Archie's Battleflat Adventures: The Harriman Mystery (8 page)

Was the man waiting until his parents had gone to sleep?
Was
that
what he
was waiting for? The more Archie considered the possibility, the
more he realised that the man watching the house was waiting until
everyone had gone to sleep before making his move.

Archie
knew that there was only one thing the man could possibly be
considering.

Getting
into the house.

Archie’s
stomach churned at the thought of coming face to face with the
murderer again. Filled with fear and determination in equal
measure, Archie rose to his feet, a dark scowl on his
face.

He
briefly contemplated going into his parents’ room, but immediately
dismissed the idea. He had to protect his family, and that meant
keeping them inside where it was safe. If his father thought there
was someone lurking outside, he would get dressed and go outside to
check. Alone. In the dark. The image of Mr Harriman’s mottled face
swam before Archie, and it was enough to keep him where he was. But
that meant that it was now down to Archie, and Archie alone, to
make sure that the murderer didn’t get into the house.

Shaking
his head, Archie reluctantly eased to his knees again to stare out
into the darkness. He waited and waited, and began to wonder if the
man had left. He had begun to shake from the rapidly growing chill
within the room until he couldn’t stand it any longer, and simply
had to return to the warmth of the bed. With toes numb from the
cold, he was about to turn away from the window, when the figure
appeared at the side of the cart track again, as silent as a wraith
in the moonlight.

The
suddenness with which the man simply appeared was startling, and
Archie couldn’t withhold the gasp of horror at the familiar outline
of the man who had killed Mr Harriman. He hadn’t even seen the man
move. One minute there had been nothing, and the next, a tall dark
figure wearing a cloak simply appeared in the middle of the
track.

Curiosity kept Archie still. Hidden behind the solid pane of
the shutter, he watched the man study the house. Now his initial
fear had begun to ease, fuelled by the need to protect his family,
Archie couldn’t move away. Because of the roiling storm clouds, it
was difficult to tell where the man was looking, but if Archie was
to believe what he was seeing, he would think that the man was
watching Archie, watching him!

If he
wanted Archie, why wasn’t he trying to get into the house to get
him?

Did he
want Archie to know that he was watching? Was he trying to frighten
him?

Archie
scowled. He hated bullies, and wasn’t going to be scared by the
murderer opposite. After all, the man standing outside was the one
who had deliberately taken the life of another person. The man
outside was the one who should be afraid.

He
watched in frozen horror when, in a flurry of black, the figure
dashed across the cart track toward the house.

“
Oh, no,” Archie whispered, and practically flew across the
room. There was no loud crashing of the kitchen door being kicked
down; no smashing of glass as the murderer tried to climb through
the window. Nothing but silence.

As
quietly as he could, he tiptoed down the stairs, easing open the
door to the sitting room. He knew his dad would have bolted the
back door, but there was always the window. Creeping inside the
sitting room, Archie closed the door behind him. Moving swiftly to
the fireplace, he picked up the reassuring solidity of the iron
poker and crept toward the window.

His gulp was loud in the still night air. Halfway around the
table he heard the soft rattle of the back door. Closing his eyes
briefly, he silently prayed that his dad
had
thought to bolt the door before
going to bed. Hefting the poker high, Archie ignored the hammering
of his heart and moved to the kitchen door. Nothing. Moving back
into the sitting room, he sidled toward the window, standing to one
side with his back to the wall. The curtains were drawn against the
cold, and allowed Archie to peep between the flowered material and
the wall, without being seen.

Although, what he saw there made him wish he hadn’t seen
anything at all. There, mere inches from his nose, was the shadowed
face of the murderer. Although it was buried beneath the hood of
his cloak, the cruel twist of the mouth above the pointed chin were
fresh in Archie’s memory.

“
What are you doing?” Archie mouthed into the empty room. The
scratching sound, although faint, was clearly the sound of
something metal being scratched against the glass.

The
murderer was trying to break in.

Archie’s
mind raced with possibilities. Determination swept through him.
Squaring his shoulders like a soldier going to battle, he stared at
the candlestick sitting in the middle of the table, and frowned, a
flicker of an idea beginning to form.

Dad had
stoked the fire up before turning into bed, and it now glowed
heartily in the grate. Eyeing the glowing flames, Archie grabbed
the candlestick and, grabbing a spill from the metal holder beside
the fire, quickly lit the candle. Holding the candlestick aloft, he
eyed the distance between the ground and the candle, judging it to
be about the same height his father would have carried the flame,
and moved toward the kitchen.

“
Ahem,” Archie coughed, as low in his throat as his voice
would go. Placing the candlestick on the dresser beside the kitchen
door, he raced back toward the sitting room, peering out of the
small gap between the curtain and the window frame.

“
Great!” he gasped, delighted to find the dark shadow of the
murderer and would-be burglar had vanished. Flushed with success,
Archie flew through the sitting room, and took the stairs two at a
time. Despite the thrill of excitement, he quietly tiptoed toward
the window, keeping a careful eye on a still sleeping Ben and
Sammy. Keeping his back to the wall, he cautiously peered out into
the gloom, studying the shadows carefully.

It was
the brief flurry of movement further down the lane that captured
his attention.

“
It’s a good night from me,” Archie declared, filled with
jubilation, a wide grin of satisfaction on his face. Grinning from
ear to ear, he quietly closed the shutters. If he was lucky he
would be able to catch a wink or two of sleep before it was time to
get up.

Slumping
into bed with a yawn, he wriggled and nudged Sammy across to the
middle of the bed. Despite the tiredness sapping his waning energy,
he couldn’t sleep. His fingers still tingled with the success of
scaring away the would-be intruder, and foiling the murderer’s
plans. Grinning at the ceiling, Archie placed his hands behind his
head and began to think.

