Chapter Three
JONATHON REGARDED what was left of his ploughman’s lunch with disinterest. It wasn’t that the food had been poor—far from it. Abi had put together a huge plate heaped high with three different kinds of cheese, salad, freshly baked, crusty bread, butter, and pickles, not to mention a thick slice of a pork pie. It was just that his appetite appeared to have deserted him. Not surprising, given the circumstances. It seemed a shame. That pork pie deserved to be enjoyed with more gusto than Jonathon could muster right then.
He was sitting at a table in the huge bay window, looking out at the village beyond. The pub had begun to receive its first patrons not long after Mike had opened the doors at eleven thirty, and once Abi had arrived, Mike had given instructions that the first order of the day was to feed Jonathon. He’s only just met me and yet he’s taking such good care of me. Of course, that was probably due to the fact that Jonathon had just found his uncle dead, but deep down, he couldn’t help wishing the root of Mike’s attention was for an entirely different reason. Then he admonished himself. He couldn’t go around fantasizing about every gorgeous guy who strayed across his path. And Mike was gorgeous, no two ways about it. It didn’t help matters that he was built like a bear, all rugged, muscled, and with a sexy beard to boot. Add to that the fact that he was older than Jonathon and wore glasses, and Mike was pretty much Jonathon’s ideal man.
Except this is neither the time nor the place to be having such thoughts.
“You’re not enjoying that.” Mike’s quietly uttered question dropped Jonathon smack into the present.
He sighed. “Sorry. It’s great, really. It’s just that I seem to have lost my appetite.”
“Yeah, I can understand that.” Mike glanced around them, his attention directed toward the bar. “Look, it’s not a particularly busy time—that comes later, when everyone finishes work for the weekend—so why don’t you let me get you a coffee or something, and then we can chat when the lunchtime rush dies down.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Rush. Listen to me. We’re talking six or seven regulars who come in for a pint and a sandwich. Not exactly swamped, right?” He nodded toward Jonathon’s lunch. “Let me cover that up and put it in the fridge. Then if you feel peckish later, just help yourself. And you can come and go around here, okay? You want anything, feel free to wander into the kitchen. That goes especially for when you can’t sleep and you want to make cocoa or Horlicks or whatever else you feel like.”
Jonathon stared at him. “Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t even know me.”
Mike tapped his temple. “Instincts. I’ve always relied on mine, and right now they’re telling me I can trust you. Besides, it strikes me that you could use a friend.”
That much was certainly true. What Jonathon really wanted was for someone to give him a good hug and tell him it would all work out in the end, even it that turned out to be a lie.
Mike disappeared but returned with a mug of coffee. “Here. I’ll be over soon.” He took away Jonathon’s plate and headed for behind the bar.
Jonathon sat back in his chair, facing the pub’s interior, and indulged in his favorite pastime, people-watching. Except this time, the objects of his attention were regarding him with equal interest. He pondered on this for a moment, until he reasoned that news generally spread throughout the village like wildfire, and doubtless word had already gotten around about Dominic’s death. It was disconcerting to feel their gazes crawl over him, and he wondered what they were thinking. Had they liked Dominic? Despised him? Or had he been of little consequence to them? Did they know who Jonathon was?
Usually, people-watching kept his mind distracted and was a good way to pass the time, but not today. There were too many thoughts in his head, clamoring for attention.
An older man walked in, his bald head reflecting the pub’s lights. He paused at the bar to speak to Mike, and Jonathon was seized by the resemblance to his uncle. A wave of sorrow washed over him and his throat tightened.
He really is gone.
Jonathon sat in the grip of a flood of memories. Watching his uncle at the helm of his boat, steering as it cut through the waves around the coastline, not far from the village. Sitting on his uncle’s lap, leafing through photo albums, listening as Dominic told him stories about the family. Jonathon at age thirteen, playing croquet with Dominic on the lawn to the rear of the hall, laughing at his uncle’s attempt to cheat. They hadn’t spent all that much time together, he supposed, but the time they had shared had been rich and vibrant.
