Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  ‘Well, we promised not to outstay our welcome, so I believe we should make tracks.’

  Beth and Stephen rose from their chairs and reiterated their welcome to the Camerons.

  ‘I-I may not be your cup of tea, faith-wise, but the d-doors of our church will always be open to you,’ said Stephen.

  Cameron grunted. Jeannie focussed on her slippers.

  ‘And,’ added Beth, ‘the Women’s Institute is thriving in Cavendish. So, Miss Cameron, I do hope you’ll join us for an evening.’

  Christie Cameron remained sitting. Jeannie fidgeted with her hanky as she herded them into the hall and opened the front door.

  James mustered a strained smile. ‘I’ll pop back with a leaflet about the harvest festivities. You may change your mind and want to join us.’

  He received a fake smile.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The front door closed on them. They stared at one another, unsure of what to say or how to describe their encounter.

  James eventually nudged the others onto the drive and slipped his gloves on. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a frostier couple.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Beth. ‘They were as cold as that house. D’you know, we didn’t find out one little thing about them, except that they’re originally from Glasgow and moved from Yorkshire.’

  ‘And we found that out from the postman.’

  ‘I-I doubt we’ll see them at a-any functions,’ said Stephen.

  James agreed. ‘You know the old cliché, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink.’ He suggested they put the visit behind them. They did have some residents who didn’t involve themselves as much as others and it was neither here nor there to James. For some reason though, this couple had got under his skin and he felt a sense of anger at their comments on the forthcoming events.

  ‘Let’s get back. We’re meeting later at the Half Moon to discuss everything. The scarecrow festival is this weekend and we need to start making arrangements for the harvest supper.’

  ‘I-I’m sure Anne is free,’ replied Stephen. ‘The children and Radley are staying with their grandparents overnight.’ Radley was a springer spaniel they’d rescued during the summer. Stephen took off his dog collar, undid the top button on his shirt and climbed on his bicycle. ‘I’ll see you at the pub.’

  He pushed himself off and pedalled down the drive. James and Beth got into the car; she turned to him.

  ‘What did you do upstairs?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  She playfully punched him. ‘You didn’t need the lavatory, you fraud. What were you up to? Searching for ghosts? And how did you know the lavatory was upstairs?’

  The curtains in the house twitched. He selected first gear and steered the car down the drive.

  ‘Lucky guess. I saw the workman doing repairs in the downstairs lavatory and hoped they may have another. I don’t know anything about ghosts, but did you get the feeling there was someone else in the house?’

  Beth sat back and pondered. ‘I did have a strange feeling in there, but I couldn’t place it. I think it may simply be the welcome we received, or the lack of a welcome. Their evasiveness made me uneasy.’

  ‘Well, I heard shuffling above me and boards creaking as if someone was tiptoeing across the floor so, while you were trying your damndest to communicate with those people, I went to take a peek inside the room above where we were sitting.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Locked.’

  ‘That’s strange.’

  ‘But there was definitely someone in there.’

  He described the ghostly figure and the flickering candle.

  ‘But why would they have someone in a locked room?’

  ‘Why indeed?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That lunchtime, James parked their other car, a gleaming red Jaguar saloon, on the road by the village green where Donovan Delaney, landlord of the Half Moon pub, heaved on one of many ropes attached to a huge marquee. He was joined by several villagers, their shirtsleeves rolled up, heaving the tent upright while, under the canopy, a large contingent were pushing thick, wooden poles into place. Giving directions through a megaphone was Charlie Hawkins, the amiable librarian.

  ‘Nearly there!’ he shouted. ‘One more haul on the count of three and that should do it. Ready? One... two... three!’

  James and Beth climbed out of the car to hear a mass groan as the final effort to secure the tent succeeded. Those who had simply observed the assembly scurried to their allotted positions to drive pegs into the ground and make safe the structure, inside and out. After much huffing and puffing, the work was complete and people gave each other congratulatory pats on the back. Kate, Donovan’s petite wife, stood in the doorway of the pub, loudly rapping a tin tray with a wooden spoon.

