‘He will have trusted someone,’ said Juliet. ‘From the past. You don’t grow up not trusting anyone unless you’ve had a particularly bad childhood. He was happily married. Someone like Cynthia wouldn’t marry a man frightened of his own shadow. He will have gone to someone he is comfortable with, from the days when he could trust.’
Harry clicked his fingers. ‘Someone from his army days. He spent his whole life in the army.’
‘Ye..s,’ said James. ‘There is camaraderie in the services that you don’t get in civvy street.’ He wagged a finger at George. ‘If that’s the case, you need to find out who he served with.’
‘And,’ said Beth, ‘you’ll have to put the Pals toward the top of the list. If he has gone to a military friend, then his mistrust of people came from his time in the army.’
‘Crikey,’ said Harry. ‘He was in for twenty-odd years. That’ll take a lifetime to find out.’
James held a finger up in inspiration. ‘I don’t believe it will. This goes back to the trenches of the First World War – 1917 to be precise.’
‘Sweetie, how on earth do you know that?’
He reached in his pocket and brought out the diary extract. ‘Because of this.’ He leapt up and opened the bureau to take out the previous diary entry. He held it aloft. ‘And this.’
George closed his eyes in frustration. ‘Why do you always do this to me?’
‘What?’
‘I know nothing about these bits of paper. Why haven’t you mentioned them?’
‘I didn’t think they were anything much until our conversation earlier. They’re just diary entries that have come loose and Paul believed them to be lost property. But no one admits to owning them. If that’s the case, they’ve now become relevant. This one was handed to me after the first dance. This second one was found in the same area, but not in plain view.’
‘And you now have your fingerprints all over them.’
‘I admit that the first entry will appear that way. But the second extract, well, Beth was quick to avoid contaminating it. You may find Paul’s fingerprints but that’s about it.’
‘Come along, my dear,’ said Juliet, ‘read them aloud.’
James did so. At the end of the second entry, they all agreed that these spoke of something untoward. He picked up the most recent entry.
‘I’ve not read this one myself yet.’ Using a handkerchief, he unfolded it. ‘France April 16 1917 : 9 shot today but it wasn’t right. He did nothing wrong. He saw what I saw but opened his mouth and paid the price. I’ll have to keep quiet or I’ll go the same way. He won’t get away with it – not as long as I’m alive. He’ll get what’s coming to him.’
He puffed his cheeks and handed both entries to George. ‘They look like originals. I checked the handwriting against the register but couldn’t see anything conclusive.’
George scanned the text and sought out Juliet. ‘What do you make of this?
‘It confirms my suspicions,’ she said. ‘Major Carlton is running away. I believe whoever wrote this diary is referring to our Major. He did something during the war that he shouldn’t have done.’
‘Goodness,’ said Beth, ‘whoever it is sure holds a grudge.’
Harry scratched his head. ‘So we need to investigate the Major and, presumably, he is linked to the Pals somehow.’
‘You don’t need to investigate anything. I need to investigate the Major,’ said George. ‘You get on with arranging your pantomime or whatever else you’re doing this Christmas.’ He started to rise, gripped his stomach and groaned. Harry leapt up and helped him back down. James insisted on calling Dr Jackson. George requested calm as the pain disappeared as quickly as it had come.
‘I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a bit of indigestion, that’s all. It’s going off now.’
It took some convincing but James eventually gave his friend the benefit of the doubt. He requested the second diary entry back from George. ‘I don’t understand this. It says ‘9 shot today’, which indicates nine people killed. But then it refers to ‘he’. He did nothing wrong.’ He held everyone’s gaze. ‘Who is 9?’
‘And what,’ said Harry, ‘has this to do with Olivia Dupree?’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
James looked on as Dorothy Forbes instructed the Cavendish Players to take their places for a run-through of that year’s pantomime, Cinderella. She’d persuaded Beth to take the part of Prince Charming which she had reluctantly accepted after being persuaded by James, Anne and Stephen. Normally, Beth helped with the costumes and remained backstage but, after many assurances, she was convinced by all that she’d do well in the part. Although line-perfect, she wore an anxious expression as she stood on the small wooden stage.
