Roots of Evil E-Book

K.C. Wells

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 360

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Sequel to Truth Will Out A Merrychurch Mysteries Case Many consider Naomi Teedle the village witch. Most people avoid her except when they have need of her herbs and potions. She lives alone on the outskirts of Merrychurch, and that's fine by everyone—old Mrs. Teedle is not the most pleasant of people. But when she is found murdered, her mouth bulging with her own herbs and roots, suddenly no one has a bad word to say about her. Jonathon de Mountford is adjusting to life up at the manor house, but it's not a solitary life: pub landlord Mike Tattersall sees to that. Jonathon is both horrified to learn of the recent murder and confused by the sudden reversal of public opinion. Surely someone in the village had reason to want her dead? He and Mike decide it's time for them to step in and "help" the local police with their investigation. Only problem is, their sleuthing uncovers more than one suspect—and the list is getting longer….

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

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Copyright

Roots of Evil

By K.C. Wells

Sequel to Truth Will Out

A Merrychurch Mysteries Case

Many consider Naomi Teedle the village witch. Most people avoid her except when they have need of her herbs and potions. She lives alone on the outskirts of Merrychurch, and that’s fine by everyone—old Mrs. Teedle is not the most pleasant of people. But when she is found murdered, her mouth bulging with her own herbs and roots, suddenly no one has a bad word to say about her.

Jonathon de Mountford is adjusting to life up at the manor house, but it’s not a solitary life: pub landlord Mike Tattersall sees to that. Jonathon is both horrified to learn of the recent murder and confused by the sudden reversal of public opinion. Surely someone in the village had reason to want her dead? He and Mike decide it’s time for them to step in and “help” the local police with their investigation. Only problem is, their sleuthing uncovers more than one suspect—and the list is getting longer….

In memory of my father, Peter Jones. I’m glad we got to discuss this one.

Dear Reader, if you get the feeling that someone is reading over your shoulder, but there’s no one there? Don’t panic—it’s just my dad. He’s checking my grammar. ;-)

Acknowledgments

AS ALWAYS, thank you to my beta team. Your eyes see so much.

But special thanks to my husband, Andrew. There is so much of you in this book—your ideas for the plot, dialogue, intrigue, humor…. I couldn’t have written this one without you.

Chapter One

Saturday, November 4, 2017

JONATHON DE Mountford circled the bonfire, unable to keep his grin at bay. “This is going to be great.” The pile of wood and other combustible items had been growing steadily since before Halloween, after he’d announced a Bonfire Night party to be held at the manor. Every day had seen more added to its height, and he’d watched its progress with glee. “Only six hours to go!” He came to a halt at Mike’s side, admiring the view.

“You’re nothing but a big kid at heart, aren’t you?” Mike Tattersall gave him a playful nudge with his elbow. “Look at you, all excited about setting fire to a pile of… crap.”

Jonathon narrowed his gaze. “Crap? Crap?” He caught the twinkle in Mike’s eye. “Don’t give me that. You’re just as big a kid. I saw you drooling over the list of fireworks.” He gave Mike a smug smile. “And don’t tell me you were merely checking in the interests of public safety. That was you, wasn’t it? ‘Ooh, Catherine wheels! Cool.’”

Mike aimed a mock glare in his direction. “Which only goes to confirm my suspicions. You have ears like a shit-house rat.”

Jonathon let out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess the honeymoon is definitely over.”

Mike snorted. “Sweetheart, the honeymoon was over the first morning you rolled onto your side, snuggled up against me, and farted.”

Jonathon gave him the sweetest smile he could muster. “How does the saying go? ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’? Because that’s all I was doing.”

Mike held up his hands. “Okay, okay, so we’re both as bad as the other.” He gazed at the towering pile. “It’s very impressive. I can’t believe how much stuff people have brought.”

It had been Jonathon’s idea to provide the firework display, but rather than make it a lord-of-the-manor thing, he’d wanted to involve the whole village. Between Mike (in the pub), Rachel Meadow (in her tea shop), and Mike’s sister, Sue (everywhere else), they’d gotten word out that villagers were to bring the components of the bonfire. It began as a trickle but had soon swelled into a steady stream of people carrying whatever they could lay their hands on.

Only, it hadn’t stopped there. Paul Drake, a local pig farmer, announced that he was going to supply a hog roast. Rachel came up with the idea of providing tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. Mike was planning a beer and mulled wine stall, and the Women’s Institute stepped in to say they’d provide baked potatoes, hot dogs, and burgers. The Merrychurch brass band agreeing to play was the icing on the cake.

