LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY (Lord James Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE WINTER MYSTERY

  by

  Lynn Florkiewicz

  Copyrigh t 2011 Lynn Florkiewicz

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without prior written permission from Lynn Florkiewicz except for the inclusion of quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  A Message from Lynn Florkiewicz

  I devour cosy crime novels and cosy TV (Diagnosis Murder, Midsomer Murders, Murder She Wrote etc. This is a simple rose-tinted cosy with stock characters and written solely as a ‘no-brainer’ read for a Sunday afternoon. Enjoy! For information on my writing visit my website at www.lynnflorkiewicz.co.uk.

  Twitter: @cosycrazy

  CHAPTER ONE

  “We shouldn’t discuss murder during afternoon tea; it’s uncommonly distasteful. But at the same time it’s so beautifully intriguing, don’t you think?”

  (Lord James Harrington)

  Nestled at the foot of the South Downs in the heart of West Sussex, the village of Cavendish awoke under a blanket of frost which, even by mid-morning, had refused to give up its hold.

  Lord James Harrington, dressed in chestnut brown corduroys and a chunky Aran sweater, cradled a mug of hot chocolate in his manicured hands. His foot tapped to the beat of Benny Goodman’s ‘Begin the Beguine’ on the wireless. The steamy cocoa sent a warm glow through him.

  From the comfort of the lemon and cream lounge, he stood by the French windows where he surveyed the landscaped grounds and distant fields that backed on to his country home, a sprawling red-brick house built in the 1930s.

  The terracotta pots, which displayed colourful pansies and marigolds during the summer months, had long since succumbed to winter. They now stood empty, awaiting the green shoots of spring. Striped maple and purple Viburnum shrubs sheltered along the low stone wall that ran the length of the patio.

  He scanned the trees at the far end of the lawn. Stripped bare of their summer leaves, they wore magical coats of silver as they reached out to the winter sky.

  The October sun lacked confidence, reminding him that 1957 was drawing to a close and would soon be relegated to the history books; another eventful year in a world that both James and his Boston-born wife, Beth, had pondered only last evening.

  Britain had welcomed in a new Prime Minister in the shape of moustached elder statesman, Harold MacMillan; the Russian Sputnik 1 satellite, with its huge rotund body and trailing metal legs, now hovered many miles above them in the darkness of space, and screen legend Humphrey Bogart had died. Lew Hoad, a particular tennis hero of James, had claimed the Wimbledon singles title, and an outrageous, hip-gyrating singer by the name of Elvis Presley continued to win over a legion of fans.

  They’d enjoyed watching Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember along with the action and heroics of the British army in Bridge Over The River Kwai.

  Closer to home, James had come runner-up in the village tennis tournament, while the Cavendish cricket team had finished in sixth place - their best position for ten years. The vicar, who, James believed, had preached there since God was a boy, retired and moved to Eastbourne. The send-off, just last weekend, proved to be a merry one, thanks in no small part to the appearance of some home-brewed elderberry wine and smoked malt whisky, sent down by his cousin on the Scottish Island of Islay.

  Behind him, the fire crackled and spat furiously in the hearth and a hint of apple and oak, from the burning logs, lingered in the air.

  He glanced at Beth. She lounged gracefully on the sofa, reading a copy of Woman and Home. Her liquid brown eyes engrossed, no doubt, in a cooking article.

  To James, she looked as stunning now as the day they’d met. She wore a pair of crepe navy ‘sailor-style’ trousers with a pink, cashmere sweater. Her recent boyish haircut complemented her impish face. A big fan of Audrey Hepburn, she more or less copied any trend set by the Hollywood star and, after seeing Funny Face earlier in the year, she’d insisted on having her shoulder-length bob trimmed to this modern, chic style. He turned the volume down on the wireless and shifted his attention to her.

  ‘Beth,’ he said in a clipped, upper-class accent, ‘what’s happening at the drama club? Are the Cavendish thespians still coming out to play?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, sweetie,’ she gushed with a slight American twang. She’d lived in Boston for the first fifteen years of her life and, although she’d called England home for the last thirty summers, a faint accent remained, which James found rather endearing.