He and the Merryweathers watched from the back of the room by the WI table. The Snoop sisters, Rose and Lilac Crumb, distributed teas and coffees and freshly baked mince pies. Elsie Taylor, who had come straight from closing her cafe, levered the lid off a cake tin and arranged some fresh gingerbread men on a plate alongside.
Dorothy ordered the men of the village, suitably dressed in overalls, to erect the scenery around her performers. She marched up the steps and onto the stage.
‘Now, Lady Harrington,’ she began.
James switched his attention to Didier who, this year, had opted to take part and play Baron Hardup. It was rare to see his chef out of his whites and he struck a fatherly figure in his dark trousers and cardigan. He was a short man with plump fingers who examined the gingerbread men with suspicion. Elsie thrust one into his hands and he took a bite. After a couple of seconds his eyes lit up.
‘Mais oui, a perfectly made biscuit, Miss Taylor. You made these?’
‘No need to look so surprised. I’ve been cooking since I was ten.’
Didier shrugged an apology and took another. James beckoned him over.
‘I say, Didier, I’m interested to know what you did during the Great War. You must have been incredibly young; I mean, you’re only in your early fifties now.’
Didier led him away from the main crowd and they sat on two wooden chairs in the corner of the hall.
‘I was fourteen, Lord ’arrington. I had to grow up fast. My father, he was a farmer in the Artois region and most of it was swallowed by the trenches. ’e grew many vegetables and we ’ad many fruit trees. I help him before and after school, all of my time. I was ready to follow in his footsteps but the war broke out.’
‘Did the résistance come to you?’
‘Non. We went to them. When my father saw his land disappear, ’e could not make a living; it was not safe for our family. At first, the war was a game. Those first few months in 1914, I would take food to the British soldiers. The sun shone bright and the meadows ’ad wild flowers with many colours. There was no fighting. I could not believe we were at war. But then it began.’
Didier went on to describe the increasing bombardment from both sides - the bombs, the gunfire and the mud. He spoke of his horror on seeing men and horses sucked into the dirt and left to rot; of rats and lice waging their own war on corpses that couldn’t be retrieved. Tears welled in his eyes.
‘Lord ’arrington, by the time I was fourteen, the war was raging. France was on its knees. My father could no longer provide for us. We moved from the farm and to my uncle. He lived in Albért. One night, I could not sleep and I over’eard a conversation between my uncle and a woman. The floorboards, they creak, they find me listening and pull me in. ’ow much did you hear?’, the woman said.’ Didier glared at James. ‘I thought she would kill me but my uncle, he said I could be useful. ’e said no one would suspect a young boy.’
‘So your uncle volunteered you?’
His chef nodded.
‘Did you know what you were letting yourself in for?’
‘At that age, it was an adventure, but I quickly realised how how important my actions were. I ran the lines, passing messages about enemy positions, where the guns were, troop movements. I took food supplies to points only
the soldiers knew. Those boys, they ’ad nothing; they looked like rags on bones.’
‘Did you ever get caught?’
‘Once. That is when I became a man. A German foot soldier – he stopped me. I ’ad supplies of food and a message for the front line. He shouted at me to give him the food.’ Didier shrugged. ‘Well, I could not! If I had given him the basket, there would be no problem but-.’
‘If you’d given him the food, he would have found the message.’
‘Oui, oui. I told him it was for my grandmother, that she was sick. I offered him half the food and he struck me. He struck the side of my head and I fell. The food emptied from the basket. This soldier, he picked the food up and put it back in the basket and began walking away.’ Anger contorted Didier’s expression. ‘I could not let my comrades down, Lord ’arrington. I had a knife in my jacket. My uncle gave it to me and said that I must not be afraid to use it.’ He drew his shoulders back. ‘I was not afraid to use it. I ran after that soldier and I stabbed him. He dropped to his knees. I stabbed him again. He died, there, on that spot. I grabbed the basket and I ran like I ’ave never run before. Through fields and country lanes until I found the drop-off point.’