It was going to be a fantastic event, and Jonathon couldn’t wait. The bonfire had surpassed his initial expectations, and it warmed his heart to see the village pulling together. Everything was in place to make it an evening to remember.

“At least the rain held off,” Jonathon commented. There had been indications that a shower was possible, but the skies remained clear. “Not that it would have mattered. We’d simply have moved the event to tomorrow night.”

Mike coughed. “Er, no, we couldn’t. Remember? We’d have had all the ladies on the Parish Council on our backs. Why do you think I suggested holding it on the fourth instead of the fifth?”

“I did wonder about that.” Mike had assured him this was the way it had to be, and Jonathon had acquiesced.

“It’s always been this way. Celebrating Guy Fawkes’ Night on a Sunday is generally frowned upon. Seeing as we are remembering a plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament.” Mike affected a cut-glass accent. “Not quite the done thing, eh?”

Jonathon sighed. “I wouldn’t know. I never went to bonfire parties when I was younger.” He gazed around the grounds. “Maybe this is my way of making up for what I missed.”

“Then we’re gonna make this one memorable. Did I tell you?” Mike grinned. “Sue is doing a bobbing-for-apples stand with Andrew. That should be a laugh. And Doris from the village shop is doing a raffle, all proceeds going to charity. She says she’s been asking for donations for the last week, and so far people have been really generous. Doris did want me to remind you. Apparently you’re contributing a grand prize.”

Jonathon nodded. “I’ve been putting together a hamper. It’s full of local produce, including a lot of fresh meat from the farms on the estate. I spent three days last week going around and asking if local businesses wanted to contribute. I’m adding a couple of bottles of champagne and those handmade chocolates I picked up in London, to make it a bit special. By the time I’m finished, there won’t be room to add a chocolate drop.” He peered at Mike. “Is everything ready for your stall?”

“Right down to the oranges and cinnamon sticks for the mulled wine. The pub won’t be open tonight. I don’t see the point—everyone will be here.”

Jonathon was keeping his fingers crossed. The summer fete had been organized by Melinda Talbot, the vicar’s wife, but this was his baby, the first event he’d arranged in the village, and he wanted it to be a success. Slowly but surely, he was getting to know the villagers, but there were still so many he hadn’t met yet, including his own tenants. Hardly surprising, seeing as he’d not been in the village all that long. That was another reason for holding the bonfire party—a chance to get to know more of Merrychurch’s inhabitants.

It’ll be fine. As long as we don’t set fire to anyone.

“THAT GUY Fawkes is amazing,” Melinda exclaimed, her thin, gloved hands wrapped around a polystyrene cup of mulled wine. “I must admit, it made my heart jump when they threw it onto the bonfire. It’s so realistic.”

“Do you think the event is a success?” Jonathon peered anxiously around them. With twenty or so minutes to go until the fireworks began at nine o’clock, it seemed like most of the village had turned out. Graham Billings, the local constable, had roped off the bonfire so no one could get too close, and had checked it several times before Jonathon lit it, to make sure no animals had gotten into it. He was presently engaged in strolling around its perimeter, giving stern glances at kids who were trying to set off fireworks on their own. Everyone was standing around the blaze, talking and laughing, their faces glowing in the firelight.

Melinda patted his arm. “Relax, Jonathon. You’ve done really well, especially considering how little time you’ve had to pull this all together.” She laid her hand on his cheek. “Dominic would be very proud of you, to see you settling in like this.”

That remark was enough to send warmth surging through him. The cheers that had filled the air when he’d lit the bonfire had been gratifying.

The Merrychurch brass band launched into “Light My Fire,” and everyone around them laughed and applauded enthusiastically. They’d already played “Fire” by Arthur Brown, and “Play with Fire” by the Rolling Stones. Someone in the band obviously had a sense of humor. Not only that, but it showed a lot of commitment: there hadn’t been all that much time to learn the pieces.

Jonathon glanced around. “Where’s Lloyd? Didn’t he come with you?”

Melinda sighed. “He sends his apologies, but he has to finish his sermon. And then there’s Jinx. That cat is scared to death every Bonfire Night. I looked in on Lloyd before I came out this evening, and Jinx was tucked in behind him on his chair. It can’t have been comfortable, but Lloyd said he didn’t have the heart to move him.”

Mike appeared at Jonathon’s side, bringing him a cup of mulled wine. “No luck finding him a curate?”

Melinda shook her head. “It appears no one wants to be the curate of a small village where nothing happens.”

Mike chuckled. “Merrychurch is hardly that, especially after this summer.”

Melinda glared at him. “Do not remind me, please. The number of people who stop me in the street—almost three months later, mind you—and ask if I’m sure I had no inkling that Sebastian was capable of murder….” She shivered.

