Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery Read online

  LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

  by

  Lynn Florkiewicz

  Copyright 2015 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.

  LORD JAMES HARRINGTON AND THE CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Diary note: France April 12th 1917

  His orders are vague. There is no preparation - no thinking about the landscape. We should begin further east where there are craters to hide in. This officer is too quick to see it out. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’s cut out to do this. Why didn’t he select his own men? We don’t have a hope in hell. Not with enemy lines positioned as they are. Perhaps if the men running this war fought with us they would give more thought to tactics. I don’t think we’ll make it back. I feel anxious. Perhaps that’s why they’re sending us in. We’re dispensable.

  October 1958

  ‘Harrington’s! Carlo, what on earth is Harrington’s?’

  ‘Issa country hotel in Sussex,’ replied Carlo. ‘You must have heard of it. Joe Loss has played there, that famous actress, wassa her name, has stayed there. Mamma mia, have you not heard of it?’

  ‘No, I’ve not heard of it,’ replied the lady, showing little interest.

  ‘You wanna sing with my band, you gotta do Harrington’s. Take it or leave it; they ’ave connections, Olivia.’

  He received a frustrated sigh and a reminder that she was already the hottest big-band singer in the country. Carlo decided against mentioning that he was yet to reach those dizzy heights. He stood by the window of his London flat and studied the traffic. Not worth mentioning because Olivia Dupree only cared about her own career.

  ‘Si, si, don’t worry, I will ask Kathy: she will sing.’

  Olivia purred. He had a vision of her pouting down the phone. ‘Oh darling, don’t do that. Of course, I’ll do it. I couldn’t bear the thought of that woman singing for you. Give my agent the dates. But, in return, you must take me to dinner and perhaps for a night cap after. Goodbye my darling.’

  He slammed the receiver down. Why did he put up with her? He knew why of course. Was that wrong? Using her to climb the ladder? He shrugged. Thank heavens she didn’t live nearby - too much of that pretence would drive him crazy. His gaze followed the shapely legs of a lady as she crossed the road. Sometimes, he could strangle Olivia Dupree.

  Sunday November 30th 1958

  Lord James Harrington looked on as the Reverend Stephen Merryweather and his wife Anne unbuttoned their coats and took off their scarves and gloves. Their small boys, Luke and Mark, kicked their shoes off and kept a tight hold of Radley’s lead as the little dog stood on his hind legs to greet everyone. After hanging his coat on an available hook, Stephen glanced at him.

  ‘St-stir up Sunday? W-what’s that when it’s home?’

  Anne gave James a knowing look as she shrugged her jacket off. ‘You’re not stirring up another mystery are you?’

  He chuckled. ‘Nothing like that. Have you not heard of Stir-up Sunday?’

  Their blank looks answered his question, as his wife, Beth, went to close the front door.

  ‘Oh look, Bert’s on his way,’ she said, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Mummy says me and Luke stir up trouble,’ said Mark. ‘Is that what we’re doing?’

  James ruffled the young boy’s hair. ‘No, that’s not it.’

  ‘If it’s not a mystery,’ said Anne, ‘then what is it and why the secrecy?’

  ‘Anne, you really are rather too suspicious of my activities. It’s simply an old custom. The last Sunday in November is the traditional day for households to make their Christmas puddings. Stirring the pudding is a ritual and we make a wish. Someone, somewhere down the centuries, named it Stir-Up Sunday.’

  ‘Oi, oi,’ said Bert as he peered round the door. ‘Collared the Merryweathers, ’ave yer?’

  James shook hands with his old friend. They’d known each other since a chance meeting during a school outing and an unlikely friendship, that crossed the class system, had developed between them. Beth closed the door and motioned for Bert to hand his coat over.

  James continued his conversation with the Merryweathers. ‘We consider you family, so we thought it’d be nice for you to be a part of it.’

  Beth led them through to the kitchen where the pudding awaited. Closing her eyes, Anne breathed in through her nose.

  ‘I can tell what you’re making without looking. It smells divine.’

  An infusion of orange, almonds, fruit, cinnamon and brandy filled the kitchen and the Merryweathers were quick to admire the mixture in the huge bowl.

  Bert pushed his flat cap back and did the same. ‘Another Nan Harrington special?’

  James nodded. His grandmother had so enjoyed cooking and although in those days the family had employed a cook, the young Alice Harrington had relished the opportunity of making her own. She had jotted every successful recipe down in the now-frayed book that had pride of place alongside Beth’s own recipe collection. James had inherited his grandmother’s love of cooking and the villagers were used to seeing her creations feature in the many events and festivals they held.

  Beth reached for the brandy and poured a small drop into the mixture. ‘Don’t want it to be dry.’

  The kitchen door swung open.

  ‘Morning all,’ said Oliver and Harry Harrington in unison. They squatted down and made a fuss of Radley who wagged his tail in excitement.

  The twins were given a warm welcome by Bert and the Merryweathers, who hadn’t seen them for some months. James peered behind his sons to the hall.

  ‘Is George not with you?’ His long-standing friend Detective Chief Inspector George Lane didn’t normally miss out on stirring the pudding.

