by K. C. Wells
“A short visit this time,” she said with a smile.
Not short enough, in Jonathon’s book.
“Ivy wants to know numbers for meals. What shall I tell her?”
At that moment Jonathon had no idea. “Let me check with Mike first. Tell Ivy I’ll let her know ASAP.”
Janet nodded and left the room. Jonathon got out his phone and dialed Mike.
“You only left here an hour ago,” Mike said with a chuckle as he answered the call. “Can’t keep away, can you?”
“Nope. You’re irresistible. Now, will you be here for lunch or dinner on Saturday? Ivy needs to know.”
“Hey.” Mike’s voice softened. “I said I’d be there, didn’t I? Abi is opening the pub at lunchtime and Saturday evening, and she assures me she can cope. It’s not like she hasn’t done it before. So tell Ivy she’ll be preparing lunch and dinner for three.”
A wave of relief crashed over Jonathon, so acute that it left him shaking. He sat at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how much he’d been dreading this visit.
“You still there?”
Jonathon drew in a deep breath. “Yeah, still here. And thank you.”
“No problem. And I had an idea after you’d left. How about we go to the cottage and see if we can find her bank statements?”
Jonathon had been thinking too. “Do you think we should tell Graham our suspicions?”
“Not yet. Let’s wait until we have something definite to tell him. Do you want me to pick you up first?”
“Sure. Now let me go tell Ivy the good news.”
Mike laughed. “Tell her I’ll be expecting something delicious as always.” He disconnected.
Jonathon got up and smoothed the bedspread flat. Then he left the bedroom and headed down to the belowstairs kitchen, a roomy space painted in a pale green that made it feel peaceful. Ivy was busy making pastry on the huge wooden table, and she looked up with a smile as he came into the room.
“Lunch and dinner for three, I see.” Before he could ask how she’d known, Ivy added, “When you walked in smiling, I knew.” She inclined her head toward the pale lump of dough she was busy manipulating. “I’m keeping things simple. Steak pie, mashed potatoes, plenty of veg, and lots of gravy. And for dessert, fruit tart with cream. None of that fancy cooking I expect he gets in London in all those posh restaurants.”
Impulsively, Jonathon came over to where she stood and kissed her cheek. “I’d rather have your food any day.”
“Get away with ya,” she said, her face flushed, her eyes bright, and her smile wider than ever. “Now out of this kitchen so I can finish this pastry.”
He left her to it and went upstairs to the main hall to await Mike.
His father’s visit was looking less like something to be endured.
JONATHON STARED at the chair where they’d found Mrs. Teedle and tried not to think about how she’d looked. Instead, he peered behind her chair, gazing intently at the fireplace, with its blocks of rough-hewn stone and thick hearth.
“What are you looking at?” Mike joined him and peered too.
“I was thinking about that head injury. Did they hit her head with something, or did she bang it?” Jonathon scanned the stone for signs of blood or hair.
“I’m pretty sure SOCO would have gone over this, so don’t expect to find anything, but it’s a thought. Bashing your head against this would make one hell of a dent—not in the stone, of course.”
“Did they hit her first to knock her out, then strangle her? And what about that knife? Whose blood was on the blade—hers or the attacker’s?” Still so many questions unanswered.
Mike straightened. “Let’s remember why we’re here. I don’t think her bank statements would be in this part of the house. I can’t see anywhere she’d keep them. So let’s look in the main part of the house.” He unlocked the door, and they walked through into the living room. Jonathon headed for the bookshelves to search for a folder of some kind, while Mike pulled open the drawers beneath them.
“While I’m here, I want to take a photo of some of the diary pages.” Jonathon pulled out the latest diary and opened it to the previous month. Mike held it open while he took a shot. Then Jonathon skimmed through, looking for any months that had different entries. “Something’s different in the early part of the year. The code changed for one of the entries. Not the figures.” He took another photo before placing the diary back on the shelf. Then he pulled more diaries out and leafed through them. “There were more entries prior to this year. What do you think? She was blackmailing more people but decided to be nice to some of them and let them off the hook?”
