He took another slurp and Dorothy made to mount the stage, but Wilkins continued. Dorothy walked away with a huff. James stifled a grin – underneath his gruff exterior, the Professor had an underrated sense of humour. The man knew Dorothy wanted him off.
‘Gradually, over time, the scarecrow has taken a life of its own. As you can see here, the costumes are worthy of a Cavendish Players production.’ Dorothy softened. ‘And, children, you’ll notice that the scarecrows in the fields often have wooden clappers and tin cans hanging from them to rattle in the wind. They’ve taken the place of sticks and stones. So, not much has changed since those early days.’
He raised his pint to the crowd who applauded politely. Dorothy handed him a slip of paper.
‘Right you are. We had twenty-five entries this year.’
A young lad standing to the side of James tugged at his dad’s sleeve. ‘No there weren’t,’ James heard him say. ‘There were twenty-six. I counted ’em.’
Wilkins continued. ‘In third place and winning the leg of lamb is the Popeye scarecrow.’ He checked his notes. ‘Underneath that costume is a gentleman called Kevin who helps out on Tolly Farm.’
A huge cheer rang out as Kevin made his way to the side of the stage to collect his prize.
‘Racing into second place and worthy winners of Elsie’s box of tea and biscuits is a family venture, Worzel Gummidge, Aunt Sally and miniature Sally. Cavendish’s very own doctor, Philip Jackson, his wife, Helen, and their beautiful daughter, Natasha.’
Another cheer rang around the marquee as the Jacksons collected their prize.
‘And first prize, a wonderful Fortnum and Mason hamper, goes to our librarian, Charlie Hawkins for his Long John Silver scarecrow. Added to this is a cash donation of five pounds.’
Tommy and Susan Hawkins yelled with excitement. James felt satisfied with the result. Everyone in the marquee warmly applauded the choice. Charlie Hawkins always struggled for the necessities of life. A widower, who had lost his wife to pneumonia soon after their children were born, was hugely popular in the village. Tommy and Susan were Charlie’s life and James knew the cash would go toward a family treat.
The boy to the side of James followed his dad toward the makeshift bar, still asserting the fact that there were twenty-six scarecrows, not twenty-five.
‘H-he’s sure of himself, i-isn’t he?’ said Stephen, who had also heard the conversation.
Anne gathered the empty plates together. ‘He’s in Luke’s class at school. I understand he’s good at counting, so his adding up is probably accurate.’
They meandered over to the side of the marquee to view the baking competition winners on the WI table as Dorothy announced that Mr Bateson would sing his specially-written scarecrow song. True to form, the mad solicitor made use of his wiry frame, wild hair and rubber-faced expressions to turn proceedings into a hilarious piece of entertainment. The children warmed to him and sprinted toward the front to watch his show.
‘I’m a scarecrow through the day, with my clothes all full of hay,
I’ve a clapper and tin of stones to ring.
I’ve a carrot on my nose, and I shout at all the crows,
So the farmer, he can bring the harvest in.’
Bateson prowled around the marquee singing his song, bewitching the audience with his acting skills as he wove his scarecrow tale. Bob Tanner picked up his guitar and stepped in behind Bateson to accompany him.
Outside, a child screamed. James winced as the high-pitched yell hit his eardrums.
Graham winced. ‘That sounds like one of mine. Georgina’s got into habit of screaming at the least little thing. No doubt Thomas is teasing her or something.’
Sarah, his wife, handed her drink to Graham. ‘I’ll go.’
James chuckled. ‘It never fails to amaze me how much noise one child can make.’
Anne agreed. ‘It’s a wonder we don’t all go deaf after a few years with your children. They can’t seem to do anything quietly. I know our two can’t.’
James heard Sarah shouting at the children and ordering them back to the marquee.
Graham pulled a face. ‘Blimey, I wonder what they’ve been up to? Sarah don’t normally get that annoyed with ’em.’
Sarah appeared at the entrance of the tent, her face drained of colour. As one, James, Beth, Graham and the Merryweathers hastened toward her. Graham’s hands held her face.