  Closing her magazine, she uncrossed her legs and gave him her full attention.

  ‘While you’ve been organising Halloween and Guy Fawkes Night, we’ve already set a rehearsal date for The Devil Incarnate.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound particularly seasonal,’ said James.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, does it? But it’s intriguing, don’t you think?’ She leant across to the occasional table and picked up her Spode cup to sip her tea. ‘Trouble is, they’re all a little bored with doing pantomime, which I guess is a shame. I mean, that is more in keeping with Christmas.’

  James had to admit that pantomime was a great deal of fun and, of course, an wonderfully British affair. Where else can one dress as the opposite sex and have so much audience participation? It would be a tad disappointing not to see some of the more gruff and reserved villagers turning out in their rather outrageous costumes.

  ‘Shame,’ he mused, ‘that’s what makes the whole bally thing so entertaining.’

  ‘Well, they’re leaving pantomime to the children this year. They want their own show for a change. The grown-ups are going supernatural. And it’s been written by a local.’

  ‘And who’s our budding playwright?’

  ‘Mrs Jepson’s husband.’

  ‘What? Our cleaner Mrs Jepson?’

  ‘That’s the one. She says he’s into all things supernatural.’

  He wandered across and sat opposite her in a wide, cushioned armchair. He placed his hot chocolate on the table and frowned. ‘Won’t the vicar mind that we’re putting on devilish acts in the village hall?’

  Beth grimaced. ‘I’m not sure that he knows. They only moved in yesterday. He and his wife are calling later for afternoon tea.’ She opened the lid of a slim mother-of-pearl box. ‘Cigarette?’

  As he reached over and selected one, the door bell rang. Once at first, then hurried, with a sense of urgency. James glanced at Beth and arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Are we expecting anyone?’

  Beth looked equally perplexed. Getting up, she wandered through to the hallway. James swallowed the last of his hot chocolate and went across to stoke the fire as Beth ushered an anxious Mrs Jepson into the lounge. She held a cotton hanky in one hand and clutched a small brown handbag in the other. Her face appeared flushed from over-exertion and her greying, auburn hair was tangled as she wrenched her hat off. She spoke with a rural Sussex lilt.

  ‘Oh, Lord Harrington,’ she began. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, and your Ladyship, too. But I’m so worried, see.’

  James saw Beth roll her eyes. Mrs Jepson had a tendency to worry over the slightest of things. He gestured for her to sit down. S
he bit her lip.

  ‘He’s not there, you see. He’s always there, always ‘as been.’ Her fingers had a tight hold of her bag.

  ‘Mrs J, who’re we talking about?’

  ‘Well, Mr Grimes.’

  ‘Alec Grimes? Grimes’ farm?’

  ‘That’s ‘im.’ Mrs Jepson pushed her hanky in her bag, pulled out a fresh one from the pocket of her coat and blew her nose.

  Beth sat beside her and patted her hand.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Jepson, why are you getting so upset? He’s probably in one of the fields. It’s a busy time for farmers.’

  ‘I’ve been ‘elping Mr Grimes for the last few years. Just a spot of cleaning, you know. Every Monday morning I go there, ten o’clock, rain or shine. I’m always there and ‘e’s always in. Now, ’e was in at eight, ‘cause my Stan saw ‘im, although they did ‘ave words. Not sure what about, anyway, he was in.’

  James sat down opposite her and took a drag from his cigarette. He blew the smoke out.

  ‘But he wasn’t in when you arrived?’

  ‘That’s right. Dead on ten o’clock it was. No sign of ‘im. And the door was open.’

  ‘And did you go in?’

  Mrs Jepson fiddled with her bag. ‘Well, I didn’t like to at first. I mean, it’s not right, is it, walking around someone’s house uninvited? But I was worried, see.’

  Beth held the cleaner’s hand. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Well, nothing. That’s why I’m worried. There’s ‘alf a mug of cold tea, and ‘is breakfast is ‘alf eaten. There’s no note to say where ‘e’s gone.’