  Harry explained that George was held up at Lewes police station and had asked that someone make a wish for him.

  ‘We’re back for Christmas,’ said Oliver to the Merryweathers, ‘or rather Harry is. I’m just off to the West Country to stay with Aunt Fiona for a while. She has a friend in their village who’s allowing me try out my teaching skills.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m being collected in an hour.’

  The twins were on their Christmas break from Oxford. Oliver’s calling was to teach and James’ sister, Fiona, had mentioned that a friend was happy for him to shadow her for the last week of their school term.

  ‘I’ll be back for Christmas,’ added Oliver, dipping a finger in the pudding. Beth gave him a playful slap.

  ‘And I think Dad is expecting me to sort out Christmas at Harrington’s,’ said Harry, giving James an expectant look.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m expecting and I have to say that we have our work cut out.’

  The old estate was now a country hotel, nestling at the foot of the South Downs, and making its mark on the wealthy and famous as the place to stay. James and Beth had made what had been a millstone around the family’s neck, a thriving business. The days of the landed gentry were gone and they had been quick to predict it, years previously. A large number of their peers had clung on to their homes, with dire consequences. James was forever grateful that the family made the decision to mov
e when they did.

  ‘We’re hosting GJ’s and Catherine’s wedding and the first Christmas dinner and dance; all on the same night.’

  GJ, an integral contributor to Harrington’s summer activities, ran a number of painting workshops in the converted barn. Catherine had enrolled herself on one of his courses and the pair had hit it off immediately. When they announced their wedding date, James and Beth were quick to offer Harrington’s as a venue for their reception.

  ‘A little b-bird told me that you’ve hired C-Carlo Pisani and his band.’

  A gasp went round the kitchen. Carlo Pisani was the up-and-coming band leader who had, in the last year, stepped up from ballrooms to a smattering of television appearances. James picked up the bottle of brandy and, winking at Beth, poured another tot into the pudding.

  ‘Yes, we were at a function a few weeks ago where he was playing. The booking he had over Christmas was cancelled so I thought I’d ask.’ He picked up a spoon and tasted a small portion of the mixture. ‘I say, that’s tasty ̶ a great mix of ingredients and, if I’m not mistaken, a dash of black treacle.’

  The bottle of stout they’d brought home from the Half Moon added an extra flavour. The raisins were juicy and he detected the tang of molasses. Beth’s upbringing in Boston meant that she added an American influence to many of their recipes.

  ‘I thought he’d say no but he seemed really pleased to do it. We have him for the first of December as well as the dinner and dance later in the week before we close.’

  Harrington’s closed for Christmas and didn’t open again until February. It gave everyone a well-deserved rest and enabled James to decorate and refurbish any areas of the house and gardens that needed it.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Beth licking her spoon, ‘this is wonderful. I think we’re ready to make those wishes.’

  As if on cue, the presenter on the small radio in the corner announced that the next record would be ‘When You Wish upon a Star’.

  She dropped half a dozen silver sixpences into the mix. The coins were Victorian and James brought them out every year specifically for the pudding. Not only did they all make a wish on Stir-up Sunday but if you were lucky enough to find a coin in your portion on Christmas Day, your wish would allegedly come true. She stirred the pudding in a figure of eight; it squelched as the spoon waded through the mixture. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent wish and then opened them with a wide smile and invited Oliver to do the same. James watched as everyone, including the children, made their wishes.

  The telephone rang. He made his way to the hall and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Cavendish _.’

  ‘Ah, ciao, Lord Harrington?’

  ‘Mr Pisani, how lovely to hear from you.’ He caught his breath. ‘I say, you’re not cancelling, are you?’

  ‘Carlo Pisani, cancel? No, no, I have good news. I wanted to surprise you but Carlo, he’s no good at keeping secrets.’

  James raised his eyebrows. ‘And what is the secret?’

  ‘Olivia Dupree, she issa my secret.’

  ‘Good Lord. Is she your singer?’

  ‘Si, si, she like to sing with my band. I say, Olivia, you wanna sing with my band, you have to come to Harrington’s.’

  James winced. Harrington’s was, by no means, a run of the mill hotel but Olivia Dupree was used to singing at the London Palladium and topping the bill on the BBC variety shows. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Is this going to be expensive?’

  The band-leader chuckled. ‘She issa part of the band, Lord Harrington, you don’t pay any extra.’

  After the call, James imparted the news to everyone.

  ‘H-how wonderful!’ said Stephen.

  Anne’s eyes opened wide. ‘She sang at Buckingham Palace a few weeks ago. She’s a real coup.’

  ‘Oi’ said Bert, dropping his spoon in the sink, ‘don’t let the image fool you; she’s as common as muck.’ James stared at Bert who shrugged. ‘Real name’s Diane Brown; born in Shoreditch to a grocer and ’is wife. She’s as Cockney as I am.’

  ‘Good Lord, are you sure?’

  Beth frowned. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She went to school with a mate’s daughter; had ideas above ’er station even back then. Fair play to her, though. She’s got what she wants: she’s rich and famous, but not without upsetting ’er mum and dad.’

