‘So, we have a nativity play on Saturday. Is everyone walking to the old people’s home or are we ferrying the children?’
‘Walking,’ said Charlie. ‘Even if it snows, it’s only just outside the village. Has anyone heard the forecast?’
‘Yes, we did,’ said Beth. ‘We had the radio on before we left - the odd flurry of snow most days.’
‘P-perfect,’ said Stephen. ‘I do like a frosty and snowy Christmas season; i-it makes it jolly special.’
Instinctively, they all peered through the window to the village green where about an inch of snow had settled overnight. Immediately outside the pub they could see footprints across the green with the occasional paw print of a dog or fox. The branches on the trees glistened white and wispy smoke swirled from the chimneys of the surrounding cottages. It was a Christmas card scene, no doubt about it, thought James.
A sturdy rat-a-tat on the table brought them out of their musing. Donovan stood there with his arms folded. ‘Christmas dinner for the regulars – what’re you thinking?’
James and the rest of the people seated with him looked at one another with some confusion. He met Donovan’s eye and questioned what he meant.
‘It’s something we were doing back in Ireland. Gather the locals, you know, those who come regular like; have Christmas dinner. Not on Christmas Day; we thought about a couple of weeks’ time. Bob Tanner and the Taverners said they’d do the singing. What’re yer thinking?’
James felt Beth’s rush of excitement. ‘Oh what a wonderful idea.’ She turned to James. ‘You could do the Yule Log ceremony too.’
The burning of the Yule log was a tradition that went back centuries and the Harringtons had carried it out for several decades. It stemmed from an old pagan tradition. At the end of each Christmas, a part of the old Yule log was held back and formed a part of the lighting of the new log the following Christmas Eve. James said that, although it would be earlier than it should be, he would happily bring a piece of log for that evening. Anne suggested they gather those invited to plan the menu and delegate preparation of the food. James gave Charlie a knowing looked as he envisaged another tradition in the making.
Kate interrupted them. ‘Sorry to disturb you but there’s a young girl outside wanting to talk to you, Lord Harrington. Carol, her name is.’
James knew he must have looked blank but he couldn’t think who Carol could be. He slipped out of the booth and wandered through the bar and out on to the cobbles where a girl of around fifteen stood in a brown coat with a wool scarf pulled around her neck. Her face registered.
‘Ah, Carol, you volunteered to help out at Harrington’s this morning.’
With the traditional first of December dance and the wedding party on the same day, Beth had organised some help to cover the breakfast roster. Carol, from the nearby village of Loxfield, was one of those volunteers. James hid his amusement as the young girl curtseyed.
‘What can I do for you, Carol?’
‘Well, your Lordship, I’ve just come from Harrington’s see and Paul said I was to come and give this to you straight away. I went to give it to him but he said he wouldn’t be seeing you until later if at all. I cycled here as quick as I could. Paul called your house and your son said you were here.’
‘And what is this thing you need to be showing me?’
She gave a start of surprise. ‘Oh, sorry.’ She fumbled in the pocket of her woollen coat and brought out an envelope. ‘I found it when I was bundling the napkins up for the cleaners. It fell on the floor.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘I didn’t read it. Paul read it and told me I was to find you. He said it obviously belongs to one of the guests and wanted it kept safe but he wondered if you might know who it belonged to.’
James took the piece of paper and gave Carol half a crown.
‘Ooh, thank you, your Lordship.’
‘Thank you, Carol. Are you helping out again this weekend?’
She assured him she was and James thanked her for her efforts and for taking the time to deliver the note. She climbed on her bicycle and pedalled away. James cleared a sprinkling of snow from the wooden bench, sat down and opened the envelope. He pulled out a small piece of, flimsy paper but, before he could read it, a young man in his mid-twenties sat down beside him.
‘Hello, I just popped into the pub and they said you were out here. I’m John Carlton, one of the Mummers’ team. You booked us over the telephone – you spoke with me.’