Time we’ll never get to share again. And all because of something as trivial as tripping on a rug. It didn’t seem fair. Jonathon hadn’t even given a moment’s thought to the fact that he was going to inherit the hall. That was something to be pushed aside, to be considered later, when the initial throes of sorrow had passed.
He couldn’t sit still and allow those memories to get the better of him.
Jonathon got to his feet and went over to the bar. “I’m just going for a walk,” he told Mike. “I… I need some air.”
Mike nodded, his brown eyes kind and compassionate. “Take as long as you like.” He reached under the bar, grabbed a notepad, and after hastily scribbling on it, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Jonathon. “That’s my phone number if you need it.” Then his attention was claimed by the older guy with the bald head, the one who’d set off Jonathon’s bout of reminiscing.
Jonathon folded the paper and pocketed it. Then he left Mike to it and exited the pub. The sun was high in the sky, and in the distance, he caught the cries of seagulls. He turned right and strolled along the lane that passed in front of the church, to the old covered gate with its white-painted gable, where notices were pinned under its moss-covered tiled roof. He peered at them, barely taking in the announcement of a bring-and-buy sale in the church hall, a bright poster about the village fete, and the times of the services. Jonathon was no stranger to St. Mary’s. As a child, visiting the hall with his parents, he’d attended the Sunday service with them, sitting in the front pew, which bore the de Mountford crest, a further reminder of the family’s importance in the village.
On impulse he pushed open the gate and walked at a leisurely pace along the cobbled path that dissected the lush green of the churchyard. Ancient, mossy gravestones, their engravings almost obliterated by the passage of time, marked the route to the main church door. Wildflowers, bright and colorful, sprang up between the stones, a sharp reminder of life among so much death. Now and again, he spied bunches of flowers arranged in urns or simply tied in a bunch and laid to rest against the stone, and the sight comforted him. Even in death, those who rested there were not entirely forgotten.
“Good afternoon.”
The sweet, melodic voice stopped Jonathon in his tracks, and he lifted his chin to see who’d spoken. An elderly lady, her gray-blonde hair resting on her shoulder in a fat braid, a straw hat on her head, regarded him with clear blue eyes. Over her arm she carried a basket, and in one hand, she held a pair of pruning shears. Poking over the rim of the basket were the heads of some of the wildflowers.
“Good afternoon. I hope I’m not disturbing your gardening.” He had a vague recollection that this was Melinda Talbot, the vicar’s wife. He’d only seen her on a few occasions, but he remembered her being kind to him when he’d first attended the church.
She smiled. “You’ve grown a lot since I last saw you. It’s Jonathon, isn’t it? Dominic’s nephew?”
Jonathon returned her smile, pleased to have been remembered. “Yes, Mrs. Talbot.”
She laughed. “Go on, make me feel really old and tell me how old you are now. Because the last time I saw you, I think you were still in your teens. Or maybe you were at university. I forget.”
“I think your memory is excellent,” he complimented her. “And I’m twenty-eight.”
She nodded eagerly, but then her smile faltered. “I would say I’m pleased to see you, but word gets around fast in this village.” Melinda stepped forward, her hand extended. “My condolences. What a terrible thing to have happened.”
Jonathon took her hand and she covered his with her other, both sheathed in deep green suede gardening gloves. She glanced down and shook her head. “Look at me. Silly old woman.” She released his hand and removed the gloves. Her gaze met his. “Where are you staying? Not at the hall, surely.”
“Mike, the pub landlord, gave me a room there. He’s sort of taken me under his wing since I got here.”
Melinda nodded, her expression pleased. “Mike’s a good man.” Her eyes widened. “Would you like to come to tea tomorrow afternoon? I’d love it if you could. I know my husband would like to talk to you.”
“Tea?” For a moment the concept didn’t compute.