  James gave her a reassuring smile and made a beeline for the cocktail cabinet.

  ‘Would you like a whisky, Mrs J?’ he asked. ‘Nothing like the warm glow of a vintage malt to settle those nerves down.’ He poured a small measure into a crystal tumbler. ‘Fact is, Mrs J, he could be anywhere. Perhaps he had a telegram, or something happened to an animal and he’s gone to call the vet? He’s no doubt had to dash off somewhere. He may be back now, finishing off the fried eggs and bacon.’

  He handed her the tumbler and, to his astonishment, she swallowed the drink in one. He and Beth exchanged grins as she let out a grateful sigh.

  ‘I s’pose. But fancy leaving the door open.’

  James checked his watch. Mrs Jepson wouldn’t be calmed until she knew what had happened to Grimes. He stubbed his cigarette out.

  ‘Darling, grab my sheepskin jacket, would you?’

  Beth went through to the hall as James secured a mesh guard around the fire.

  ‘Mrs J, how about you and I pop down to Alec’s farm? We’ll take a proper look around. Then, if we’re unhappy about anything, we’ll toddle over to the police.’

  Her shoulders relaxed as Beth returned and helped James slip into his jacket.

  ‘James, don’t forget you need to be back here by three. The new vicar and his wife are coming for tea.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr and Mrs Merryweather. What are their first names again?’

  ‘Stephen and Anne.’

  ‘Right-ho. Look, Grimes’ farm is only a couple of miles the other side of the village. Shan’t be long, promise.’

  He gave her a quick kiss and secured a fawn herringbone flat cap. ‘Come along, Mrs J.’

  Outside, he rubbed his hands together and delved into his pocket for his gloves and keys. He strode to the double garage with his cleaner scurrying behind. As he swung open the wooden doors, he grinned as he heard her gasp.

  Gleaming in front of them was a newly purchased silver-blue Austin Healey 100 convertible with polished chrome bumpers and aerodynamic curves that swooped elegantly down to the grill. Attached to the chrome beam, just above the front bumper, was a yellow Automobile Association badge and, either side of that, two enormous fog lights. James gazed at it proudly; a gem of a sports car and one of the first off the production line this year. He checked that the roof was secured.

  ‘Bit chilly to have the roof down, what?’

  He clipped the roof in place and kicked the spoke wire wheel tyres, something he always did before getting into a car.

  ‘Beauty, isn’t she, Mrs J? I’ll get the heating running so you won’t get cold.’

  ‘My word, your Lordship. I can’t go in that!’

  He swung open the tiny passenger door. ‘Of course you can. Here you are, let me give you a hand.’ They chuckled as Mrs Jepson’s stocky frame struggled to fit in the tiny passenger seat. He slammed the door shut.

  ‘Oh gawd,’ she laughed, ‘it’s a bit low, innit? I’ll never get out again.’

  James jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key and pushed the starter button. The engine fired up. He revved the accelerator and grinned at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a shove out when we get there. I only got her last week and I’ve been dying to take her for a spin.’

  He put it in gear, let the hand-brake down and screeched onto the winding gravel drive. At the end, he joined the narrow country road and headed for the village at a speed that made Mrs Jepson most uncomfortable. She squeezed her eyes shut at every bend and gripped her seat over every crested hill. James went up and down the gears like they were going out of fashion, reliving his brief spell as a racing driver at Donnington Park and Monte Carlo during the 1930s.

  Back then, he’d fancied his chances as a potential Malcolm Campbell and did pretty well in some of the races. But, after a particularly nasty accident, Beth insisted he gave up. With newly-born twin boys, he reluctantly heeded the message and turned, instead, to tennis and cricket. They were good substitutes, but no match for the adrenalin rush of motor racing. Now the twins had entered their first year at Oxford University, he’d ordered the Austin as a fun car alongside the more sedate Jaguar saloon. Beth was won over by its style and colour and put the seal of approval on the purchase.