‘Of course. We’re not expecting you until Saturday. Is there a problem?’
‘No, no, we’re performing in Loxfield tonight so I thought I’d cycle over and introduce myself. I called at the manor house and the maître d’ told me you were here.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I thought I’d confirm everything and assure you that we’ll be at Harrington’s around six-ish to perform for seven thirty. Is that right?’
‘That’s right. We’re starting dinner around seven and we thought that would be a nice break before the main course.’
‘My mum and dad are stopping at Harrington’s this weekend.’
‘Oh?’
John went on to explain that they’d never seen him perform the Mummers’ play and that his mother had heard many good things about Christmas at Harrington’s. ‘I saw all the pictures of the Pals up in reception. Is the house connected to the war?’
James told him about the reunion and expressed his realisation that John Carlton was related to the retired Major, William Carlton. ‘He fought, I presume.’
The young man confirmed that he did. ‘Doesn’t talk about it much. He was a Captain at the time and I think he saw too much. A lot of them did, I suppose.’
‘I say, did you want to join us for dinner while you’re there? I know you’ll have all your costume on and all but it would be a nice surprise for your parents.’
John beamed. ‘Well..yes, I’d love to, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Olivia Dupree is singing with the Carlo Pisani band.’
‘Olivia Dupree? I thought she only deigned to be appear on television and at palaces?’
‘You know her?’
John shrugged and stood up. ‘Just what I read, that’s all.’ He held his hand out and thanked James for the invitation. ‘See you Saturday.’
James’ gaze followed him until he cycled out of sight, then he returned his attention to the piece of paper. It was a diary entry. The writing was tiny and he struggled to see through some of the marks and stains. He crossed his legs and began reading:
France April 12th 1917: His orders are vague. There is no preparation - no thinking about the landscape. We should begin further east where there are craters to hide in. This officer is too quick to see it out. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’s cut out to do this. Why didn’t he select his own men? We don’t have a hope in hell. Not with enemy lines positioned as they are. Perhaps if the men running this war fought with us they would give more thought to tactics. I don’t think we’ll make it back. I feel anxious. Perhaps that’s why they’re sending us in. We’re dispensable.
He turned the paper over.
France April 14 1917 : This isn’t war; it’s slaughter. What’s the point? These generals are miles away, telling us where to fight. The plan is set up to fail. He’s leading us to our deaths.
James sat back and gazed at a robin sitting on the old stocks. The diary must belong to one of the Pals. My word, that man, whoever he was, had taken a risk writing this in the trenches. If he’d been found out, he would have risked the firing squad. He took out his wallet and carefully placed the paper inside. Perhaps one of the men wanted to share it with his comrades. He rapped the wallet with a silent reminder to return it to its owner, whoever that was, on Saturday.
Saturday. The attack on Olivia Dupree was a shock. He hoped there weren’t more on the horizon. As he entered the warmth of the pub, a sense of unease welled up inside him.
Major William Carlton,retired, grumbled over his soft boiled egg. ‘Blast it, Cynthia, do we have to
attend this dinner at Harrington’s? And why do we have to stay the weekend? We could drive back.’
Cynthia, unseen by William, pursed her lips. How often had she refused invitations and declared false illness to those polite enough to request their company? These last few years, their social functions had fallen dramatically and all because of William’s pomposity and inability to trust anyone. But for once Cynthia had stood up to her husband. Tired of the ever-increasing excuses for not attending dinners and celebrations, she’d insisted that they spend the night at Harrington’s to see their son perform the Mummers’ play.
‘Good God, woman, it’s not as if we haven’t seen a Mummers’ play,’ William growled as he straightened out his copy of the Times over the dining table.
She threw the tea towel down on the draining board. ‘This is not about seeing the Mummers’ play; this is about seeing our son. This is about getting out and socialising; being with other people instead of being cooped up in this godforsaken house every weekend.’
She watched him bristle.
‘Godforsaken house? We’re in the middle of the Sussex countryside – this is an estate that people look on in envy. Not many people can afford a house like this.’
