Chapter Two

 

 

JONATHON STARED through the windscreen at the house, his body and mind numb.

I can’t believe this is happening.

Mike had gone inside when the local police had arrived, after giving Jonathon strict instructions to stay put. Jonathon had barely registered his words. He kept seeing Dominic lying there, his eyes open, and God, the blood….

It took a moment to realize Mike was back in the car. He studied Jonathon carefully before speaking. “Right. There’s nothing you can do here, so I’m taking you back to the pub. Constable Billings will be over when they’re done processing the scene. Doubtless he’ll have a few questions.”

Jonathon swallowed. “What did you mean, this could be a crime scene?” He opened his eyes wide. “What do you think happened?”

Mike’s gaze flickered to the windscreen. “At first glance it looks like he fell and caught his head on the hearth. His feet were all tangled up in a rug, so maybe he tripped.”

Jonathon frowned. “First glance?”

Mike shrugged. “Sorry. That’s the copper in me talking. Never assume anything until the coroner has had a look.”

Coroner. Postmortem. Jonathon shuddered. Then Mike’s words sank in and he shook his head. “Tripped? No way.”

“What makes you say that?”

Jonathon pointed toward the house. “That man climbed Everest! He was a sailor! Trip? He had the balance of a mountain goat.”

Mike held up his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m telling you what I saw. And you don’t know. Maybe he had a dizzy spell.”

Jonathon stuck out his jaw. “And maybe he fell because someone pushed him.”

There was a silence, broken only when Mike cleared his throat. “Okay, yeah, that’s a possibility too, but unless there’s evidence of a struggle….” He sighed. “You can’t jump to conclusions. You have to look at the evidence.” Mike glanced at Jonathon’s face. “Come on, let’s get out of here. SOCO and the—”

“SOCO?” Jonathon searched his befuddled brain for the term.

Mike gave him a gentle smile. “Scenes of Crime Officers. So yeah, SOCO and the coroner will be here soon, and I don’t want you here when they carry out your uncle’s body.” Jonathon shivered, and Mike sighed. “That does it. I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He switched on the engine and drove around the knoll to head back along the driveway to the lane.

Jonathon leaned his head against the window, the passing scenery just a blur. He was grateful not to be on his own right then. Mike’s solid, practical presence was the only thing holding him together. He closed his eyes, but Dominic was still there in his head. Still dead.

Twenty-eight is way too young to have your first brush with death.

When the car came to a stop, he opened his eyes. They were behind the pub in a car park that might have had room for maybe twenty cars.

Mike regarded him, his concern obvious. “Are you okay?”

“As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances.” Jonathon picked up his backpack and opened the door.

“I’ll get your case.” Mike had already opened the rear door and was lifting it from the back seat. “Now, do you want me to show you to your room, or do you want a drink too?” When Jonathon gave another involuntary shiver, Mike nodded. “Drink first.” He locked the car, then led the way to the solid back door. “I’ll leave the case in the kitchen. It’ll be safe there. Abi won’t be here for an hour or two, and we’re not open yet.”

“Abi?”

“She makes the food.” Mike closed the door behind them, and Jonathon followed him into the large kitchen, then through into the warm-looking bar, its chairs covered in a rich red that complemented the white-painted walls and black beams. The bar itself was a dark wood, varnished to a high gloss. The place had a cozy, old feel, nothing like the pubs Jonathon frequented.

“You said you own this?” Usually landlords were appointed by the brewery that owned the pub.

Mike nodded and patted the bar top. “I’ve worked hard to give the place an atmosphere. When I bought it, there was no food provided and little in the way of comfort. There was, however, a huge TV screen. Apparently the former owner was a big sports fan, and that was all you could watch here. I didn’t feel a TV went with a pub this old, so I took it down. No one’s complained so far.” He went behind the bar, grabbed two glasses, and held them up to a bar optic. “Here.” He placed the squat glasses on the black bar mat.

Jonathon eyed the amber liquid. “What’s this?” He sat on one of the stools in front of the bar.

“Brandy. By the look of you, you need it.”