‘What’s up, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Her worried expressed settled on James. ‘It’s that Cameron woman.’ Her eyes shifted to the entrance of the marquee and back again. ‘In the shrubs, at the side of the pub.’
James grabbed Stephen and the pair of them rushed toward the Half Moon where Mark, Stephen’s eldest son, stood on the pavement, looking into the bushes.
‘Mark!’ shouted Stephen. ‘G-go to your mother.’
Mark raced past them and into the marquee. James and Stephen stopped where the shrubs began. A pair of legs, with black stockings and flat black shoes, stuck out. James inched closer and pulled the branches to one side. Staring back at him was Jeannie Cameron.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I-is she dead?’
James felt for a pulse. ‘Yes. And, judging by the marks around her neck, I’d say she was strangled.’
As news spread, the villagers began to spill out onto the green and a buzz of chatter began. What had happened? Had there been an accident? Was it true that Thomas and Georgina had discovered a body? They stood a polite distance away as George reverted to his official standing of Detective Chief Inspector and bent over the body. Philip Jackson, looking comical in his Worzel Gummidge costume, joined them and examined Jeannie Cameron’s neck, moving her head gently from side to side. James stood behind him.
‘Am I right in believing she was strangled?’ he asked.
Philip got to his feet and tugged his parsnip nose off. ‘I’d say so, yes.’ He caught George’s eye. ‘I didn’t even realise she was here; didn’t think it was her sort of thing.’
George sought out confirmation from James, who ran his hands through his hair.
‘We thought so, too, but she pitched up around half an hour ago. She joined us at Elsie’s little café thing in the corner there but only stayed a couple of minutes. Didn’t even drink her tea.’
‘And what was she doing here?’ asked George.
‘Said she was in the village.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it,’ James said with a frown which prompted George to probe for his thoughts.
‘There was a moment where she went deathly white,’ continued James. ‘I looked across to see what she’d seen. I saw a man.’
‘Description?’
James searched his memory. ‘Large, bulky, bobble hat, big overcoat and boots. Oh, and a beard.’ He met George’s stare. ‘I couldn’t tell you colours, I’m afraid although it all seemed rather drab. His eyes startled me, though.’
George tilted his head.
‘Fierce. Not hate – I think that’s too strong. It was as if he meant business - that’s the only way I can describe it. I couldn’t tell you if it was that convict, Locksmith Joe, but it did cross my mind. But why would he kill Jeannie Cameron?’
George retrieved his pipe from his pocket. ‘All I can tell you is that he is a killer. The only information I’ve got about him is that he strangled someone. That’s why he was banged up for life.’
‘Any reason why he wasn’t hanged?’
His friend said that he was waiting for more information. ‘I requested it once I heard he was in the area, but somehow they forgot to send it to me. And now it’s even more important, especially if he’s responsible for this.’
George jotted a few comments down in his notebook. Meanwhile, two constables parked their car on the green, followed closely by an ambulance. George dished out several instructions concerning photographing the crime scene, cordoning the area off, taking statements and removing the body.
&nbs
p; James, who’d been joined by Beth, moved to one side and beckoned George over.
‘I know you don’t like me interfering an’ all, but a couple of things struck me as odd.’
‘Go on.’
‘First, Jeannie Cameron would never come into Cavendish. If she went shopping, it was known that she preferred Haywards Heath. The local shopkeepers never spoke of her gracing them with her presence. So why did she suddenly appear here today, especially so soon after her brother’s death?’
‘And at a festival she wanted nothing to do with,’ Beth put in.
‘Second, this casts a good deal of doubt on Christie Cameron. Two deaths, a brother and sister, in the space of three days.’
‘There’s something else, too,’ said Beth. ‘We overheard something that I guess may be nothing.’ She hesitated, but George encouraged her to speak up. ‘Well, we overheard a young boy earlier. He’d counted twenty-six scarecrows.’
