Lord James Harrington and the Autumn Mystery Read online

  LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE AUTUMN MYSTERY

  by Lynn Florkiewicz

  Copyright 2014 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.

  I’m dedicating this Autumn Mystery to those people who have supported me from the first book in the series. As some of you know, writing is my hobby; I discovered writing after a particularly debilitating illness and began these novels strictly for fun and recuperation. My plan was to write four seasonal mysteries and stop.

  However, I never envisaged such a great following and due to the fantastic feedback from many of you along with some wonderful reviews, I’ve decided to carry on. Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery will be next in the series.

  If you’ve enjoyed this novel and feel that your friends, family and acquaintances would like the series, do ask them to take a look at the website for more details: www.lordjamesharrington.com.

  Thank you so much for your support and encouragement.

  Follow me on Twitter: @cosycrazy

  CHAPTER ONE

  Early August 1958

  Cory House, an imposing property standing in its own grounds at the edge of Cavendish, had a forlorn look about it; it was in a state of sad neglect. Decaying leaves blew across a gravel drive which was beginning to surrender itself to weeds and tufts of grass. Overgrown shrubs encroached on the broad lawn and untamed trees reached out in all directions, shielding the residence from the main road. A rusty Ford Anglia was parked by the side wall near a dented metal dustbin.

  In the far corner of the grounds was a pile of rubbish and, beyond that, a ramshackle fence. A solitary crow cawed in the distance.

  Christie Cameron, a wiry sixty-year-old with a pasty complexion and a world-weary scowl, stood in the doorway and watched the removal van trundle down the drive. He turned. An echo boomed down the tiled hallway as he slammed the huge oak door shut. Half a dozen tea chests, some opened, lined the entrance from the front door to the kitchen at the rear of the property. He kept an eye on his elder sister, Jeannie, as she retrieved crockery from one, discarding its temporary newspaper wrapping.

  ‘Jeannie?’ he shouted in an abrasive Glaswegian accent. ‘Tea in the front room.’

  He watched as she placed the plates on the kitchen table, smoothed down her apron and with a pinched expression acknowledged the order in a thin voice.

  ‘It’s made, brother dear,’ she said in a clipped Scottish tone. ‘Sit by the fire. I’ve stoked it.’ She rubbed her arms. ‘It’ll take time to warm these rooms. They’ve been empty for too long.’ She looked at the ceiling. ‘The gas fire is heating the room upstairs.’

  Christie shoved his hands in the pockets of his threadbare cardigan. ‘You’ve no business up there till dinner.’

  Lips pursed, she boiled the kettle as Christie shuffled into the front room and straightened the wooden cross above the fireplace. Flames laboured around the logs as the fire in the grate struggled to take hold. With a puff of his cheeks, he eased himself down into an old fireside chair, rested his hand on the family bible and closed his eyes. The rattle of china interrupted the silence. Jeannie came in and placed a cup of strong tea on a small table to the side of him.

  ‘It’s a damp house, brother. The grates are lit in the rooms downstairs.’

  Christie’s rheumy eyes gazed at the flickering flame. Jeannie perched on the edge of a similar chair, upright and formal, her greying hair pulled back to form a tight bun.

  ‘You’ll be at peace here, brother.’

  He took a breath and exhaled loudly. ‘Aye, sister,’ he said, casting an eye to the ceiling. ‘You’ve locked the door?’

  ‘Always, brother.’ With a nod to the bible she asked: ‘Shall we pray?’

  ‘Aye.’ He tightened his grip on the book.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lord James Harrington warmed himself in front of the crackling fire in the dining room at Harrington’s, the family manor house that was now a thriving country hotel. He detected a slight smell of apples coming from the logs. It was a late September morning; their guests had finished breakfast and were already busy planning their day. The hotel was now a popular retreat for the wealthy and famous; new activities and interests were being added every year to ensure their guests experienced a relaxing and enjoyable holiday. After studying similar holiday retreats across Europe, particularly along the French Riviera and Italian coasts, James had embraced the best of the ideas he’d seen and incorporated them here to ensure that all needs were catered for.

  Today, the guests had dispersed to a number of locations. Some had driven to nearby Brighton for a day at the races; others had journeyed a few miles along the coast to Rottingdean to go horse-riding, while a few had taken advantage of the crisp, autumnal weather to hike along the South Downs. He wandered over to the huge picture windows and gazed at the pale blue sky. The trees in the distance were making their transition from summer green to the rusts and gold of autumn. Their two donkeys, Delphine and Sebastian, munched on apples in the far field and kept the grass at bay.

  Beyond him, through the open doors to the reception area, his wife, Beth, and the reverend’s wife, Anne Merryweather, were preparing a dazzling display of seasonal flowers. Mrs Jepson, their cleaner both here and at home, was polishing the wooden floor as if her life depended on it. It glistened where the light caught it and he marvelled at how she managed to remove the scuff marks and scrapes that occasionally appeared.

  His chef, Didier, obscured his view. His short, rotund form filled the door-frame as he clasped his hands together.