Jonathon wasn’t about to disagree. He lifted the glass and drained the contents in one long gulp before coughing violently when the fiery liquid hit his throat. He wiped his mouth and grimaced. “God, how can people like that?”

Mike chuckled. “Well, if you toss it back like it’s water….” He took a sip and then regarded Jonathon’s backpack, still over his shoulder, with interest. “You’re very careful with that bag. What does it contain, your life savings?”

Jonathon placed the backpack on his knee and opened it. “My most precious possession.” He took out the camera and held it up for Mike to see. “He goes everywhere I go.”

“He?” Mike smirked.

“Definitely.”

“And is this a hobby or something more than that?”

Jonathon placed the camera on the bar top and then reached into the bag. He handed Mike a large book with a glossy cover. “I was bringing this to give to Dominic. It’s my latest book.”

Mike stared at the cover, which was an image of a stunning waterfall, tumbling down a precipice. His eyes widened. “Oh my God. Of course. You’re the Jonathon de Mountford. I thought it sounded familiar, and not just because of your uncle. I love your work.”

“Really?” No matter how many times people professed to love his photographs, it still felt as new as the first time it had occurred. And Jonathon still couldn’t get used to it.

Mike nodded, his eyes shining. “I have your book on Australia. Some of the images in there are simply stunning. You have a great eye for capturing the essence of a place.” Then he laughed. “Get me. I’m fangirling Jonathon de Mountford.”

Jonathon’s cheeks felt like they were on fire.

Mike handed the book back to him. “I’m just sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”

And just like that, Jonathon was plunged into the present. For one brief moment, he’d forgotten the day’s horrible event.

“Let me show you to your room.”

It was like Mike could read his emotions, and Jonathon was grateful for the intervention. He nodded. “Thanks.” He put the book and camera away and slid off the stool.

Mike led him toward the signs indicating the toilets, but then opened a door marked Private. Beyond was a wooden staircase, with a red carpet covering the center of each tread.

“The bed isn’t made up, but I can soon sort that out,” Mike said from in front of him. When they reached the landing, Jonathon saw five doors leading off it. Mike pointed to the farthest door. “That’s where I live, so if you need anything and I’m not downstairs, feel free to knock on my door.” Then he opened the nearest door. “This will be yours, for as long as you need it.”

Jonathon stepped into a large room with a huge bay window at the far end, bracketed by deep blue curtains from floor to ceiling. There was a heavy stone fireplace, cleaned out but with a basket of logs beside it. The bed was wide, covered with a floral quilt, and had a small oak cabinet on either side. The varnished wooden floorboards were partially obscured by two or three matching rugs.

“There’s only one bathroom up here, I’m afraid. It’s two doors down. I haven’t got around to fitting en suites yet.”

Jonathon shook his head. “I wouldn’t want one. It would spoil the room.” The bedroom was full of olde world charm. He wandered over to the window and traced the leaded panes with his finger. Real leaded windows, not the modern attempt to copy them. “How old is this place?” His room overlooked the front of the pub, and he could see people below, going about their daily lives, with no clue as to the horrific tragedy that had taken place.

How many of them will be sorry he’s dead? It didn’t sound like Mike’s sister would be among that number.

“I’ve seen documents that claim there was an inn first registered here back in 1458. There’s a chair downstairs that your ancestor used to sit in, so they say.”

Jonathon whirled around to stare at him. “John de Mountford, Earl of Hampshire? That was back in the late 1700s.”

“Which is why no one is allowed to sit in it,” Mike remarked dryly. He exited the room briefly, only to return with a pile of folded bed linens. “I’ll just make up the bed. I only do it when I know I’m expecting guests.”

“Can I help?” Anything to take his mind off the current situation.

“Sure.” Between them, they pulled off the quilt and covered the bed with soft, fresh-smelling cotton sheets. “So, how long were you intending to stay with your uncle?”

Jonathon was busy stuffing a pillowcase that smelled of lavender. “A couple of weeks. He wanted me to accompany him to the village fete.” His throat tightened, and across on the other side of the bed, Mike stilled.

“I shouldn’t have reminded you.”

