Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery

by Lynn Florkiewicz

  She gazed into her coffee cup as she described a large, bleak property on the outskirts of Otley and how, in time, Christie and Jeannie prevented Boyd from going outside at all. Tears welled up.

  ‘It was as if they were ashamed of him. They called him a freak.’

  Beth started. ‘Oh, that can’t be true. You wouldn’t say that to your own child.’

  ‘They didn’t say it to him. They said it behind his back. I heard them once, when I was in the hall. They were talking about Boyd and his brother and didn’t have a good word to say about either. Jeannie Cameron said that Auntie Gwen had cursed the family. I remember Uncle Christie talking to someone who belonged to his club in London and he had nothing good to say about Boyd.’

  James’ ears pricked. ‘Club in London? I thought they lived in Yorkshire?’

  ‘He used to visit London for his work and he went to a club there – the Wend something or other.’

  ‘The Wendover?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’m a member myself, although I rarely frequent the place. D’you know the name of his friend? It’s quite a select membership.’

  Suzie racked her brains. ‘Cheek? Chick? Chee... something like that.’

  ‘Cheeseman? Could it be Cheeseman?’

  She sat up with a start. ‘Yes, yes, I think that’s it. He called him something else, sometimes. Like a nickname.’

  ‘Swiss?’

  Suzie let out a gasp. ‘Yes.’

  Beth cried, ‘You know him?’

  ‘In passing. He loves Swiss cheese and, of course, with a name like Cheeseman, the nickname rather suited him.’ James turned his attentions back to Suzie. ‘Is Boyd’s brother an albino?’

  Judging by Suzie’s reaction and description, James decided that the brother must resemble a matinée idol. Calvin, he learnt, was tall, dark and handsome with deep brown eyes and a smile that would melt the North Pole. Beth said that she assumed Calvin was probably rather attractive to the opposite sex. Suzie beamed mischievously.

  ‘They hovered like bees round a honey pot.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Beth, ‘I’m guessing that went against Mr Cameron’s morals.’

  ‘Calvin left home when he was fifteen. He pinched some money from Uncle Christie and got on a boat. Ended up in India.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Suzie pulled an uninterested face and announced that she’d no idea. ‘I haven’t seen him for years and he never kept in touch with me. He still writes to Boyd, though.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said James. ‘Listen, Suzie, why exactly are we here?’

  The young girl chewed her lip and checked over her shoulder to the door. Was she waiting for Lucy, or hoping she wouldn’t come? James couldn’t be sure. She fiddled with her spoon.

  ‘What’s going to happen to Boyd?’ she asked. ‘Unless Calvin can get him back to India quickly, they’ll put him in some sort of home. Anything we rent would be too small and we only just scrape by on what we earn. There’s nothing wrong with him.’

  Beth patted her hand. ‘Suzie, I’m sure Boyd will be taken good care of. They don’t put people into institutions unless they have good reason. Albino people are no different to us. All Boyd needs is some confidence and I think we know just the person who can help.’

  ‘Really?’

  James knew he must have looked confused. ‘Who do we know that can help?’

  ‘Oh James, you were only talking about him last night.’

  ‘Of course, yes. Kushal Patel.’

  Now it was Suzie’s turn to be puzzled.

  ‘Kushal Patel is an Indian chap who helped people during the war,’ explained James. ‘People who had faced adversity, violence, danger, that sort of thing. He sort of debriefed them, got their confidence back. I think this’ll be right up his street.’

  ‘So you’ll help?’

  ‘We can but ask, young lady, and I feel that this Patel chap would be delighted to help. I’ll telephone him when we get home.’

  Suzie quietly clapped. ‘Oh, I do hope he can help. I loathed my aunt and uncle and I know it’s quite awful what’s happened. But don’t you see how wonderful this would be for Boyd?’

  James suggested that it was perhaps a little early to start celebrating and mildly chastised Suzie for even thinking it. But nothing could squash Suzie’s excitement that Boyd would, at last, be his own man. As Beth engaged in small talk, he couldn’t help but wonder if Suzie was, in some small way, responsible for the deaths of her aunt and uncle. She seemed ecstatic to be rid of them. Before he could ponder any further, though, the café door swung open and Lucy, holding her handbag, dashed to their table.

