The following day, James strolled around the gardens that surrounded their own property. There was crispness in the air and the little snow that had fallen crunched beneath his feet. He wore a pair of thick-soled hiking boots, dark brown corduroy trousers, a sheepskin jacket and a felt flat cap. He carried a shepherd’s crook as he strode across the lawn toward the greenhouses and sheds at the far end. A fox dashed along the hedgerow ahead of him and he felt a rush of contentment. There was no denying it, being out in the countryside was his passion. He couldn’t understand people who lived in the city with no fresh air and fields in which to wander.
Their gardener, Ernest Appleton, was busy in the greenhouse jotting notes down in a small book. He was a tall, wiry man with a weathered face and side-whiskers. James tapped the side of the greenhouse door.
‘Ah, Appleton.’
Appleton tipped his battered trilby. ‘Morning, your Lordship,’ he said in a rural Sussex accent. ‘Something the matter?’
James assured him that everything was splendid. ‘I know I only come over when I want something done which is rather remiss of me. I thought I’d take a stroll and saw you hard at it. Much need doing this time of the year?’
The gardener scanned the garden. ‘Just keeping on top of things really. Making sure plants don’t get frost-bite, keep the birds happy and start preparing for the spring. That’s what I’m doing now – logging the seeds I’m planting and where to put ’em. Make a note of what needs tending.’
James peered over his shoulder at the notebook full of dates, seasons and names of flowers and fruits. ‘You’re certainly industrious, Appleton. Anything new being planted for the spring?’
Ernest went through a list of flowers and shrubs that James wasn’t all that familiar with. James loved the countryside and could happily tell you the different trees that dotted the area but where flowers were concerned, his knowledge extended only to the popular varieties. But, from what Appleton was telling him, they were to be prepared for an explosion of colour by May.
‘It all sounds incredibly vibrant. I’m sure my wife will be overjoyed.’
James wondered how he was going to bring the subject of the Great War up when Appleton provided his opening.
‘Looks like your Christmas dances were a success, your Lordship.’
‘Yes, they’re becoming a regular part of the guests’ diaries now, so long may they continue. And you know we had a contingent of the Cavendish Pals here.’
‘So I heard. Simmonds boys were there and Scotty Bull. Those three never left the village ’cept to go to war.’
‘Your brother was in the Pals wasn’t he?’
Appleton stopped working and gazed out of the window with a fond expression. ‘Rider.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Ernest snapped out of his daydream and faced James. ‘We used to call him Rider. Always on your dad’s horses at the stables, he was. Fancied himself as a stable-hand and said that once the war was over, he’d have a go and prove to your dad that he could run the stables.’ He had a pained expression. ‘Never got to live that dream though.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Made it through the war but the gas got to his lungs. He was in that convalescent home on the coast for a while but then he got pneumonia and he didn’t have the strength.’ His eyes welled with tears as he held James’ gaze. ‘Only twenty three he was. Had his whole life ahead of him.’
‘It was a sad time for many people. I’m sure he was glad to have such a supportive brother .’
‘I did what I could.’ He tapped his right leg. ‘Of course, they wouldn’t let me sign up.’
Ernest Appleton had a disfigured leg that caused him to limp. Running was impossible. The villagers had never questioned his non-eligibility for joining up. It was obvious the man had problems and they commended him for having tried to enlist. James’ father had known the young man was keen on the outdoors and had offered him a position working in the grounds. Gardening had been Ernest’s saving grace. He learned his trade from the old estate gardeners up at Harrington’s. The big house had become too much for him but, for James and Beth, there was no one else more qualified to manage the grounds of the house where they now lived.
‘Did Rider write to you when he was in France?’
‘He’d write when he could. Sounded horrific to me. I don’t know how they put them men through it. I don’t mean just the English; I mean all of ’em. The Germans had it as bad. I’ve got Rider’s diaries if you want to have a read.’
His heart skipped a beat. ‘That would certainly be of interest, thank you.’
