Chapter Eighteen

 

 

JONATHON STRETCHED beneath the covers, warm and comfortable. Then he remembered where he was. Only, where Mike had been, there was now a cool spot.

Jonathon sat up and rubbed his eyes. One glance at the clock beside the bed told him it was still early. He scanned the floor for the jeans he’d discarded the previous night, then hopped out of bed and squirmed into them. Everywhere was quiet as he padded barefoot down the narrow staircase and into the pub.

“Mike?”

“In the kitchen.”

Jonathon pushed open the door and found him sitting at the table, drinking coffee.

Mike gave him a warm smile. “Well, good morning. There’s coffee in the pot.”

Jonathon arched his eyebrows. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you bring your coffee mug with you and come back to bed?”

Mike’s smile widened. “I like that idea. Sounds like the perfect way to spend a Saturday morning.”

Jonathon couldn’t agree more. He stifled a groan when Mike’s phone rang.

Mike gave him an apologetic glance as he reached for it. Frowning, he connected the call. “Lloyd? What’s up? This is early, even for you.”

It took Jonathon a second or two to register that Lloyd was the vicar. His stomach clenched when Mike froze, his mouth open.

“Have you called the police?” A pause. “Fine, but call them anyway. I’ll be right over. And Lloyd? Don’t touch anything, do you understand? Keep out of there until I get there.” He listened again. “Good man. Yes, you did the right thing.” He disconnected the call and stared, wide-eyed, at Jonathon. “You’re not gonna believe this. Lloyd Talbot just found a body in the church crypt.”

“Body…. A dead body? Who is it?”

“Lloyd doesn’t know. Whoever it is, is lying facedown, and Lloyd didn’t want to disturb the body.” Mike pushed back his chair. “I’ll pull on some more clothes and get over to the church.”

“I’m coming too.” Jonathon stuck out his chin, daring Mike to say no.

Mike sighed. “Like I could stop you anyway. If you’re coming, go put some clothes on.” He pointed to Jonathon’s neck. “And you might want to consider wearing something that, er, covers… that.” He left the kitchen, his face flushed.

Jonathon turned toward the stainless steel on the oven door and peered intently at his reflection. It wasn’t the best of mirrors, but it was enough to reveal the reddish mark at the base of his throat.

Oh. That.

He rushed up the stairs, racking his brains as to what was in his suitcase that would do the job.

Five minutes later, Jonathon was safely attired in a shirt, the collar done up. They left the pub and headed along the lane to the church.

Melinda was at the heavy church door, her face pale. “Oh, Mike, this is truly awful.”

Mike gave her a brief hug. “Are the police on their way?”

She nodded. “Lloyd spoke with Constable Billings, right after he finished speaking to you. They should be here any minute.” She gave a nod toward Jonathon. “This is dreadful. Two deaths in the space of a week.”

Jonathon followed her and Mike into the church. The altar sat at the far end, a pulpit off to the left, draped in a gold cloth. Rows of wooden pews lined each side of the aisle, and on the right was a black railing, a gate set into it. Melinda led them toward it.

“Lloyd is already in the crypt.” She shivered. “I’m sorry, but I… I can’t go down there again.”

“That’s okay,” Mike said soothingly. “Just send Graham straight down there, all right?” She nodded, and then Mike met Jonathon’s gaze. “You coming?”

“Yes.” Jonathon followed Mike down the worn stone steps that he recalled from his childhood, shivering at the change in air temperature. The crypt was much colder than the church above.

Lloyd stood at the farthest edge of the stone-flagged floor, gazing at the prone, slim body, dressed in jeans, a brown sweater, and scuffed trainers. Jonathon looked at the body’s reddish-brown hair. Very familiar hair.

“Oh my God,” he said softly. “Mike, it’s—”

“Bryan Mayhew, yes.” Mike sniffed the air, his nose wrinkling. “Can you smell something?”

Jonathon sniffed and grimaced. “Yes. What is that?”

“No idea, but I’ve smelled it before someplace.” Mike stepped carefully onto the flags, observing where he put his feet. “The floor seems clear of dust, so there don’t appear to be any footprints. That doesn’t mean they won’t find prints of some kind.”

