Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  James, who had served in the Royal Air Force during the previous conflict, had a pretty good idea of the size of regiments and battalions. He suggested around a thousand. The Major sneered and commented that this was probably a lucky guess.

  ‘And did they fight together or was that simply a signing-on promise?’

  The old man ignored the question. ‘I don’t recognise ’em and I didn’t fight alongside ’em. My men were further along the trenches with the regulars; regular soldiers who knew how to fight; not that tinpot outfit, better at cricket than soldiering.’

  His wife laid a hand on his arm. ‘William, this isn’t the place.’

  At the next table, Eddie Simmonds had clearly heard the Major’s comments. He leant back, balancing his chair on its back legs. His expression hardened.

  ‘You watch what you’re saying Major. Most of those cricketers fought a brave fight. Don’t be telling me, or any of these men here, that we were a tinpot outfit or you’ll get what’s coming to you. If it weren’t for our numbers, we would’ve lost the war. There’s plenty of regulars who didn’t have the stomach for it.’ He mouthed an apology at James and returned his attention to the Major. ‘And your wife is right. This isn’t the place.’ He righted his chair.

  James, keen to change the subject, turned to John Carlton who was already dressed in his mumming outfit. This consisted of a tatter jacket, a thigh length coat made with strips of various coloured red rags and ribbons that were sewn on layer upon layer. Placed on the floor beside him was a top hat that, traditionally, the Morris men decorated to their own design. John’s had a number of dog-eared beer mats slotted into the ribbon band at the base of the hat. Each Mummers’ coat would be similar but sporting different coloured rags.

  ‘What part do you play?’

  ‘I’m Saint George this time around. I get to fight the Turkish Knight.’

  ‘And come up triumphant, of course.’

  ‘Of course; but not without a mishap on the way.’

  Adam topped their glasses up and whispered to James.

  ‘The Mummers are ready to perform, your Lordship.’

  James acknowledged Adam and turned his attention to John. ‘Looks like this is your moment. Do you want the staff to put some dinner by for you?’

  ‘You’ve paid me to perform, Lord Harrington and I’m grateful for time with Mum and Dad. I’ll pinch some Christmas pudding when we’ve finished if that’s all right. We’ll have a pint and some peanuts down the pub after. Thanks for letting me sit here in my rags.’

  James indicated that Major Carlton didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. ‘Is this not his thing?’

  ‘Nothing’s his thing, Lord Harrington. I’m surprised Mum got him here. He doesn’t allow people in the house and he’ll only come out if he can vet who he sees or sits with. Quite frankly, you’re honoured that he’s sitting here.’ He got up. ‘I think it all stems from the Great War. He’s been like that ever since I can remember.’

  John wandered through to reception where the rest of the Mummers were ready to march in.

  Carlo brought the music to a halt and after settling the applause down stepped up to the microphone. ‘Grazie, grazie, you are too kind. Later, we will hear the wonderful Olivia Dupree but now, for your entertainment, something a little different.’

  James stood, held up an empty glass and tapped his spoon against it. Their guests turned and gave him their full attention.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, I felt it was time to bring back the Christmas Mummers’ play. This is a centuries-old tradition dating back to pagan times but I believe this performance hails from the period of the Crusades. Please welcome the Christmas Mummers!’

  A round of applause rang out as the men, dressed in their rag shirts and top hats, danced into the room, accompanied by a melodeon player and a fiddler. They quickly launched into the play and the first to speak was a splendid Father Christmas with a full grey beard dressed in green tatter rags.

  ‘Then in comes I, old Father Christmas, welcome or welcome not,

  I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.

  All in this room there shall be shown,

  the hardest battle that ever was known.

  So come in Sir Knight, with thy great heart, and in the battle quick do thy part.’

  Each character stepped forward with a similar introduction. In came the Turkish Knight, the brave St George, Bold Slasher and the Quack Doctor. Bringing up the rear was the fiery dragon with a colourful papier-mâché head. Its lower jaw opened, snapping menacingly as its wearer paraded among the tables. A well-choreographed sword fight took place between St George and the Turkish Knight with each man goading the other in verse.