  ‘Oh Lord Harrington, Lady Harrington.’ She grabbed Suzie’s hand as she took her seat. ‘They’ve taken Boyd in for questioning.’

  Suzie covered her mouth with her hands and Beth did her best to soothe her. James met Lucy’s eyes.

  ‘Have they arrested him?’

  ‘No, but they found something.’ She bit her lip. ‘A scarecrow costume. Boyd was at the festival.’

  Beth handed a tearful Suzie a handkerchief and grimaced at James. He had to think quick.

  ‘Ladies, for want of a better suggestion, this is what I propose. Detective Chief Inspector Lane has a job to do and, bearing in mind the discovery of this costume, it’s natural that he’ll want to speak with Boyd. You girls get on to Mr Bateson in Cavendish. He’s the local solicitor and I’m sure he won’t mind going down.’

  Lucy’s shoulders dropped. ‘But I can’t afford a solicitor!’

  James apologised for making such an assumption. ‘All right. Well, I’ll call George. He knows the situation with Boyd. He will make exceptions in the way he’s handled. He’s not completely unsympathetic.’

  Suzie implored that James call Mr Patel.

  ‘Who’s Mr Patel?’ said Lucy.

  James held a finger up to silence everyone. ‘Suzie will update you on our discussion. I will call Mr Patel. You girls return to Cory House and ensure that Boyd is looked after when he returns, as I am sure he will.’

  Suzie blew her nose. ‘But what if he doesn’t return?’

  ‘If he’s not been arrested, George is going simply by the fact that Boyd was at the festival. That is not proof of murder. I say, Lucy, did George mention anything or do anything to make you think otherwise?’

  Lucy shook her head, but had a somewhat guilty air about her. Beth also picked up on this.

  ‘Are you keeping something back?’ Beth asked.

  Lucy said that the police had searched Boyd’s room. ‘I don’t know what they were looking for, but Boyd’s letters were not in their normal place.’

  ‘The letters from Calvin?’

  ‘Yes. I told Boyd to keep them safe. He likes to read them now and again. He’s hidden them, I’m sure, but I don’t know where.’ She paled. ‘You don’t think there’s something incriminating in them, do you?’

  James met her gaze. ‘Would there be something he doesn’t want the police to see?’

  ‘Oh, goodness, it’s all too upsetting for words.’ She checked her watch. ‘Come along, Suzie, the bus is due in a couple of minutes. You stay at the house; I have to get back to work.’

  After a hasty goodbye, Suzie and Lucy tumbled out of the café and ran to the stop in time for the arriving bus. James called Elsie across and asked for some fresh tea. He turned to Beth.

  ‘Well, darling, the game is afoot, as they say. Do you fancy a drive up to Richmond to meet Kushal Patel and an hour shopping while I call at the Wendover?’

  ‘That sounds perfect.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Beth contemplated the vista before her. ‘Oh, how perfectly beautiful.’

  The River Thames meandered through the valley below. James had parked the car at the top of Richmond Hill. The panorama beneath them would have been enjoyed by residents and visitors for several hundred years. Indeed, the main promenade was the subject of many paintings, writings and poems and Beth could u
nderstand why.

  ‘Look at the trees,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of a Kashmir rug woven in gold and rust.’

  A weak sun glinted on the autumn leaves; crows cawed and, in the distance, James could make out a family of swans gliding down the river past moored rowing boats. They heard the muted chug-chug of a wooden cruiser as it came into view. He breathed in the fresh air then checked his watch.

  ‘Come along, darling. Mr Patel is just across the road here.’

  They stood patiently at the front door as James pushed the ivory button for the bell. Shortly after, Kushal Patel, wearing a broad smile, swung the door open.

  ‘Lord Harrington,’ he said in a warm, Indian accent. ‘It is most pleasing to see you again.’ He reached out, grasped James’ hand, then Beth’s. ‘And your beautiful wife, Lady Harrington.’