  ‘King and Barnes barrel is ready,’ she announced.

  James steered Beth toward the pub. ‘I believe they have the new Autumn Gold on tap. Shall we try it?’

  Inside, the age-old smell of hops and tobacco smoke greeted them. Stephen and Anne waved them across to the booth overlooking the green. Sitting with them was the butcher, Graham Porter, and Dorothy Forbes, self-appointed director of the Cavendish Players.

  Above the din of chatter, James put in an order for a pint and half of Autumn Gold and indicated where they would be sitting. Donovan nodded and reached up for some glasses. At the booth, James and Beth took their places alongside their friends. A few seconds later, their drinks arrived and James held his glass up.

  ‘To the Autumn Gold. Cheers, everyone.’

  They raised their glasses and it wasn’t long before talk turned to the scarecrow festival.

  ‘Is it all starting at the normal time?’ asked Graham.

  Dorothy scrutinised the timetable attached to her ever-present clipboard. A stalwart of the Cavendish Players, she was the definition of efficiency and, although she could be somewhat annoying in her demands, James was pleased to see someone take charge and instil a sense of fear in anyone crossing her. One look from Dorothy and you did as you were told. She was certainly someone he turned to when these events came around.

  ‘The scarecrows will start the parade into the village at ten o’clock in the morning,’ she began. ‘It’ll take the normal route along the high street by the school playground. The scarecrows will follow Bob Tanner and his band down the high street and around the village green. Judging takes place at eleven o’clock in the marquee.’ Dorothy peered over her glasses; her gaze settled on Graham. ‘Mr Porter, you are supplying the normal hog roast?’

  Graham’s ruddy face grinned. ‘Of course. Nice bit of pork this year. They’ve been munching on Pete Mitchell’s apples for the last month so should be a nice succulent bit of meat. We’ll have apple sauce and crackling as well, to put in the rolls.’

  Pete Mitchell owned the orchard two miles up the road from James and Beth and regularly supplied greengrocers and cider companies with his apples and pears. Any that were too bruised or soft went to Graham’s swine.

  Dorothy checked her notes. ‘Most satisfactory. The WI has three tables and Mr and Mrs Delaney are setting up a bar in the marquee.’ She reached across and tapped the table hard. Stephen sat up with a start. ‘Reverend Merryweather, are you doing anything?’

  He sat up. ‘I-I didn’t think I was. My preparations are for the Harvest Festival. I could say a prayer if you th-think it appropriate.’

  A murmur went round the table, the general consensus being that this wasn’t a good idea. Anne gently elbowed him. ‘I think the Harvest Festival and supper are more your thing, darling.’

  ‘Lord Harrington,’ asked Dorothy, ‘I trust you’re giving out the prizes as normal?’

  ‘I’m down to do so, but I wondered if Professor Wilkins might want to stand in?’ James went on to explain that Wilkins was knowledgeable on the history of scarecrows and it would make a change for the Professor to be more involved. ‘What d’you think?’

  There was another murmur of su
pport: James made a mental note to put the idea to Wilkins. Dorothy examined her clipboard.

  ‘The judging of vegetables will be straight after the distribution of prizes to the scarecrows. Mr Bennett is down to judge the vegetables.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said James. His boyhood fishing tutor was a true countryman and would relish the role. What he didn’t know about growing vegetables could be written on the back of a postage stamp.

  ‘The WI is also holding a chutney competition,’ continued Dorothy.

  Beth sipped her drink. ‘Is our mad solicitor doing any singing?’

  ‘Of course. Mr Bateson is writing something especially for the scarecrow festival. The Cubs and Brownies are going to sing ‘Oats and Beans and Barley’ as the scarecrows enter the marquee.’

  ‘All sounds rather jolly, doesn’t it?’ said James with a smile.

  Graham leant forward. ‘And are we being graced with the presence of our new residents?’

  ‘I’ve yet to meet them,’ said Anne. ‘Three times I’ve knocked on their door and I know they’re in. They’re terribly stand-offish.’