  ‘I’ll fight you St George, like a man of courage bold,

  Let thy blood be ere so hot, I will quickly set it cold.’

  ‘You may fight me Turkish Knight, like a man of courage bold,

  yes my blood be ere so hot, but you will not set it cold.’

  All eyes were on the Mummers. James, along with the rest of the guests, chuckled along with the repartee and became engrossed in a convincing sword fight before St George collapsed to the ground and the call was put out for the Quack Doctor. The man, dressed in white ribbon rags with a modern stethoscope around his neck, knelt beside St George.

  ‘I can cure the itch, the stitch, the palsy and the gout, whether your pain is in or out.’ He examined John, who was doing his best to suppress a laugh. ‘I have a bottle in the waistband of my belt, called the Golden Frosty Drop, drops of that will fetch this son to life again.’

  He administered a few drops on the forehead and on the tongue. The Mummers stood back in preparation for St George to come to life. John twisted and convulsed. Someone on the next table commented on how good an actor he was. James frowned. He gripped Beth’s hand. The character of Father Christmas kneeled down.

  ‘John? John, are you all right?’

  Cynthia rushed to her son and placed a palm on his forehead. Major Carlton sat transfixed.

  James leapt up and whispered to Beth. ‘Call George, he’s at the pub.’

  When he turned, Philip was already attending to the patient. The room hushed. James squatted down and muttered. ‘I’m loath to ask, but are these the same symptoms as Olivia Dupree had?’

  Philip wouldn’t commit. ‘Until tests are done, it’s too early to say but they appear similar. Let’s not alarm everyone. Keep your evening on an even keel.’ He stood up and announced: ‘A gastric bug, I believe, nothing to worry about.’ He turned to the Mummers. ‘Perhaps you can help get him through to Reception and we’ll see about making him comfortable.’ As the Mummers helped John from the dance floor, Philip pulled James to one side. ‘You may want to get that bottle of Golden Frosty Drops off the Quack Doctor. John was fine until he had that.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  He cast a pleading glance to Carlo, who understood his predicament. Within a few seconds, his band had launched into Benny Goodman’s ‘Winter Weather’. The drama evaporated as the melody took hold. The Morris men traipsed out, disappointed not have finished their performance. Stephen and Anne, mindful of what had happened, stepped onto the dance floor and encouraged others to join them. Staff meanwhile busied themselves with clearing tables in preparation for the main course: roast beef, crispy roast potatoes, parsnips, sprouts, runner beans, Yorkshire pudding and gravy.

  With the evening back on schedule, James joined Beth in Reception, where she was chatting with Paul. Didier scurried past to return to the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s our invalid?’ James asked.

  Beth explained that John and the man who had played Father Christmas were lodging with Mrs Keates in Charnley and that Dr Jackson had taken them there. Mrs Keates had fast become a part of the community ever since the investigation into the death of a local farmer the previous year. Paul leaned against the reception desk and confirmed that Dr Jackson would report back once John was comfortable.

  ‘George is on
his way,’ Beth put in. ‘I know something untoward has happened but we have to behave normally. As far as our guests are concerned, someone was taken ill and that’s all. We wouldn’t be standing here for someone who’d simply gone down with a bug.’

  James instructed Paul to show George into the office when he arrived and to inform him of his arrival when it happened. Meanwhile, he steered Beth back to their table. Stephen threw a confused frown at him and he returned it with a reassuring smile. Olivia Dupree was singing ‘Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire’. James dragged his chair in and caught the delicious aroma of roast beef. He picked up his cutlery and let Major and Mrs Carlton know that their son was fine and had returned to his bed and breakfast accommodation.

  ‘I can take you there, if you’d prefer. It couldn’t have been pleasant to see your son collapse like that.’

  ‘No, not what I was expecting,’ said Cynthia, hand on heart. ‘It’s not like John to be ill but I’m sure he’ll be fine. He won’t want us fussing around and he’d be annoyed if we gave up this evening because of a gastric problem. Perhaps it’s something he ate.’

