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

  Mrs Jepson clamped her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh Lord above. Oh my goodness.’ Flustered, she dropped her handbag, patted her coat pockets and pulled out a hanky.

  James looked at Grimes’ painting of the Charn Wood copse with raised eyebrows. A talented artist. Certainly has a style about it, almost classical, similar to Constable. But what’s he doing painting at this time? He studied the ground. There seemed to be lots of footprints but, in these hard frosts, he didn’t know how recent they’d be - not that it mattered. But why leave the kitchen door open in this weather? And why leave your breakfast unfinished? He frowned and rubbed his forehead.

  Mrs Jepson dabbed her eyes. ‘Poor thing must’ve ‘ad a heart attack.’

  James swung round and was quick to hide any nagging doubts.

  ‘Yes, yes, I s’pose he must have. Listen, Mrs J, we’ll skip trying to call someone. It’ll be just as quick to run us back to the village and I’ll get Dr Jackson out. He’ll need to declare the death and whatever else they have to do.’

  ‘But we can’t just leave ‘im there.’

  ‘Mrs J, he’s rather a heavy-set man. I can’t carry him inside, he’s twice the size of me. Let the doctor and his staff handle it. They’ll be down here toot-sweet.’

  She clutched her handbag close and trudged toward the car. James closed Alec’s eyes and had one last glance around. Something’s wrong here. This doesn’t look right. Again, his suspicions nagged at him. A farmer doesn’t paint at this time of the day. He doesn’t get the hay out for feed and just leave it there.

  Putting his concerns to one side, he jogged back to the car and opened the door to help his cleaner climb into the Austin. The ‘caw’ of crows echoed through the stillness. They paraded menacingly along the telegraph wires, eager to investigate the motionless man sitting in the chair. James reached to the back seat and pulled out a travel blanket.

  ‘I’ll go and cover him up until the Doc arrives.’

  Leaving Mrs Jepson to her tears, James covered the farmer with the blanket and closed the side door to the house.

  They drove back to the village in silence, interrupted only by the odd tearful sniffs from Mrs Jepson. Once he’d established that she didn’t need any medical treatment, James dropped her off at home and drove straight to Dr Philip Jackson, who lived in a small terraced cottage in the centre of Cavendish.

  Dr Jackson’s arrival, four years ago, sparked a good deal of excitement among the ladies of the village. In his early thirties, he had a mass of unruly black, wavy hair, smouldering eyes and a winning smile. As a result, he’d become a heart-throb for the female population and the surgery had become unusually busy with quite minor ailments that appeared to frequently afflict the women in the area. To their constant disappointment, no matter how persuasive some ladies were, he remained loyal to his beautiful wife, Helen, and his 5-year old daughter, Natasha.

  James hammered on the green panelled door and the doctor answered with little delay.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’re in. I need you over at the Grimes place.’

  After describing the scene to him, Philip made a couple of quick calls and grabbed his black bag before making his way out. James tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Philip, do you mind if I ask you something?’

  ‘Fire away,’ the doctor replied as he threw his bag and Wellingtons into his Morris Minor.

  ‘When you check Grimes over, could you look out for a few other things as well?’

  Philip shot him a quizzical look. ‘What sort of things?’

  James shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know. There was just something odd. I don’t know what, just something that didn’t seem quite right.’

  ‘Well, I’ll take a good look and let you know what I find.’

  And, as Dr Jackson’s bulbous Morris disappeared out of sight, James had already begun thinking about contacting his long-standing friend, Detective Chief Inspector George Lane.

  CHAPTER TWO

  James cruised through the centre of Cavendish, allowing his thoughts to come and go while the beauty of the hamlet exploded in front of him. The weather and, indeed, the seasons, always dictated how pretty the village would look and today came close to perfection.

  He couldn’t pick a favourite season, as each projected its own distinct personality; but today, on this crisp, October morning, these scenes of Cavendish deserved a place on the lid of a Fortnum and Mason’s biscuit tin. Villagers slipped on icy pavements untouched by the sun. Two pensioners huddled on a cast-iron bench at the edge of the green smoking their pipes - their woolly hats pulled down over their ears.

