Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  Elsie Taylor distributed glasses of fruit-cup with cinnamon and the shelf normally reserved solely for hymn books had doubled up as a shelf for everyone’s drink. James took a sip of the fruity cocktail. What a splendid idea: it certainly made this particular church service a social one. Bert slipped in beside them.

  Stephen, as was his style, wandered up and down the aisles, promoting the season of goodwill and peace to all men. He chatted about St Nicholas, describing how he had originally been a Bishop in Turkey who was so poor he could not afford a dowry for his daughters. But, according to legend, he dropped a bag of gold down a chimney, which fell into a stocking that had been hung up to dry by one daughter. He then did the same for the others. As Stephen spoke, James found himself wondering where this gold had come from. Nicholas begged his daughters not to tell anyone what he’d done but word got out. Since then, when anyone received a secret gift, it was thought to be from Nicholas. Because of his great kindness, he was made a Saint: the saint of children.

  Over time, St Nicholas had fallen out of popularity but the Victorians, intrigued by the old stories, reinvented him. Although no one knew when he actually died, his bones were discovered on the sixth of December. So St Nicholas’ day always fell on that date.

  His congregation hung on Stephen’s every word. He had a knack for story-telling, gesticulating and changing the tone of his voice as he strode up and down the aisle. He made his way to the front of the church and turned with a glint in his eye. ‘A-and now, I believe that St Nick has arrived.’

  The children shuffled.

  ‘He p-particularly wanted to stop here, at St Nicholas’ Church, to s-see the children.’

  The vestry door opened and in walked St Nick. James never failed to be amazed at the costume. It was the one they used every year but Dorothy Forbes looked after it as if it were gold dust. St Nick had a dark green hat that came to a point, with light fur around the brim. His matching robes, also fur-trimmed, were tied by a large leather belt and an equally large metal buckle. His boots were made of sacking and his beard was bushy white. Anne had used stage make-up to give him a weathered complexion; his blue eyes sparkled. In one hand he carried a knobbly wooden staff and in the other an old sack tied by a length of frayed rope.

  Underneath the costume and make-up was Mr Chrichton, who filled the outfit with the help of a small pillow. He certainly looked a jolly St Nick as he made himself comfortable in the golden chair.

  Beth nudged him. ‘Look at the children.’

  He turned. Every child in the church had either made their way to the end of their pews or stood on the pews to see St Nick. Some were open-mouthed, some were pointing, but all were in awe. Stephen invited them to come to the front and they did so, en masse.

  Anne scurried forward and instructed them to line up nicely. ‘Don’t worry, children, everyone will receive a gift.’ Radley trotted up and sat by the throne in anticipation of a bone.

  Over the next twenty minutes, James and Beth watched Chrichton distribute the gifts with a jovial laugh. He leant in as children whispered in his ear to ask for something specific at Christmas. Chrichton always responded with a diplomatic ‘I’ll see what I can do’ and an instruction that the children must be sure to behave well.

  As the boys and girls returned to their parents, St Nick rose from his chair and waved goodbye. Stephen settled proceedings down with a short prayer before opening the church doors wide. Bert dashed out, telling James he hadn’t got all day.

  James checked his watch. ‘Did you want to come, Beth, or are you busy here?’

  ‘I’ll go over to Harrington’s and mingle with the guests to make sure everything is in order.’

  Harry straightened his tie. ‘I’ll come over too. George will probably be there by now asking questions. Shall I see if I can gatecrash?’

  ‘He won’t thank you for it,’ said James. ‘But if you can, see what you can glean. I shouldn’t be long.’ He put his gloves on. ‘We don’t have anyone checking out today, do we?’

  Harry confirmed that all the guests would be staying until Monday with the exception of the Pals. ‘They’re going back to their own homes but, of course, they’re local – well, the ones that attended both evenings anyway. Alfie Stone is leaving for Cambridge.’

