by K. C. Wells
Lily took a sip of tea before speaking. “Then something changed in that person’s circumstances. We can discount the secret, so that leaves two and three. Did they come into more money? Did their social standing change, meaning they would pay more to keep this secret in the dark?” She stilled. “You say the police removed you from the premises? Oh dear. That won’t do. You need to get back in there if you’re to find that key.”
“That could be… tricky,” Mike admitted.
“You can do it. I’m sure,” Lily said with fervor. “And now… tell me what you’ve discovered so far. I was most impressed by your efforts this summer, I must admit. Melinda told me everything.” Her eyes twinkled. “Including the fact that you two are… how do they say it nowadays? An item?” She shook her head. “I am both heartened and disillusioned by what I see in the media. There appears to be progress and great steps toward a better future, and then… society goes out of its way to prove that there are just as many people out there filled with hatred and fear of what they do not understand.”
“I keep telling Mike things will get better,” Jonathon said in a low voice.
“That’s because you’re young. You see with eyes filled with optimism, whereas people of my generation tend to view the world more cynically.” Lily smiled. “I like your way better.”
Mike glanced at his watch. “Much as I would love to stay and talk, I have a pub to open.”
“And it looks like I have to work out how to get us back into the cottage.” Jonathon didn’t look hopeful.
“I wish you both all the best for your endeavors. Please, come back and visit an old lady again? It’s been delightful to share your company.”
Mike got to his feet, leaned over, and kissed Lily’s cheek. “We’ll be back. Now we know you’re here.”
They said their goodbyes and left her in the sunroom, finishing her tea.
“What a lovely lady,” Jonathon said as he fastened his seat belt.
Mike was in total agreement. “I’d bet that Lily was a real character when she was younger.”
“She still is.” Jonathon snickered. He mimicked her voice. “‘Either you’ve decrypted it or you haven’t.’ I think she’s fierce.”
Mike wouldn’t argue with that assessment either.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JONATHON LEFT Mike to open up the bar, then hurried out of the pub, his phone in hand.
Graham answered after a couple of rings. “What’s up?”
“You know that DI said we can’t go back to the cottage unless a police officer accompanies us?”
There was silence for a moment. “What are you looking for? And it had better not be those diaries, because they’re all here at the station.”
“No, not the diaries. By the way, have you cracked the codes yet?”
Graham snorted. “Like hell we have. We’ve got as far as you did. We matched up the deposits in her bank account with the entries in the diaries. So we know how much and when, but no idea who. Oh, and I checked with her bank. All the deposits were made in cash.”
Jonathon had assumed that would be the case. “They’re not going to leave a trail, are they? The thing is, Mike and I have an idea how to work out the second code. But to do that, we need to take another look at the cottage.” He waited, hoping Graham would be reasonable.
“Assuming you do find whatever it is you’re looking for… you would of course be sharing that information?” Before Jonathon could respond, Graham forged ahead. “Stupid question. Of course you would. Okay. Right now I’m up to my eyeballs in it, so there’s no way I can go with you to the cottage. But the DI has had to go to Winchester, so the coast is clear if you wanna take a look. Just don’t make it obvious you’ve been there, all right?”
“I think Mike’s going to owe you several pints at this rate.” Jonathon was buzzing.
“And I intend supping every last one of them.” Graham sighed. “I must be nuts, letting you do this.”
“It’ll be worth it when you crack the case before the DI does.”
Graham chuckled. “Oh God, I’d love to see his face if I did. Okay. Go do your thing, Sherlock. Will Watson be going with you?”
“He’s behind the bar right now.”
“Then be careful, please. You’ve heard about murderers returning to the scene of a crime? Don’t end up being the second body in this case. One is more than enough, thank you very much.”
“I’ll be careful.” Jonathon thanked him and disconnected the call, then quickly composed a text to Mike. Going to the cottage with Graham’s permission. Gonna find that key.
