Chapter Four
JONATHON OPENED his eyes and blinked groggily. For a moment he had no clue where he was. Then he remembered. He was in a room at the Hare and Hounds pub in Merrychurch, it was Saturday, July 22nd, Uncle Dominic was dead, and for reasons they’d decided upon between themselves, Dominic and Jonathon’s father had agreed that Jonathon was to inherit de Mountford Hall—whether he wanted to or not.
Any hopes Jonathon might have had that it had all been some ghastly dream vanished with the sunlight that poured in through the gap in the curtains.
A sharp tap on the door brought his attention back to his surroundings. “Yes?”
“Just wanted to say, the bathroom’s free,” Mike said through the door. “And I’m making scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast, if you’re interested.”
The rumble in Jonathon’s belly announced the return of his appetite. “That sounds great. I’ll be down shortly.”
“Okay. There’ll be coffee or tea when you’re ready too.”
Jonathon stifled his groan. “Coffee would be wonderful.”
A loud chuckle erupted. “A man after my own heart. See you down there.”
When silence fell once more, Jonathon threw back the covers and climbed out of the bed. He’d anticipated being unable to sleep the whole night through, but to his surprise, the last thing he remembered was his head hitting the pillow. I must have been out like a light. The bed was supremely comfortable, which might have accounted for it.
The controls for the shower over the bath took some figuring out, but finally hot water was flowing. The aroma of frying bacon seeped under the bathroom door and into his nostrils, and that was all the impetus Jonathon needed to wash as fast as was humanly possible. By the time he descended the narrow staircase, his mouth was watering.
The center of the large kitchen was dominated by a square wooden table, thick and solid-looking, and Mike had set out plates and cutlery on it. Mike stood with his back to Jonathon, facing the ancient AGA range. “How do you like your eggs? Soft and creamy, or bouncy?”
Jonathon snorted. “You can keep the bouncy variety.”
Mike laughed and glanced over his shoulder. “Take a seat. There’s toast, butter, jam, and marmalade on the table. Help yourself. And if you really want cereal, I can rustle that up too.”
Jonathon pulled out one of the heavy-looking oak chairs and sat down. “You can keep the cereal too.”
Mike laughed again. “Definitely a man after my own heart. Oh, and the coffee’s made. Help yourself.” He went back to moving the eggs slowly around the frying pan with a spatula.
Jonathon poured out two mugs of coffee and settled back into his chair. “Mike? Are you doing anything this morning?” He’d been thinking while he showered.
“That sounds suspiciously like you have an activity in mind.”
Jonathon helped himself to milk and stirred it into his coffee. “I want to go to the hall.”
Mike paused and peered at him. “Any particular reason?”
“Well, firstly, I want to see how the police have left it. Secondly, I want a look around. And thirdly, I want to see if this student has come back yet.”
“All good reasons, and I can’t fault any of them.” Mike shared the eggs between two plates, and then once the pan was soaking in the sink, he brought the plates to the table, along with a foil-covered plate. “Bacon. And if you want ketchup, it’s behind you on the countertop.”
The smell was heavenly. Jonathon began eating, and the taste was as sublime as its aroma. He nodded, humming appreciatively. For the next ten minutes, neither of them spoke while they got on with the very serious task of devouring breakfast. By the time Jonathon had finished his second mug of coffee, he felt human again.
Mike helped himself to a third mug and buttered the last piece of toast. “I’ll call Constable Billings first, just to verify that the police are actually finished up there. Then we can drive over.” He paused, his gaze locked on Jonathon, his brow furrowed. “Look, I’m going to say this now. It’s unlikely that they’ve cleaned up the… the blood, so I want you to be prepared for that.”
Jonathon swallowed but nodded. “I understand. I still want to go there, though.”
“Fine. If they give us the go-ahead, we’ll go right after I’ve cleared up the breakfast things.” The last morsel of toast vanished, and Mike smacked his lips. “That’s me done.” He got up from the table, fished his phone out of his jeans pocket, and scrolled through. He gave a nod toward the coffee pot. “Have that last bit. I’ve had enough.” He walked out of the kitchen, and pretty soon Jonathon heard him talking in a low tone.
He poured the last of the coffee and stared out of the kitchen window at the sky beyond. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Then he thought about their destination, and the day lost some of its allure.
JONATHON SHIVERED at the sight of the yellow-and-black police tape across the main entrance door.
“Hey, you all right? You sure you want to do this?” Mike asked from beside him.
Jonathon cursed himself for his own weakness and straightened. “I’m fine.”