‘Good lord.’
‘The English soldier waiting for me ’eard my story. ’e gave me water and ordered me to go and rest away from the rendezvous and take a different route home.’
Didier broke off a piece of gingerbread and put it in his mouth. James simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew Didier as his chef and nothing more. A middle-aged genius in the kitchen who he could never visualise as a young man let alone a runner for the résistance.
‘Can I ask, Didier, how did you become a chef after all of this?’
His expression brightened. ‘This was my motivation. I always loved food, Lord ’arrington but I thought I would follow my father and be a farmer. But the farm was gone. My father opened a bakery in a village at the end of the war. He was happy but he missed the farm.’
Didier turned and faced James.
‘I saw the pleasure my food gave those soldiers. I began to make special food. I baked fresh croissants and rolls and I cured ham. I made cheese and cider. The soldiers, they look forward to my parcels. They always ask for a delivery from me and I never let them down – not once.’
‘So something marvellous came from that adversity.’
Didier pulled his shoulders back. ‘That is why I was so angry with that woman – Olivia Dupree. She does not know this motivation for cooking. I fed those soldiers the best I could give. I am no different today. How dare she accuse me, Didier Le Noir, of poisoning her. Even if my worst enemy were to stay at ’arrington’s, I would not poison him. I would not ruin my reputation for anyone.’
‘It’s pretty clear now, Didier, that something was put in her wine to make her ill.’
‘Pah! She has the voice of angel and the manners of a camel.’
James couldn’t help but laugh and, to his surprise, Didier laughed with him.
‘I say, Didier, did you hear any rumours from the soldiers about cowardice?’
His chef gave him a considered look. ‘There were always rumours, Lord ’arrington.’
‘What about officers?’
‘Officers? I did not know the officers. I speak only to soldiers, the men on the front line and they speak of their comrades.’
‘What about Captain William Carlton? Did anyone mention him?’
Didier held up a finger and narrowed his eyes. ‘The man at your dinner, oui?’
‘That’s the one’.
‘I cannot be sure, Lord ’arrington. I do not want to accuse a man without the facts. I ’eard rumour of a Captain who was not, ’ow you say, qualified to lead. There was a rumour that an officer made bad decisions. But,’ Didier held his hands up, ‘I do not know the name of that man.’
‘Was he attached to the Cavendish Pals?’
‘Non, non.’
James felt his shoulders fall. Didier tapped the side of his nose.
‘The Cavendish Pals were attached to his unit.’
Dorothy strode toward them. She clapped her hands.
‘Mr Le Noir, I’ve been calling and calling! I need you on stage please.’
‘Je suis desolé.’ He got up and bowed to James. ‘Je m’excuse.’
James’s gaze followed Didier toward the stage. What an extraordinary man. In all the years that Didier had cooked for their family - first his sister and now at Harrington’s - none of them had had any idea of his bravery – and at such a young age too. And, although he was capable of it, he would not jeopardise his culinary reputation to kill.
Adam Franks, the waiter from Harrington’s, caught his eye. He wore blue jeans and a navy blue turtle-neck sweater. James mused about how different people appeared when they were away from a uniform. He got up to join him at the WI table.
‘What has Dorothy landed you with, Adam?’
The young man rolled his eyes. ‘I’m props. I’ve been volunteered. I couldn’t stand up in front of an audience and act. That’d be my worst nightmare. Are you taking part, your Lordship?’
James asked for a cup of tea and returned his attention to Adam. ‘Not this year, no. I said I’d help out with programmes and getting people seated on the night. I’ll do a taxi service for the folks at the old people’s home. Christmas, this year, is a little busy, what with the wedding and two dances to organise.’