  ‘Lord ’arrington,’ he said in a strong French accent. ‘My apologies for keeping you waiting.’

  James waved the apology aside. He had no desire to criticise his chef unless it was absolutely necessary and that scenario had, fortunately, never reared its head. The man had a chef’s temperament and would have no qualms about simply throwing his apron down and resigning if he felt it warranted such action.

  He steered his chef toward the nearest table. ‘I’m sure what you’re about to show me will be worth the wait.’

  Didier, impeccably dressed in crisp chef’s whites, joined him at the table and spread out two sheets of paper.

  ‘This week, we ’ave the wonderful menu and I, Didier Le Noir, will be foraging the forests.’

  ‘I say, that sounds rather marvellous. What are you foraging for?’

  He received an indignant glare. ‘Mushrooms, Lord ’arrington.’ Didier waved a sheet of paper as he listed them. ‘Chanterelles, cèpes, trompettes de la mort, whatever I can find; and I will serve the creamy mushroom soup with your grandmother’s bread, oui?’

  ‘Ah yes. Oui, oui,’ said James. ‘That sounds rather delicious.’

  Grandma Harrington’s fresh white bread toasted with cheese would be a perfect accompaniment to Didier’s dish.

  Didier’s chest swelled. ‘Such a shame your grandmother is not here, Lord ’arrington – we would, in the kitchen, be a most formidable team.’

  James agreed as he perused the rest of the menu. ‘You’re also doing a French onion soup with the same accompaniment. Splendid.’

  ‘Mais oui, and the smoked ma
ckerel pâté for those who pooh-pooh the soup.’

  James salivated as he read through the choice of main courses: guinea fowl with porcini mushrooms and bacon; boeuf bourguignon; traditional English steak and kidney pudding. Anticipation rushed through him.

  ‘I say, are you doing my Grandmother’s steak and kidney?’

  Didier’s eyes sparkled. ‘Mais oui. I see from the photograph in the reception that your grandmother was born in late September, so this is in celebration of her passion for excellent food.’

  ‘Then I must book a table. I also see you have a pear tart with chocolate sauce – that’ll keep my wife happy.’

  His wife’s voice floated in from the entrance. ‘What’ll keep me happy?’

  Although she’d lived in England since leaving finishing school, she maintained a slight inflection from her upbringing in Boston.

  James called her over to go through the planned menu and suggested they reserve their places. ‘Our esteemed chef is also doing an autumn fruit crumble with custard, which sounds rather appetising.’

  ‘It all sounds perfect,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure our guests will love it. As will I.’ She made a point of congratulating Didier on his selection.

  Didier’s chest swelled further as he rose from his chair. He gathered his papers, proffered a bow and returned to the kitchen.

  James congratulated her. ‘The way to a chef’s heart is to compliment him, darling, and you do it so well.’

  ‘Fiona recommended we do that from the start,’ said Beth, recalling the day Didier first arrived.

  There was no doubt that the chef was master of his domain. The fact that he was working for a Lord and Lady had not fazed him one jot. Outside the kitchen, he was polite, courteous and a joy to be with. Inside his kitchen empire, he was temperamental and bossy. But the relationship worked well and all three of them knew the boundaries and where not to cross them. In return, James knew he had the best chef in the south-east and paid a good salary to keep him.

  James followed Beth through to reception, where Anne was putting the finishing touches to the floral display.

  ‘There, I think that will last for a good week,’ she said. ‘Put a pinch of sugar in the water in a couple of days. That always gives them a bit of a boost.’

  Beth linked arms with her. ‘Those rust-coloured chrysanthemums are lovely. And these orange and butternut gerberas are beautiful, don’t you think?’ She turned to their cleaner. ‘What do you think, Mrs Jepson?’

  Mrs Jepson brushed a stray hair from her perspiring face before expressing her approval and going back to her polishing. The telephone rang and Paul, the front desk manager and mâitre d’hôtel, emerged from the office to answer it. After a brief chat, he held the receiver up.

  ‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector Lane, your Lordship.’

  DCI George Lane was one of James’ oldest friends and, over the last couple of years, he’d helped the Inspector out with a number of mysteries that had cropped up in the area. His participation hadn’t always gone down that well with George but his friend had to admit, his insight had resulted in arrests and convictions.

  He took the receiver and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘Hello, George. Are you confirming our lunchtime snifter? We said one o’clock at the Half Moon.’

  ‘Sorry, James, something’s come up. I’ll have to cancel.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Anything serious?’

  ‘Escaped convict.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Goes by the name of Locksmith Joe.’

  James couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Sounds like a music hall act. Locksmith Joe was a jolly old soul and a jolly old soul was he.’

  He heard George grunt. ‘Don’t let the name fool you. I’m told he’s a cold-blooded killer. We’ll be sending a description round to all the stations. He’s pretty easy to identify by all accounts. Big bloke, around sixty, with thick grey hair and a bushy beard to match. Been locked up about ten years and I don’t think he’s one to stop and have a chat with. I’ll speak to you later.’

  ‘Right, well, keep us updated and we’ll have that drink another time.’ He replaced the receiver.