‘I’d forgotten all about that,’ said James.
George shrugged as if to say ‘So?’
‘There were twenty-five entrants,’ said Beth.
Their friend grimaced. ‘He could’ve counted ’em wrong.’
‘He could have,’ said James. ‘But supposing he didn’t?’
‘Did either of you see anyone take photographs?’ asked George.
James shrugged. ‘I didn’t see anyone in particular, but people do. Memento of the day and all that. There are a few people here who own cameras and Timothy, the local reporter, is about somewhere.’
George called a constable across and instructed him to ask for camera film when taking statements. ‘You never know, we may have some pictures of this mystery scarecrow.’
A young lady with short, wavy hair and an impish face skipped forward. James recognised her as one of the ladies in conversation with GJ and Catherine. He put her at around fifteen or sixteen years old. She wore blue jeans, a gold jumper, bobby socks and saddle shoes. She had no qualms about looking at the body in front of her and called out towards the crowd, ‘It is her. I told you.’
George cleared his throat. ‘Young lady.’
The girl turned with a breezy smile. ‘I’m not sorry she’s dead. She was a horrid, horrid woman. Her brother was, too.’
James stopped himself from berating the girl for being inappropriate. The other lady that GJ was speaking to emerged from the crowd. James decided she was in her mid-twenties. She stood tall for a woman; around five foot ten, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a bottle green dress with a chic black cape and held a small purse in her hand. Coming up to James and the others, she pulled the girl aside.
‘Suzie, for goodness’ sake.’
‘I’m only telling the truth. That’s what the police want you to do. Isn’t that true, Inspector?’
‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector, young lady,’ replied George. ‘And you are?’
The elder one held a hand out. ‘I’m Lucy Braithwaite. This is my younger sister, Suzie.’
James recognised the name. Lucy Braithwaite was the lady who’d received the letters to pass on to Boyd.
George steered everyone away from the scene. ‘And what do you mean, Suzie, by saying that you’re not sorry she’s dead?’
The young lady pushed her shoulders back. ‘Just what I said. I hated her and that rotten brother of hers, too. If someone did her in, then she deserved it.’
‘Suzie, that’s quite enough,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m so sorry, Detective Chief Inspector. My sister is rather immature and doesn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation.’
Suzie crossed her arms and turned to George. ‘I do appreciate it,’ she said brightly. ‘I just choose to be truthful about it, not act as if I care when I don’t.’
James introduced himself and Beth and asked who they were in relation to the deceased. Suzie started to answer, but Lucy gripped her arm firmly and demanded she stay quiet.
‘We’re Christie Cameron’s nieces. His wife, Auntie Gwen, was our father’s sister.’
George emptied his pipe. ‘Right. I’m not having this discussion here. I want you two down the station to answer some questions. Give me five minutes and we’ll drive you down.’
Suzie fluttered her eyelids. ‘I hope you’re going to give us a lift home.’ She shrugged off another admonishment from Lucy, who continued talking with George.
The young girl turned to James. ‘I heard you look into things.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She outlined the brief dialogue she’d had with GJ and Catherine. ‘He said how good you were to him and how you solved his mystery. He said you’ve solved other things, too. Is that true?’
James gave her a knowing look. ‘I’m not the police, Miss Braithwaite.’
She checked her watch. ‘We live in Hove, but could I speak with you? Would you mind?’
James gave her a card. ‘Our details are on here.’
Suzie accepted it with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you so much. I know we’re strangers, but would you please do something for me?’
James tilted his head in question.
‘They’ll lay blame and that’s not fair.’
‘Lay blame?’
George rejoined them.
‘Sir?’ An ambulance man nearby, who was covering up the body, held a hand out to George. ‘Set o’ house keys, sirs.’
James and Beth gasped in unison. ‘Boyd!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
In spite of George’s resistance, two cars pulled up outside Cory House. The first was a police car driven by George accompanied by one constable and the two nieces. The second was the Jaguar with James, Beth, Stephen and Anne. George mounted the steps to the front door and stared at the numerous keys. Lucy peered over his shoulder and picked out the correct one.