  ‘George will have it in hand, but he may want to have a good chat with Alfie Stone before he checks out. He’s the one from Australia who recognised Didier. And don’t forget that Eddie Simmonds put the Major in his place about the efforts of the Pals versus the regulars. No love lost there. It’ll be interesting to know if Eddie knows more about the Major than he’s letting on.’ James pecked Beth on the cheek. ‘I’ll track you all down later. Are we having dinner at our place or up at Harrington’s?’

  ‘I thought ours, especially as Juliet is with us. We can discuss the day’s events. Graham left some pork chops for us yesterday. I’ll do those with some mashed potatoes.’

  ‘Splendid. See if you can get George along too.’

  Because of the snow, traffic on the main roads was light and as Bert knew the way to Olivia Dupree’s parents, they reached Shoreditch within the hour. What snow had fallen in London had quickly turned to a grey slush. That, coupled with the heavy clouds, cast a gloom on proceedings. The roads were lined with small, terraced houses, each of which had a door opening straight onto the road. Dotted here and there was the odd shop or café. They passed an opulent Victorian residence that James discovered was the grand and impressive Shoreditch College. After a few minutes Bert pointed him down one of the numerous roads that all looked the same. He parked outside Number 16, although the ‘6’ had lost its top screw and had turned upside down. Two scruffy children ran up and stared at the sporty Austin Healey. Bert wagged a finger at them.

  ‘Look after this car and they’ll be a shilling for yer.’

  ‘Each?’

  ‘Cheeky buggers. Yeah, all right, each.’

  James grinned at Bert as he knocked on the door.

  A well-proportioned lady in her mid-fifties greeted them. She wore a floral apron which she hastily untied.

  ‘You’re earlier than I thought you’d be.’ She looked at the sky. ‘I thought you might get held up with the weather. I’m Mrs Brown.’

  James introduced himself and Bert. Bert had managed to get a message through to the Browns via his contacts. He explained that the roads were not too bad, especially coming into London. ‘It all melts rather quickly in the city, doesn’t it?’

  She held the door for them to go through to the front room. He and Bert made themselves comfortable on the sofa as Mrs Brown disappeared and returned with tea served on the ‘best’ crockery.

  ‘Sorry about the mess. I’ve never had gentry ’ere before.’

  James looked about at the spotless room. Like all front rooms, this was kept for special occasions and dusted to within an inch of its life. Mrs Brown appeared to be a homely individual and family was clearly important, judging by the numerous photographs around the room. He watched as she prepared the tea and distributed the cups and saucers. She opened the lid of a small wooden barrel.

  ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ta very much,’ said Bert.

  ‘It’s kind of you to let us visit at such short notice, especially with Christmas coming,’ said James.

  ‘Well, we’ve not much to do at Christmas, except cook the dinner. My Joe’s a grocer so ’e manages to get the food in and there’s not many to cook for: just us two and our neighbours across the road.’

  James cleared his throat. ‘Does Olivia ever join you?’

  Mrs Brown swallowed hard and blinked back her emotion. ‘Diane? No. She sends a card and some money but that’s about it.’ She brought out a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know why she don’t come. It’s like she’s ashamed of us.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why. Perhaps her ambition to succeed has clouded her sense of what’s important. Youngsters tend to forget these sorts of things. I’m sure she’ll come
around when she understands that.’

  The door opened and a man of a similar age to Mrs Brown appeared. He took off his cap and extended an arm.

  ‘Joe Brown.’

  James and Bert stood up and introduced themselves. Joe nodded for them to sit down.

  ‘You’re wanting to talk about our Diane, is tha’ right?’

  Mrs Brown left, stating that she had potatoes to peel. James simply felt that she didn’t want to break down in front of them. Joe sat down with a sigh.

  ‘She ’asn’t been back ’ere since she left to be a singer. The missus can’t speak about her, Lord Harrington, she’s that upset. She’s our only daughter, see, and it’s as if she’s disowned us.’ He reached across, opened a small cupboard and brought out a scrap book. He handed it to James. ‘We’ve kept all the newspaper clippings and reviews. We’re proud of her but she never mentions where she’s from. We’re a good community, look out for one another, but she always thought she was a bit above everyone ‘ere.’