Jonathon held his head high. “Yes, you should. I’m going to have to talk about it, deal with it, so there’s no point avoiding the subject.” Then it hit him, and he felt the realization like a body blow. “I have to phone my father. He has to be told, and I’d rather he heard it from me than from the police.”

Mike nodded. “I’ll leave you to it. Come down when you’re done, and I’ll make us some tea, coffee—whatever you want. Besides, Constable Billings should be here soon.” He left the room.

Jonathon fished his phone out of his jeans pocket and then stared at it. “What the hell do I say to him?” he whispered to himself. Then he scrolled through, clicked Call, and wandered back to the window to gaze out at the village.

“I take it you’re at Dominic’s.”

The sound of his father’s voice, so cheerful and… normal, made Jonathon’s stomach clench. “Not quite. You need to sit down, if you’re not already doing so.”

There was a moment’s pause. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. Dominic is dead.”

The hitch in his father’s breathing was audible. “Oh God. What happened?”

“The police are there now, but it looks like he fell and hit his head on the hearth.”

More silence followed. Jonathon couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose a brother. His father had to be devastated.

“I see…. Wait a minute. Police? From where?”

“The local constable, I think.” Jonathon didn’t see why that should be of importance.

“Absolutely not. This needs to be handled by someone with authority, not some village PC Plod. I’ll get on to Scotland Yard immediately.” There was a crisp, authoritative edge to his father’s voice that Jonathon recognized instantly. This was Thomas de Mountford, barrister, a man who didn’t take no for an answer. A man who always got what he wanted. And apparently not a man to let grief stop him for more than a few minutes.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Not to mention Jonathon couldn’t see the local police taking kindly to being descended upon by detectives from London. Not for what had all the markings of an accident.

“Well, you should, given the situation we now find ourselves in.”

Something in his father’s voice made the hairs on the back of Jonathon’s neck stand up. “What situation?” he asked guardedly.

A sigh from the other end. “I suppose I’d better tell you. It makes no difference now because you’d learn soon enough, when the will is read.”

That uneasy feeling in the pit of Jonathon’s stomach was spreading its tendrils again. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Because Dominic has no heir, the house passes to the next male in line.”

“Which is you, as his younger brother.”

His father coughed. “Actually, no. Your uncle and I agreed that you should inherit the hall.”

“Me?” The word came out as a squeak, and he cleared his throat. “Why?”

There was a moment of silence before his father responded. “Put quite simply, I have no intention of giving up my career, not when there is the possibility of becoming a High Court judge.”

Jonathon had long known of his father’s judiciary ambitions. “You can’t have both?”

He didn’t miss the noise of irritation. “Jonathon, de Mountford Hall is a huge responsibility. Why do you think the family crest can be seen all over that village? Because as the owner of the hall, the incumbent has an obligation to take care of its inhabitants. Such a responsibility requires being physically present.”

“We’ve talked about this. The title died out many years ago. There hasn’t been an earl, or a lord, or a viscount in the family for how many generations?”

“The title may have disappeared, but the hall remains, and as long as the family line continues, there will be a de Mountford living there.” A pause. “And as I am speaking to the last of the de Mountford family, there—”

“Don’t.” The demand came out harsher than Jonathon might have wanted. “We are not going to discuss this again.” Only his father could take a tragic death and turn it into yet another opportunity to argue that Jonathon needed to be married and working on producing the next generation.

Jonathon had no problem with the idea of marriage in principle. Where he and his father differed was with the gender of his future spouse.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know you two were close.” It felt mean-spirited to deliberately bring the conversation back to its painful origins, but it was better than letting his father continue in his usual vein.

“God, the things we got up to when we were younger.” There was a softness to his father’s voice that Jonathon hadn’t heard in a long time. Then he cleared his throat and it was obvious the moment had passed. “I want you to keep me informed on everything that happens there, do you understand?” That hard edge was back.

“Yes, sir.” Jonathon knew from experience that was the only response his father expected.

“Are you staying at the hall?”

“Right now I have a room at the local pub. I’m waiting to hear from the police.”

“I imagine they’re going over the house with a fine-tooth comb. Well, they’d damn well better be. As soon as you’re given permission to go to the hall, I want you staying there. I don’t want it left empty.”