  Beth tilted her head; her eyes danced at such a wonderful welcome. He chivvied them through to the front room where James had first set eyes upon Kushal a few months previously. It had been back in the spring, during his investigation into Delphine Brooks-Hunter that this gentle Indian came to his attention. James had warmed to him straight away and the compassion and kindness Kushal had shown Delphine only served to increase those sentiments.

  Kushal Patel was a slim man in his seventies with smooth skin, liquid brown eyes and an easy smile. His long, slender fingers indicated the chairs by the window.

  ‘You remember this room, Lord Harrington?’

  ‘It would be difficult to forget it, Mr Patel. I certainly recall commenting on the view.’

  ‘And I remember that we were too formal with our speaking. You must call me Kushal.’

  James sat beside Beth and insisted that Kushal use their first names. Kushal rang a small hand-bell and a pretty Indian girl of around eighteen entered. She took an order for tea, smiled at James and Beth and disappeared. After a few minutes of small talk, she reappeared with a trolley and placed a solid silver teapot on the table alongside a matching sugar bowl and tea strainer. To one side was a dish of butterfly cakes with a generous filling of vanilla butter-cream. She distributed plates and napkins. Kushal thanked the girl and asked that they not be disturbed.

  As he prepared tea, Kushal asked that James update him on any news since their last meeting. James and Beth did so and added any details he’d missed of the Brooks-Hunter affair before imparting the news of GJ’s engagement. A smile spread across the Indian’s face.

  ‘That is wonderful news.’ His eyes widened. ‘Would it be permissible for me to attend the wedding?’

  Beth’s eyes glinted. ‘GJ already has you on the list.’

  ‘That is most delightful.’ He gently brought the tips of his fingers together.

  ‘And now I think it is time for you to tell me the reason for your visit.’

  James went through the events to date: the arrival of the Camerons, their reluctance to socialise, their strict beliefs, the estranged elder son, the younger albino brother and his treatment. Beth added snippets of information here and there and Kushal reacted accordingly; a nod here, an ‘oh dear’ there, a catch of breath. They then described the discovery of Christie Cameron, the locked doors and the behaviour of the sister, Jeannie. This was followed by how the sister was now lying dead beside her brother in the morgue and an update on how the police were proceeding.

  When they finished, James gave Kushal a ‘that’s it’ gesture and silently hoped that this man might have some divine wisdom that could help. He watched as Kushal dropped one cube of sugar into his tea. He allowed it time to dissolve before stirring. All the time, James felt the Indian was turning the information over in his head, formulating an impression of the incident and the personalities involved. The mantel clock chimed a quarter past the hour. Kushal allowed some silence before responding.

  ‘I know that you come to me in my professional capacity. You are worrying about the son, Boyd.’

  James said he was. ‘I wondered if you were able to spend some time with him, perhaps gain his confidence or, indeed, give him some confidence. The boy is frightened and the cousins are terrified he’s going to be put away somewhere.’ He took Beth’s hand. ‘Beth is really the only person whom I’ve seen gain his trust.’

  Kushal reacted as if he knew that already. ‘Your wife has a gentle energy, James. She has an aura about her, but...’ He turned to Beth. ‘I believe that you feel unqualified, yes?’

  Beth reached for her teacup. ‘Most certainly, yes. After James described what you did for Delphine all those years ago... and for other war heroes, too. Well... I suggested he contact you.’ Her eyes pleaded. ‘Do you think you can help?’

  Kushal beamed. ‘I am most delighted to help.’

  ‘We’ll pay for your time,’ James put in.

  Kushal gave him a vigorous shake of the head. ‘You will do no such thing. You were most ingenious with your investigations into Delphine’s death. This is my thank you for those efforts that you put in.’ He rang the bell and gave an affirmative nod of the head. ‘I think that there must be no delay. If Boyd is in police custody, this is very, very frightening for him. You will allow me to travel back with you?’

  James expressed his surprise and delight. ‘Well, yes of course. I have one further engagement here. We can do that now and pick you up in, say, three hours. Is that suitable?’