  ‘Are you angry?’

  ‘Not now. I was. When I see how upset the missus gets, that makes me angry. Nah, I’m more disappointed. We were good parents; never strict, always helped her with her school work and held birthday parties, you know, like you do.’

  Bert helped himself to another biscuit. ‘When did she scarper?’

  ‘Just after her sixteenth birthday. She didn’t even say goodbye. Packed a bag and left a note. We got letters to begin with but when she started getting famous she changed her name and the letters stopped coming. Now, we’re lucky if we get a birthday card.’

  James’ heart went out to him. He couldn’t imagine how it must feel to have your own children turn their backs on you. ‘Does she keep in contact with anyone else? Any school friends?’

  Joe chuckled. ‘She don’t keep in touch with anyone. Never really made friends – always had her head in the clouds dreaming o’ stardom.’ His eyes misted over. ‘Well, she’s got it now and I ’ope she’s happy.’ He picked up his tea cup. ‘What’re you interested in her for?’

  ‘I won’t beat around the bush, Mr Brown. We believe someone may have tried to harm her last week.’

  Joe’s jaw dropped as James went on to explain what had happened on the evening of the first of December. He gave an overview of who was at the table, the relationship between her and Carlo, and then waited.

  ‘I know she’s got a thing for that Carlo bloke. You can see it in those photographs from the papers. D’you think he’s tried to kill ’er? These Italians can be a hot-headed bunch.’

  James winced at the suggestion. ‘No, I don’t think that at all. I think this has to do with something from years ago, from the Great War.’

  Joe frowned. ‘But she weren’t even born then! What’s that gotta do with anything?’

  Bert pushed his cap back. ‘It’s too long a story mate, but she may have got involved in something without realising it. Do any of your family ’ave links with the Pals regiments fighting in the Artois region, you know, Arras and Albért, those places?’

  A quick shake of the head answered that question. ‘My dad was one of the first. He was with the Expeditionary Force up in Mons. Injured in the first few months.’

  James enquired whether the name of Captain William Carlton rang any bells. A blank look confirmed that it meant nothing. Joe’s worried gaze settled on him.

  ‘Is my little girl safe?’

  James felt disinclined to make any promises. So far, they had no idea what was going on; who was the target and why.

  ‘No way to say,’ said Bert. ‘Whoever did it made sure it didn’t do any damage. She’s up and about with no ’arm done.’

  ‘That’s right,’ James put in. ‘Whoever did this has now moved on to the Carlton family. They appear to be the target. Are you sure you have no recollection of that name?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Dad never mentioned much to do with the war, only the blokes he served alongside. He only saw the officers when they were ready to fight.’

  ‘Did he keep a diary?’

  ‘Nah. He weren’t a writer, my dad.’ He brought his chair closer. ‘If you see my little girl, you tell her to come and visit. Tell her that her mum is distraught. I can’t see that we’ve done anything wrong but if we upset ’er all those years ago, tell ’er we’re sorry.’

  James took that as their cue to go. He gave his assurance that he’d do his very best to speak with Olivia and encourage her to visit.

  James watched as his friend tipped the kids for keeping an eye on the car. A young girl in her twenties strolled up and tapped Bert on the shoulder.

  ‘Blimey, if it ain’t little Gloria.’ Bert turned to James. ‘This is the girl that went to school with Olivia. Me and her dad are mates.’

  She gave Bert a hug. ‘I ’eard you was coming up so I thought I’d wait outside like.’

  Bert went through their reasons for visiting and James asked if Gloria was friendly with Olivia. She pulled a face. ‘I was never friends with ’er. Right madam she was, always thought she was better than us.’ She jutted her chin at the Browns’ house. ‘Mrs Brown was in a right state for years and she’s ever so nice; a proper mum, that’s what she is. Don’t deserve a daugh’er like that.’

  After a quick catch up with Bert, Gloria left, curtseying to James who was a little bemused by the gesture.