“We don’t know for sure that she was blackmailing anyone yet,” Mike remonstrated. “It’s merely a theory until we find those statements.” He crouched down and pulled out the wide bottom drawer. “Aha.” Inside was an A4 folder with a white label on the cover, which said Bank Statements. He removed it and found a thick sheaf of sheets with holes punched through them. Mike went to September 2017, then looked up at Jonathon, pointing to the diaries. “Find me this month.”
Jonathon opened the diary to the last full week of September. “You’re looking for deposits on or near the twenty-fifth, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, and thirtieth.”
Mike beamed. “Yup. There are corresponding entries. Hang on a minute.” He flipped back to August. “Yeah. Again, the same entries.”
“How much are we talking?” Jonathon wanted to know.
Mike chuckled. “Wow. Some of her victims were lucky, others not so much. There are deposits of £150 and £500.”
“Go back to January.”
Mike flipped through the sheets again. “Yes. Ah. You were right. The amounts changed. There’s only one deposit of £500. Another is for £250.”
Jonathon whistled. “She started demanding more from one poor wretch, then.”
Mike stared at him over the rim of his glasses. “Before you start feeling too sorry for the poor unknown wretch, they had to be doing something wrong or illegal for her to be blackmailing them in the first place.”
“You don’t know that for sure. Maybe she had something on them that they didn’t want to come out into the open.”
Mike sat back on his haunches, the folder in his hands. “You do realize we could be looking at two entirely different lists of suspects now. Those who were seen near here that day, and those she was blackmailing.”
Jonathon gave a slow nod. “What I’d like to see is where the two lists intersect. Because if we have someone on both lists—” He froze at the sound of a door creaking. “Someone is here,” he whispered. As silently as he could, Jonathon replaced the diary on the shelf, and Mike slipped the folder back into its drawer. They crept toward the door—which opened as they reached it, bringing them face-to-face with a middle-aged man in a pale gray suit, who glared at them.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” His voice was loud, with a rough edge to it. Equally pale gray eyes regarded them with suspicion.
From behind the man came more noise, and Graham appeared in the doorway, in full uniform. His mouth fell open when he saw them, but he recovered quickly. “Ah. Sir, these are the gentlemen you asked me about yesterday.” He cleared his throat. “Mike, this is Detective Inspector Mablethorpe, Winchester CID.”
Before Mike could respond, the DI gave him a hard stare. “So, you’re the ex-copper I was warned about. And who gave you permission to enter a crime scene?”
“I did.” Jonathon straightened, lifting his head high. “This is my property. And I was given to understand that SOCO had completed their investigations here.”
DI Mablethorpe’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed. In which case, that would make you Jonathon de Mountford. Well, for your information, gentlemen, the investigations will only be completed when we have someone in custody for the crime. And as we are not at that point yet, I must ask you both to leave. Should you wish to enter this property again, for whatever reason,
you must first inform a police officer at Merrychurch police station. You will then be accompanied here by an officer, who will supervise your visit at all times.” His eyes glinted. “Is that understood?”
Mike laid a hand gently on Jonathon’s arm before addressing the DI. “Perfectly.” He gave Jonathon a flash of a smile. “It’s time we were out of here anyway.”
The DI didn’t move. “You are not, I trust, removing anything from the property?”
“Of course not.” Mike’s smile was a lot cooler. “Please, feel free to search us.”
“That won’t be necessary.” The DI stood to one side to let them pass, and they walked through the old kitchen and out of the door.
Graham followed them. “I’ll just escort them to their vehicle, sir,” he called back to the house. With a sigh, he gestured toward the lane.
Mike led the way, with Jonathon behind him.