  Behind the green stood the small Saxon church of St Nicholas, one of the last to be built under King Edward over a thousand years ago. Along from this was the 16th century Half Moon pub with its low-beamed interior and, next door, the village hall, meeting place for the Cavendish Players and venue of The Devil Incarnate.

  He winced. What on earth would the new vicar say about this play? He was bound to have some words to say. It was as far from Christmas and seasonal worship as you could go. A Christmas ghost story would, no doubt, be accepted, but The Devil Incarnate? The previous vicar would have shot them all down in flames. He smiled. If the Reverend Merryweather is of the same stock and vintage, it’ll be back to the faithful pantomime and no room for argument.

  Turning into his drive, James replayed the moment when he’d found Alec Grimes. The nagging concerns returned to badger him and they weighed heavy.

  As one question emerged, another followed. He parked the Austin Healey in the garage and took his gloves off as he wandered, deep in thought, to the front of the house. Far removed from the dishevelled state of Grimes’ farmhouse, James could see his gardener in the distance pruning and tidying the lawns and shrubs underneath the sweeping bay windows. The falling autumn leaves stood no chance of settling with him on the case, such was his pursuit of perfection in the skill of horticulture and landscape.

  A rusty, pale green Austin 7 stood at the bottom of the three shallow steps leading to the entrance. James looked at it curiously as he trotted up toward the front door and put his key in the lock. No sooner had he stepped into the hall than Beth scurried out from the kitchen.

  ‘The vicar’s here,’ she whispered.

  ‘I thought you said three o’clock?’ he whispered back.

  ‘That’s what I thought he said,’ said Beth, stifling a giggle. ‘I’ve just made tea. Glad they’re not having dinner, I’d never have been ready.’

  Beth helped him slip out of his jacket. ‘Did you find Alec Grimes?’

  ‘Yes, dead. Sitting at an easel, of all places.’

  Beth looked at him, horrified. He kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later. Come along, darling, you’d better introduce me.’

  James hid his surprise when he entered the lounge. His pre-conception of the new reverend had likened him to the old one. But Stephen Merryweather was no more than thirty-five years old - less than half the age of the previous vicar. He was a tall, lanky individual with a look that only a vicar could have, with a kindly, pale face that would see no wrong in anyone. He was dressed casually in charcoal grey trousers and a thick blue jumper. Not a dog collar in sight. How refreshingly modern. James smiled and shook his hand.

  ‘Reverend, welcome to Cavendish,’ he said. ‘Settling in okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I th-think so. It’s v-very nice, isn’t it?’ the young reverend replied with what appeared to be a natural stammer. ‘Th-this is my wife, Anne.’

  Anne, much shorter than her husband, had an open, honest face with chestnut hair that fell around her shoulders, brown eyes and a button nose. She half curtseyed and gave him a shy smile, although James could see a hint of mischief behind the smile. Something told him that this woman had a playfulness about her which would emerge once they got to know one another. James insisted they make themselves at home as Beth wheeled in a tea trolley cra
mmed with mouth-watering delicacies.

  The bottom tier held fine bone china cups, saucers and plates decorated with delicate cornflowers and poppies. Alongside lay small silver cake forks, a cake slice and a teapot with a matching design to the crockery. The top tier had an enticing display of home-made cherry scones, lemon drizzle tartlets and a deep Victoria sponge with raspberry jam and churned butter cream.

  Beth handed everyone a pristine cotton napkin and plate, inviting them all to choose their preferred cake.

  ‘Oh, your Ladyship,’Anne said, ‘this looks lovely. Can I ask do you do your own baking?’

  Beth held her hands up. ‘There’s one rule we have in this house and that is, we don’t stand on ceremony. We may live in the house at the top of the village, but to you, we’re James and Beth. And yes, I do my own baking and, I have to say, James does too. The Victoria sponge is his handiwork.’

  James waved the compliment aside with a loving smile at Beth. ‘Mmm, the days of Lords lording it over a village are a thing of the past, I’m afraid’ he said, ‘although I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Informality is the new concept these days.’