Jonathon put his arm around her. “Ignore them. None of us had any idea, okay? How could we?”

Melinda gave him a grateful smile. “Not exactly an auspicious start to your life in the village.”

Jonathon was doing his best to put it behind him, but living at the manor house wasn’t easy. There were so many memories of Dominic. Although the study was a beautiful room, Jonathon hardly ever went in there. The marble would always bear the stain of his uncle’s blood. Instead, he’d decided to live mainly in the west wing, where he’d chosen a large room to act as a photography studio, and was focusing his energies on getting it ready to use.

“This was a wonderful idea.”

The loud voice plucked Jonathon from his thoughts and dropped him back into the present. A small crowd of people had gathered around him, Mike, and Melinda, but some of them were strangers to him. He recognized the speaker instantly, a distinguished-looking man in his forties.

“Thank you—” Jonathon cleared his throat. “Do I address you as Mr. Mayor?”

The mayor laughed. “That would be fine if this was a public engagement. But tonight I’m just John Barton, enjoying the village bonfire with my family.” He inclined his head to the well-dressed woman on his right arm. “Have you met my wife, Debra? And this is our son, Jason.”

Jonathon shook hands with Debra. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He gave Jason a nod. The young man had to be in his late teens, a handsome boy with the most beautiful green eyes.

To Jonathon’s surprise, Jason grasped his hand and shook it enthusiastically. “I’ve got your books. I think your photos are so cool.”

“Thank you.” It didn’t matter how many times Jonathon heard remarks like that. The result was always the same: his face grew hot and he didn’t know what to say next.

“Ay-up mi-duck.” An elderly woman with a lined face and bright blue eyes addressed Jason with a wide smile. “Lookin’ more ’andsome every time I see ya. Just like your dad.”

Jason smiled politely. “Good evening, Mrs. Teedle.”

Beside him, his mother stiffened momentarily but quickly recovered and gave Mrs. Teedle a polite nod, her expression impassive. Around Jonathon, others reacted similarly.

Jonathon might not have known some of the vocabulary, but there was an inflection to her voice that he recognized immediately. “I don’t think we’ve met.” He held out his hand. “Jonathon de Mountford.”

“An’ like Jason said, I’m Mrs. Teedle.” She took his hand, cackling. “Allreet. Don’t think tha’s met all the tenants yet.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps not, but it’s obvious you’ve spent time in Australia.”

She hooted with laughter. “Bless ya, duck. Thirty years I lived there. Don’t exactly sound like a native, though, do I?”

He laughed. “Not really. It’s just now and then, the way your voice rises in places….”

“I’ve been back twenty years, but yeah, I can still hear it now and again. Roots win out in the end. I’ve never managed to shift me accent.” She inclined her head toward the lower part of the field, where the fireworks had been set up. “What time is kickoff? ’Cos I want to be out of here before then.”

Jonathon frowned. “Oh. But the fireworks are the best part.”

Mrs. Teedle shook her head. “Not for me, mi-duck.” She lifted a wrinkled hand to gently pull back her gray-and-white hair, revealing her ear. “One Bonfire Night when I were a kid, a Roman candle took off when it should’ve stayed put and took part of me ear with it.”

Jonathon peered closely. The ear had a pointed look to it. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged as she removed her hand. “It were a long time ago. An’ to this day, I’m still not that keen on fireworks. This hasn’t bothered me for many a year. I used to tell people I was Mr. Spock’s understudy.” She grinned, the lines deepening around her eyes.

Mike snickered. “Have you bought a raffle ticket yet, Mrs. Teedle? There are some great prizes.”

Mrs. Teedle let out another hoot of laughter. “Bless ya, mi-duck, that’s why I came. I’ve donated some of me jams as one of the prizes.” She peered intently at Jonathon. “But seeing as you’re me landlord, I guess it would be polite to buy a ticket. Besides, I saw the champagne bottles just now, stickin’ out of that hamper. Always was partial to a bit of bubbly.”

Mike dug out the envelope containing the tickets from his jacket pocket. “I’ve only got a couple left anyway. You never know—one could be the winning ticket.”

Mrs. Teedle fished in her pocket and brought out a pound coin. “There ya go. Me last bit of change.” She peered at the pink ticket. “Well, gerra move-on an’ write me name on your copy. I’m not gonna ’ang about ’ere. I may be British born and bred, but these old bones have got a bit nesh in me old age. I’m off to my warm bed.”

Mike scribbled her name on the duplicate ticket. “All done. Good luck.”

Mrs. Teedle regarded him with bright eyes. “I’ve always believed you make your own luck.” Her grin widened. “An’ I’ve always been a jammy sod.” She acknowledged Jonathon with a brief nod. “Pleased to meet the lord of the manor at last. Good night, ladies an’ gents.” And with that, she shuffled away from the small gathering.