Graham cast an uneasy glance toward the cottage. “Sorry, guys,” he muttered as they approached Mike’s 4x4. “The DI is a strictly by-the-book copper and a real stickler for protocol. I knew he’d be trouble when he asked about you yesterday. By name too.”
“How could he know about us?” As soon as he’d asked the question, Jonathon realized there could only be one answer. “Gorland. He knows DI Gorland, doesn’t he?”
Mike groaned. “Oh, please, let’s hope he’s a better detective than Gorland.”
Graham came to a halt at the car. “Yeah, he knows Gorland, all right. They’re golfing buddies, I found out this morning.” He sighed heavily. “Well, I hope you learned something from your visit, ’cause heaven knows when he’ll let you back in there again.” He rubbed his hand through his hair. “God, is it six o’clock yet? That’s when I’m done for the day.”
“I think you could do with a pint this evening,” Mike said, his eyes twinkling.
“Now you’re talking.” Graham grinned. “Save me a stool at the bar. I’ll be there before closing.” He looked closely at Jonathon. “Have you found anything out?”
Jonathon opened his mouth to respond, but Mike got in there first. “Maybe. Nothing concrete. When we have more than a theory, we’ll let you know.”
Graham nodded. “Fine. Good luck to you. I’d best be heading back. He wanted to see the crime scene for himself.” And with that, Graham hurried toward the cottage.
Jonathon watched him go. “You know what I think? That DI is going to be a real pain in the arse.”
Mike burst into laughter. “And to think, when I first met you at the station, you were this polite, eloquent guy who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. And here you are, referring to a senior member of the Hampshire Constabulary as a pain in the arse.” He puffed out his chest. “I feel like a proud father.”
Jonathon chuckled. “I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re only now seeing what I’m really like. I haven’t changed—well, perhaps in one way I have. I feel comfortable enough around you to be myself.” In fact, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so comfortable with another man.
Maybe the fact that I’m in love with him has something to do with that.
Mike gave him a warm smile. “That makes me feel good. Now, how about I take you home so I can go and open the pub? I’ll be seeing you later, right?”
“Of course. After I’ve been for a drink at George Tyrell’s. I’ll tell you all about it tonight after closing.”
Mike unlocked the car and they got in. As they drove toward the manor house, Jonathon realized he was taking it as written that they’d be spending the night together. Then he realized he wasn’t the only one.
It really was good to be on the same page.
Chapter Fourteen
JONATHON EXAMINED the bottles in George’s drinks cabinet. “You’ve got a great variety here. Except… most of them haven’t been opened yet.” A shiny stainless steel cocktail shaker stood beside the bottles, along with four cocktail glasses. Then there was a small jar of cherries, a container of cocktail sticks, and a saucer filled with lemon and lime slices. “This is all very impressive, you know.”
George laughed. “Yeah, well, I had no idea what you’d want to make, so I needed to think of everything. And as for all those bottles… I started with scotch and vodka. Then it seemed every time I went to the supermarket, I’d see another that looked interesting, so I’d buy that. I drew the line at a melon liqueur, though.” He shuddered. “Melon. Who’d even come up with such a thing?”
Jonathon was enjoying the conversation. It was easy to talk to George, who seemed relaxed and friendly. “That doesn’t explain why you haven’t opened them.”
George sighed. “I’m not a big drinker. And alcohol just sends me to sleep.” He snorted. “I don’t need something else to make me do that. I can manage that part all on my own.”
Jonathon gazed at him in sympathy. “It must make work difficult.”
“Bless you, lad, I don’t work anymore. Had to take early retirement. That’s how I ended up living here.”
“How about I mix us a cocktail, and then you can tell me about it,” Jonathon suggested. He’d had a few ideas of basic cocktails to show George, based on the contents of the cabinet.
George beamed. “That sounds great. There’s ice in the ice bucket. I thought I’d be prepared.”
Jonathon spied the small book on the coffee table. He picked it up, thrust it into George’s hands, and told him to choose one. George leafed through the pages and finally pointed to a vodka martini.