Mike pulled the tape away, and they stepped once more into the hallway. “They’ve dusted for prints,” he called out ahead of him. “Standard procedure. But that means we’re free to touch anything.” He stood in the middle of the wide hallway. “Hello? Bryan Mayhew?” Mike’s cry echoed, rebounding off the walls and high ceiling. There was no response. He glanced across at Jonathon. “Well, unless he’s in some far-off part of the hall, it looks like he’s not around.”
Jonathon gazed at the great staircase that followed the curve of the white marble walls, past the statue of an angel that stood at its foot. He craned his neck up and smiled. “At Christmas, this is where the tree stands… stood. I remember watching one year when it was delivered on the biggest truck I’d ever seen.” He straightened his neck and stared at the door to the study, unable to repress the shudder that rippled through him.
“The police said they’ve been in contact with the servants. Most of the house isn’t in use, apparently, and is shut off. There’s a cook and a housekeeper. They would normally have been here, but your uncle gave them Thursday and Friday off.”
“Why?” Jonathon couldn’t see his uncle fending for himself. “He knew I was coming on Friday. Why would he do that?”
“The housekeeper thought it strange too, but Dominic assured her he could manage for two days.”
There was no use putting it off any longer. Jonathon pushed open the study door and entered.
Instantly he spotted the residue left by the police. “They really did dust everything,” he murmured. He tried not to glance at the floor, but it proved an impossible task. Thankfully the blood had been removed, but it had stained the white marble floor. The rug wasn’t present, and he wondered if the police had taken it.
“That’s a beautiful desk,” Mike remarked. He closed the study door after them and walked over to the french windows, where the desk stood in front of them.
Jonathon had to agree. It was a huge item, covered in veneers that glowed with life and rich color. Its wide top was inlaid with leather, and behind it was the high-backed leather chair where he’d sat with his uncle so many times. On top of the desk was a fat album, bound in dark brown leather.
“What’s that doing out?” Jonathon forgot his squeamishness and hurried over. The cover still bore traces of the fingerprint dust, a couple of smears at the edge where it had obviously been held after examination.
“What is it?” Mike joined him at the desk.
Jonathon sat in the chair and lifted the cover. “This was one of my uncle’s photo albums. He kept these in one of the cupboards below the bookcases. If it’s here, then he must have taken it out before he… before he died.” He leafed through, turning the heavy black pages with care.
Mike came around the desk to gaze at the photos. “These look old.”
Jonathon nodded. “At the start, yes. Some of these date back to the late eighteen hundreds.” He pointed to one of the more formal photos of a family gathering, where each person sat with a rigid back, their gazes focused. “Further on, they begin to be more informal, and I’d guess they were taken by someone in the family. Those date back to the early twentieth century.”
“Old family, huh?”
Jonathon glanced at Mike, taking in his rapt expression. “I’m in here too.”
Jonathon turned the pages until he reached the end of the album. “There’s only the one photo. Dominic showed it to me years ago, when I was very young.” He scanned the pages, searching. “Funny. I can’t find it.” He turned a page and stilled, staring at the small white corners left on an empty page. “Here. It was here.”
“Are you sure?”
Jonathon frowned. “I’m positive. It was taken in the early nineties, I think. I was maybe two, just a toddler really. I was sitting on Dominic’s knee, and there was a lady sitting next to us. We were at the seaside—an office outing, I think he said—and she was someone who worked with him.” He sat back in the chair. “That’s odd. Why should it be missing?”
Mike straightened, then froze beside him. “Er, Jonathon?”
Something in his voice caught Jonathon’s attention, and he looked up. “What’s the matter?”
Mike gestured to the walls of the study. “How do you get out of here? I know we came in, but for the life of me, I can’t see a way out. Where’s the bloody door?”
Jonathon laughed. “Ah, the mystery of de Mountford Hall.” The walls were lined with linenfold panels, and the door wasn’t immediately apparent. “See the bosses in the middle of each panel?”
Mike blinked. “Bosses?”
“The carved heads, surrounded by oak leaves, set equidistant apart on the horizontal panel. Well, if you go to the—” He counted with his finger, tapping through the air. “—third one along and slide the head to the right, it opens the door.” Then he froze as the head moved, and the door opened.
“Would you mind telling me what you’re doing in the middle of my crime scene?”
The owner of the strident voice stood in the doorway, dressed in a dark blue suit, pale blue shirt, and matching tie. He was glaring at Mike.
Jonathon cleared his throat. “We have permission to be here from Constable Billings.” He was suddenly aware of how stiffly Mike held himself.