  Anne’s shoulders relaxed and Stephen smiled gratefully.

  ‘W-well, then, please ditch the reverend bit. W-we’re Stephen and Anne.’

  James eased into his armchair. ‘Well, Stephen and Anne, let’s have tea and scones and get to know one another, what?’

  Beth, delighted to see that everyone had an appetite, played the perfect hostess. She kept plates piled high and tea cups brimming and generally made Stephen and Anne feel at home.

  Over the next hour, James learnt that Stephen had moved from Kidlington, near Oxford. Originally a primary school teacher and regular churchgoer, he found himself drawn more to a religious vocation than a teaching one. After several years of hard study, he became a vicar, serving for one year as an army chaplain. Cavendish, James discovered, was his first real parish. Anne had taught at the same school and this is where they’d first met. Their two children, Luke, aged eight and Mark, ten, were to join them at the weekend after staying with their grandparents.

  ‘We thought it best to have them out of the way during the move,’ Anne said.

  Stephen stood, wandered across to the wide French windows and gazed across the extensive grounds.

  ‘J-James, when we were invited to the manor house, I expected…well, something along the lines of B-Blenheim Palace.’

  James chuckled and rose to join him, stirring his tea on the way. ‘Yes, most people do. You’ll find the original manor house about two miles that way.’ He pointed toward the hills that made up the South Downs. ‘My grandfather was the last Harrington to live there. He passed it on to my father. However, not only couldn’t he stand the place, but he also found it a financial nightmare. Not quite Blenheim, but it has thirty rooms, and there were four of us rattling around like peas in a bucket - Mother, Father, my sister and me - plus a few servants, of course, but a total waste.’

  ‘And,’ Beth added, ‘as James said, the Lord of the Manor isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘So,’ continued James, ‘we turned the old family pile into a country hotel and called it Harringtons. We’re only a few miles from the coast so it’s pretty popular. The servants have a hand in running the place now - you know, cleaners, chefs, bottle-washer, that sort of thing. Father designed this little beauty and we’ve been here ever since. We have five bedrooms, tennis court, nice patio, and lots of grounds. We love it.’

  Beth shook her head and chuckled. ‘I can’t imagine living in that stuffy old manor house. That just isn’t our thing at all.’

  ‘B-but you still do fetes and th-things?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied James, leading Stephen back to his chair. ‘We’ve stacks of land so we still host a lot of the village events. That’s most of what my role is, really - apart from running the hotel, of course. Next thing on the agenda is Halloween and Bonfire Night. Oh, and Beth’s getting stuck in on the play. By the way, you do know about the play at the village hall?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The Devil Incarnate.’

  Stephen sighed. ‘Y-yes, though I’m not sure what to make of it, or that I should condone it.’

  ‘Only a bit of fun,’ said James. ‘It’s written by a local, although I haven’t seen any of it yet.’

  Beth sat forward. ‘Why don’t you pop along to rehearsals this weekend? If you’re not comfortable with it, we can compromise I’m sure. After all, the hall does belong to the church, so we mustn’t offend, must we?’

  ‘I-I’m sure it’ll be fine. Perhaps they could just ch-change the name? I wouldn’t want anything untoward happening.’

  Beth turned to James. ‘Oh, speaking of untoward, are you going to tell us about Mr Grimes?’

  James’ eyes lit up as he sat down opposite his guests. ‘Gosh, yes. Vicar, you’ll need to know about this. You’ll probably be arranging the funeral.’

  James went through the events of the morning and his audience listened with a mixture of fascination and sadness.

  ‘Was he very old?’ Anne asked.

  ‘About fifty, I think. I didn’t really know him very well, always kept himself to himself. Not a true local, so to speak. Moved here about fifteen years ago, but never integrated much.’

  Anne frowned. ‘Unusual for a farmer to be painting. Farmers back in Kidlington are always moaning that they had too much to do.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that.’ James got up and helped himself to more cake. ‘Something else didn’t ring true, either.’ He eased back in his chair. ‘I’m blessed if I can think of what it is, though.’