  Paul examined the guest book. ‘Full house this week, Lord Harrington. I suppose that’s the scarecrow festival pulling the crowds in.’

  ‘Yes, it’s beginning to get quite a following.’

  The scarecrow festival had been a Cavendish tradition for around fifty years. James had no idea how or why it had begun, but he’d assumed that it was simply because of the number of farms in the area and the sheer fun of it.

  Every autumn, alongside the traditional harvest festivities, the scarecrow festival had kept growing in popularity. It consisted of a parade along the high street, one circuit around the village green then into a specially erected marquee in front of the Half Moon pub where prizes for the best scarecrow outfit were awarded. The villagers held a number of events on the village green during the year and this was certainly one of the most popular ones on the calendar.

  The parade, led by Bob Tanner and his folk band, consisted of villagers and farmers dressed as scarecrows, all vying for the title of Best Cavendish Scarecrow. First prize was a Fortnum and Mason hamper supplied by James and Beth.

  James slipped his hands into his pockets. Reception was empty except for Beth, Anne, Paul and Mrs Jepson. ‘We apparently have an escaped convict on the loose,’ he announced.

  Beth and Anne gawped, Mrs Jepson made the sign of the cross, and Paul frowned.

  ‘Is he in this area, your Lordship?’

  ‘I’m assuming so.’ He repeated what was said in his conversation with George.

  ‘Should we inform the guests?’ Paul continued.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any need. There’s nothing to suggest he’s going to come here and we don’t want to alarm people unnecessarily.’

  A cheery ‘Oi, oi,’ interrupted them.

  James swung round to see another long-standing friend, the flat-capped Bert Briggs, standing in the main doorway. He wore an old tweed jacket and had a newspaper under his arm along with a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Bert, what are you doing here?’

  He held the parcel out to Beth. ‘Wondered where the girls were. I thought you was at the vicarage and Stephen said you was all up ’ere. I borrowed ’is bike cos I didn’t wanna cart this lot about.’

  Anne’s eyes sparkled. ‘Is that material?’

  ‘Left over at the markets. Thought it might come in ’andy for something.’

  Beth and Anne eagerly accepted the parcel and peeled back the brown paper wrapping. Underneath were a number of plain and patterned fabrics. They excitedly launched into a discussion of various ways of using the material and how it would be ideal for the next Cavendish Players’ production. Bert, bemused by how much joy this had brought, left the package with them and wandered across to James. He waved his newspaper.

  ‘I caught the tail end of your chat about Locksmith Joe - made the Brighton paper.’ He spread the newspaper on the desk.

  James read the article. ‘Joe Nesbitt, known as Locksmith Joe, escaped from Wandsworth prison last night and is believed to have journeyed to West Sussex where he is known to have family.’ He skimmed the rest of the piece and reeled at the last sentence. ‘Locksmith Joe is extremely dangerous and must not be approached under any circumstances.’

  Mrs Jepson picked up her bucket and mop and mumbled to herself. ‘Won’t be safe in our beds. Make sure you lock your doors.’

  James assured her she would probably survive the escape of Locksmith Joe. He sought Bert’s assurance. ‘I mean, it’s not as if he has ties in Cavendish, is it?’

  Bert gave an unconvincing shrug.

  James lowered his voice. ‘Do you know him?’

  His friend took an unusual interest in his shoes and denied any association. James had known Bert Briggs since a chance meeting during a school outing many moons ago and he knew the chap inside out. At this particular moment, the denial didn
’t match the body language. He was convinced that Bert almost certainly knew Locksmith Joe but, for some reason, didn’t want to share this with him. He tried to probe further but his friend insisted he had to return the bicycle to Stephen. Within a minute, he’d gone.

  James watched him disappear down the drive and deliberated. He enjoyed his friendships with both Bert and DCI Lane, but it never ceased to amaze him how the former had not had his collar felt by the latter. He’d worried that, one day, Bert would cross the line and face George Lane officially. Had that day arrived? Did Bert know something about this prison escape? Had Bert had a hand it? He pushed the thought from his mind but, annoyingly, it nudged its way back. Try as he might, he couldn’t shift the notion that Bert’s behaviour had been most odd.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The following morning, James and Beth rapped on the door of a small terraced house close to the junior school. Mr Chrichton, the headmaster of Cavendish Junior, swung the door open with a surprised smile.

  ‘Lord and Lady Harrington.’ He beckoned them in. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  James offered a mock salute and stood back to allow Beth to go ahead of him. ‘We took a chance that you were in, old chap. You mentioned wanting to discuss the festival and as we were passing we thought we’d stop by.’ He jutted his chin out. ‘Is now convenient?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Come through.’

  They followed his stocky frame to a small, cosy room where he tidied up a number of newspapers and books strewn across the furniture. James couldn’t help but smile. Mr Chrichton was an excellent teacher but he displayed the attributes of a typical bachelor. His home, although clean, was nothing short of chaotic.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ he said. ‘I’m always telling my pupils to leave things tidy – good job they don’t see me at home.’

  ‘Please don’t worry on our account,’ replied Beth.