Thinking the gardener would announce when he could deliver them, James turned to go. But to his astonishment, Appleton held up a hand and gestured for James to follow him next door to the shed. The shed was around the size of their garage and held quite a bit of machinery for jobs around the garden. At the back was an old oak sideboard that had seen better days. Appleton opened a drawer and brought out two small notebooks. He handed them to James.
‘Be careful with ’em, won’t you? I read ’em now and again when I stop for my flask of soup. Keeps me close to Rider, see.’
James held them up with a promise that he would keep them safe and return them in the next few days. ‘I say, Jackson was speaking to me about poisons and he said that he hoped we kept ours under lock and key. Do we have poisons?’
‘We’ve some strychnine to get rid of the moles and any rats. It’s in the cupboard at the end there, locked up.’
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Just behind you, hanging on the nail.’
He looked at it. So easy to steal; but people would have to know it was there. He thanked Appleton and strolled back to the house. Although he was feeling chilly, he perched on the edge of a cast iron chair on the terrace and read the first couple of pages.
1917! How extraordinary; everyone seemed to be writing about the same year.
The trenches are soft mud. The bread and jam has been stored in a sack covered in mud. My hands are covered in mud and everything tastes of mud. What I wouldn’t give for bowl of Mum’s chicken soup. We’ve been here five days and I’ve had three hours’ sleep. I dozed off yesterday. Scotty woke me thank God. I’ve heard men are shot for that. I’m so tired, I can’t think straight. The last tree standing got blown up today so I lost my bet. We’d bet a cube of chocolate each on which day it would disappear. I was a day out. Nice tree too. Ernest would have had it chopped up for the fireplaces at the manor.
He flicked through the pages, stopping every now and again to study the text. Then, he gently tapped the notebooks and put them in his inside pocket. The handwriting was not the same as in the papers discovered at the dances but he’d keep hold of them. Now convinced that his gardener was not a suspect, he wondered if the diaries might reveal something about Captain William Carlton. It was a remote possibility but worth pursuing.
Beth’s call from the living room snatched him out of his thoughts. He jumped up and went to join her. She announced that Stephen and Anne were helping the villagers decorate the tree on the village green and were then going to the Half Moon for a quick drink.
‘They’ve dropped Luke, Mark and little Radley off at their grandparents for a couple of days, so they have some spare time. Can you come?’
‘Of course. I’ll change my shoes and I’m ready to go.’
As James parked alongside the green, Beth gazed through the windscreen. ‘Oh James, it looks like a Christmas card.’
He got out of the car and opened the passenger door for her. ‘It does look rather stunning doesn’t it?’
The sun sparkled off the snow. Smoke swirled from the chimneys of the cottages surrounding the green and lights shone a welcoming glow through the Half Moon’s windows.
On the green itself, Mr Chrichton conducted his first year pupils in a chorus of ‘Deck the Halls’. Children, were scampering around a large Christmas tree. Graham and Sarah Porter handed baubles to the children to hang on the lower branches. Helen Jackson dire
cted where the decorations should sit. Charlie Hawkins was up and down one of the ladders, securing tinsel, while Philip fastened a silver star on the top. Anne held the base of another ladder while Stephen tied red ribbons to the ends of the taller branches.
‘Be careful, Stephen!’ James called. ‘I don’t want to have to collect you from the hospital again.’
On all of the cases James had helped solve, Stephen had been attacked in one way or another and James always seemed to be collecting him from the cottage hospital. Stephen gave him a knowing look, then focussed on the job in hand.
‘What a shame your children are missing this,’ said Beth.
Anne nodded but assured Beth that they would be helping with the tree where they were and no doubt Radley would be causing mischief too.
Over the next hour the villagers’ efforts transformed a basic tree into a resplendent centre-piece for the green. Satisfied with the end result, the villagers dispersed in different directions; many of them to the Half Moon. James steered Beth toward the war memorial in the far corner of the green, where Stephen and Anne joined them. It was a fitting memorial with brass plaques screwed into the centre of each side. Two sides listed names from World War I and two from World War II.