Seconds later, Mike’s reply pinged back. Be careful.
Jonathon smiled. He could take care of himself.
THERE WAS no one in sight as Jonathon parked the Jag in the lay-by. Probably because it’s too cold to be out here. He locked the car and continued along the lane that led into the forest. Yellow-and-black police tape cordoned off the house, stretched between poles that surrounded the cottage. Jonathon ducked under it and approached the back door. The jam table was still there, but had been cleared of its contents. He peered at the ground—several large paw prints were still in evidence, although some had been obliterated by boot prints. Coppers. Couldn’t they see this is evidence?
Then he noticed something else. The legs of the table were painted white, but in a few places the paint had been scratched off, revealing metal beneath. The markings appeared to follow a line, as though something had been dragged over them.
For the life of him, Jonathon couldn’t remember if the table had been in that state before.
He pushed the door open, ducking beneath the tape yet again to gain entry. Little had changed inside since their last visit, except there appeared to be more light. Then he realized the afternoon sun was filtering through the side window, catching the motes of dust that danced lazily in its beams.
Jonathon went over to the empty chair and sat in it, peering below to see if there was a drawer. When he found one, he yanked it open, looking for the elusive key. What he found was another book of remedies. Useless.
Sunlight hit the jars and bottles on the shelves to his right, and he gazed at row upon row of herbs, plants, powders, and whatever else she kept up there. Each jar or bottle was labeled clearly, and for one moment, Jonathon thought he was on to something. Maybe the labels are the key? He scanned them, mentally ticking off letters of the alphabet—until he recalled what Lily had said.
No. He was looking for something simpler.
Jonathon relaxed into the chair and let his attention drift around the room. Something she’d be familiar with. Every letter of the alphabet. Something simple.
Her block of knives sat empty, the knives clearly removed by the police. The work surfaces had been cleared too, as well as the kitchen table, except for the jars of ginger jam that still sat at one end of it. Never mind the jam. Where’s that key?
He stared at the wall of shelves, interrupted only by a section of plain brick, where the cross-stitch hung in its frame. Sunlight played over the glass that covered it, and Jonathon could see where the surface was marred by fingerprints. SOCO and their fingerprinting dust. Then he looked again. The fingerprints followed two lines.
Two perfectly straight lines of distinct fingerprints.
Jonathon got up and walked over to the framed cross-stitch. A red fox, leaping over a snoozing beagle. Then he read the two lines stitched beneath.
The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over The Lazy Dog.
Memories of his mother trying to teach him to type. Making him type that line over and over again, covering his hands so he couldn’t see the keys. Insisting he practice, because that phrase contained every letter in the….
Jonathon grinned. He was looking at the key.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his notebook, the pages falling open to where he’d written down the codes.
35/21. Jonathon counted along each letter, until he reached the last one. 35 = G. He counted again, until he reache
d the twenty-first letter. 21 = S. Hastily he scribbled them down, until he had four sets of initials.
GS
DB
JB
BC
Jonathon stared at them, still grinning. Gotcha.
Finally he knew who Naomi Teedle had been blackmailing—well, her most recent victims, at any rate. All they had to do now was work out why.
He stuffed the notebook back into his jacket pocket and stood. There were a couple more hours before the pub would shut and he could talk to Mike, affording him time to go home and do some thinking. Jonathon opened the door and stepped out into the afternoon sun, being careful not to disturb the police tape.
He did not need DI Mablethorpe on his back.
Jonathon walked to the edge of the property, ducked beneath the tape, and stood there, gazing back at the cottage. Why would someone returning to the UK rent a house in such an isolated location? It was on the outer edge of the village, cut off from neighbors and amenities. Maybe, many years ago, a poacher had resided here, living off the land, staying out of the eagle eye of the manor house’s occupant.
She obviously saw something about this place. But still… why hide away out here?
Then it came to him. Maybe Naomi Teedle had secrets of her own.