Jonathon had to smile. “Is she what you’d call a village character?” Mrs. Teedle was maybe in her seventies or eighties, dressed in black, but she moved fairly sprightly for her age.

Melinda cleared her throat. “That’s one way of describing her. In less charitable times, she’d have been called the village witch.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Witch is right.” A woman next to Melinda stared after Mrs. Teedle with her eyes narrowed to slits. “All those potions of hers… you don’t know what you’re getting half the time.” She tossed back a mane of long blond hair.

The man next to her rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Dawn, let it drop, will you? It’s been three years.”

Dawn glared at him. “Yeah? And where would I be now if she hadn’t stuck her oar in?”

“You don’t know that,” the man said softly. He pulled gently on her arm. “Come on. I’ll buy you another roast pork sandwich.”

Grumbling, she allowed him to lead her toward Paul Drake’s hog roast stand.

Jonathon’s head was still reeling. “But… she’s not really a witch… is she?”

Jason laughed. “She’s this old biddy who lives in a cottage at the edge of the forest. Sure, you hear lots of stories about her, but I’ve known her all my life. People are always gonna have shit to say about someone, right? Especially someone who’s a bit mysterious and minds their own business.”

His father gazed at him with affection. “And some people always see the good in others.”

Jason’s face flushed, and he coughed. “Is it time for fireworks yet?”

Jonathon laughed. “I think that was a hint.” He addressed those people standing around him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go press a switch.”

“And I’m gonna go with him to make sure he doesn’t blow himself up,” Mike added with a wink. That got a laugh from the small crowd.

“I’ll get Graham to tell everyone,” Melinda called out as they walked toward the bottom of the field, where a control box had been set up. Everything would begin with the press of one button.

When they got there, Jonathon paused and looked back. The facade of the manor house was lit by several lanterns, which cast eerie shadows over the stone frontage. The bonfire still burned, its flames reaching high into the sky. It would be a few hours before it would extinguish itself.

Mike nudged him. “Ready to set fire to about a thousand pounds-worth of fireworks?”

Jonathon chuckled. “To get everyone together like this, virtually the whole village? It was worth every penny.” He stood still, listening to Graham’s strident announcement via a megaphone. Suddenly the air was filled with voices as the countdown began.

“Five… four… three… two… one!”

And with that, Jonathon pressed the switch, then hurried back up the field to get a better view, accompanied by a chorus of oohs and aahs. The night sky was filled with showers of colored light, set against a soundtrack of whizzes, cracks, whistles, and bangs. Jonathon watched the display with joy, Mike’s hand curled around his.

Yeah. Worth every penny.

Chapter Two

JONATHON ROLLED over in bed, smiling to himself to find Mike still there, on his side facing the window, obviously fast asleep. It wasn’t as if Mike shared Jonathon’s bed every night, not that Jonathon would mind that in the slightest, but Jonathon loved those nights when he heard the crunch of gravel outside as Mike drove his 4x4 onto the drive, and a thrill of anticipation rippled through him.

I love it when he stays the night.

Jonathon hadn’t had many relationships in his life thus far, and he knew it was still early days. The signs were good, however, in spite of the reception Mike had received from Jonathon’s father—enough to cause frostbite in the middle of August. Thankfully, Thomas de Mountford’s career kept him busy enough that visits to Merrychurch would be few and far between.

Jonathon shifted across the bed, wrapped his arm around Mike’s waist, and planted gentle kisses across his shoulders.

Mike stirred slightly, and a soft noise of appreciation gladdened Jonathon’s heart. “Morning.”

Jonathon kissed Mike’s neck, loving the shiver that shuddered through his body. “It’s only seven. We have plenty of time.”

Suddenly, Mike moved, pushing Jonathon onto his back and rolling on top of him. He gazed into Jonathon’s eyes, his lips twitching. “Time for what?”

Jonathon let out a contented, drawn-out sigh. “Whatever you want.”

Mike’s equally happy sigh was music to his ears. “I like the sound of that.” He drew the sheets over their heads and tugged Jonathon farther down the bed, the two of them lost in a cocoon of soft cotton, a padded mattress, and kisses that promised much more to come.

Jonathon loved his mornings.

“THERE’S MORE toast if you want it, sir,” Janet said as she cleared away the plates from the dining table. “And Ivy’s just brewed another pot of coffee, seeing as Mr. Tattersall is here.” Her pink cheeks glowed.

Jonathon gazed at her in silence for a moment, then smiled. “Yes to both, please, Janet.”