  The Indian girl reappeared.

  ‘Prerna, I need an overnight bag.’ Kushal turned to James. ‘Do you have a place for me?’

  Beth was delighted to invite him to stay.

  ‘That is most satisfactory.’ He returned his attentions to the girl. ‘I will be away for two nights, possibly three.’ He checked the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Yes, I will be ready in three hours.’

  After dropping Beth off at Liberty’s, James manoeuvred the car along two further streets and parked outside the Wendover. He took the steps two at a time and entered the serenity of the gentleman’s club to be greeted by the doorman, Graves.

  ‘Lord Harrington, welcome back, sir. We haven’t seen you for a several months.’

  Graves helped him shrug his overcoat off and take his trilby and gloves.

  ‘Not had the time, old chap. Always seem to have things to do.’

  ‘Harrington’s is securing an excellent reputation, your Lordship.’

  James agreed and said that it was all coming along splendidly. He could always rely on Graves to know everything about the Wendover’s members, regardless of how little they frequented the place. The man, dressed in grey tails and a top hat, was about the same age as James and seemed to be on duty whenever he came by, day or night. He wondered if the man ever slept.

  After the usual pleasantries, he strode through to the lounge and was struck with a wall of tobacco smoke and the smell of old leather. A coal fire spat furiously in an inglenook fireplace. A good many elderly members were hidden from view, enveloped in large armchairs and engrossed in The Times or Country Life.

  He lit a cigarette and wandered around the club. A man with a healthy complexion made a double take.

  ‘James?’

  James knew he must have looked delighted, partly through seeing his old acquaintance again, but mostly in relief that the man he wanted was here. ‘Swiss, how are you?’

  Andrew ‘Swiss’ Cheeseman stood the same height as James and was dressed in a smart black suit with a faint pinstripe. His shoes were clean enough to eat off and his manicured fingers curled the ends of his moustache. James accepted the offer of a brandy. They ensconced themselves in antique leather chairs in the far corner of the oak-panelled room.

  ‘So, James, what the devil are you doing here? You’re rarely in town and, when you are, it’s not to visit the Wendover. How’s your wife?’

  ‘She’s very well. Thank you for asking. To be honest, although I’m rarely in town these days I’m loath to let the membership slip, especially as this was my father’s favoured watering hole. I came up to see you, actually.’

  Swiss raised a questioning eyebrow.
>
  ‘You knew Christie Cameron, is that right?’

  Swiss grimaced and indicated that he wasn’t someone he’d go out of his way to socialise with.

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Would you want to socialise with him?’

  James accepted this as a fair argument. ‘Well, aside from his social skills, did you know much about him?’

  Swiss shrugged. ‘Lived in Glasgow for a time. I think that’s where he was from originally. But then he moved to Yorkshire. I believe he lives with his sister. His wife was killed a few years ago. Has two sons.’

  ‘Did he speak much about his wife?’

  Swiss shrugged. ‘He never really spoke much about her or what happened to her, but I got the impression there was something odd. I remember asking what happened, more out of compassion than anything, but he cut me short. Said he didn’t want to talk about it, which I thought was fair enough. Grief hits people in different ways.’

  ‘And his sons?’

  ‘I met the older one once. He came to London with Christie to see the sights. Must have been about eleven or twelve. Nice young man, polite; I heard he set up a company in India.’ He frowned. ‘Went into business with a friend... Joe, Josh, something like that. Funny what you remember, isn’t it?’

  ‘Something in particular?’

  ‘I always remember the boy going on about what he and the younger brother got up to and Christie demanded he stop referring to him.’

  ‘Referring to the younger brother?’

  ‘Yes. I got the impression he was a bit backward or something; as if something wasn’t quite right about him. He was given an education at home, whereas the older brother attended a school. That’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ Swiss swirled the brandy in his glass. ‘Why do you need to know, anyway?’

  ‘Christie Cameron died a few days ago.’

  ‘Ruddy hell,’ said Swiss, sitting up in his chair. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He moved to Cavendish a few weeks ago. Now both he and the sister have been murdered.’