She slammed the cutlery drawer shut. ‘You’re right there. People look through the gates and wonder who lives there. They don’t wander up the drive and knock on the door. They don’t enter these empty rooms and fill them with life. No. Because you won’t have anyone set foot inside the place.’
She knew he’d heard her but he chose to ignore the comment and focus on his newspaper. She untied her apron and cast it aside.
‘Well, I’m not making excuses any more. Harrington’s has a wonderful reputation and Carlo Pisani is playing. Lord and Lady Harrington will be there ̶ or are they not deemed worthy of your time either?’
‘Cynthia, for goodness’ sake woman.’
‘I’m going to the village. I’m meeting the ladies from the bridge club for tea.’
At the front door, she picked up an envelope from the doormat and brought it through to him. ‘Another of those cheap brown envelopes; that’s the third one in as many months.
She observed him falter. The bluster had disappeared. She’d seen it the first time he’d opened one of these envelopes.
William waved a dismissive hand. ‘No one you know.’
Later that evening, Cynthia peeked inside the envelope. It was the same as before. She knew where he kept them and she’d made a point of seeing what it was that had rattled him. It had sent her on her own journey of discovery and, oh my, the secrets she’d uncovered. They were composed of letters cut out from newspapers and glued on cheap paper; they accused the Major of something dreadful. The enclosures were as alarming as the notes. She read this latest letter, knowing it would be similar to those that had come before.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.
She had discovered what it meant but William knew nothing of her probing into his past. Her eyes narrowed. Secrets could ultimately lead to the downfall of Major William Carlton. She stared out of the window. Dark clouds gathered and cast shadows across the snow. Was the sender of these awful letters out there now, watching?
CHAPTER NINE
Saturday arrived in the blink of an eye and the first event of the day was the nativity play at the old people’s home.
The Grange, on the outskirts of Cavendish, was a rambling old house with around forty elderly residents calling it their home. Standing in its own grounds, it made an impressive sight, with its large Georgian sash windows and a wide oak-panelled front door. Majestic evergreen trees stood guard around the property and a gravel drive led visitors from the main road through the snowy landscaped gardens to a parking area by a small fountain.
Stephen Merryweather and Mr Chrichton, the primary school teacher, had led the children from the village along a country lane and into The Grange’s main dining hall. Staff, with help from the WI, had served gammon with vegetables while the Charnley choir sang popular carols.
A bushy Christmas tree stood to one side of the makeshift stage. Elsie Taylor, the owner of James’ favourite local café, brought out some individual Christmas puddings and set them on the tables.
Mr Chrichton ushered the children on to the stage.
With everyone comfortable, the nativity play began and James and Beth settled on chairs to one side of the room to watch. James particularly enjoyed this time of the year. His own father had been a huge traditionalist where Christmas was concerned and any custom he could find to celebrate, he’d follow. Of course, the nativity was something that all schools performed. Beth leant in.
‘It only seems like five minutes ago when Oliver and Harry were in this play.’
‘Yes. Oliver hated being a shepherd, do you remember?’
Beth chuckled. ‘I do. And Harry wanted to be the star in the heavens.’
James reminisced. How the time had flown. Now Oliver was a couple of years away from pursuing his teaching career and Harry had made a start on following in James’ footsteps. He scanned the room.
‘I say, where is Harry?’
‘He’s up at the manor house organising things. Sit back and enjoy your time off.’
The children did themselves proud as they presented the story of Christmas. As always, a few hiccups occurred; one of the wise men dropped his gold; a shepherd had a sneezing fit and Charlie Hawkins’ son, Tommy, picked a fight with a fellow wise man over who stood closest to the donkeys.
Sebastian and Delphine, the donkeys from the Harrington estate, behaved themselves with the exception of a slight accident toward the end of the play. With a good deal of chuckling from the audience, Stephen shuffled onto the stage with a brush and pan to clean up.
