The gravel popped as George’s car disappeared down the drive. James took one final look at the house. The curtains in the window above twitched and he felt a sense of anger and helplessness settle on his shoulders.
Driving home, he pondered on the life of Boyd Cameron and wondered if he was mentally unstable or a simple boy mistreated by his guardians. And what was Jeannie Cameron’s outburst all about? One minute she wanted him ‘prying’, the next minute he was banished from the house. Either way, he wanted to find out and he knew someone who would be the ideal candidate to coax Boyd from his confines.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Later that day, James returned to Cory House with Beth.
‘Are you sure we’re going to be welcome?’ she asked, somewhat anxiously.
‘Well, if we’re not, we simply walk away,’ he replied as they mounted the steps to the front door. ‘Although it sounds like suicide, there is some suspicion and Cameron’s death intrigues me. But, more importantly, I’m rather concerned about young Boyd.’
His proposal to return had seemed like a splendid idea when he made it; but in the descending mist and drizzle, he wasn’t so sure. He’d persuaded Beth to bake Nanna Harrington’s gingerbread slices as a peace offering in the hope that this would lower the barriers into the Cameron home. The dampness hanging in the air mirrored his mood. He knocked on the door. After a couple of minutes, Jeannie Cameron turned the key and peered through a small opening.
‘You.’
Beth held up a tin. ‘We made some gingerbread. For Boyd.’
James put on his most humble face. ‘I wanted to apologise if you felt we were being too intrusive, Miss Cameron. We have nothing but yours and Boyd’s welfare at heart. Will you allow us a few minutes?’
Miss Cameron scrutinised them, then held the door open. ‘You’ll be prying, no doubt.’
Beth stared at her in horror, but James put in. ‘Not really. My wife wanted to welcome Boyd to the village.’ He noted Miss Cameron’s stiffness and put his hands up. ‘No questions, Miss Cameron. She simply wanted to offer some comfort and support. I promise to stay away if that would put your mind at rest. Allow my wife the courtesy of delivering her gift to young Boyd.’
Jeannie Cameron considered the statement for some time and, although there was no warmth in her response, she retrieved the keys from her apron and handed them to Beth.
‘I’ll thank you to go straight in and not prowl about.’
As they went upstairs, Beth pulled a face at James. ‘Are we not being offered refreshments?’ she whispered.
‘I believe that would mean inviting us to stay longer than she would like.’
He steered her toward the locked room, took the keyring from her and searched for the appropriate key. On the fourth attempt, he heard the click of the lock. He knocked gently and nudged the door open a fraction.
‘Boyd, it’s James. We met this morning. I’ve brought my wife, Beth, along to meet you. She’s made some cakes.’ He peered around the room to locate him. The boy stood in the shadows at the far wall. ‘Are you happy for us to come in?’
Boyd bobbed his head. James opened the door and Beth went in ahead of him. He’d already briefed her on the room, the atmosphere and the frightened soul that would appear before her. He watched as she immediately launched into her plan of action. She chose the sofa an appropriate distance away from Boyd, and beckoned for James to join her. On the side table, she placed the open tin of gingerbread.
‘Hello, Boyd. I’m Beth. I’ve brought some delicious cakes to share with you. They’re made to a recipe that belonged to James’ grandmother. I do so love to keep her memory alive. And I understand that you’re from Yorkshire...’
James settled back in the sofa and admired his wife’s ability to calm a sensitive situation. She chattered on about all sorts of nonsense and refrained from asking Boyd direct questions. Instead, she supposed he was from Yorkshire; she assumed he had an education; she guessed that he had interests. During the next half an hour, James learnt a great deal.
In a soft northern lilt, the boy quietly disclosed that he was fifteen years old; he’d been educated at home by a tutor; he collected stamps, made models and liked to draw. He was born near Otley and the family had moved to Yorkshire shortly before. Beth spoke of her education in Boston and that she had some American stamps he might like. She described GJ and his artist workshops up at the house.
‘I think you two would get along well. Perhaps he could show you some of his drawings.’
She lifted a slice of gingerbread and placed it on a napkin on the table. Boyd hesitated. Placing a slice on the edge of the table, she took a bite of her own.