Jonathon had a nasty feeling he knew where this was going. “But… I only intended spending two weeks here. Then I was going to Vietnam.” He’d spent months putting the trip together.

“Your little… hobby can wait, surely? Until it’s been established how Dominic died. And after that, well… you’ll have new responsibilities.”

Jonathon’s heart sank. Sometimes he hated being right. “Can we talk about this another time?”

“Of course. You must be feeling pretty low right now. If you need me to come down there, call. I can take a brief leave of absence in the circumstances.”

After Jonathon had sent his love to his mother, they said their goodbyes, and he ended the call. With a heavy heart, he left the room and went down the stairs and into the pub.

Mike was sitting at a table near the bar, talking earnestly with the police constable who’d been first on the scene. “Hey, come and sit down. You look haggard.”

Hardly surprising, Jonathon thought. He joined the two men and stared questioningly at Constable Billings. “Well? Do you still think it was an accident?” He sat on the remaining empty chair.

Constable Billings frowned and looked at Mike, who gave him an apologetic smile.

“Jonathon voiced the opinion that given his uncle’s remarkable good balance, someone might have pushed him, causing him to fall.”

The constable’s furrowed brow smoothed out. “Oh, I see.” He gave his attention to Jonathon. “It still looks like an accident to me, sir. Of course, things might change once the coroner’s report comes out. We’ll have to wait and see.” He got out his notebook. “I have a few questions for you, if that’s all right. I know you’ve been through a lot this morning.”

“Please, ask away.”

“When did you last speak to your uncle?”

“Last week. He called me to check that I was still coming to stay with him. He was supposed to meet me at the station this morning.”

Constable Billings nodded, making notes. “Who is the next of kin?”

“That would be my father.” Jonathon rattled off details, impressed that the officer kept up.

“Just one more thing. Would you know where Bryan Mayhew is right now?”

Jonathon froze. “Who the hell is Bryan Mayhew?”

Constable Billings frowned. “I thought you’d know. He’s the student who’s staying up at the manor.”

“Oh yeah, I know him. He’s been a regular for the last couple of weeks. Didn’t your uncle mention him?” Mike asked.

“No, he didn’t.” Which again was odd. Dominic had certainly been acting out of character lately. “Why do you want to find him?”

“I just find it strange that he’s not there. He’s been investigating the history of the hall and the de Mountford family for the past four weeks. I assumed your uncle would have spoken about him.”

“There’s no sign of him?”

“None. His bike isn’t anywhere that I could see. He rides a motorbike,” Constable Billings added. “He’s always zipping along the lanes on that thing. Gave poor old Mrs. Dawkins a scare when he drove past her one day last week.” He shrugged. “I wanted to ask him when he last saw your uncle alive.”

“You… you don’t think he had something to do with Dominic’s death, do you?” It seemed awfully coincidental to Jonathon’s mind. His uncle had died, and this student was nowhere to be found.

“And there you go again, jumping to conclusions.” Mike patted Jonathon’s arm. “What did I say about evidence?”

Jonathon addressed Constable Billings. “What happens to my uncle’s… body?”

“He’s been taken to the mortuary at the Fareham Community Hospital. Oh, and there’ll be no need for you to identify the body, sir, seeing as you were the one who found him.” The constable rose to his feet. “Will you be staying here, sir? If I need to ask more questions.”

“Yes, I’ll be here. When will you get the postmortem results? They will examine his body, right?”

“I did say there’d be a coroner’s report, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” Mike interjected. “You can’t blame Jonathon for being a little… distracted right now, given the current state of affairs.”

Jonathon arched his eyebrows at that but said nothing.

“Of course. Entirely understandable. I’ll be in touch as soon as there’s any news.” Constable Billings spoke with a calm, soothing voice. “Don’t you worry, sir. I’m sure it was just a tragic accident.” He shook Mike’s hand. “I’ll talk to you later, Mike.”

“Sure.” Mike got up and walked him to the door.

Jonathon would have liked to believe that they were right, that it really was just an accident, but something in his gut was telling him that was merely wishful thinking. There was one thing he was certain of, however.

He needed to talk to this Bryan Mayhew.