Roots of Evil

by K. C. Wells

  Esther Thompson was slightly cooler with him, and Jonathon responded to her questions with politeness. It was their first meeting, and he could almost hear Mike’s advice in his head, given before he’d set out for the meeting: “You can’t make everyone like you. You’re not chocolate.”

  “Grant Spencer called a moment ago,” Melinda announced. “He’s on his way back from Salisbury. And Joshua—”

  Whatever else she’d been about to say was lost in the click click click of nails on wood as a very enthusiastic Yorkshire terrier scurried across the floor, heading straight for Jonathon.

  Melinda laughed. “Toby spies a new friend,” she said as the dog jumped up, his paws on Jonathon’s knees, his head narrowly missing the table.

  “Well, hello. Aren’t you friendly?” Jonathon patted the dog’s head and was rewarded as Toby bounced a little higher and landed a lick on Jonathon’s chin.

  “Toby!”

  At Mr. Brent’s voice, Toby was back on the floor, running toward him, then circling him, barking the whole time.

  Mr. Brent sat in the chair next to Jonathon, and Toby eventually sat at his feet under the table. “Twice in two days, Mr. de Mountford,” Mr. Brent commented. “When we spoke yesterday, I had no idea you’d be joining us this evening.”

  “At that point, neither did I,” Jonathon confessed. “Someone had other ideas, though.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Melinda held up her hand. “I felt the timing was right.”

  Brent held out his hand. “Glad to have you aboard.” They shook, and Brent cast a glance in the direction of the kitchen before whispering, “Be careful with Esther. She has been known to turn the odd man into ice with a single stare.”

  Jonathon quickly stifled his chuckle. “Thanks for the warning. And it’s Jonathon, by the way.” He half wished Brent had taken the empty seat facing him. That way Jonathon could have gazed at him all evening without it appearing obvious.

  “Then I’m Josh. Seeing as we’re going to be on the same council.” There was that smile again, the one that had made Jonathon go weak at the knees the previous day. Why does he have to be so gorgeous?

  The door to the street opened once more, and a man entered, bundled up in a thick coat. “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he approached the table. “Traffic was murder this evening.” He glanced at Jonathon and blinked. “Oh. Hello.”

  Jonathon rose to his feet and held out a hand. “Jonathon de Mountford. Here because Melinda twisted my arm,” he teased.

  The man shook before heading for the empty chair across the table. “Grant Spencer.” He glanced around the table, then toward the kitchen. “Oh my. Mrs. Thompson won’t like that. Four men, three women? Such inequality will never do.” His eyes sparkled.

  Jonathon liked the look of Grant. He was possibly in his thirties, with a kind face, brown eyes, and short black hair.

  At that moment Esther Thompson left the kitchen and made her way sedately across the floor to them. She frowned when she saw Grant. “Late again, Mr. Spencer.”

  “It really wasn’t my fault,” he protested. Then he laughed good-naturedly. “Who am I kidding? My wife says I’ll be late for my own funeral.”

  “Then let’s not waste any more time,” Melinda said in a patient tone.

  When Esther had taken her seat, John Barton stood.

  “I’d like to formally welcome Jonathon de Mountford. He fills the space left by his uncle, and it’s a pleasure to have another de Mountford on the council.”

  “Agreed,” Josh added warmly, amid murmurs of assent from the others.

  “Although I’d like to go on record as saying if we are approached by any new future members, I think we should consider them very carefully,” John said gravely.

  Melinda blinked. “But… I proposed Jonathon.”

  The mayor held up both hands. “And now look where we are. We have a John, a Josh, and a Jonathon. Awfully confusing.” His eyes twinkled with good humor. “No more Js, please, everyone?” Then he grinned. “My son will be pleased he’s off the hook.”

  And with that—and a few chuckles and snickers—the meeting finally started.

  Jonathon had anticipated a rather plodding pace, with lots of red tape and boring items of which he was blissfully unaware, and was not disappointed. There were few points of contention, and everyone seemed to get along—until the final item on the agenda.

