort of power?’

  ‘M-most people, unfortunately, are sw-swayed by money,’ said Stephen.

  James stood up and put his hands in his pockets. ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil, eh, vicar?’

  ‘W-which, while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows. T-Timothy verse six.’

  George rubbed his chin. ‘Well, someone has well and truly built up a pile of sorrows if they think they’re getting away with this.’

  He glanced at the carriage clock, heaved himself up from the chair, let out a deep sigh, then quickly checked and steadied himself. Beth squeezed his arm.

  ‘Are you all right, George?’

  ‘Head’s swimming a bit. I’ll be all right.’ He massaged his neck. ‘James, you have a safe, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in the study.’

  George’s eyes grew heavy as a banging headache descended on him. ‘It’s just that I’m feeling pretty rough. I can’t face a drive back to Lewes and that jewellery needs to be somewhere safe. Lock it up overnight and I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Is that all right?’

  ‘Absolutely, old man.’

  Beth stood by George and felt his forehead.’ George, we have spare rooms, good food and I have an excellent bedside manner. Stay here with us for the night. I’d be much happier if you did.’

  He smiled and held his hands up.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Beth. If I feel worse tomorrow I may take you up on that. But my notes and files are at home. I need to do some thinking.’

  Beth instructed him not to think too much. He waved a cursory goodbye to everyone. Meanwhile, Beth retrieved several more sachets of flu remedy and any other cold relief items she could find and handed them to George in the hall. James followed him out and shook his hand.

  ‘Anything you want me to do?’

  George rolled his eyes. ‘Nothing. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but please, leave it to the professionals now. One thing I will do, though, is get that Professor in for questioning - if I can find him, that is.’

  With a bout of five sneezes, George excused himself and left. Beth kissed James on the cheek as he closed the front door.

  ‘I’ll get that jewellery back in the box,’ he said. ‘Then we’d best get it locked away.’

  As Beth headed for the lounge, she suddenly swung round.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ’Ian Connell is popping in to chat about the work you want completed on the patio. He’s coming tomorrow evening, before the rehearsal. Is that okay?’

  ‘Oh, jolly good. It’ll be nice to get that up and running before the summer.’ He glanced at the telephone. ‘I’m just going to make a quick call. Be through in a mo.’

  Beth returned to the lounge as James picked up the receiver and dialled. The phone rang several times until a young boy answered.

  ‘Ah, hello young Tommy, is your father there? Run along and get him, will you? It’s Lord Harrington.’ James sat on the bottom stair and waited. ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Lord Harrington, this is unexpected.’

  ‘Yes, sorry about that. I just wanted to pick your brains, if I may. You’re a bit of a bookworm, you know. Read a lot and all that. Regarding this Roman business - do you know how much something like a Roman pendant would be worth?’

  ‘Yes, I do, as it happens,’ replied Charlie. ‘There was something in the paper the other day about stuff like this being sold at auction. It wasn’t a pendant, I’m afraid - more of a brooch of some sort, sold at Sotheby’s. Good condition, you know, fetched around a hundred pounds.’

  ‘Good Lord, for an old brooch?’

  He heard Charlie laugh down the phone. ‘Nice work if you can get it. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘What? Oh, nothing, just been flicking through your book and the question cropped up.’

  ‘Oh, right. You’re not the first person to ask me that.’

  ‘Really?’ said James. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Can’t remember, to be honest. I know it was in the library, but I get asked loads in there. It was quite a while ago, so… no, I’m afraid not. Is it important then?’

  James chewed his lip. ‘Not really. Well, actually, it could be. If you can remember, give me a call, will you?’

  Charlie assured him he would, quickly explaining that he had to go as the children should be in bed. James replaced the receiver and wandered thoughtfully through to the lounge to join the others, who were studying the two paintings of the copse. Beth, as normal, was quick to pick up on his concern.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  James went through his conversation with Charlie. The price of the brooch caught everyone by surprise, but the fact that someone else had made the same enquiry prompted an urgent look from Stephen.

  ‘Y-you know, you ought to be careful, James. Th-the walls have ears and all that. Your chat may come up in conversation.’

  Anne caught her breath. ‘The killer may hear.’

  James slipped his hand into Beth’s and nodded slowly. He hadn’t thought of that. But then, he mused, it may be a good thing to flush this killer out before he strikes again.

  Stephen picked up the small eyepiece and leant in to study the paintings more closely. James took a swig of his whisky.

  ‘Well, I’ve promised George that I’ll leave it to the professionals and that’s what I intend to do. So, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’ He gave Stephen a quizzical look. ‘I say, old chap, what are you doing?’

  Stephen appeared enlightened. He picked up the two canvasses and laid them side by side, inviting James to take a look. He handed James the eyepiece.

  ‘L-look at the signatures.’

  James raised one eyebrow in a questioning glance, then leant forward to study the first canvas and then the second. At first, he couldn’t make out what he was supposed to be looking at. His brain told him that he should be reading the signature of Alec Grimes. His eyes went to and fro, from one canvas to the other, and finally stood upright and blinked back his surprise.

  ‘Good Lord!’

  Stephen grinned at
him as Beth and Anne insisted on being let in on their discovery.

  ‘Our victim has spoken from the grave, ladies.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Grimes has signed his name at the bottom, that’s clear. But he’s added some very finely written Latin underneath. You can hardly see it.’

  ‘What?’Anne asked. ‘What has he written?’

  ‘Aurum. And circled around the word is a delicate gold band.’

  Beth looked on blankly.

  ‘Latin is not my strong point,’ she said.

  ‘Aurum, correct me if I’m wrong,’ replied James, ‘is the Latin word for gold.’

  James allowed the news to take its effect on the women, who insisted on seeing this for themselves. He took another sip of whisky. Goodness, he thought to himself, what an exciting investigation this is turning out to be!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Friday evening and the church clock struck six as James stepped into the village hall. A clatter of chat and activity greeted him. The cast members and backstage crew for The Devil Incarnate busied themselves, each taking their responsibility very seriously for their particular roles, whether on stage or off.

  Villagers huddled in groups of five or six rehearsing their lines, their faces displaying an intense concentration on attempting to memorise their scripts and, to James’ amusement, exhibiting rather over-zealous acting skills. Others shouted directions, while a handful took the easier and more relaxing option of drinking tea at the Women’s Institute tea urn.

  Graham Porter, balanced at the top of a ladder, followed instructions on where the two main spotlights should be pointing. His wife, Sarah, studied a table of props and ticked them off the list on her clipboard. Their two children, Thomas and Georgina, sat cross-legged in the corner playing Snap with Luke and Mark, clearly having a wonderful time.

  Rose and Lilac Crumb, for once, appeared to be focussed solely on providing tea and biscuits. But, he reminded himself, they had perfected the art of eavesdropping so probably were, at that very minute, digesting fragments of information.

  Amateur handymen, builders and carpenters drilled and hammered large sections of scenery into place. Women in oversized overalls and pinafores transformed those blank pieces of board into trees, houses and fields with numerous colourful paints left over from the last production. Donovan’s wife, Kate Delaney, clearly had a talent where scenery was concerned and proved to be a dab hand with a paint brush, as well as shifting bulky wooden frames across the boards. Although slight and bonny, she certainly had brawn and, now James knew of her background, he could imagine her holding her own if she had to.