  James hoped that her thoughts didn’t reach Didier’s ears. But this wasn’t the food. No. John became ill as soon as that liquid was placed on his tongue. If it was strychnine, it looked to be a similar dose to that given to Olivia Dupree. Beth nudged his arm and gave a telling look at the Major. He’d brought his hand out of his pocket with a start and had turned as white as the tablecloth. He then scanned the room, in particular, the table alongside him. James followed his gaze. What was he looking for? Or perhaps he should ask who was he looking for?

  ‘I say, Major, are you quite well?’

  It took a while for the Major to register that he was being spoken to.

  ‘Wh..what? Yes, yes, of course I’m well, why the hell shouldn’t I be?’

  James topped the Major’s glass up. ‘You looked a little peaky, that’s all. Are you enjoying the meal?’

  ‘What? Oh..yes..yes..quite satisfactory.’

  Beth whispered, ‘I think that’s almost a compliment.’

  They continued with their meal. The topics of conversation between guests varied from arrangements for Christmas to forthcoming holidays and general enquiries about one another’s backgrounds. Harry, keen to get to grips with the running of the hotel, wandered from table to table chatting easily with the guests. James rested back in his seat and observed his son. He was certainly eager to help and had inherited the Harrington charm, engaging with guests from all walks of life and making them feel at home. There was no doubt about it: the future of Harrington’s was safe for another generation.

  ‘I-is our Morris man still h-here?’ Stephen had squatted down between James and Beth.

  ‘He’s fine.’ James said. ‘Philip seems to think it was the same drug that Olivia Dupree ingested a few days ago.’

  ‘H-have you told G-George?’

  James checked his watch. ‘I thought he’d be here by now. He was having a pint at the Half Moon. That’s only a mile down the road. I wonder what’s keeping him?’

  Beth thanked Adam as he collected the dirty plates. ‘Perhaps his car broke down.’

  Adam leant in. ‘DCI Lane is in the office, your Lordship. He arrived a while back but he asked us to wait for a natural break in proceedings. Dr Jackson is with him.’

  Beth placed a hand on James’ hand. ‘You go. Harry and I will stay here and mingle.’

  ‘I’ll try not to be long. Stephen, could you and Anne find out a little more about the people on Olivia Dupree’s table? Don’t make it obvious but they are the only guests who were here a few days ago - except for our staff of course.’

  He excused himself. Olivia Dupree commenced her set. The guests were oblivious to the seriousness of the situation and James was pleased to see the amount of dancing, chatting and laughter going on. On the surface, the evening was another roaring success. Privately, he was alarmed at the sinister nature of the attacks and wondered how on earth they were connected.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  James escorted George and Philip through to the residents’ lounge, a quiet room away from the main dining area, that housed a small bar, velvet wing-back chairs and a varied library. He snatched a bottle of brandy and three balloon glasses and the three of them made themselves comfortable. Harry poked his head around the door. ‘Thought I’d find you here. Do you need an extra viewpoint?’

  George felt his pocket for his pipe. ‘Only if you’ve something to contribute.’

  Harry took that as a cue to stay and ensconced himself, rather eagerly, beside James. James settled back in his chair, crossed his legs and afforded himself a silent chuckle. Harry had clearly got the sleuthing bug.

  George went through his pre-investigative pipe-lighting ritual. A few puffs of fragrant tobacco drifted through the lounge. ‘Right, we have two people, seemingly unrelated, who have been poisoned here at Harrington’s. Philip, I’ve had it confirmed, by the way, that it was strychnine used on Olivia.’

  A murmur went round the room. Philip confirmed that he thought that was the case. His dark curly hair flopped over his forehead. He looked like a romantic film star with his smouldering good looks and twinkling eyes. ‘I belive that this attack tonight was also a tiny dose of strychnine. I’ve heard of athletes taking tiny portions of this stuff to enhance their speed. This is a heavier dose, but meant to debilitate, not kill. This is someone who knows what they are doing or has certainly researched the amounts that make the difference between discomfort and death.’