  Grant Spencer led off. “As you will know, Brian Calder has applied for planning permission to develop the plot of land at the end of Mill Lane, having submitted outlines to this council—”

  “He can submit as many outlines as he likes,” Doris interjected. “Fat lot of good it may do him, after the last time. No one in their right mind would give him permission to build more houses, especially if they’re anything like the last lot.”

  Grant coughed, his face flushing. “Actually… planning permission has been approved.”

  It was as if someone had flicked a lit match into a pool of petrol.

  “Surely you’re not serious.” Melinda stared at him openmouthed.

  “What the hell?” Josh gaped.

  “How can this be?” Esther demanded.

  “Wait a moment—you’re the planning officer, damn it.” John Barton’s face reddened. “That means you gave permission. Just like you okayed it last time.”

  “There was nothing wrong with his proposal,” Grant protested. “And the houses weren’t an eyesore, were they? They look fine.”

  “And I’m sure they’d look equally fine in some suburb of Winchester, or some council housing estate in Reading, but not in Merrychurch village,” the mayor remonstrated.

  “An appeal was launched against the original decision, if you recall.” Grant’s voice shook slightly. “That decision was upheld at county level.”

  “Then someone from the county offices needs to come down here and take a good, long, hard look at this village. Because to build a development of houses like the ones Calder built in Turnbull Lane is an abomination.” Josh’s face darkened. “And now he wants to do it again—at the end of Mill Lane? For God’s sake, man, why didn’t you turn him down flat?”

  “Because, in case you missed the news reports, there is a housing shortage in this country, Mr. Brent.” Grant glared at him. “You of all people should be aware of that issue, seeing as you brought it up in Parliament on more than one occasion.”

  “Agreed, but there is a great deal of difference between developing a piece of common land and building good, low-cost houses for those trying to get onto the property ladder—and privately—secretly—buying a piece of land and proposing to build twenty or so houses on it that have nothing in common with the appearance of this village. They were not designed sympathetically. He made no attempt to—”

  “I think we should call an end to this meeting.” Melinda’s voice rose above the clamor. “There is clearly no way we are going to reach a consensus on this matter, and indeed, I feel there should have been some public forum on this. If I may make a suggestion? We should timetable another meeting to discuss this issue at a later date, but I would ask that Brian Calder be invited to take part, along with any interested members of the village. And that in the interim, Mr. Calder does not begin work on this development.”

  “I can certainly convey that to him.” Grant Spencer stood and put on his coat. “I trust I’ll be informed of the date of this meeting?”

  “Of course,” Melinda said gravely.

  Grant gave a curt nod to those around the table, then walked out of the hall.

  Melinda sagged into her chair. “Well. I didn’t see that coming. I thought it was a simple item.”

  John Barton still appeared stunned, as did Esther and Doris.

  “As you’re relatively new to Merrychurch, you probably have no idea what all that fuss was about,” Josh said with a wry chuckle.

  “I’m afraid not.” Only one reference had made any sense to Jonathon. He’d visited Mill Lane that summer. It was a narrow road ful
l of old-world charm, containing listed buildings and an ancient water mill that was still in working order. A more picturesque part of Merrychurch he’d yet to find.

  “Talk about a baptism by fire.” John sighed unhappily. He got up from the table and went to pick up his coat where he’d left it over a chair. One by one, the council members took their leave, until only Melinda and Jonathon remained.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m going home to pour myself a large sherry.” Melinda sighed. “If you get a moment tomorrow, go for a walk along Turnbull Lane. You’ll spot the houses Brian Calder built. You won’t be able to miss them. It might give you a point of reference for what you just heard.” She accompanied him to the door, and once outside, she locked it. “Are you heading back to the manor now?”

  Jonathon shook his head. “I told Mike I’d pop into the pub when the meeting was over. I left the car in his car park and walked here.” He held out his arm. “And seeing as you’re going in the same direction….”

  Melinda hooked her arm through his. “Seeing me to my door. Well, almost. Chivalry is not dead in Merrychurch after all, it seems.”