“Should you be walking over there?” Jonathon asked.

“No, he shouldn’t.”

Jonathon froze at the harsh voice from behind him.

DI Gorland glared at Mike. “I can have you arrested for contaminating a crime scene, you know that, right?”

Mike stood still. “I have literally taken two steps. That’s it. I gave Lloyd instructions over the phone not to enter here, so your crime scene is preserved, all right? And we’ve just identified the body.”

Gorland blinked. “Oh?”

“Bryan Mayhew,” Jonathon volunteered. “The student who is—”

“Yes, yes, I know who he is,” Gorland interrupted impatiently. “What I want to know is, what he’s doing here.”

“The coroner is on her way, sir,” Constable Billings called from the top of the stone steps.

“Good.” Gorland glanced at the stone sarcophagi surrounding him, the stone plaques that covered the walls. “When was the last time you, or anyone else, was down here?” he asked, addressing Lloyd.

“I rarely come down here,” Lloyd commented in his dry, quavering voice. “I’m still not certain why I chose to do so this morning. As for the floor, the crypt is swept clean once a week, usually on a Friday.”

“Which is bad timing,” Jonathon murmured. “Otherwise there might have been prints.”

Gorland swiveled around to stare at him. “Thinking of joining the police force, Mr. de Mountford? As for bad timing, as far as the killer was concerned, it was very opportune timing. He—or she—couldn’t have timed it better.”

Jonathon suddenly got where Gorland was going. The implication was that the killer was familiar with the church routines.

“Who usually sweeps down here?”

“We have a cleaner.” Lloyd cleared his throat. “Sue Bentley.”

Gorland’s eyes lit up. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, but she didn’t sweep it yesterday, because she didn’t work yesterday.”

Jonathon stared at the clean flags. “Well, someone swept it.”

Gorland’s face darkened. “Who has access to the crypt?”

“Anyone,” Lloyd said with a shrug.

“What?” Gorland’s eyes were almost out on stalks. “You mean, it isn’t locked? What about the church? Can anyone just walk into that too?”

“Of course.” Lloyd appeared to have got over his shock. “This is a place of worship, but it is also a place of prayer for those who need it. The door is always open. And as for the crypt, why would we lock it? There is nothing down here to be stolen, unless someone wants to open up a sarcophagus and steal the bones of a member of the de Mountford family.” He coughed. “Somehow I don’t think that would fetch much, even if one were trying to sell it to a museum.”

Jonathon smothered a snicker, and Gorland narrowed his gaze.

Noise from behind them brought all conversation to a standstill, as the coroner entered, carrying her black bag and dressed in pale blue coveralls. “Good morning, gentlemen. Not exactly how I wanted to start my weekend, but still….” She walked over to the body and crouched beside it.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Mike said quietly to Jonathon.

“Not that you should ever have been here in the first place,” Gorland hissed.

The coroner raised her head and gazed at him, her eyebrows lifted, before returning to her perusal of the body. “There’s been a blow to the back of the head. The hair is matted with blood.” She peered at the floor around the body. “No sign of any blood here, though.” She opened her bag and took out a thermometer. “Could the body have been here all night?”

“Possibly,” Lloyd replied. “I don’t think anyone was down here yesterday, so I can’t be sure.”

She nodded. “Then we’ll assume that’s the case. It’s very cool down here.” She rolled the body over.

“Goodbye, Mike.”

Mike sighed. “Let’s get out of—”

“You might want to take a photo of this,” the coroner called out suddenly.

Both Jonathon and Mike gazed at where she was pointing. Under where the body had lain, there were a couple of pieces of broken purple plastic shards—of what, it was impossible to say.

“I believe you were leaving,” Gorland said heavily. “Billings, are SOCO here yet?”

“Yes, sir, only I didn’t think there was enough room down there for them so—”

“There will be when Mr. Tattersall and his… friend… have left.”

Jonathon figured Gorland had to be close to snapping by then. “Come on, Mike.” He turned and headed for the steps, with Mike behind him. When they reached the gate, Graham Billings gave them an apologetic look.

Mike patted his arm. “Keep in touch,” he whispered.

Graham nodded once before directing his attention to the three men in coveralls. “Okay, lads, down you go.”