“And it’s not a crime scene,” Mike added. “This was an accidental death.”
The man ignored him and addressed Jonathon. “Constable Billings is no longer in charge of this investigation, and when I see him, I’ll be having words about this. Letting civilians loose where they have no right to be.” Another glare at Mike. “That’s correct, isn’t it, Mike? You are still a civilian? You haven’t rejoined the service and no one thought to mention it to me?” He gave Mike a mocking smile.
Mike took a deep breath. “John. Fancy seeing you here. Must have been something pretty drastic to get you out of Scotland Yard.”
“That’s Detective Inspector Gorland to you. As for me being here, that’s down to someone pulling some very long strings.” His gaze flickered briefly in Jonathon’s direction before he continued. “And as for this not being a crime scene, that’s where you’re wrong. Dominic de Mountford’s death is no longer being treated as an accident. The coroner’s report is in.”
Mike gaped. “How? His body was only discovered twenty-four hours ago. There’s no way the coroner would move that fast.”
DI Gorland nodded. “See what I mean about long strings? The police commissioner got a call first thing yesterday morning. He called the superintendent, who then called me. And the upshot of the report is that there are signs of a struggle. There was bruising to the sternum, indicative of a sharp blow, plus a couple of cracked ribs. So we’re looking at murder, or at the very least, manslaughter.”
Jonathon gripped the arms of the chair. “Who would kill my uncle?” It didn’t seem real.
“That’s what I aim to find out, so I can get out of here and back to civilization.” DI Gorland gave them both a hard stare. “And the last thing I need is you getting under my feet. So take my advice and stay out of my way.”
“What about the hall? Is Jonathon free to visit?” Mike demanded. “Surely the investigation team have documented everything here.”
DI Gorland sneered. “It’s Jonathon, is it? I’ll give you this, Mike: you’re a fast mover.” He regarded Jonathon, his expression cool. “I’ll inform you when you are free to return here. I take it neither of you have seen this student, Bryan Mayhew?”
They shook their heads.
“In that case, I must ask you both to leave the premises. Now.”
Jonathon got to his feet, feeling dazed. Mike nudged his elbow, guiding him toward the door. “Come on. They know where to find you if they need you.” He led the way past DI Gorland. By the time they reached the car, Jonathon was trembling.
“I don’t believe it. Who would want my uncle dead?”
Matt rubbed his back. “Easy now. It doesn’t have to be murder. What if there was an argument, someone shoved him, and he fell? It doesn’t mean it was deliberate. Let’s wait and see what the investigation turns up.”
Jonathon glanced toward the house. “I take it you know this DI Gorland?” When there was no response, Jonathon gave him his full attention. “Mike?”
“We worked together in London.” Mike’s face tightened.
“Is he good at his job?” Jonathon wanted to know.
Mike stiffened as DI Gorland came out of the hall. “Not here. Let’s talk about this back at the pub.” He got into the 4x4, and Jonathon hurried to get in as well.
As they drove away from the house, Jonathon twisted in his seat to stare out of the rear window. The detective stood by his car, watching them. His gut clenching, Jonathon sat back and stared ahead, his mind awash with questions. The overriding thought in his head was that Mike was hiding something.
“SO. TELL me about this Scotland Yard detective.” Jonathon wanted to add who has you so pissed off, but it wasn’t his place. He barely knew Mike, and certainly not well enough to make such a comment.
Mike put down his coffee mug and shook his head. “He’s one of those officers who like everything neat and tidy. Nothing wrong with that, but it does mean he goes for the obvious suspects and sticks with them until his theory is proved wrong.”
Judging by Mike’s furrowed brow, Jonathon got the impression that Gorland’s modus operandi worried him.
There’s more to this than simply not liking Gorland’s methods.
“Okay, you can tell me to back off, shut up, whatever,” Jonathon began hesitatingly, “but I sort of got the impression that he doesn’t like you very much.”
Mike snorted. “Not like he hid it, right?” He took a long drink from his mug before continuing. “He’s had it in for me ever since I made DI before he did.”
“Ah. Hence the pointed remark about his rank.”
Mike nodded. “At the time he kicked up quite a fuss. Said I hadn’t been promoted because I was good at my job, but for… other reasons.” He focused on the tabletop.
Jonathon couldn’t miss Mike’s body language; it screamed tension. “Other reasons?” When Mike jerked his head up, his eyes wide, Jonathon held up his hands in a placating gesture. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”
Mike sagged into his chair. “Look, I suppose I can tell you. It’s not like it’s a secret around here. It’s just not something I go shouting from the rooftops to every stranger who comes into the pub.” His gaze met Jonathon’s. “Except, you don’t feel like a stranger.”