Jonathon laughed. “Very James Bond.”
George sat in the chair, watching as Jonathon measured, poured, and shook. “You look like you could do that for a living.”
“I did once. For all of three weeks. I think photography pays better, though. The tips were atrocious.” Jonathon took a sliver of lemon and pressed it onto the rim of the glass before handing it to George. “Try that. I used equal quantities of sweet and dry vermouth. There’s also a dirty version that uses olives and olive juice.”
George sipped the cocktail tentatively, then grinned. “This is delicious.” He relaxed against the cushions, clearly content.
Jonathon took his own glass and sat on the couch. From his place on the rug in front of the fire, Max raised his head, his nose trembling.
Jonathon laughed. “Definitely not for dogs.”
Max lowered his head onto his front paws and huffed.
Jonathon turned his attention to George. “You were going to tell me how you came to live in the village?”
George nodded amiably. “I used to live in Nottingham, where I worked in the town council offices. Not the most exciting job—I worked in accounts. That’s bound to send anyone to sleep, right? Well, after I was diagnosed with narcolepsy, I tried to keep on working, but it soon became obvious that it just wasn’t possible. You can’t have an employee falling asleep at his desk at the drop of a hat.”
“So they arranged for you to take early retirement?”
“Yup. They were very generous—gave me a decent payout, seeing as I’d worked for them since I was eighteen. But I didn’t want to stay in the North.”
“I lived in Manchester for a while,” Jonathon told him. “It’s a great city, with so much going on, but the light….” It was hard to explain.
“It’s a bit… grayer up there, isn’t it?” George smiled. “Down here there seems to be more sunshine, more blue skies. That might not be the case, but it feels like it.”
“Exactly!” George had nailed it. “Carry on with your story.”
“Anyway, one day I was watching one of those daytime TV programs where a couple tries to relocate to a house in the country. They get shown three properties, then have to choose. Well, one of the properties was in Merrychurch.”
Jonathon had to smile. “It is a pretty village, isn’t it? All those thatched roofs, twisting country lanes, the bridge, the river, that picturesque village green….”
George chuckled. “Like something off a box of chocolates or an old-fashioned jigsaw puzzle. I came dow
n here on a visit to check the place out.”
“And obviously liked what you saw.”
“Yeah. That was five years ago. When I made inquiries about properties to buy or rent, I got put in touch with the vicar. Seems the church owns this house and the two next to it. The rent was reasonable, and I fell in love with the village. That was that.” He lowered his gaze to Max and gave him a fond look. “I found Max at a local animal shelter. He loves it here too, I think. Lots of places for our three daily walks—by the river, through the forest, past the water mill…. Doggy heaven.”
Max clearly knew he was the topic of discussion. He got up, walked over to George, and rested his chin on George’s lap.
George stroked him softly. “Yeah, we love it here, don’t we, boy? You’d have hated Nottingham. All that traffic, no rabbits to chase….”
“Do you still have family up there?”
He sighed. “My grandparents passed away a few years ago, after I moved here. My mum… well, she was in a home until last year. She died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
George gave a sad smile. “It’s okay. These last few years, she had no idea who I was anyway.”
“Are you an only child, like me?”
For a moment George’s face tightened. “Yeah. There’s just me now.” He drank the contents of his glass in one long gulp, grimacing slightly. Then he relaxed. “I think I’d like another cocktail. Something more… exotic.”
Jonathon got up and scanned the bottles on the back row. “George, you have three different kinds of rum here.”
“Is that important?” George asked with a frown.
Jonathon grinned. “It is if you want to make a rum runner—well, my version of it at any rate. But we’d need juice too.”
George’s frown faded. “I’ve got orange, pineapple, tropical—”
“Stop right there.” Jonathon pointed to the kitchen. “I’ll need all of them.”
George got up and went to the kitchen, chuckling. “Well, I did ask for exotic.”