  ‘The C-Camerons will be giving the scarecrow parade a miss,’ said Stephen. ‘They are strict Presbyterian, almost Victorian in their values, and feel this is unnecessary frivolity during harvest t-time.’

  ‘Poppycock,’ said Graham. ‘Harvest is a celebration. We’re a community; it’s a bit of fun to bring the village together.’ He poked a finger at Stephen. ‘You’ve met ’im?’

  Stephen smiled and studied his fingers. ‘Yes. I-I must be welcoming to all, I know, but I did find the Camerons a little d-difficult to engage with.’

  The same question was directed at James, who grimaced. ‘Ditto the reverend. The pair of them are exceptionally old school in respect of their faith and may not even attend the Harvest Festival service. Our Stephen could be too modern for their ways.’

  Dorothy’s glare was most judgemental. ‘I do hope they won’t spoil the spirit of community we have in Cavendish.’

  ‘He’s already had run-ins with a few of us,’ said Graham.

  ‘Really?’ said James. ‘He’s only been here a few weeks. Who’s he upset?’

  Graham held his empty glass in the air and requested another pint before proceeding to elaborate on his statement. Christie Cameron, it appeared, was less than gracious in any dealings or chance meetings in the village. His sister, Jeannie, had annoyed all the shopkeepers by refusing to purchase goods locally, preferring instead to visit the Mac Fisheries in nearby Haywards Heath. Mac Fisheries was the new multi-trading shop that sold meat, fish, dairy and tinned products all in the one store.

  Graham continued. ‘He’s just plain bloody rude, excuse my language, and her boycotting our parade of shops is not on. She lives in Cavendish, she should shop in Cavendish. We’ve got everything here, so why go all the way to Haywards Heath?’

  James squeezed Beth’s hand. ‘What do you think, darling?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’ll spoil the community just because they decide not to join in. My impression is they’ll keep themselves to themselves. We won’t even be aware they live here.’ She smiled at Stephen. ‘Much as we love your services, they may find a church somewhere else that meets their approval. They certainly have their odd little ways and I guess we’ll have to respect that.’

  Everyone groaned but agreed that they’d best leave the Camerons alone, although Dorothy did enquire why on earth they moved in the first place.

  ‘They moved from Yorkshire,’ she said. ‘Is that true, your Lordship?’

  James confirmed that it was true; that they were originally from Scotland and he’d no idea why they moved so far south.

  Anne’s eyes danced. ‘And you heard the ghost, didn’t you?’

  All eyes were upon James, who grinned and opted for discretion. ‘I did hear something, yes. But it’s an old house so it was probably creaking floorboards or something.’

  Graham insisted it wasn’t and went on to highlight how terrified his children had been when they came home from school the previous week. James listened as the butcher described the events.

  ‘They come home that way sometimes. If it’s a nice day, they’ll cross the fields and come round the side of Cory House before coming back into the village. The fence is caved in at the back so they scamper about. You know what kids are like. My lot play in the river and mess about before tea-time pretending to own the property. Well, they swear they saw a ghost in the upstairs window. Pale and drawn he was with long spindly fingers and hollow eyes. Little Georgina was in a right state when she got home.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And Charlie Hawkins’ kids have seen it, too.’

  Anne couldn’t contain herself. ‘There, I told you.’ She nudged Stephen. ‘Mark and Luke have also seen it and they’ve been rummaging around that pile of rubbish in the back yard along with the rest of the children.’

  Try as he might, James couldn’t quell the rumours of ghostly spectres and he asserted that in his eyes ghosts did not exist. Silently, though, he did believe a third person resided at Cory House. Ghost or no ghost, he’d seen something, or someone, cross that room; just thinking about it brought back that sense of unease. Perhaps by visiting again the next day, this time with the festival flyers, he could quell that anxiety and get to the bottom of things.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The following morning, Beth replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle and positively beamed at James.