‘Mmm. Moist and full of ginger – just as it should be.’ She smiled at Boyd. ‘Don’t let it go stale.’
Boyd took a step forward and hesitated again as he watched the door. James, now accustomed to the dimness, could see a trace of fear in his stance.
Then he moved into the light. James smiled.
Boyd was an albino with white hair, pale pink eyes and an almost translucent skin. He picked up the gingerbread with slender fingers and sat on the edge of the armchair opposite them. He bit into the cake and ate slowly. His eyes darted from Beth, to James, to the door and back again.
As Beth continued gaining his trust, James took in his surroundings. In contrast to the sparseness of the living room, the walls here were lined with shelves full of books. He saw another table, on which, by the light of several small lamps, Boyd had built a tractor out of Meccano. On the floor by his feet was an airmail envelope. James picked it up and took note of the front. Marked ‘Private and Confidential’, it was addressed to Boyd, via a lady called Lucy Braithwaite in Hove. It was post-marked Bombay in India. He placed it on the table.
‘India,’ said James. ‘I have a friend who comes from India.’
Boyd’s face lit up at the mention of India. He swallowed the last piece of his gingerbread slice and kept his focus on the tin. Beth promised he could keep the cake as she had brought it especially for him. He reached in for another slice.
‘My brother lives in India,’ he said. His accent was a soft Yorkshire brogue.
James stared at Beth, then at Boyd. ‘You have a brother?’
The young boy nodded. ‘Calvin. He’s ten years older. He left home when I was five.’ He gazed into the distance. ‘I miss him.’
‘Does he come home much?’
‘He sends me stamps.’ His face brightened. ‘He’s got a typewriter and I’m going to live with him.’
‘That’s lovely for you,’ said James. After a brief pause, he added, ‘Boyd, are you sad that your father has died?’
The young man shrank back in his chair. ‘I’m not a bad person. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Why would you think you’ve done anything wrong, Boyd?’
His gaze fell to the floor. ‘She thinks I killed him. I didn’t.’
Beth looked horrified. ‘Would you prefer that your aunt didn’t lock the door?’
Boyd hugged himself and nodded.
James’ heart went out to Beth. She was clearly upset for the boy. He patted her hand. ‘I say, would you like to come to the scarecrow festival? Perhaps, if you want to, we can show you around the village and introduce you to GJ.’
Boyd stared at the door.
James stood up and helped Beth to her feet. He moved closer to Boyd and realised how slight he was. James wasn’t a stocky man, but he felt like a giant next to this frail figure. The fact that his clothes hung so loose didn’t help matters. The only things that really fitted him were his shoes. They were terribly scuffed and he’d painted pictures of faces on the toes.
‘Let’s see if we can talk your aunt into letting you go,’ he said gently. ‘She can’t keep you locked in here all day. In the meantime, enjoy your gingerbread.’
Beth reached over to hold the young man’s hands. ‘Would you like to come to the scarecrow festival?’
The boy’s face brightened but on
hearing the door open, he scurried to the far corners of his room.
‘Will ye no’ leave us in peace...’ began Jeannie Cameron, filling the door-frame.
‘Of course,’ replied James forcing himself to be pleasant. ‘We’re so sorry to have taken up your time.’
They bade a fond farewell to Boyd, promised to visit again, and made their way down to the hall, where James retrieved his hat and gloves from the table.
‘I say, Miss Cameron, he’s a splendid chap, young Boyd. I’m not sure that you need to keep him marooned in his room all day.’
‘You’ll mind your business and not be prying into mine. I know he’s to blame,’ she snarled. ‘I shouldnae sleep under this roof.’
‘What about Calvin – will he come home for the funeral?’
If eyes could spit venom, James was sure he’d be dead on the spot. She snatched open the front door.
‘You’ve done your prying, now leave me in peace.’
The door slammed behind them.
‘Well, well,’ said James trotting down the steps. ‘We hit a nerve there.’
Beth marched ahead of him and turned. ‘James, I can’t bear the thought of leaving that poor boy up there.’
He put an arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. ‘I know, darling, but let’s think this through. We can’t go kidnapping him. Even if we did, what would we do with him?’