Jonathon walked out of the church, and once outside, he stood for a moment, trying to warm up. When Mike joined him, Jonathon shook his head. “You need to promise me something.”

“What?” Mike asked with a frown.

“Do not do anything else to piss that man off, do you hear me? Because he is just looking for any excuse to throw your arse in a police cell.”

Mike gave him a wicked smile. “Aww. Do you care about my arse, then?”

Before he could apply a brake to his mouth, Jonathon blurted out, “I care about all of you. That’s what last night was about.” Then he smiled too. “Although it is a very nice arse, now that you mention it.”

From the left came a cough, and Jonathon stiffened.

“Sorry to interrupt your… conversation.” Melinda’s cheeks were pink. “But I was going to ask if you would come into the vicarage and have a cup of tea with me. I could use some company right now.”

“Of course we will,” Mike said quickly.

Jonathon gave him an agonized glance. Having tea with the vicar’s wife, who now knew exactly what the state of their relationship was, sounded like torture.

 

 

IT WAS almost eleven o’clock, and Mike was clearing away the previous night’s mess.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Jonathon muttered.

Mike straightened up from filling the glass washer and glanced in his direction. “What can’t?”

“Two dead bodies, both of them linked to the manor.”

Mike leaned against the bar. “Okay,” he said deliberately. “But apart from the manor, what else is there to link them?”

That was what had Jonathon stumped.

“I hope Melinda and Lloyd are all right,” Mike said in a low voice. As they’d left the vicarage, a police officer had arrived to take statements from them, and Sebastian too.

Jonathon hardly heard him. “Bryan’s death has to be linked in some way to Dominic’s.” He set his jaw. “I’m going to the police station to talk to Gorland.”

“Oh no, you’re not.” Mike came from behind the bar. “You’re going to stay as far away from that place as possible. If you want to talk to him, do it over the phone. At least if you annoy him, all he can do is hang up on you.”

That made Jonathon laugh. “Good thinking.”

Mike got out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “Here. Try calling Graham first. Might be less explosive that way.”

Jonathon copied the number, then hit Call. “Hi, Constable Billings? Jonathon de Mountford here. Have you got a minute?”

Graham laughed. “You are kidding, right? After this morning?” A sigh filled Jonathon’s ears. “What can I do for you?”

“I think DI Gorland needs to see the path report as soon as possible, to see if Bryan’s death is linked to my uncle’s.”

There was a pause. “The DI doesn’t think so,” Graham said in a low voice. “Put it this way, he’s still got Trevor and Sarah Deeping in custody. He’s convinced one of them did it. There’s no clue as to who would want Mayhew killed. Look, don’t worry. If I hear something, I’ll let you know, all right? And I’m only doing this because it’s Mike, okay? He’s a decent bloke. My uncle said he was a cracking DI. Wish he was still on the force, to be honest.”

“I can understand that.” Although, after the previous night, Jonathon had a better understanding of what Mike had gone through, once the prosthetic had come off. It had been a shock, but Jonathon had soon realized that what bothered him was not the disability, but the pain that Mike must have suffered, both physical and mental. He’d clearly loved his job. And after a few minutes, Jonathon’s empathy had morphed into feelings of an entirely different nature. His face heated up just thinking about their night together.

“Hello? Mr. de Mountford? Are you still there?”

“Sorry, Constable Billings, I… zoned out for a second or two.”

Graham chuckled. “Yeah, well, we’ve all done that. And it’s Graham, seeing as you’re gonna be my neighbor soon, if what I’m hearing is right. I’ll call you, I promise.”

“Thank you, Graham,” Jonathon said sincerely. He disconnected the call and sat down near the window. Something was niggling away at him, an idea that had only just occurred to him. He fished his notepad from the back pocket of his jeans and flipped it open to his list.

“Do you sleep with that thing?” Mike asked, plainly amused.

Jonathon raised his eyebrows. “I believe you already know the answer to that question.” He tapped the page. “I was just thinking about clues.”

Mike walked over to where he sat and peered at his list. “Which clue in particular?”

“The missing photo. More importantly, why it’s missing.”