  ‘That was Anne. GJ has proposed to Catherine.’ She gently clapped her hands and skipped across to embrace him. ‘Isn’t that wonderful news? We told you they were a perfect match.’

  James grinned and pulled her close. Goodness, what a year this had been. It was during the spring they’d found GJ sleeping rough in the old stables at Harrington’s, suffering with amnesia. After much adventure and intrigue, he and Beth had discovered his identity, traced his family and provided him with an income. GJ was their nickname for him; a shortened version of Gentleman Jim – the name thrust on him by staff at the East End Mission who had taken him in off the streets of London. At the time, he had no memory of his name but, well-spoken, with impeccable manners and a charming smile that melted the ladies’ hearts, the nickname suited him and had stuck. And, once aware of his family ties, the young man decided he preferred GJ over his real name, Sebastian.

  During the investigation into GJ, it had become apparent that he was an artist of exceptional ability and James offered him the use of the old stables to set up an artist studio, workshop and gallery. He’d held his first workshop during the summer and the delightful Catherine was one of his first pupils. Beth pushed away and wagged a finger.

  ‘We’re under strict instructions not to say anything. Only we, Bert and the Merryweathers know. I think GJ wants to get in touch with his aunt and adoptive parents before announcing it.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said James. ‘Which means we’ll be seeing the delightful aunt again.’

  James and Beth had a soft spot for Miss Brooks-Hunter, an elderly yet spritely spinster, who had so impressed them with her stories of wartime bravery alongside her sister, Delphine.

  ‘And the not so delightful Mrs Crabtree,’ added Beth.

  ‘Yes, although I must admit I believe she has warmed a little since our first meeting.’

  James slipped his sheepskin jacket on and picked up a handful of festival flyers. He waved them at Beth. ‘I’m popping these over to the Camerons; one last attempt to get them to integrate and all that.’

  He noticed Beth’s sagging posture and kissed her forehead. ‘At least we can say we’ve tried.’

  ‘That’s if you can get them to answer the door,’ replied Beth. ‘Bet you sixpence you come back with those flyers.’

  He winked at her. ‘Not if I post them through the letterbox.’

  He did wonder if the front door would remain closed when he knocked but, as he pulled into the drive, he found himself lost for words. Two police cars were parked outside the ho
use and a young constable stood guard at the entrance. James drew up to one side, grabbed the leaflets and examined the vehicles as he walked toward the house.

  ‘I say, Constable, what’s going on?’

  James had recognised PC Black, the policeman from their escapades during the summer. The young man saluted.

  ‘Hello, your Lordship. Seems like the man of the house is dead, sir.’

  James stopped in his tracks. ‘What? Mr Cameron? When?’

  ‘During the night we think, sir. I mean, Miss Cameron said he was fine last night. Suspicious, we think – well, the guv’nor doesn’t, the doc does.’

  ‘George inside?’

  The constable stiffened. ‘No sir, DCI Lane had something on. He’s coming along shortly. His colleague is helping out for this morning. He’s upstairs with a photographer.’

  James held a hand up. ‘Say no more. Does Miss Cameron need some company?’

  The constable gave him a helpless shrug. Before James could answer, the front door opened and a thin, skeletal figure of a man appeared, in a suit that might have fitted once but now hung loosely. He had a swarthy complexion and James couldn’t help but liken him to a used car salesman.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the skeleton said.

  The constable pulled his shoulders back. ‘Lord Harrington, sir.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  The young man straightened up and his face paled. James held out a welcoming hand. The man, a rather oily-looking individual, made no move toward him. James waved the leaflets.

  ‘I popped by to deliver these about the Harvest Festivals.’

  The skeleton tilted his head. ‘Lord Harrington? You’re the bloke that thinks he’s a bit of sleuth.’

  James chuckled. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Inspector Collins.’

  James repeated his question about whether Miss Cameron required company during this time. Collins reacted as if he hadn’t thought of such a thing. But then he apparently decided it wouldn’t be any skin off his nose if James wanted to dish out some soothing words. Upon entering Cory House, James heard the inspector mumble.