‘Give him a life, show him some love and affection. That’s what we’d do.’
He unlocked the car and held the passenger door open for her. ‘Let’s have a chat with Stephen. Perhaps George may have some ideas. I wonder if Calvin will be back for the funeral.’
‘You know, if that man had an overdose of a sleeping draught then I think she’s the more likely suspect,’ said Beth. ‘After all, they say that poison is a woman’s preferred method of murder.’
She slammed the door shut. James observed the bedroom window and saw the curtain twitch. He waved. A pale hand waved back. Beth was right. Poison was a woman’s killing tool. But was it the sleeping draught, or was that slight bruising Jackson mentioned indicative of something more sinister?
CHAPTER NINE
Locksmith Joe shuffled through the wooded glade to his makeshift home; a selection of wooden slats nailed together with a ragged piece of oily tarpaulin thrown over. The air smelt damp. Soggy leaves on the forest floor made his joints ache and he silently longed for an armchair and roaring log fire. His stomach groaned and he realised it was several hours since he’d eaten.
The escape plan had gone without a hitch, but he’d not thought so far ahead. Where to live, how to eat, who to rely on and who to trust? He couldn’t go home. That was the first place the coppers would look. No, he had to stay here in Cavendish. The only mate he knew was here; the only bloke he could trust - so this was where he came.
Branches snapped. He jumped, squinted into the trees then scurried under the timbers and peered out. His heart slowed as he saw the jaunty figure of Bert Briggs tread a path toward him.
‘Oi, oi. How’s it going?’ He tossed a sack onto the leaves.
‘I’m bloody starving, mate. You got anything to eat?’
Bert pushed his flat cap back, delved into the sack and brought out bread, cheese, milk and ham. Joe grabbed the lot and tore the end off the loaf. From inside his jacket, Bert pulled out a Thermos flask and waved it at him.
‘Vegetable soup.’ He nestled the flask in the leaves. ‘Make it last. I can’t get back to you till tomorrow morning. There’s a blanket at the bottom o’ the sack.’
‘You’re a diamond, Bert. Thanks.’
Bert scanned the woods. ‘Yeah, well, it’s what mates do, but you can’t stay ’ere. This is all part of an estate and Lord ’arrington’s one of me best mates. We’ll have to find somewhere else. Why come ’ere, anyway? Your family’s down at Bognor.’
Joe flicked crumbs from his beard. ‘Following someone, ain’t I? And this is where they are. And you’re the only mate I can trust around here.’
Bert grimaced and scratched his head. ‘Remember, one night only. Don’t make a noise and don’t light a fire.’
‘Who’s this Lord ’arrington bloke?’
Bert leant over him. ‘Don’t mess on your own doorstep, Joe. Or more importantly, don’t mess on mine. You target ’im, I back off. Understood?’
Joe held his hands up in surrender. ‘Just asking, mate. I’m not gonna do him over, am I? I’m not about to get myself nicked when I’ve got so close.’ He broke off a piece of Cheddar. ‘Don’t you wanna know what I’ve come ’ere for?’
‘No, mate. The less I know, the less mixed up I am.’ He gently kicked Joe’s calf. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘Bring us a full English, will yer?’ Joe grinned.
‘You’ll get your full English when you’ve done what you ’ave to do.’ Bert trudged away.
James and Beth strolled toward the vicarage, where Anne stood on the doorstep waiting to invite them in.
‘I heard your car draw up - dead on time as usual. You must have an inbuilt clock in your head.’
James took off his cap and thanked his schooldays for his timekeeping ability.
‘Woe betide you if you arrived late for lessons. I learnt pretty sharp that punctuality put me in people’s good books and it’s stayed with me ever since.’
‘And anyway,’ Beth put in, ‘it’s good manners to arrive on time.’
Anne showed them through to the front room where Stephen was slicing a lemon drizzle sponge. On the sofa opposite were GJ and Catherine, looking like love’s young dream. GJ leapt to his feet.
‘I’m so pleased you both could make it! It means a great deal. Catherine, of course, knows how wonderful you’ve been to me over the last year. I asked Bert here too but he couldn’t make it.’