She nodded and disappeared from the room.

Jonathon sighed. “It’s not much to ask, is it? I’m Jonathon. You’re Mike.” Janet had been with him a month and didn’t appear to have gotten the message.

Mike’s eyes twinkled. “It’s not gonna happen. She’s your housekeeper. You’re always going to be sir.”

“I’m still not convinced I need a housekeeper,” Jonathon grumbled.

Mike laughed. “At least this way I know someone is looking after you, making sure you eat, seeing to the laundry, et cetera, when I’m not around.” He chuckled. “You need a keeper.”

Jonathon straightened in his chair. “I managed to look after myself just fine in—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve traveled all around the world. Well, Mr. Explorer, you’re home now. You’re not staying in a shantytown or a tent or God knows what. You have a manor house to think about. And even though you may only live in part of it, the place still needs looking after and cleaning. As do you. So either like it or lump it, Mr. Lord of the Manor.” Mike folded his arms across his chest and stared at Jonathon as if daring him to reply.

Jonathon knew better. He let out another sigh. “When I was a kid, we had a cook, a housekeeper, and a gardener. That’s how I grew up. So maybe I simply need to get used to that kind of life again.”

Mike’s smile spoke of approval. “Exactly. And Ivy’s more forthright than Janet. She’s not shy about telling you what she thinks, is she?”

That made Jonathon laugh. Ivy was a middle-aged woman whose children had all grown up and left the nest. Her husband was away a lot on business, and she’d needed something to do. Cooking for Jonathon provided that. And he had to admit, her culinary skills were amazing. He’d never eaten so well.

“Ivy’s great. They both are.”

Before Jonathon had taken them on, one of the first topics he’d brought up had been the subject of Mike. The last thing he wanted was people working for him who would not be comfortable with the reality of a gay employer. As it was, he couldn’t have wished for better staff. Ivy’s older brother was gay, a fact she’d shared almost instantly, and Janet’s face had flushed when she announced she was more than happy to work for him. That only left old Ben Threadwell, who worked in the gardens. He’d given Mike an odd glance or two at first, but that had been it.

Janet entered the dining room with a pot of coffee and a replenished toast rack. “Can I just say what a great time I had last night, sir? That bonfire was wonderful, and I’ve never seen so many fireworks. And I won a prize in the raffle.” She beamed. “There was this lovely, soft rainbow scarf and gloves. That’ll do me a treat this winter.”

Mike smiled broadly. “Aw. My sister knitted those.”

Jonathon had been delighted by how many tickets they’d sold. All the prizes had been collected, with the exception of the hamper. “You’ve both reminded me. I have to inform the winner of the grand prize today.”

“Who won it?”

Jonathon grinned. “The village witch, apparently.” He straightened his features. “Sorry. That was how she was described to me last night. It conjured up images of her crouching beside a cauldron, stirring a boiling liquid….”

To his surprise, Janet pursed her lips. “You may think it’s a joke, sir, but trust me, there’s no smoke without fire. The stories I could tell you about that Mrs. Teedle….” She drew herself up to her full height of five feet. “But I’m not one to speak ill of people behind their backs.” And with that, she marched out of the room.

Jonathon stared at the closed door. “Wow. I think I touched a nerve.” He glanced across at Mike. “What do you know about Mrs. Teedle?”

Mike snickered. “You keep forgetting, I’ve not been here all that long, not much more than a year. I’ve seen her once or twice in the village, but that’s all. She doesn’t come to the pub, and she hadn’t popped up on my radar.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s like young Jason said last night—she’s just a harmless old lady who likes to live alone.”

“And is that what Sue says?” Jonathon asked with a grin.

Mike speared him with a look. “Seeing as my sister has an opinion on everything and everyone in this village, of course she has something to say. She thinks Mrs. Teedle is a creepy old lady, but most of that is based on where she lives.”

Now Jonathon was intrigued. “And where is that?”

“You know the forest that starts right at the outer edge of the village? Not far from Ben’s place? She has a house there, just along the path that leads into the forest.”

“What—in the forest?” Jonathon gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’m with Sue, then. That sounds spooky.”

Mike bit his lip. “Well, you get to see for yourself today. As she left before the raffle was drawn, it’s your duty to deliver the prize to her. And she is one of your tenants, after all.” When Jonathon blinked, Mike nodded deliberately. “Her house belongs to the estate. She did say so last night. You’re her landlord.” He smiled. “I guess you’ve had so much on your plate since you moved here that you haven’t come to terms with it all yet. Now maybe you understand why I keep saying you need to add an estate manager to your staff. Right now you can’t keep track of it all.”