  They arrived at Alec Grimes’ farm a little after 12:20. At 12:22, James finally managed to haul his puffing, red-faced cleaner laughing from her seat. She smoothed herself down, embarrassed at having shown her knees to his Lordship.

  He took his gloves off and surveyed the large, rather imposing brick-built farmhouse. ‘Right, Mrs J, where d’you normally go?’

  Mrs Jepson stepped ahead and led him toward a door at the side of the building. On their way, he scanned the surrounding fields for signs of life, of which there was plenty in the animal variety. Friesian cows and Hampshire Down sheep grazed in the distance. Four large bales of hay appeared to have been brought out that morning, ready to take out to the cattle. A wheelbarrow stood empty by the pig sty, where Gloucester Old Spot piglets flopped on top of each other. About half a mile off to the right stood Charn Wood, a small, round copse, thick with oak, birch and beech.

  At the house, James noticed that the side door was ajar. He knocked on the door frame.

  ‘I say, Mr Grimes?’

  With no answer, James pushed the door open and stepped onto a rubber door mat in a sparse kitchen. The now cold egg and bacon remained unfinished on the table. One of three wooden chairs stood in the middle of the floor and a plate from the dresser lay smashed on the scuffed lino. A resin sculpture of a robin sat on the work surface under the windowsill. In the corner, newspapers perched on a large square board. A dirty mug stood in the sink and, beneath this, a tatty and frayed curtain was half-drawn concealing cleaning materials and dusters. At the far end was the door to a utility room that led to the back of the house.

  James frowned as he made his way through the kitchen and across the narrow hallway. He peered into the lounge. Good Lord, he thought, here’s a man a little down on his luck. The dull, run-down interior, he decided, lacked a woman’s touch. A fine traditional house, but not a cosy home and, oddly, no photographs of loved ones, past or present.

  ‘Mr Grimes? Hello?’ He glanced at Mrs J, who remained close behind him. ‘Did you look upstairs?’

  She shook her head tight-mouthed as James opened the door that led to the stairs.

  ‘I’ll take
a gander up.’

  ‘I’ll come up with you, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why, but something’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.’

  He had to admit that the atmosphere was ominously silent. She followed James as he made his way up the narrow, wooden staircase. Each step creaked ominously beneath them. The uneven floorboards dipped as they looked in on both bedrooms.

  ‘No bathroom?’ enquired James.

  ‘He’s got a tin bath in the kitchen. Underneath where the newspapers are. The privy’s outside.’

  James winced. He could never imagine having an outside lavatory. Mrs Jepson stole a glance through the small window that overlooked the back of the house.

  ‘Oh gawd, there ‘e is. He’s doing ‘is oil paintin’. Must’ve forgotten what time it was. Oh, I feel stupid dragging you ‘ere now.’

  James stood behind her looking at the scene below. He frowned. What on earth’s he doing? His eyes narrowed. Grimes wasn’t moving. In fact, he was slouched unnaturally.

  James jogged downstairs and made his way out through the back entrance.

  ‘Mr Grimes?’ he called as he strolled toward him.

  Alec Grimes sat motionless, facing the copse, with what looked like a finished canvas in front of him. Mrs Jepson stepped out from the house and went to join James, but he gestured for her to stay back. He reached Grimes and went to face him.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he mumbled.

  Alec’s dead eyes stared, unseeing, at the fields in front of him. The paintbrush, dipped with red, dangled in his chubby hand. James stuffed his gloves in his pockets, squatted down and felt for a pulse. Nothing. His skin felt as cold as the frosty chill around him.

  He glanced down. The farmer’s shoes had small deposits of mud and frost on the heels and his jacket appeared lop-sided. He couldn’t understand why at first, but then noticed that the buttons were fastened in the wrong holes. He chewed his lip and called to Mrs Jepson.

  ‘Is there a telephone nearby?’

  ‘Yes sir, there’s a phone box further along this road. It’s quite a way, though. Good couple of miles. Is ‘e not well?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead, Mrs J.’