  ‘Oh, how awful to disappoint your parents like that.’

  ‘Do we have a full house, Dad,’ Harry put in, ‘because if we don’t we should advertise and make sure we do.’

  ‘Yes, nothing to worry about in that department. Let’s get into the study and I’ll go through what’s happening. Apart from the wedding party, we’ve four veterans from the Great War attending. I’ve given them a complimentary evening; the majority are in the following week for a proper reunion.’

  He felt Harry pat him on the back. ‘I hope this is going to run smoothly, Dad.’

  ‘Run smoothly? Why shouldn’t it?’

  ‘I mean I hope there’ll be no mysteries to solve. You didn’t wish for any, did you? Not sure that’s my bag.’

  He gave his son a sarcastic grin as he nudged him into the study.

  ‘Fingers crossed it’ll be a murder-free season.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The church bells rang a merry peal and spontaneous applause broke out in the Church of St Nicholas in Cavendish. James and Beth watched as GJ kissed his bride and gave the congregation a bashful smile. The wedding had been small, but perfect. Beth, Anne and members of the Women’s Institute had decorated the church with Christmas garlands and poinsettias. Forest ferns were laid along the aisle to help the church resemble a wooded clearing. Catherine looked resplendent in a simple white gown trimmed with a white fur collar. She held a bouquet of ferns, lilies and roses. GJ struck a handsome pose in a black suit with a red carnation buttonhole.

  There were few spare seats among the pews. Along with invited guests, many of the villagers, who had come to know GJ since he had been discovered in the Harrington’s barn, had wanted to be involved. As neither GJ nor Catherine had much family to speak of, James was pleased to see so much support and affection being shown for the young couple.

  Catherine’s widowed mother wept joyful tears. Even her cousin, Carl, such a moody individual when James last saw him in the summer, appeared genuinely happy for her. From GJ’s circle, he was pleased to see Gladys from the East End mission and his late mother’s sister, Juliet Brooks-Hunter. It was also wonderful to reacquaint himself with Gerald Crabtree, a man who had assisted him during the spring. His access to family records at Somerset House had been of great value.

  And now, invited guests were enjoying the reception in an area adjacent to the main dining room at Harrington’s. The staff, with instructions from Beth and Anne, had decorated the tables with a selection of vibrant roses, royal blue napkins and tall winter-white candles. They mirrored the forest theme from the church by placing sprays of fresh ferns and holly on the tables and around the door and window frames. Outside, a flurry of snow fell, leaving a dusting of white on the terrace.

  Through the arched opening, in the main dining room, the hotel guests enjoyed a sumptuous feast of goose, stuffing and vegetables. Prior to being seated, James and Beth were introduced to Olivia Dupree and her two companions: hairdresser Enid Carmichael and personal assistant, Mandy Billings. Olivia had given Mandy an impatient huff.

  ‘Smooth this material down. Enid, hairspray please, I can’t possibly appear in this state. You should be able to see that for yourself.’

  He decided, along with Beth, that the wonderful Olivia was a rather egotistical individual who had no respect for those she deemed beneath her.

  Earlier in the day, the staff had decorated three huge Christmas trees; one to welcome guests in the reception area; one for the corner of the main dining room and, for this particular year, a smaller tree for the wedding reception.

  Their branches sparkled with delicate baubles and vivid wooden
toys. White tinsel was draped around the branches and colourful fairy lights twinkled magically. Although most households didn’t put their trees up until nearer Christmas, James always remembered his father instructing the gardener to bring them in early. As far as Harrington Senior was concerned, Christmas began on the first of December.

  Once the trees had been decorated, the final act was down to Beth. James had held her tight as she reached up from the ladder to secure each of the angels. For decoration purposes, each tree had half a dozen boxes wrapped in Christmas paper under it but, by the following week, there would be gifts from James and Beth to all of their staff by way of a thank you for their hard work.

  In the main dining hall Adam, their young but experienced head waiter, organised the flow of food for the hotel guests as the band finished setting up.

  Meanwhile, the maître d’, Paul, took charge of events at the wedding reception. DCI George Lane arrived late with profuse apologies. He waved a quick hello to James and took his seat alongside Dr Jackson and his wife, Helen.

  James looked along the top table. Beyond him and Beth were GJ’s adoptive parents and Catherine’s mother. Further along were Stephen and Anne. Six tables of six guests were finishing their meals of roast pork, potatoes and vegetables. The pork, supplied by local butcher Graham Porter, was the tastiest he’d had in a long time and, as was his habit, James had left the crispy crackling as a treat to have at the end of the meal, with a sprinkling of salt. He noticed his chef, Didier, hovered at the door every so often with a slight air of anxiety. He certainly had his work cut out serving two complete menus in one evening. The smell of goose and pork mingled and sent his taste buds jumping even though he was full.

  ‘Isn’t this a wonderful day?’ said Beth. She wore a flattering tea-length lavender ballgown with a pleated organza neckline.

  James heaved a satisfied sigh and pushed his empty plate away. ‘It’s all been rather splendid, hasn’t it?’