Free Archie's Battleflat Adventures: The Harriman Mystery by Rebecca King

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.
    “