Jonathon shivered. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of cloud, and a chill had descended. He hurried back to the Jag, pulled out of the lay-by, and rejoined the road that skirted the village, heading home.
As he approached the lane that led to the manor house, a car coming in the other direction flashed its headlights. Jonathon pulled over to the side of the road as a Range Rover did the same.
Josh Brent wound down his window and leaned out, waving a gloved hand. “Have you recovered from the other night?”
It took Jonathon a moment to fathom his meaning. Then it became clear. The council meeting. “Yes. And I did as you suggested. I took a look at the houses on Turnbull Lane.” He tried not to stare. Josh was wearing a thick roll-neck sweater in white, with a leather jacket over it.
Jonathon was doing his best not to drool.
Josh gave a satisfied smile. “Now you see why we were so frustrated. He can’t be allowed to do that again.” From beside him, a furry head popped up and a short bark rang out. Josh laughed. “Yes, Toby, we are going for that walk, I promise.”
“Are you going to the forest?” Jonathon asked impulsively.
Josh shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll be taking that route again. It still gives me the creeps.” He shuddered. “To think, when I stopped to buy that jar of jam, she could have been lying in there… dead.”
It was on the tip of Jonathon’s tongue to say Sitting. She was sitting in there. Then he remembered that not all the details of the crime scene had been made public.
“No, it’s not a nice thought, is it?”
Josh’s gaze met Jonathon’s. “No, and it’s not a nice place either. I wouldn’t go there again, if I were you.”
The hairs on Jonathon’s arms prickled. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much choice.”
“And why is that?”
Jonathon gave him a polite smile. “I own it.” And with that, he wound up the window, pulled away from the roadside, and turned left into the lane that eventually became his driveway.
He wanted to get into a warm interior and try to rid himself of the chill that was giving him goose bumps.
MIKE PUNCHED in the key code Jonathon had given him for the main door and stepped into the house. Everywhere was quiet—not really surprising, as it was gone midnight.
What was surprising was the lack of communication. He hadn’t heard a peep from Jonathon since lunchtime, except for a brief text to inform him that Jonathon was home. Mike appreciated that. During the rest of the evening, he’d cast longing glances at his phone, debating whether to send a text, but had reasoned against it. How does that look? Like I can’t cope with not hearing from him? Like I’m worried about him?
Mike let out a quiet laugh. Yeah, he had it bad, because it was all true.
He walked quietly through the house to Jonathon’s bedroom. Janet’s rooms were at the farthest point of the house, affording her some privacy. Us, too, if it comes to that. Light showed from under the bedroom door, and Mike opened it to find—
“What are you doing?”
Jonathon sat in the middle of the bed, papers spread out in a semicircle in front of him. He glanced up and grinned. “Wow. Is it that time already?”
Mike narrowed his gaze. “Tell me you did remember to eat something.”
“Janet brought me sandwiches at…. Oh, I forget what time.” Jonathon beckoned him over, still grinning. “Guess what I did today?”
Suddenly it all became clear. “You found the key, didn’t you?” Mike shrugged off his jacket, placed it over the back of a chair, and climbed onto the bed. “So? Don’t keep me in suspense. Who was she blackmailing?”
“Well, based only on people whose initials I know—and we’ll have to consult the electoral roll if we’re going to make sure this is accurate—I think we’re looking at Grant Spencer, Debra Barton, Brian Calder and—this is where it gets tricky—either John Barton or Josh Brent. JB was all I had to go on.”
Mike gaped at him. “The mayor’s wife? What could Naomi possibly have on her? Or her husband? Or the MP?” He paused. “Grant Spencer. Isn’t he the planning officer you met at the council meeting?”
Jonathon’s eyes gleamed. “And Brian Calder is the developer who built those houses. Put those two names together and what have you got?”
“Possibly a dirty deal between the two. Calder pays Spencer to make sure the planning permission gets through?”