  ‘Olivia, as you can see, is fully recovered,’ added George. ‘John Carlton is back at the bed and breakfast and being attended to by Mrs Keates.’

  James swirled the brandy in his glass. ‘And you can’t establish any link between Dupree and Carlton?’

  ‘Not had the time. I thought that Dupree might be targeted again; only because she seemed to rub people up the wrong way. But where John Carlton comes into it, I don’t know.’

  Harry reached across for an empty glass and poured himself a brandy. ‘I had quite a chat with John before the dinner and this is the first time he’s been to Harrington’s. He seemed quite excited to see Olivia Dupree perform – said he was a big fan of hers but he didn’t say anything about being involved with her or knowing her in any way. Do you think John was poisoned by mistake?’

  Philip was quick to deny this. ‘We have the bottle that the Quack Doctor used and I’m confident that George’s people will find traces of strychnine in it. Whoever planned this knew who to poison and how to do it.’

  ‘Crikey. Who had access to the bottle?’

  George blew smoke up to the ceiling. ‘Anyone and everyone. The Quack Doctor’s bag was sitting in Reception while the men got changed. Doesn’t take two seconds to add something to the contents.’

  ‘It’s taking a risk though. The place was heaving with people,’ said Harry.

  James tapped his son’s arm. ‘Probably the best time to do it. People are milling around with overnight bags, handbags and purses. No one’s going to take any notice if someone is fiddling with a piece of luggage, especially if they’re pretending it’s their luggage.’

  A thoughtful silence descended. George eventually spoke.

  ‘James, this is not something I particularly want to ask but I have to. If these incidents are not related, have you considered that someone is intent on hurting you?’

  Harry baulked. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Hold on, Harry,’ said James. ‘I would also say absolutely not but I may have upset someone and not know. I can’t begin to understand the thought processes of my guests.’

  ‘But we’ve not had any upsets here; the reviews are wonderful and most people keep coming back year on year.’

  George shifted in his chair. ‘I wasn’t thinking so much about the reviews for Harrington’s.’

  Harry tilted his head at James who held a hand up. ‘I think what George is suggesting is that someone from our previous investigation
s could be seeking to hit me where it hurts.’

  ‘Over this last year,’ George continued, ‘you’ve helped with a number of enquiries and been the instigator of their resolution. Your business here is your living. If Harrington’s gets a reputation for people falling ill and being poisoned, people will stop booking.’

  Harry paled. ‘But that means someone here knows a person who is in prison or has been hanged because of you and Dad.’ He glared at James. ‘Can you think who it could be?’

  James pulled a face to indicate that he didn’t. ‘There are one or two vindictive enough to want revenge. George, perhaps you and I should go through your case files.’

  His friend agreed. ‘We’re also going to need to check the background of every guest that’s here.’

  ‘Oh Lord, I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter; the likelihood is that it’s someone who also attended the first of December dinner but we can’t ignore anyone else. We can’t leave any stone unturned.’

  James refilled his glass. There had been around seventy guests at Harington’s that night. Questioning them would lead to gossip and annoyance. Within a few months, the business could be ruined. ‘I would far rather you look for a connection between Olivia and John before you start questioning everyone here.’

  The door opened and Anne entered. She was quick to close the door behind her, before closing her eyes with a huge sigh.

  ‘Sorry to barge in but something awful’s happened.’

  James felt his stomach sink.

  ‘Mrs Carlton went upstairs to her room to have a rest. The Major’s just gone up to check on her and found her dead.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Urgently, James ordered Harry to return to the dance to update Beth and keep the evening ticking along. Meanwhile, Anne, George and Philip followed him upstairs to the Carltons’ room. The Major and his wife had booked one of the more sizable suites with a large window overlooking the front of the property. During the summer, the vista provided a spectacular view of the hills as they rolled toward the sea. This evening, the snow provided a ghostly glow over the fields which mirrored the sombre mood in the room.