  They got in the car and James slipped his gloves on. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I dunno. There’s nothin’ that connects her to the Carltons or the war. Why don’t you pop down to Mrs Keates and ’ave a chat with John Carlton? If we can’t find a link soon, we’re gonna ’ave to start thinking that you’re the target.’

  James felt his stomach flip. He’d put that suggestion to the back of his mind but, here it was, shining like a beacon on Guy Fawkes night. Bert nudged him.

  ‘Drop me at the East End Mission; I’m ’aving dinner with Gladys.’

  James beamed. ‘Are you really? Is this a blossoming romance or something?’

  As Bert gave him directions, James ribbed him about a possible marriage, saying that he and Gladys had cut quite a dash on the dance floor during the wedding reception. Bert remained tight-lipped throughout and took it all on the chin. Outside the Mission, he took his cap off and smoothed his hair back. After a quick cheerio, he disappeared inside and James, with a mischievous grin, turned on to the main road, making a mental note to update Beth on a possible romance.

  In the meantime, his next port of call was Mrs Keates.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He’d met Mrs Keates the previous year when trying to trace the estranged son of a dead farmer. Although she lived in the neighbouring village of Charnley, her cooking skills were called upon for the many events and festivals celebrated in Cavendish.

  She lived in a property similar to that of Mr and Mrs Brown: a two-up, two-down terraced house with a front door that opened straight on to the high street. The snow stopped and the sky cleared as he steered the car through the Sussex countryside. If it hadn’t been so chilly, he would have put the roof down but he could imagine his ears dropping off with frost-bite if he did. He was glad to have wrapped up in a thick tweed jacket and cap as well as his scarf and gloves.

  He pulled up outside Mrs Keates’ house, leapt out of the car and knocked politely. Mrs Keates swung the door open and James couldn’t help but laugh. She stepped out onto the pavement and brushed flour from her apron.

  ‘I’ve been making puddings and cakes and this flour gets everywhere.’ She asked him in, catching sight of herself in the mirror as she followed him back indoors. ‘Glory be, I’ve even got it in my hair. Come through, Lord Harrington, you know where to go.’

  On the odd occasion that he’d visited, the conversation always took place in the small pantry at the back of the house where cooking appeared to be a continuous occupation. He took his cap and gloves off and unbuttoned his jacket.

  ‘If we had cooking in the Olympics, Mrs K, I believe you’d win the gold every
time. What are you making?’

  ‘Some of your nan’s mince pies. You remember you gave me the recipe last year.’

  ‘Oh that’s right; she used the old Georgian recipe.’

  After a short discussion about Christmas and the preparations, Mrs Keates prepared a hot toddy for James, something he’d grown accustomed to having when he popped by in the winter months. She wiped her hands on a towel.

  ‘You here to see John?’

  ‘Yes. How’s he faring?’

  Her shoulders slumped. ‘Inspector Lane was round earlier to see if he was up for the news of his mother.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘Well, it’s never a good time, is it? Poor lad looks like his whole world’s fallen apart. And at Christmas too. How’s he going to have any good thoughts with such a memory hanging over him?’

  James agreed that it would take a while to get over. ‘No matter how old you are, the death of a parent is terribly sad.’

  Mrs Keates agreed. She handed James a small tray with a second hot toddy and two gingerbread men on it. ‘He’s in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. Take that up to him and tell him I’ll be up to see what he wants for dinner.’

  Armed with refreshments and instructions, James made his way up the narrow staircase and knocked on the bedroom door.

  ‘John, it’s James Harrington. Are you fine for me to come in?’

  ‘Yes, come in.’

  John was propped up in bed, staring out of the back window. He wore blue and white striped pyjamas and his thick, brown hair was dishevelled. He was a handsome man in a rugged way. James could imagine him hauling hay onto a wagon. But his red-rimmed eyes told their own story. He handed John the glass. ‘A Mrs Keates special. Should hit the spot.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  James dragged a small wooden chair over to the bedside. ‘I know it seems a silly question but how are you bearing up?’