Jonathon gave an enthusiastic nod. “Only somehow Naomi gets wind of this and demands money to keep it quiet. From both of them.”
“Did they pay her the same amount?”
“No. Calder was paying more. Remember what Lily said? Maybe the difference was based on their ability to pay. A planning officer can’t make that much, surely.”
Mike smiled. “Whereas a property developer?” Then he had another thought. “If it is Josh Brent, and not the mayor, that also means two blackmail victims were seen near the cottage the day of the murder.”
Jonathon collected up the papers. “We still need to check the registers for anyone else with those initials before we take another step.”
“And you’re not going to have time for any of that,” Mike announced. “Because tomorrow we’re heading to London for your birthday weekend.”
Jonathon blinked. “Oh. I’d forgotten all about that.” His smile lit up his eyes. “So much to look forward to.” He held the sheets of paper against his chest. “There are so many things buzzing through my head right now.”
Mike stretched out a hand, took the papers from him, and placed them on the bedside cabinet. “Enough. You need to switch your brain off for a while.”
Jonathon laughed. “But I’m too excited to sleep.”
Mike crawled over to where he sat, leaned in, and nuzzled Jonathon’s neck with his beard. “Who said anything about sleeping?” he murmured.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friday, November 17
MIKE WATCHED anxiously as Jonathon gazed at their hotel room. This was decidedly new territory. Going away for a weekend? Couples did that, right? Mike had spent hours online trying to find the perfect hotel, one that would capture the essence of what he wanted out of the weekend. Now that they were standing in a beautiful room, with an amazingly huge bed—and yes, there were chocolates on the pillows—he hoped he’d got it right.
Because the whole room spelled Romance.
“Well?”
Jonathon turned to him, beaming. “It’s wonderful.” He went over to the door that led to their bathroom and peered inside. “Oh, nice. There’s a freestanding bath that’s more than big enough, and a walk-in shower.”
Mike arched his eyebrows. “Big enough for what?” Like he had to ask.
; Jonathon laughed. “Yeah, right.” He gazed around their room once more. “I have to admit, when you told the taxi driver to take us to the Soho hotel, this was not what I imagined.” His eyes twinkled. “Soho conjures up memories of gay bars and clubs in an area a whole lot less swanky. This is gorgeous.” He walked up to Mike, locked his arms around his neck, and kissed him, taking his time.
“So, what do you want to do next?” Mike said as they broke the kiss. “There’s plenty of time before dinner to go for a walk or do some sightseeing or shopping.”
“I had something different in mind,” Jonathon murmured before pressing his lips to Mike’s neck and gently sucking the skin.
“Oh? And what was that?” Concentrating while Jonathon did that was next to impossible. How Mike even managed to form words was a miracle.
Jonathon locked gazes with him. “Christening the bed.” He chuckled. “After the bath. Or the shower. I’m easy.”
Mike snickered. “I’m saying nothing.” He caught his breath as Jonathon unhurriedly slid to his knees and unbuttoned Mike’s jeans. “Did you ever stop… and think that we do this… a lot?”
Jonathon stared up at him, grinning. “And your point is?”
When he put it like that….
MIKE TOOK a long drink from his pint and let out a sigh of contentment. “I miss London. More specifically, I miss this.” He gestured to the gay bar, packed to the rafters with men of all ages and sizes. The music was loud, but it hadn’t reached earsplitting volume, so that was fine. Everywhere he looked, guys were chatting, laughing, drinking cocktails, kissing….
Yeah. That was what he missed. The freedom to be himself.
“We’re a long way from Merrychurch,” he murmured.
“Like we said, the chances of someone opening a gay bar in Merrychurch are about as likely as a Jewish Pope.” Jonathon smiled. “I know what you mean, though. Canal Street in Manchester is like this.” He sipped his strawberry mojito, then grinned. “Maybe we need to do this on a regular basis. Find ourselves a cheap hotel—”