The man was brave. Or stupid; Archie wasn’t sure which. He
had clearly been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go
out so he could break in and get to Archie. But Archie had other
ideas. Nobody was going to get into
his
house. He had thwarted him once,
Archie knew he could do it again.

He was
safe. For now.

But
Archie realised that tonight, the man would try again. This time
though, Archie would be ready for him.

Ready –
and waiting.

With a
frown at the ceiling, he wondered just how many nights he could
keep it up for. To be waiting for the would-be attacker would mean
going without sleep, and he was already tired as it was. He had to
sleep at some point. Although he could catch forty winks at break
time while at work, it wasn’t the same as getting a good night’s
sleep.

That
meant only one thing. He had to discover the identity of the
murderer, and bring him to justice as quickly as he
could.

“
But how do you go about catching a murderer?” Archie
whispered to nobody in particular. The sound of his voice in the
night air reassured him, and bolstered his courage even further.
With the absence of having a friend to confide in, it felt good to
be able to put a voice to his thoughts.

One
question that had been plaguing him all day popped into his
mind.

Why
murder Mr Harriman?

Archie
thought back to the victim’s strange behaviour, and reluctantly
began to think over the events of that fateful afternoon when
everything had changed so much. Mr Harriman had been whistling –
happy, almost. Which, for a usually dour man like Mr Harriman, was
strange behaviour indeed. So what had made him happy? He had been
to see his sister? On Sundays, straight after church, Mr Harriman
always went to see his sister – everyone knew that. But visiting
his sister didn’t usually make Mr Harriman smile.

So what
had happened? Archie frowned, wondering if he had missed something.
He thought about the way Mr Harriman had dressed.

“
Nothing unusual there,” Archie muttered, thinking about the
man’s clean, starched shirt and Sunday best. He hadn’t been wearing
a hat. That left the question of where Lord Brentwood had gotten
hold of the murderer’s hat. The man who had tried to break into
Archie’s hadn’t been wearing the same cloak that had been worn on
the day of Mr Harriman’s murder. The one the murderer was wearing
tonight had a hood that had been pulled up to shield the intruder’s
face. Had the man swapped the cloak for one with a hood because the
Justice had the tricorn?

Reluctantly, Archie turned his thoughts to the small white
piece of – something – Mr Harriman had been holding on the day of
his death. Where was it? Had the murderer got it? Was it what the
murder had killed Mr Harriman for? If so, had the murderer got it?
One thing was for certain, Archie couldn’t get hold of it now. It
could still be with Mr Harriman, and he now lay in the cellar of
the tavern, awaiting burial.

An
alarming flicker of an idea crept into Archie’s head but, with a
shudder of revulsion, he quickly brushed it to one side. There was
nothing that could persuade him to go and see Mr Harriman’s dead
body.

Nothing
at all.

Ever.

He
sighed when Sammy rolled over in bed and sleepily draped one arm
over his chest and a very heavy leg over his hips, effectively
pinning Archie to the bed. Abruptly shoving both limbs off him,
Archie rolled over, his eyes landing on the solitary candle sitting
on the table inches from his nose.

“
Dad will be really angry,” he gasped, shoving out of bed once
more and stumbling toward the door. He didn’t need to rush
downstairs to know that the expensive candle would have burnt down
to a gloopy stub by now. His dad would be angry at the wasted
expense.

He stood
in the doorway to the sitting room, sighing despondently at the
waxy lump lying in the middle of the table.

“
What is it, Archie?”

Archie
let out a muffled squeak and spun around on his heel, staring in
shock at his father now standing behind him in the
hallway.

“
Dad! I didn’t hear you.”

“
What are you doing out of bed, boy? It’s still early.” Jack
scowled down at his son.

“
Couldn’t sleep,” Archie mumbled. It was the truth, really. He
hadn’t been able to settle down enough to sleep. He glanced warily
at his father, but couldn’t see anything except sympathy on his
dad’s face.

Jack
clasped his son’s shoulder. “It’s not surprising, I suppose. Given
what you saw,” he whispered.

Archie
moved into the sitting room, taking a seat at the table and staring
into the ash within the now empty hearth.

“
Huh, what on earth?” Jack mumbled, staring at the candle stub
with a frown, a useless spill lying in his hand.

“
It’s my fault,” Archie reluctantly admitted. He was busy
staring down at his feet thoughtfully, and missed the worried frown
his father sent him.

“
Scared of the dark now?”

Archie’s
brows flew upward and he glanced at his father. He had expected a
stern reminder that candles were expensive and not to be wasted.
The last thing he had thought his dad would do was smile gently at
him, and ruefully shake his head.

Archie
shook his head briefly and glanced up at his dad. “I thought I
heard someone trying to break in.” He watched his father’s brows
shoot skyward.

“
When?” The brisk question shot across the room.

Archie
could feel the tension reverberate between them, and mentally
winced. “A couple of hours ago. It could have been an animal or
something, but I came down to check. By the time I lit the candle,
whatever it was had gone.”

Jack sat
down at the table with a thump, staring cautiously at his son. Even
in the early morning gloom, he could see the dark shadows beneath
Archie’s eyes, and wondered if he had slept at all.

“
What did you hear?” Jack asked, intrigued and worried in
equal measure.

“
Scratching at the window,” Archie replied, nodding toward the
solitary window beside the kitchen doorway.

Jack
nodded slowly, studying his son. He had no doubt that Archie had
been terrified by witnessing a murder. Anyone would have been
scared witless. It was possible that his imagination was running
wild with him and, given that he was undoubtedly unnerved by the
whole experience, was to be expected for a while. In all
conscience, although they could do without wasting too many
candles, he couldn’t begrudge the boy a bit of light if he got
scared. He worked hard enough for it, after all.