The residents were delighted with the show and joined in with the children as they sang ‘The Holly and the Ivy’. After around an hour, the play and carols came to an end and Mr Chrichton and parents led their charges back to the village. James and Beth remained behind to chat with the residents. Harry joined James in the kitchen to help the staff with afternoon tea.
‘Ah, Harry, everything all right?’
‘Rather.’ Harry arranged cups and saucers on a tea trolley. ‘The leader of the Morris-dancing team popped in - John Carlton. Nice chap; they sound like a merry bunch of Mummers.’
‘Yes, I met him a few days ago.’
‘So he said. They perform the traditional play, with people dressing up as a dragon and as Saint George. I think it’ll go down well.’
James agreed and commented that he hadn’t seen a Mummers’ play for several years. ‘I’m pleased to be reacquainting it with Cavendish again. And what time are the Pals arriving?’
‘The first is due in around an hour, I think. It’s a bit full on today, isn’t it? This John Carlton is the son of that retired Major. Be interesting to know if he’s familiar with the men organising the reunion.’
James pinched a couple of mince pies from Elsie. She motioned him to put them on to a plate where she topped them with brandy butter.
‘Can’t have them dry,’ she said with a hint of a Sussex accent. ‘If you’re going to have them, you have to have them proper.’
He thanked her and bit into the melt-in-the-mouth shortcrust pastry. James swept his tongue across his teeth. ‘Mmm, they’re tasty.’ He turned to his son. ‘Yes, William Carlton. His wife’s name is Cynthia – I think she made the reservation.’
‘Were the Pals all from Cavendish, Dad?’
James explained that they were made up of the cricket and football teams from the three villages in the area; Cavendish, Charnley and Loxfield. Beth joined them.
‘Are you talking about the Pals?’
‘I was just explaining it all to Harry.’
‘You should speak with Charlie Hawkins. His father was in the Pals. He has quite a selection of photographs at the library. Anne and I are going there later – we thought we’d display a few more for tonight’s dinner.’
‘By the way,’ s
aid Harry, ‘that Carlo Pisani chap called to confirm that they’re arriving around six o’clock to set the band up. He’s intrigued about the Mummers play.’
James put his plate down and brushed some stray crumbs from his sweater. ‘Did he confirm that Olivia Dupree was singing?’
‘Ye-es, he did.’
James couldn’t help but notice the slight hesitancy in his son’s response. Harry grimaced.
‘He hinted that he couldn’t tell her not to come but he really wanted Mandy. Less trouble, he said. We may have some jealousy between the two ladies.’
James raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t disagree with Carlo.
Beth reached across for a tea towel. ‘I don’t mind them all coming but I sincerely hope we won’t have anyone else taken ill.’
Harry frowned. ‘You don’t think there’ll be any trouble do you, Dad?’
‘I hope not.’ And he couldn’t think of a reason why there would be; but something nagged deep inside him. The diary entry that had been found; on the surface it appeared to have little to do with the events that unfolded earlier that week; yet, somehow, he felt it was connected.
CHAPTER TEN
James stood by the reception desk observing the activity. Beth held a picture in place as Anne stepped back and judged whether or not it was level. Charlie stood by with hammer and nails to secure the photographs. Mrs Jepson finished the dusting and began packing her polish and cloths away. Paul was preparing a roster for the evening, while Adam and his fellow waiters and waitresses fussed around the tables, ensuring everything was pristine for the evening.
He made his way toward Beth. Anne tilted her head to one side. ‘I didn’t realise so many men from the village fought.’
‘Me neither,’ said Beth. ‘I knew there was a Pals regiment but I didn’t realise so many signed up. I believe around fifty went in total.’
Charlie pointed to a photograph of a group of young men in uniform. It had been taken in the warm sunshine by the edge of the cricket field in Charnley. Although the men had their uniforms on, they’d discarded their jackets and undone their top buttons. Their youthful faces were full of excitement and laughter.
Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery Page 5