‘Not to mention those people getting ill.’
‘Yes, that was a rum do. Are you quite sure you didn’t see anything on either of those evenings?’
Adam shook his head and reiterated his story. During the first dinner, he’d stood by the main door between reception and the dining room. During the one following, he’d more or less done the same but they had been a waiter down so he had filled in for him too.
‘I didn’t see anyone spike Miss Dupree’s drink and I didn’t see anyone go to that Quack Doctor’s case. I know it was sitting in Reception for a while with the guests’ bags but that’s about it.’
‘Tell me about your grandfather, Adam. He was in the Cavendish Pals, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. He played football and cricket for Cavendish. Apparently, they were having one of those round-robin sports tournaments. It was during the summer of 1916. The football, tennis and cricket teams all took part from here, Charnley and Loxfield. I remember my nan saying there’d been some pretty awful fighting in France during that weekend and they wanted volunteers. I think it was decided in a drunken state outside the Half Moon and they all went and signed up. He was killed the following year.’
‘Did you know much about him?’
Adam explained that his nan suffered terribly when he died. ‘I don’t remember her much; she seemed like an old woman to me but I don’t think she was. Mum and Dad said she used to laugh a lot. I don’t know if people can die from broken hearts but I think that’s what happened to her.’
‘I’m sorry, Adam, I didn’t mean to stir up unhappy memories. Did he write home?’
‘As much as he could have. Nan kept those letters in a box by her bed. They were always there, even years after the war.’
‘Do you still have them?’
Adam looked away and shuffled his feet. ‘I dunno. Mum prob’ly chucked them out. I’d better see if Mrs Forbes needs a hand. Excuse me, your Lordship.’
James sipped his tea and pondered the sudden furtive attitude of his waiter. Beth strode toward him.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘What?’
‘Did you hear my voice when I was on the stage? I’m worried that no one will hear me. I hope I’m doing the right thing. What if I forget my lines?’
‘Darling, you’ll be perfect and Anne’s helping you with your lines. You’ll be wonderful and you’re an adorable Prince Charming.’
She put her hands on her hips. ‘What is this thing with pantomimes and women playing the men’s role? It seems most odd to me.’
‘It
all harks back to those mad Victorians where ladies were forced to where corsets and bustles. The only place they could rid themselves of such garments was on stage where they were permitted to wear costumes that showed a shapely leg. The only way they could get around it was for them to play the principal male role. No one objected because it also pleased the men in the audience.’
‘That all sounds too bizarre,’ said Beth.
‘Speaking of bizarre,’ he pulled her to one side. ‘I’ve had a couple of enlightening conversations.’
Having grabbed her attention, he went through his chat with Didier and Adam, Beth interrupting with an occasion ‘Oh’ and ‘Goodness!’.
‘You don’t seriously think they had anything to do with the poisoning, do you?’ she asked.
‘Good lord, I hope not. I seriously doubt that Didier has. His ego would forbid him to compromise his talents; but Adam became more than a little shifty when I probed him for information on those letters.’
‘Do you think the family still has them?’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Do you think it’s the same handwriting as the diary entries?’ She squeezed tighter. ‘Oh heavens, I hope he hasn’t done anything stupid.’
James peeled her fingers off his arm and assured her that he thought it unlikely. ‘I do need to get to the bottom of that story though.’
Before he could continue, Dorothy asked for all main players to go back to the stage. James selected a mince pie from the table and frowned. Was he wrong to dismiss Didier? His heroics were commendable but not only did this arm him with the ambition to cook and be one of the best chefs in Europe, it enabled him to be ruthless. He’d killed a man: it might have been in the context of war but he had shown no qualms about doing so.
And what was Adam being so shifty about? His demeanour had changed considerably when James had asked for more details.
If this was the background of two of his staff, what stories did the other descendants of the Pals have? He made a mental note to track down Paul and his gardener, Ernest Appleton.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery Page 11