She smiled. “Yes, I know it feels strange to be thinking about tea in such circumstances, but life goes on, my dear boy. Besides, when was the last time you had a proper English afternoon tea?” When he opened his mouth to reply, she shook her head. “I know all about you, young man. You’re forever jet-setting off around the world, taking your marvelous photos.” Jonathon blinked, and she gave him a sad smile. “Your uncle was always talking about you, where you were, showing us your photos in magazines and on his laptop. So I know what a wonderful life you lead. But I bet you can’t remember the last time you sat down to tea, cake, and sandwiches.” Her eyes twinkled.
Jonathon admitted defeat. “You know what? You’re right. I can’t remember. What time?”
“If we make it about four o’clock, then you can bring Mike along as well. The pub will be closed by then and it won’t open again until six.” She smiled mischievously. “Mike looks like he could use some tea too.”
“I’ll tell him.” Jonathon held out his hand, and she clasped it briefly in her cool one. “Thank you. This is very kind of you.”
“Nonsense,” she said with a wave. “Haven’t you heard? This is what vicars’ wives do.” Her eyes sparkled with good humor. Then she glanced over Jonathon’s shoulder and smiled. “Good timing, Sebastian.”
Jonathon turned around to see a tall, bearded man walking along the path, pulling a bike beside him. He gazed at Jonathon inquiringly before returning his attention to Melinda.
“Afternoon, Melinda. Who’s this, then? Another waif and stray?” He smiled.
Melinda laughed. “Not quite.” She glanced at Jonathon. “Allow me to introduce our curate, Sebastian Trevellan. Who thinks he’s funny.” She gave Sebastian a mock glare before continuing. “Just because I make a habit of bringing people home with me.” She arched her thinning eyebrows. “I believe you were the last stray, if memory serves.” She indicated Jonathon with a flick of her head. “This is Jonathon de Mountford. Dominic’s nephew.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, I see. I’m sorry for your loss. Everyone is talking about it, of course. Such a tragic accident. Your uncle was well respected in the village.”
Melinda huffed. “By most people, yes.”
Jonathon longed to ask her what she meant by that, but Melinda gave him a smile.
“I’d better take my husband a cup of tea. Once he starts leafing through those hefty tomes in his study, he loses all track of time. And if he is writing Sunday’s sermon, he’ll need tea. It fuels the brain cells.”
“The sermon is already written,” Sebastian interjected. “I’m preaching this Sunday. That’s what I was working on last night.”
“Ahh. Is that why you were burning the midnight oil? I saw the lights from the house.” Melinda turned to Jonathon. “Sebastian lives in the cottage at the end of the garden. We have told him there’s plenty of room for him in the vicarage, but no, he prefers to stay there.” She gave an elegant shrug. “I can’t blame him, I suppose. Who would want to live with a pair of old codgers like us?”
Sebastian gave her a fond glance. “As if either of you fits that description.” He addressed Jonathon. “Glad to meet you. Sorry about the circumstances.”
“You can talk to Jonathon tomorrow. I’ve invited him and Mike Tattersall to tea.”
Sebastian blinked. “Oh. Oh, right. The more the merrier.” He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” He continued along the path, his hands on the handlebars of the bike.
Melinda watched him. “He’s a pleasant man. He came to us a year ago. This is his first parish. Not a talker, however. Very private, and likes to keep to himself. I keep telling him to go for a drink in the pub once in a while. It would do him no harm, and he might actually enjoy it.” She faced Jonathon and grinned. “Maybe you could try inviting him when you see him tomorrow. He might listen when the suggestion comes from a younger man, rather than his mentor’s elderly wife. And now I really must go. Until four o’clock tomorrow, Mr. de Mountford.”
Jonathon nodded. “I look forward to it.” He watched as she headed up the path toward the church, then followed another path around the old stone building, doubtless going to the vicarage. The conversation had done him a lot of good. He felt calmer, and the recent bout of melancholy had departed. He was left feeling tired, however.