Mike had a point. “Maybe you’re right.” Jonathon gazed at the table, covered in its snow-white cloth. “I’ll go see Mrs. Teedle later this morning.”

“And why not now?”

Jonathon snickered. “Not when we still have toast and fresh coffee.”

MIKE PARKED the 4x4 in a lay-by at the edge of the forest and switched off the engine. “Okay, grab the hamper and let’s get this done.” He opened the door and climbed out.

Jonathon chuckled. “No one said you had to come with me, you know.”

Mike shrugged. “I was around. It made sense. Abi’s opening the pub.” He grinned. “And besides, what else am I going to do on a Sunday afternoon?” Jonathon coughed, and Mike aimed a mock glare in his direction. “Besides that.” He pointed to the path that disappeared into the forest. “That way.” Mike shivered.

“I thought it was Sue who said this place was creepy.”

“Forests are creepy, full stop. They’re too quiet. Why do you think there’s always a house in a spooky old forest in all those horror films? The stuff of nightmares.”

Trying not to laugh, Jonathon carried the hamper carefully in both arms, glancing at the ground to see where he was going. “This path looks well used, though.”

“Ramblers use it all the time. If you carry on along it, eventually it brings you out on the far side of your estate.”

“It does?” Jonathon was having a hard time working out the topography.

Mike sighed. “I thought you’d be good at geography, Mr. Well-Seasoned Traveler. The forest is kinda laid out in a curve around the estate.” He shook his head. “I’m sure somewhere in that manor house, there’s an aerial photo of the hall. That would make things a lot simpler.” His eyes twinkled. “I forgot—you’re a visual learner, aren’t you?”

Jonathon had the distinct feeling they weren’t talking about geography.

“There’s a well somewhere too.” Mike came to a stop and pointed. “There you go. That’s the place.”

Jonathon stared at a dark gray stone cottage that had seen better days. The roof was covered in moss, and ivy clung to its walls, snaking itself around windows and doors, of which there were two. Ridge tiles had gone and some of the roof slates had moved, giving the cottage a sad air of neglect.

What caught his eye was the table standing by the nearest door. On it were lots of jars with brightly colored labels, and to the left was a metal box, fastened with a padlock but with a slit cut into the top. A clipboard was attached to the edge of the table, with a pencil dangling from it on a string. Jonathon put down the hamper on the solid doorstep and peered at the table.

“Ah. She said something last night about jams,” he said quietly to Mike.

“Yeah. Lots of folks around here do this. They put out their jams and an honesty box.” Mike pointed to the clipboard. “People can leave comments here, and there’s a price list too.” He picked up a jar. “This sounds lovely. Mango-and-peach jam.” The colorful printed label contained a handwritten date.

Jonathon chuckled. “You couldn’t just leave a box out like this in some places. It’d get stolen. And how would you know if people put in the correct amount?”

Mike patted his back. “That’s why it’s called an honesty box? They expect you to be honest.” He gestured toward the hamper. “Okay, pick it up and let’s do this. If you’re good, I’ll buy you some jam for your morning toast when we’re done.”

Jonathon hoisted the hamper into his arms. “If I’m good,” he muttered.

Mike rapped on the aged wooden door, but there was no sound from within. He repeated the action. Still no reaction.

Jonathon snickered. “I’m beginning to have déjà vu here.”

Mike said nothing but tried the heavy doorknob. The door swung inward with a loud creak. “Mrs. Teedle?” he called out.

It seemed to Jonathon that silence had fallen all around them. There was no birdsong, not even the rustle of the wind through the trees. Cold trickled its way through his body. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

Mike held a finger to his lips, then stepped into the cottage. Jonathon followed. They were in a large room that had the appearance of a kitchen at first. One wall was covered in shelves, and every shelf was lined with glass jars and bottles. Along the opposite wall were yet more shelves, and beneath them was a long counter, into which was set a deep Belfast sink. The surfaces on either side of it were cluttered with yet more jars, labels, bowls, mortars and pestles, a rack of knives….

“Jonathon.” Mike touched his arm.

Jonathon followed Mike’s gaze to…. “Oh shit.”

Mrs. Teedle sat at the heavy oak kitchen table, leaning back in a chair, her eyes wide open, her mouth stuffed with what looked like gnarled roots, her cheeks bulging.

Jonathon approached her haltingly as Mike drew closer to delicately place two fingers at her neck. Not that he needed to. It was obvious she was dead. On the table in front of her was a plastic mat, on which were chopped green flower stalks. More stalks and big-lobed leaves were on the table. Beside the mat lay a pair of black gloves and a large kitchen knife, its silvery edge stained slightly with….