Opening the door, Suzie raced up the stairs and hammered on Boyd’s door. ‘Boyd, it’s Suzie. Are you all right?’
Lucy followed up at a gentler pace. George, having instructed the constable to stay by the door, scrutinised James and his entourage.
‘And why are you here?’
‘Oh, George,’ said Beth, ‘we can get more out of Boyd than you can – you need us here.’
‘A-Anne and I are h-here in our official capacity,’ added Stephen. ‘Lending faith and s-support to a young—’
‘Yes, all right,’ George blustered.
On the landing, Suzie demanded that Boyd be set free. Lucy’s glare resulted in her sister apologising to George. Having selected the correct key, he unlocked the door. Suzie burst in and rushed to the young man. James was surprised at the length of the embrace and the emotion behind it. George cleared his throat and addressed Lucy.
‘Does Boyd have a set of keys?’
‘No. They kept him hidden from the world; wouldn’t let him see the light of day.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Suzie was right, you know. They were horrid people. How could a father do that to his own son?’
George took his notebook out. ‘He always kept him locked up?’
‘More so since Auntie Gwen died. He blamed Auntie Gwen.’
‘For what?’
‘For what Boyd is. An albino. Uncle Christie felt it was some sort of punishment. He didn’t see him as normal. The wrath of God and all that nonsense.’ Lucy held a hand to her forehead and swung round to Stephen. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that he became so strict about his faith. Not like you. Oh goodness, you know what I mean, don’t you?’
Stephen’s warm smile settled her. ‘I-I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Mr Cameron wasn’t terribly forgiving of us, either,’ Anne added.
‘Boyd is such a wonderfully kind individual,’ continued Lucy. ‘He wouldn’t say boo to a goose and he certainly has no malice in him.’ She clutched George’s arm. ‘It will destroy him if you take him to a police station.’
George turned. ‘Boyd, did you go out today?’
Boyd shrank back. Suzie stayed with him. ‘Of course he didn’t,
’ she retorted. ‘He can’t get out. That’s a silly question to ask.’
‘Let him answer for himself, Miss.’
Beth took a couple of steps forward. ‘Hello Boyd. You remember me, don’t you?’
Boyd nodded and relaxed his grip on Suzie.
‘The Inspector’s not going to hurt you, Boyd,’ continued Beth gently. ‘He just needs to find out a few things. The main one is, did you leave your room today?’
Boyd shook his head.
‘Boyd,’ James joined Beth, ‘something rather ghastly has happened. I’m afraid that your auntie Jeannie is dead.’
The young man stepped back and sucked air in. He searched Suzie’s eyes for confirmation.
‘You can come and live with us now, Boyd,’ she said. ‘We’ll make sure you’re free.’
‘Suzie,’ Lucy admonished, ‘don’t make promises like that. You know we’ve no room.’
Suzie turned on her heels. ‘Then we’ll live here. There’s plenty of room here.’
The two sisters entered into a debate. George joined James, Beth and the Merryweathers.
‘What do you make of this Boyd chap? Truthfully.’
‘I think he’s innocent,’ Anne stated.
‘I-I’ve no idea,’ said Stephen, ‘b-but I do feel that he is the victim. S-surely someone would have seen him at the festival? He’d stick out like a bluebell in the snow.’
George switched his attention to Beth. ‘I know you’ve got a soft spot for him but, emotions aside, what do you think?’
‘I agree with Stephen. Jeannie wasn’t a large woman but she was tough and that boy there is like a skeleton and fearful of her. I can’t imagine him having the strength to strangle anything except a field mouse.’
‘James?’
‘I’m with the majority.’ James smoothed his hair back. ‘George, I think the girls are right. Boyd would be scared to death being hauled to a police cell. He can’t even move from his own bedroom! Why not station a constable here on twenty-four-hour guard? His cousins could probably move in until something more stable comes along.’
Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery Page 7