  Beth asked if anyone would like more tea and had a resounding yes. As she collected the cups and saucers, she turned to James.

  ‘You know, there’s probably a perfectly logical explanation.’ She glanced at Stephen and Anne. ‘James fancies himself as a bit of a Paul Temple. Sees a mystery to solve in everything. If the deer in the far field walk a different direction, he needs to know why.’

  ‘Well, Anne’s a bit like that too,’ Stephen added. ‘Always reading M-Miss Marple and taking it all v-very seriously.’

  James grinned. ‘I mistakenly told Beth about a time I’d solved a crime back at Oxford. There was a spate of robberies around our billet and I managed to bag the blighter red-handed.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful,’ Anne gushed.

  ‘Then I collared someone during my time in the RAF. Some little upstart of a mechanic who was about to sabotage the planes. Turned out he had German heritage and was playing football for the other side.’

  ‘G-good grief,’ exclaimed Stephen.

  ‘How wonderful,’ Anne repeated gleefully.

  Beth wagged a finger at Anne. ‘Don’t you encourage him. We don’t need two sleuths detecting what’s probably an innocent death. A heart attack, that’s all it’ll be.’

  They chuckled as James rubbed his chin and pondered. A heart attack? Perhaps. But painting? Leaving your breakfast and the door wide open? From what he’d heard, busy farmers didn’t normally do anything on a whim. But then, he didn’t know Grimes at all. Perhaps that’s what he did? Perhaps he wasn’t a successful farmer? His house would certainly back that statement up. But then again, appearances are deceptive. He might have been one of those men who never spent a penny and hoarded everything under the floorboards?

  Anne helped gather the cups and saucers and put them on the tea trolley.

  ‘Oh Beth,’ said Anne. ‘I love your nail varnish. And what a striking colour.’

  James and Stephen glanced up as Beth splayed her hands. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said, ‘it’s one of my favourites. They have it in Liberty’s in London. I can get you some next time I’m in town. It’s called Scarlet Fever and—’

  James leapt up and punched the air. ‘That’s it! That’s what was wrong. I didn’t see any of it there.’

  Beth, Anne and Stephen stared at him as he dashed across the room and snatched open the door to the hall.

  ‘Do exc
use me,’ he said, looking back over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to put a call through to George.’

  Beth gave him an ‘are you serious?’ look. ‘George, as in Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector now, darling. Won’t be two minutes.’

  He bounded across to the phone in the hall and, aware of the confused faces that had followed his announcement, he called back.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything logical or normal about this. In fact, I think this was anything but a normal death.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Later that afternoon, James parked on the grass verge outside Grimes’ farm. Dusk had fallen and a couple of bored policemen plodded about, shining their torches through the dimmed light at nothing in particular.

  As he made his way to the farmhouse, he saw Detective Chief Inspector George Lane’s white police car with the single blue light on its roof. Further ahead, Philip Jackson puffed nonchalantly on his pipe as he fastened his bag and loaded it into his car. Grimes’ body had been taken away and the chair that he’d sat in, along with the painting and oils, stood in a pile on the ground. James decided to speak with Jackson before he rushed off.

  ‘What-ho, Philip. Did you find anything?’

  Jackson shook his head. ‘Nothing too suspicious from what I could see.’

  James’ ears pricked. ‘But you found something.’

  The doctor screwed his face up. ‘Not really, just a bump. More like a graze on the head. It could’ve been caused by bumping into the corner of a cupboard or something. Looks like a heart attack to me. That’s what I’m putting on the death certificate.’ He looked past James and gestured at DCI Lane entering the farmhouse. ‘Did you call him in?’

  James gave a rueful smile and scratched his head.

  ‘Yes. Not sure how well it’ll go down, but I remember what it was that didn’t seem right.’

  Philip threw his Wellingtons on the back seat, climbed into his car and started the engine. He swept his thick, wavy hair from his face. ‘Well, I’m intrigued to know, but I have a patient to see. Are you in the pub tonight?’