‘S-such an awful loss for a village of th-this size.’
Anne agreed. ‘Especially in the Great War. It’s a wonder the village itself didn’t die out.’
‘It’s an ancient village,’ said James. ‘Many men didn’t return.’ He put his shoulders back. ‘But we had many that did and a good number of boys who were far too young to fight. They were our future.’
Beth strolled around the memorial. The stonework was old and some of it was covered in moss and lichen. ‘The Harringtons are represented in both wars.’
‘Yes, we lost great uncle Edwin in the first and cousin Geoffrey in the second.’ He examined all of the names while Stephen and Anne strolled toward the pub. A sense of pride ran through him. He knew the families of every name listed here and it pleased him that most had chosen to remain in Cavendish.
Paul skidded toward them on his bicycle and stopped alongside. ‘Just going up to the house, Lord Harrington. Everything’s in order up there and Didier has fresh rabbit on the menu.’
‘Excellent.’ James gave a nod to the memorial. ‘Your father was a Pal, wasn’t he? Is he still with us?’
‘Yes he is. Fought in the first war and was in the Home Guard for the second. Lives with his brother in Eastbourne now. They lost their wives a few years ago and decided to share a home – more for company than anything. Loves it down there. All that sea air, he looks the picture of health.’ He tipped his cap and went on his way.
James took Beth’s hand and led her to the pub. Inside, the atmosphere buzzed. The smell of hops permeated the bar. Tinsel and holly hung from every available beam and fairy lights were strung around the edge of the ceiling. Each table had a lit candle stuck into the neck of an old beer bottle giving a homely feel to an already cosy area. Donovan and Kate filled the orders as if their lives depended on it and within a few minutes, James was holding a pint of Christmas ale with a thick head on the top of it. Beth opted for a warming whisky with ginger wine.
Graham Porter beckoned them across to the booth where Stephen, Anne, Bert, Charlie and Philip sat. James stood to one side for Beth to slide in ahead of him and, once seated, he raised his glass. ‘An early greeting, I know, but Merry Christmas everyone.’
The group chorused the same in return. Graham slapped the table with the palm of his hand.
‘So, what’s going on up at the manor? Is it right that someone was poisoned?’
James was quick to play down the drama. Philip said that it was an accidental overdose of prescription medication. James spoke a silent thank you to the doctor. He didn’t want rumours about murder and poisoning spreading around the village. It was inevitable that people would talk, especially as many of the villagers worked up at the house. Philip’s suggestion would, undoubtedly, reach the ears of the gossips and, hopefully, things would quieten down.
Beth shifted in her seat. ‘Graham, did your family fight in the war?’
‘Absolutely. Not from here though. My dad joined the Derbyshire regiment. That’s where he’s from. Got through it too, which was a blessing. The Cavendish Pals are an interesting bunch though, aren’t they? I was chatting to Charlie about ’em.’
‘I’ve put a display up in the library,’ Charlie added. ‘I had so many photographs donated over the years that I thought I’d put an exhibition up to coincide with their reunion.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ said Beth. ‘James, we should go and see that. I’m sure that’ll interest the whole village.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said James. ‘Mr Chrichton’s bringing the school-children in tomorrow morning.’
Bert pushed his cap back from his forehead. ‘That’s who you wanna be showing that to. Keep the youngsters knowing what we did for ’em. There’s plenty forgetting already.’
A collective nod went around the table. James thought back to the summer when he was investigating the smuggling ring. The moody teenagers and their attitudes had not impressed him at all. Bert was right: the children should be aware of what their grandfathers did.
Philip slipped out of the booth, announcing that he had appointments to meet. Graham checked his watch and decided he still had a few minutes. ‘I went and saw Brighton play Derby on Saturday.’
Stephen looked deflated. ‘Brighton lost. 2-nil.’
‘Oi, whatcha doing supporting Brighton? You’re from Oxford,’ said Bert.
‘I-I thought I’d switch allegiance to my l-local team.’
James supped his ale. ‘I didn’t know you were a Derby fan, Graham.’