“Is that blood?” Jonathon took a deep breath. “Look, I have to put this down. It weighs a ton.” He brushed aside some of the leaves and stalks with the edge of his hand and placed the hamper on the table before straightening his back. Something sticky clung to his hand, and he brushed it against his jeans. “What on earth is this stuff?”

Mike gaped at him. “I’ll tell you what it is. This is a crime scene. So put your hands behind your back or in your pockets and touch nothing.”

Jonathon scowled at him. “All I did was move some plant stuff.” He peered at the plastic mat. “I’m not even sure I know what this is.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Which is why I said don’t touch anything. I have to call Graham—and we have to leave. Now.”

That was fine by Jonathon. “Graham is not going to believe this.” He took one last look at Mrs. Teedle and shivered. “There’s no way this can be called an accident.”

Mike’s expression was grave. “No. We’re talking murder.”

“But… who would want to murder an old lady?” Jonathon’s hand itched a little. “And what the hell was she chopping?”

“Good questions that can wait until we’re somewhere else, with a hot cup of coffee inside us.” Mike glanced around the kitchen and shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.” He strode out of the cottage, with Jonathon not far behind him, still stunned.

To have one murder in the village had been unfortunate.

But two?

Chapter Three

MIKE HAD to admit, Graham Billings hadn’t wasted any time. Ten minutes after he’d finished the call to Merrychurch’s police station—which was more of a police house—Graham had arrived at the cottage on his bike. Mike and Jonathon got out of the car and met him at the front door as he leaned his bike against the wall.

Graham gave Jonathon an amused stare. “This is getting to be a habit, you finding dead bodies.”

Jonathon shivered. “Well, trust me, this was no fall. This is murder.”

Graham glanced at Mike. “I know that’s what you said on the phone, but really?”

Mike pointed to the cottage. “One look inside, mate. That’s all you’ll need.”

Graham got out his notebook. “Stay here.” He pushed open the door and entered.

Mike put his arm around Jonathon’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Not really.” Jonathon gave another shiver. “This isn’t like Dominic.”

Mike could understand that. Finding his uncle dead of a fall had been one thing. At least Jonathon knew his death hadn’t been deliberate. But this? “There’s such… malice behind this. All that stuff in her mouth. Who would do that?”

Before Jonathon could reply, Graham came out of the cottage. He regarded them both sternly. “You haven’t touched anything in there, have you?”

“I touched the outer doorknob,” Mike said, “but nothing inside.”

Graham made a note before giving Jonathon a speculative glance.

Jonathon bit his lip. “Just some of the green stuff she was chopping. When I put down the hamper.” His eyes widened. “The hamper!”

“Can stay where it is for now,” Graham said firmly.

“But it’s got meat and—” Jonathon clammed up when Graham gave him a hard stare.

“I’m gonna call the coroner. She won’t like having her Sunday ruined, but then, neither do I. But you two are not to go in there until SOCO have been over it, and that might not be until tomorrow. Doubtless they’ll send the boys from Winchester.” His face fell. “Yeah, that’d be right. They’re not gonna let a village constable investigate a murder, are they?”

Mike groaned. “As long as they don’t send Gorland, like last time.”

Jonathon snorted. “It’s not high-profile enough for him.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’ll probably be some detective from CID.” Graham’s expression was gloomy.

“Any ideas as to the cause of death?” Mike hadn’t had time to take a good look, but the skin around her neck had appeared a little odd.

“There’s blood on the back of her head, so maybe someone bashed it in. But there are other indications that need checking out too.” Graham grimaced. “Why stuff her mouth full of ginger?”

“Is that what it was? I didn’t get a close look.” Mike had been too busy trying to get Jonathon out of there.

“There was a whole heap of ginger root on the counter. Plus it looks like there’s another root shoved in there too.” When Mike cast a glance toward the cottage, Graham snickered. “You’ll have to wait, Sherlock, before you two can go rooting around in there—pun intended.”

“What makes you think we want to do that?” Mike asked indignantly.

Graham arched his eyebrows. “Because I know you? So do me a favor and take your fella home or for a coffee or something, while I wait for the coroner. He looks like he needs some sweet tea.”

Mike took one look at Jonathon’s pale face and came to a decision. “Come on,” he said quietly, tugging on Jonathon’s arm. “Let’s go to Rachel’s.” He gave Graham one last nod. “Keep me in the loop?”

Graham gave him a pained look. “You know I will.”

Mike tried to lead Jonathon away, but he pulled out of his grasp. “I don’t need mollycoddling. I’m not going to faint or some nonsense like that.”

“I know that,” Mike replied calmly. “But we’re still going to Rachel’s.”

“Why?”

Mike grinned. “Because she sees and hears a lot. And I have a few questions about Mrs. Teedle.”