Maybe a nap was a good idea.
THERE HAD to be between twenty to thirty people in the pub, hardly packing it to the rafters. Jonathon liked the atmosphere. There was a mixture of chatter, laughter, passionate discussion, and whispered conversations. He sat at the bar, drinking it all in, watching as Mike interacted with his customers, exchanging banter and smiles.
“Anyone would think you’ve been doing this all your life,” Jonathon commented when Mike took a moment to drink from a pint glass of water.
Mike’s face lit up. “That’s possibly the nicest thing you could have said. I love this. It’s so different from my career, and the change of pace seems to suit me. That’s not to say that sometimes I don’t miss the old life.”
“What was your rank when you left?”
“Detective Inspector. I had no aspirations to go any higher. A desk job was definitely not for me.” He left to serve a couple of old men their pints but came back when the bar was free of customers. “Tell me about your uncle.”
Jonathon arched his eyebrows. “Is this you being polite, or are you asking out of habit, Mr. Detective?” He grinned. “Was it difficult to give up the sleuthing?”
Mike laughed. “Okay, you got me. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about him ever since this morning. Understandable, really. But I don’t know that much about him.” He glanced at Jonathon’s empty beer glass. “Can I get you another?” He gave a wicked grin. “Alcohol gets the tongue working better.”
Jonathon laughed and held out his glass. “Go on, then.” He watched as Mike expertly pulled a pint, getting the head just right. “Dominic was a barrister in London, working for the family firm.”
“The de Mountfords are barristers?”
Jonathon nodded. “My father is aiming to be a High Court judge one of these days. Law seems to run in the blood. Present company excluded.”
“I won’t ask how that went down in a family of lawyers.” Mike flicked a glance in his direction, and Jonathon shook his head. “Thought as much. So, back to Dominic. When did he leave London to lord it over the inhabitants of Merrychurch?”
“About fifteen years ago, when my grandfather died and he inherited the hall. He gave up his career and moved here, a decision that apparently surprised a lot of people.” Jonathon frowned. “Except my father. I was only thirteen at the time, but I seem to recall him accepting the situation with little or no fuss, which really isn’t like him.”
“Maybe Dominic wasn’t all that good a barrister,” Mike suggested. “Maybe he only got a job with the law firm because he was family and they couldn’t refuse him. Noblesse oblige and all that.” His eyes widened. “Maybe he had to leave the firm.”
“Yeah, you didn’t leave your career all that far behind, did you?” Jonathon chuckled. “You still think like a copper, don’t you?”
Mike laughed. “Guilty as charged, in possession of an overactive imagination.” He sighed. “Sorry. I keep forgetting.”
“What—that I’ve just lost my uncle?” Jonathon gave him a hard stare. “Well, you go on forgetting, okay? Don’t handle me with kid gloves, don’t treat me with care. I’m twenty-eight. I can handle a death in the family.” He stuck out his chin. “Life goes on, right? And soon I’m going to have bigger things to worry about.”
“Such as?” Mike frowned.
“The fact that you’re looking at the next occupant of de Mountford Hall. If my father gets his way, that is.”
Mike stilled. “You… you’re the heir?”
“Apparently. But can I ask you not to discuss this with anyone? I only know because my father told me. Let’s wait until the will is read. Then I’m guessing all will be revealed.”
“Wow.” Mike rubbed his chin. “I can see why you’d be less than happy to inherit. Taking on such a responsibility might curtail a career in photography.”
“Tell me about it.” Jonathon glanced over Mike’s shoulder. “You’re wanted. Customers.”
Mike twisted around to take a look, then returned his attention to Jonathon. “Hey, want to help me behind the bar? It might keep your mind off things.”
Jonathon let out a sigh of relief. “And that might be the best thing you’ve said since I met you. Yes, please.”
“Come on, then.” Mike grinned. “You can start by collecting the empties.”