‘Oh yes, like to see a bit of football. I went down with Mr Bennett.’ Mr Bennett was the elderly man who taught James how to fish as a boy. ‘I used to play when I was a youngster; goalkeeper. Wasn’t bad either.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Beth, ‘I can imagine you in the goal with those enormous hands.’
Graham splayed his hands out. ‘They’ve got bigger over the years hauling all that meat about and chopping it up.’ He sat back and pondered. ‘I wanted to be a centre forward, the one that scores the goals. Steve Bloomer, he was one the best centre forwards in the country; he played for Derby. Best number nine ever.’
James’ ears pricked up. ‘Number nine?’ He felt Beth grip his arm.
‘Yeah, most centre forwards wear number nine. Not sure why but they do.’
Anne, bored with the subject of football, turned the conversation to the pantomime but James couldn’t concentrate at all.
‘Everything all right, James?’ said Charlie. ‘You look a little startled.’
‘I say, Charlie, do you have archives in the library about the sports teams in the area?’
‘Yes, we’ve a few. I don’t know how extensive they are but there are some old newspapers with team sheets on.’ He studied James. ‘You want to look at them now, don’t you?’
‘Would it be too much of an imposition?’
Charlie made a face to imply it made no odds to him. He swigged the last of his beer down. James whispered to Beth that he was going to the library. Beth, keen to be a party to what was happening, made her excuses with a promise to Anne to meet for tea that afternoon.
Five minutes later and the three of them were ensconced in the reference library. Charlie scanned the shelves for box files marked in date order. He tapped each one and with a quiet ‘Ha’ he levered one out and put in on the table.
‘Is this you putting your sleuthing hat on again?’
James gave him a wry smile. ‘Your father was in the Pals, wasn’t he?’
‘He was but he got separated. All that talk about joining up and serving together didn’t happen with Dad.’
‘Oh?’
‘My dad was a big bloke, muscular, so they volunteered him to dig tunnels.’
James recalled readin
g about the miners who dug tunnels. Their objective was to tunnel under No Man’s Land and place mines beneath enemy positions. How perilous that work must have been.
‘He was sent to Belgium with the Second Army. Managed to make it through the war but he suffered. Lots of lung problems, what with the fumes and the gas. We lost him when I was about ten. He spoke a lot about the camaraderie. Sounds like everyone dug in, excuse the pun. Officers and soldiers did their bit.’ He patted the files. ‘These are the local newspapers in Cavendish for between 1916 and 1918. I’ll see if there’s anything else to do with sports teams. Any sport in particular?’
James sat down and opened the box. ‘Yes, football.’
Beth slid her chair as close as possible and peered over his shoulder. ‘You know, in a way, I don’t want to know.’
James stopped rummaging and felt his eyes glaze over. He didn’t either. Whoever played number nine would be a name familiar to him and the Cavendish residents. He squeezed her hand. ‘It doesn’t prove anything, Beth. It’s not evidence for murder.’
‘But it may put suspicion on someone – an ancestor.’
‘We’ll just have to hope that whoever that person is has an alibi.’ He picked up the flimsy newspapers, slid the box away and placed them on the table. Charlie left them to it, telling them to shout if they needed anything further.
James turned the whole pile of papers over. ‘Sport is normally a few pages from the back.’
His first paper was listed for June 1914. He carefully leafed through until he came to the section he wanted. He scanned an article about the Cavendish cricket team having triumphed over Rottingdean, winning by 32 runs. He closed it.
‘I need something between October and April.’
Beth gently lifted each document. ‘This paper is so fragile. It feels like it’ll disintegrate in your hand. Oh, here we are, this one’s dated November 1915.’
James helped her open the paper up. He found an article for a match between Cavendish and Wivelsfield, a village near Brighton. The headline announced: ‘Cavendish Win’ and the article went on to describe a close-run football match where Cavendish won 2-0. Certain players had stood out, all of them from families that James was familiar with. He examined the article. ‘I don’t see a team sheet.’
Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery Page 12