Jonathon smiled. “Ah. We’re on the case. That makes more sense. Come on, then.” He reached the car first, shuffling from foot to foot as he waited for Mike to unlock it.

Mike chuckled. “God, you’re an impatient sod sometimes.”

Jonathon climbed in, and as Mike got behind the wheel, he leaned over and kissed Mike on the cheek. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

And wasn’t that the truth? Mike liked how things were working out between them. Three months into their relationship, and although they still had a lot to learn about each other, it was clear to him that they had something good going on.

Mike couldn’t wait to see how things progressed.

RACHEL BEAMED as they entered the coffee shop. “Well, if it isn’t the organizer of the best bonfire party ever. Oh, and his sidekick, of course.” She gestured to the empty tables. “Wherever you like, boys. As you can see, I’m swamped.” She rolled her eyes. “Why I even considered opening today, I’ll never know. Sundays are usually dead.”

Mike chuckled. “I know why. You saw that group of ramblers in the village, the same as I did, and you thought ‘hey, there’s an opportunity.’”

She laughed. “Damn. You got me. What can I get you? The usual? Two coffees and a couple of slices of whatever I’ve got in the way of delicious cakes?”

“That sounds perfect.” Mike waited until Rachel had disappeared behind the door at the rear of the shop before leaning forward. “You sure you’re okay?” He kept his voice low.

Jonathon shivered. “I keep seeing her in my head. That’s all. The awful way she was staring.”

Mike reached across the table and covered Jonathon’s hand with his. “I know.”

Rachel walked over to their table, carrying two plates. “I’ve got your favorite,” she told Jonathon, placing a slice of carrot cake in front of him.

He smiled. “Just what I need.” He peered up at her. “Rachel? What do you know about Mrs. Teedle?”

Rachel grinned. “Ah, you’ve finally met her? She’s a character, isn’t she? We get on, I suppose, but that’s probably because I buy her homemade jams to use here. I always try to use local produce where I can. But I think I’m in a minority.” She tut-tutted. “I hear so many people complaining about her rudeness. She can be a little… brusque, but I think that’s her way. Have you seen that cottage of hers?”

“This morning, when I delivered her raffle prize. I couldn’t help noticing… all those jars and bottles.”

Rachel gave a slow nod. “Just let me get your coffee.” She disappeared again.

“You haven’t shared the small but significant detail that she’s no longer with us,” Mike remarked dryly.

“I know. I figured I’d let her talk and find out what I could first.” Jonathon shut up as Rachel returned, carrying the tall coffeepot and cream jug. She placed them in the center of the table, then pulled out a chair and joined them.

“So,” she began, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The jars and bottles contain all her ingredients.”

“For jam?” Mike couldn’t recall much of their contents, but he didn’t think that sounded likely.

Rachel burst out laughing. “Bless you, no. Mrs. Teedle makes homeopathic remedies.”

“Do those things actually work?” Jonathon sounded skeptical.

Rachel shrugged. “Who knows? I always say, if we look hard enough, Nature has a cure for everything, right on our doorstep, from the common cold to cancer.” She chuckled. “I have to say, sometimes when I go to collect the jams, I half expect to find her crouched beside a cauldron, stirring away at some strange-smelling brew, and then a hand floats up to the surface, like in the horror films.”

Jonathon gaped. “I had the same thought this morning. Well, except for the hand part.”

“Does she have many customers?” Mike didn’t think she would have had a lot of business in Merrychurch.

“More than you might think. I know Nathan Driscoll, the chemist, is always complaining about her, but I put that down to him being scared of a little competition. And I know she sends her remedies to people by post too, so she must be doing something right.”

“How long has she lived in the village?” Mike asked before helping himself to a forkful of rich chocolate cake.

Rachel stroked her chin. “Let me think. Jason Barton is about seventeen now, so it was a few years before then. Maybe twenty years?”

“She told us that last night,” Jonathon added. “Remember? She was saying how living in Merrychurch for twenty years hasn’t robbed her of her Australian accent.”

Mike gazed at him proudly. “Well remembered.” Then he frowned. “Why reference Jason Barton?”

Rachel chuckled. “Because she delivered him, that’s why! It was during the summer fete of 2000. Debra Barton was there, already a couple of weeks overdue. Well, when her waters broke, Mrs. Teedle was amazing. She took her into the first-aid tent, gave a lot of instructions to people, and delivered the baby like she did it every day of the week. It was all the village talked about for months.” She shook her head. “Probably the only positive story I’ve heard in relation to her.”

“There have been others that weren’t so positive?” Mike wished he was writing all of this down, but then he reasoned that Jonathon was likely to remember it all.