“And what’s your theory? Because it’s obvious from your expression that you have one.”

“What if… what if there’s another heir? A real one?”

Mike gazed at him in consternation. “And what does that make you? A fake one?”

Jonathon shook his head impatiently. “No, I’m not expressing myself clearly. What if… the boy in the photo was Dominic’s son?”

Mike frowned. “Sounds a bit farfetched, if you ask me. In that case, who was the woman with them?”

“I have no idea. But ever since I found out that the photo had gone, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. Because someone took it, Mike. Deliberately.”

Mike’s phone burst into life, making them jump. He answered it. “Well, either you have news or you just can’t keep away from me,” he joked. After a pause, he smiled. “Thanks for that. Let us know if anything else turns up.” Another pause. “That’s right, he was. Thanks again.” He disconnected. “That was Graham. They’ve got an approximate time of death for Bryan. Ten o’clock Friday night, or maybe an hour either way. Lloyd and Melinda were alibis for each other, but I doubt even Gorland would seriously suspect either of them. And Sebastian was in the pub with you. I confirmed that.”

Jonathon nodded. “Which doesn’t help us at all. We’re no nearer to knowing why someone would kill him.” His phone vibrated on the table, and he glanced at it. “Ah. I’m having all calls to the manor landline forwarded to my phone. Wonder who this is?” He clicked on Answer. “Hello?”

“Mr. de Mountford?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Dave Lowther. We spoke a couple of days ago? I’m just calling to confirm that you’re still coming for the test-drive tomorrow.”

Jonathon was at a loss. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“This is Jonathon de Mountford, isn’t it? You called me on Thursday to arrange a test-drive.”

“A test-drive of what?” Jonathon was starting to think the man was cold-calling.

“A Jaguar.” He paused. “Lowther Jaguars? On the M3, going toward Winchester, just outside Eastleigh? You called me and asked me to have a top-of-the-line Jag here for you to test-drive this weekend.” An exasperated noise. “This wasn’t some kind of a windup, was it? This is one very expensive motor we’re talking about here.”

“Mr. Lowther, I don’t know who called you, but it certainly wasn’t me. And I definitely did not ask to test-drive a Jaguar. Someone has been playing games.”

“Give me the phone,” Mike demanded. Surprised, Jonathon handed it over. “Mr. Lowther, my name is Mike Tattersall, and I’m a former DI with the London Met. What number were you given as a contact?” He gestured for Jonathon’s notepad, then hurried over to the bar and leaned over it for a pen. “Okay, run that by me again.” He scribbled on the pad. “Thank you so much, Mr. Lowther, and I’m sorry your time was wasted. No, Mr. de Mountford will not be requiring a test-drive.” He hung up.

Jonathon got up and walked over to him to peer at the notepad. “Okay, that’s the number for the manor.”

Mike nodded. “He said it was a young man who called. So, therefore, it could only have been….”

“Bryan Mayhew.” Jonathon stared at him. “Oh my God.”

Mike was still nodding, his eyes shining. “He pretended to be you. It could only have been him, on that number, on that day. And why would Bryan, your typical impoverished student, want to test-drive a very expensive Jaguar that he couldn’t possibly afford? Unless his parents were going to buy it for him, of course, but I have a much better theory.”

The penny suddenly dropped. “Maybe Bryan thought he was about to come into a lot of money because—”

“Because he was indulging in a little blackmail,” Mike concluded with a smile. “And there’s our motive. What if Bryan saw something that led him to believe he knew who killed Dominic? He lies to us and to the police, tells us he knows nothing, but in the meantime, he approaches the killer and threatens to reveal all unless the killer meets his demands.”

“Only, the killer decides he doesn’t like being blackmailed and kills Bryan first.” Jonathon beamed. “We’re brilliant!”

Mike laughed. “Not yet, we aren’t. Right now it’s just a theory. Now we have to prove it.”

Jonathon waved his hand. “We can do that.” What amazed him was how confident he felt that they could do it. His feeling that he’d been right, that the two deaths were connected, had been vindicated.

Right then, Jonathon felt like he could do anything.

Of course, that might also have had something to do with the man whose bed he’d shared. And in whose bed Jonathon expected to be sleeping that night.