Catherine cut an attractive yet homely figure and she gushed in her praise of James, Beth and the Merryweathers. ‘I can’t believe that everyone would put themselves to such trouble for a homeless man, but you did. If you hadn’t have done that, I’d never have met GJ at all.’
James flopped onto a sofa, feeling good about himself. ‘Surprising where fate leads us, isn’t it? A seemingly invisible thread of events that pulls us to where we should be.’
‘G-goodness,’ said Stephen, ‘that’s a v-very philosophical and wise statement. I believe I should consider that for a sermon.’
Anne joined him on the sofa as he jotted a couple of words down on a notepad. She poured tea from a beautiful bone china tea pot patterned with swirling blue and yellow lines. Beth was quick to compliment it.
‘A present from my grandmother,’ Anne said. ‘It was given to her and she’s never used it. She doesn’t like the design. Too modern.’
‘I like these modern designs,’ replied Beth. She turned to Catherine. ‘Have you started your bottom drawer?’
Catherine gave a coy smile. ‘I have, yes. There’s not much in it at the moment, but we know our families are giving us things they don’t use much.’ She held GJ’s hand. ‘We’re fortunate that GJ already has a home so we’ve a good start. Much better than most couples.’
James thanked Anne for his slice of sponge. ‘Well, I’m sure that whatever you collect will be useful.’
‘We’ve some towels you can have,’ said Beth. ‘I always seem to have a huge amount of those.’
‘You’re all very kind,’ said GJ. ‘I can’t believe I deserve such generosity from people I’ve only known since the spring.’
‘Nonsense,’ said James. ‘There are some people who make an impression on us as soon as we meet them. You, GJ, are one of those people.’
Stephen scribbled on his notepad. ‘Th-that’s another I can use. Have you been r-reading philosophy or something?’
James said that it was an interest and turned the conversation back to the couple, asking when the wedding would be. GJ smoothed back his thick, blond hair and let Catherine answer.
‘We thought we’d marry this December.�
��
Anne clapped her hands and announced that it was a wonderful time of year. Beth agreed and asked if they meant Christmas Day itself.
‘No, no,’ said GJ. ‘We thought about the first of December. I’ve been able to get permission for us to marry here and our respective families are fine with that.’
‘Is your aunt coming?’
GJ’s wonderful smile surfaced as he announced that Juliet Brooks-Hunter would be attending. Also on the invitation list were his late mother’s friend and confidant, Kushal Patel, along with Gladys Smith and her son and daughter-in-law, David and Nancy from the East End mission.
‘Oh splendid,’ said James. He turned to Stephen. ‘You know, if you want to have some good philosophy quotes, you should spend an hour with Mr Patel.’
Mr Patel had assisted James during his investigation into the death of an elderly spinster in the village.
‘I-I look forward to it,’ said Stephen as he reached for his diary. He flicked through the pages. ‘The 1st of December is free. Shall we say three o’clock?’
GJ held Catherine’s hand. ‘Three o’clock is fine.’ The young man turned to James and appeared to be plucking up some courage. ‘I wonder, Lord Harrington, if you would be my best man?’
Pride filled James. It was as if his own son had asked him the question. He realised, then, how fond he’d become of the chap. He placed his cup and saucer down and held out his hand. ‘I’d be honoured to, GJ.’
Beth and Anne asked about bridesmaids and dresses. Catherine expressed some doubt about who could make them as her mother had difficulty sewing due to an injury she had sustained during the war.
‘She helped out in a munitions factory and damaged the fingers of her right hand. She’s all right, but intricate stuff like sewing… well, she struggles.’
Beth empathised with her. ‘That mustn’t spoil your plans. You and your mother choose the material and the patterns and Anne and I will make them.’
Catherine beamed in relief and went through her visions for the day itself. She spoke with an excitement that soon transferred itself to Beth and Anne as they oohed and aahed over ideas. GJ was happy to ride the carousel of enthusiasm. Stephen made an appointment to discuss the reading of the banns and hymns. Once the discussions and suggestions had died down, James whispered something in Beth’s ear. She listened intently and gave an encouraging nod. He turned to the young couple.
Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery Page 5