  They walked in silence along the edge of the village green, Jonathon deep in thought. The heated discussion had been unexpected, but what surprised him was that Grant had been on his own against the rest of the council. Was it that divisive an issue?

  “Penny for them,” Melinda said after the silence had continued for several minutes. There was no one in sight, undoubtedly a result of the cold night air. Ahead of them, the sign for the Hare and Hounds reflected the streetlight, promising warmth and alcohol and good company. The faint hint of music swelled as someone opened the pub door, and figures hurried away to escape the cold.

  “I doubt my thoughts are worth that much.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  Jonathon came to a halt. “I didn’t expect Grant to have no support from the council. Everyone seemed against him. Is it usually like that?”

  Melinda shook her head. “Not at all. This is why you need to look for yourself. Once you’ve seen, you’ll understand the level of feeling you experienced in that meeting.” She covered Jonathon’s hand with hers. “Persevere? Don’t give up on us at the first hurdle.”

  He smiled, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. “I’m not about to quit. We de Mountfords haven’t managed to keep going this long without developing a lot of stamina.”

  She laughed. “You do remind me of your uncle.”

  It was the nicest thing she could have said.

  Jonathon walked Melinda to the vicarage, then retraced his steps to the pub and the warmth it promised. It was pleasant to walk into the bar area and be greeted by villagers he’d come to know.

  It feels as if I’m starting to fit in around here.

  Mike beamed as Jonathon approached the bar. “Hey. You look frozen. D’you want a beer or a coffee? If it’s the latter, go into the kitchen and help yourself. You know where everything is.”

  At the bar, Paul Drake snorted. “I should think he could make a cuppa blindfolded by now, the number of times he’s here.”

  Jonathon grinned. “Yup. Just like you could find that stool if the lights were out.”

  Paul cackled. “You got me there, nipper. I’m thinkin’ of ’avin’ me name engraved on it. Or a plaque at least.”

  Jonathon walked through into the kitchen and found a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him. Mike usually drank water when he worked behind the bar. He did that for me.

  The man was definitely a keeper.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wednesday, November 15

  JONATHON MADE a noise of sheer contentment as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee tickled his nostrils. “Even Janet doesn’t bring me coffee in bed. Maybe I should ask her to start doing that.”

  Mike’s snort made him jump. “Only if I’m not around. Talk about living dangerously.”

  Jonathon opened his eyes and grinned at Mike, who sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You certainly weren’t complaining yesterday when I—”

  Mike launched across the bed and covered Jonathon’s mouth with his hand. “You have a wicked mouth,” he whispered. Then he leaned in closer and kissed him.

  When he pulled back, Jonathon chuckled. “Yep. You said that yesterday too.” He sat up and took the mug Mike offered him. “Do you have anything urgent planned for this morning? Because if not, there’s something I’d like to do. Two things, actually.”

  Mike arched his eyebrows. “Might these two somethings be connected to a certain murder? It’s just occurred to me that she died ten days ago, and we still have no firm idea as to who killed her.”

  “Which is why I want to look into that leather treatment.” Jonathon took a long, welcome drink of coffee. “But also… something happened last night at the council meeting, and I’m really confused about it. What do you know about a housing development on Turnbull Lane?”

  Mike frowned. “Nothing.”

  “Or a property developer called Brian Calder?”

  His eyes widened. “Now him, I know. I’ve seen him in the pub a few times. Quiet guy, keeps to himself.”

  Quickly, Jonathon gave him a précis of the fracas of the previous night. “I know it’s nothing to do with the murder, but….”

  “But you’re intrigued.”

  Jonathon nodded. “It was just the level of… animosity that came out of nowhere. I want to know more.”

  “Fine. Let’s get up, have some breakfast, and then we’ll go for a little drive and check out these houses. After, we can check out places where they might use that leather treatment.” Mike paused. “This wasn’t quite what I had planned for this morning.”

  Jonathon stilled. “Oh? Am I interfering with your plans? You should have said something.”