Jonathon waited.
Another drink of coffee. “Gorland claimed I’d been promoted because of… positive discrimination.”
Jonathon frowned. “And what’s that when it’s at home? Discrimination has always had negative connotations in my book.”
Mike sighed heavily. “Positive discrimination first reared its head in Manchester in the eighties and nineties. It’s a policy whereby an employer makes the decision to appoint certain minorities to their workforce, ahead of others, so that they’re seen to be fair. Those who are physically less able, from a racial minority, maybe female, or… LGBT.” He paused. “I don’t think for one minute that the London Metropolitan Police employs such a policy, but Gorland muddied the waters a few years back by claiming I’d been promoted simply because they needed an… openly gay DI to enhance their LGBT-friendly appearance.”
Jonathon fought hard not to let his jaw drop. Mike’s gay? He let that new information seep in.
Mike apparently took his silence for disapproval. “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you.”
“You haven’t,” Jonathon said quickly.
Mike arched his eyebrows. “Really. Tell that to your face.”
There was no way he could let Mike think of him in those terms.
“You remember I told you I’d be the next heir of de Mountford Hall if my father gets his way?”
“Yes.” Mike smirked. “That was a very recent conversation. I’m hardly likely to have forgotten already.”
“Well, he and I have differing opinions on a few subjects. For one thing, he wants me to give up my ‘little hobby,’ as he calls it, and move into the hall, with all its responsibilities.”
“Little hobby?” Mike gaped at him. “You’re a bloody marvelous photographer. You’re well on your way to becoming the next David Bailey, Lord Snowdon….”
Jonathon’s face grew hot. “You’re very kind, but he doesn’t quite see it like that. And then there’s the fact that he expects me to marry and start producing the next generation of de Mountfords, seeing as the line ends with me.”
“You don’t want to get married just yet? You’re twenty-eight, I think you said? People are getting married older these days. Surely he can wait a while.”
Jonathon cleared his throat. “That’s where we run into certain… complications. He’s already putting together a list of extremely eligible women, and I don’t want to marry any of them.”
Mike nodded sympathetically. “You’d rather find your own wife, rather than having one forced on you. That’s understandable.”
“Not exactly.” Jonathon drained the rest of his coffee. “You see, there’s the small but not insignificant detail that if I ever do get married, it would definitely not be to a woman.” He raised his chin and looked Mike in the eye.
Mike blinked. “Oh.” Then his mouth fell open. “Oh.” A moment later, he started to laugh.
Jonathon gazed at him, perplexed. “What’s so funny?”
Mike grinned. “Gorland’s remark about me being a fast worker? He was trying to imply I was going to make a move on you, because, of course, gay men make a move on every guy they meet, right?” He shook his head. “If he finds out you’re gay, he’ll have apoplexy.”
Jonathon couldn’t help grinning too. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer man. So when do we break the news to him?”
Mike chuckled. “Yeah, I know. Tempting, isn’t it? But seriously, I had no idea you were gay.”
Jonathon shrugged. “Not something I go shouting from the rooftops either. And it’s not going to change anything, is it?”
“Not at all.”
Except Jonathon knew he was lying to himself. It had already changed how he viewed Mike, and he was going to have to work hard not to let it show that he found him very attractive.
A glance at Mike stilled him. Mike seemed lost in his own thoughts, and judging by his frown, they weren’t pleasant.
Something niggled at the back of Jonathon’s mind. That earlier feeling that Mike wasn’t being entirely truthful.
“What’s bothering you?”
Mike’s creased brow smoothed out instantly. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
Jonathon knew a lie when he heard one. He merely gave Mike a pointed stare.
Mike huffed. “Okay. If you must know, I’m worried about my sister. She’s not answering her phone or replying to texts. And she’s not at home either.”
“When was the last time you heard from her?”
“A couple of days ago?”
Jonathon nodded. “Is it possible she’s gone away and just forgotten to tell you?”
“It’s possible, I suppose.” Mike stared out of the window at the village beyond. “Part of me is hoping to God that her not being around isn’t linked to Dominic’s death. Not that I think she’s capable of murder,” he added quickly.
“There’s a but coming.” Jonathon regarded him keenly. “Why should she have had anything to do with Dominic’s death?”
Mike sighed. “Because a week ago, she and Dominic got into a hell of a row, right here in the pub, which ended in her yelling at him that… she was going to kill him.”