  Mike waved a hand. “Wait a minute. I brought you coffee with the intention of getting back into bed for a cuddle, then casually asking you if… you’d like to spend the weekend in London with me. To celebrate your birthday.”

  “Oh.” Warmth coursed through Jonathon.

  “It is on Saturday, right?” Mike peered at him anxiously. “Abi’s agreed to cover me, and I’ve booked us two nights in a hotel—hopefully a really nice one—plus we’ve got tickets to see a show Saturday night.”

  “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble, haven’t you?” Jonathon had never had a boyfriend exhibit such thoughtfulness. His exes had all appeared to assume Jonathon would be the one to organize such things.

  “Look, if you don’t want to—”

  It was Jonathon’s turn to cut off Mike’s words with a gentle hand. “Who in their right mind would say no to such a lovely, thoughtful gesture? I love it. And I like the idea of cuddling in bed too. Breakfast can wait a while.” He smiled. “You can never have too many cuddles.”

  In a heartbeat, he lay in Mike’s arms, snuggled up against him, his head on Mike’s chest, feeling the reassuring thump of his heart beneath his ribs.

  Mike kissed his head. “I’m so glad you like it. I wanted it to be a surprise, but then I realized there might be conflicts. You’re a busy man, after all.”

  Jonathon sighed contentedly. “Never too busy to be whisked away for a weekend. Although, I am intrigued as to what show we’re going to see. Wicked? Phantom? Les Mis?”

  Mike chuckled. “None of those. Something much more… appropriate.” When Jonathon craned his neck to peer at him, Mike grinned. “The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie.”

  Jonathon snuggled closer. “Just what we need. Inspiration.”

  THE MORNING air was crisp, and Jonathon slipped his arm through Mike’s as they walked along the lane. A simple act, but it meant a lot that they could do it without fear of confrontation.

  At least, he assumed there’d be no confrontation. Merrychurch had to have its share of haters, like everywhere else. But so far, they hadn’t crawled out of the woodwork.

  “I love this village,” he murmured as t
hey strolled. “This stone you see everywhere, the thatched roofs, the quaint gardens…. It’s like Merrychurch has been suspended in some kind of time bubble, untouched by the modern world.”

  Mike chuckled. “Speaking of bubbles… I hate to burst yours, but even here, the modern world creeps in. The old-fashioned streetlamps are being replaced by these LED versions, which give out a cold white light that’s nothing like the warm glow of their predecessors. Not to mention the houses that have been sold, then demolished to make way for a new, more modern house that’s all glass and angles.”

  “Aw, don’t.” Jonathon wanted Merrychurch to retain its charm as long as possible. “There are things we can do, surely, to help keep the village looking the way it does?”

  Mike came to a stop. “In theory. But then you get people who apparently don’t feel the same way.” He sighed. “No wonder I’ve never seen this. I have no cause to drive this way. But I’ve lived here over a year now. How could I have missed this?”

  In front of them, the street turned into an obviously new estate, a collection of maybe twenty houses. What was immediately noticeable was that they all looked the same. Red brick, double-glazed windows, tile roofs—all with identical postage-stamp lawns in front and a garage built as part of the house.

  Jonathon sighed. “Now I understand. That planning officer—Grant Spencer—said they weren’t an eyesore, which they’re not. They’re houses like you’d see anywhere in the country. But Josh was right too. They’re—”

  “Oh, it’s Josh, is it now?” Mike smirked.

  Jonathon gave him a whack on the arm. “Listen. He said they weren’t designed sympathetically, that they had nothing in common with the look of the village.” He surveyed the development. “They could have done so much more.”

  “Like what?”

  “You see it all the time, where buildings are added that maintain the feel of a place. They didn’t have to design a set of twenty boxes with little or no soul. The mayor got that part right too. He said they’d look fine elsewhere, but not here. Not in Merrychurch.” Jonathon broke free of Mike’s arm and walked over to the road that cut through the estate. It’s just… wrong.