Chapter Nineteen

 

 

THE HARE and Hounds was a very different pub that night. Jonathon noticed the change almost immediately.

There was none of the usual lively chatter, for one thing. Instead, people spoke in hushed tones, and Jonathon grew aware of a great many glances in his direction. The dartboard remained unused, and although Mike had music playing in the background, he kept it low and unobtrusive. Even Paul, who up until that point had been a relatively cheery soul, seemed down.

Mike was quiet too, to the point that Jonathon started to grow concerned.

He put the empties into their tray and walked over to Mike. “Hey, are you okay?”

Mike gazed out at his patrons. “I came here because Merrychurch was exactly what I was looking for—a quiet, almost sleepy little village where people got along with each other. Where the biggest problems were actually tiny, compared to what I’d left behind in London. And now look. The lord of the manor is found dead, and a week later, someone else is murdered.” He focused his eyes on Jonathon. “Because Bryan didn’t just decide to go for a wander down to the crypt, slip on the steps, and hit his head or something. Not at that time of night.”

“I know.” Jonathon found it difficult to believe that someone in the village was capable of murder. All afternoon he’d been in kind of a daze, going over the morning again and again. And something had been gnawing away at him since they’d come up with their theory. “You do know you need to tell Gorland about the call from the Jaguar guy? Because that’s important.”

“Already did. I called him half an hour ago.”

“What does he think?”

Mike snorted. “That it’s unlikely. I swear, if it’s not his idea, then it’s not feasible. When I was a DI, if someone came to me with a theory, I didn’t just dismiss it. I—”

“But you aren’t like him. Anyone can see that. And I’m willing to bet that you were a much better copper than he’ll ever be.”

Mike smiled and shifted closer. “Don’t you think you might be a teeny bit biased?”

Jonathon smirked. “Actually? I’d think the same thing even if we hadn’t slept together. And speaking of which… where am I sleeping tonight?” He held his breath.

Mike didn’t break eye contact. “In my bed, if you want. Especially as it’s bigger than yours.”

“Hmm, a size queen.” Jonathon chuckled, then nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”

Paul’s voice cut through the quiet. “Okay, I’ve had it with all the long faces.” He met Mike’s gaze. “I’d like to buy everyone here a drink, and then we’re gonna raise our glasses. Dominic’s been dead a week, and no one has had a kind word to say about him in here, an’ that includes me. So fill em’ up, ladies and gents. We’re gonna toast our late lord of the manor.”

Murmurs rippled through the assembled villagers, but they left their tables and came up to the bar.

Paul gave Jonathon a smile. “S’only right. He was a good man. But since the news broke about him an’ Trevor, it’s like that somehow cancels out all the good stuff he did, as though him being gay was wrong. Well, I’m sorry, but that attitude right there is what’s wrong. I mean, not that I’m gay, you understand, but….”

“Thank you,” Jonathon said softly. He seized his courage and leaned forward. “From gay men everywhere.”

Paul stilled, his eyes wide. Then he grinned. “Is this something about the de Mountfords that we need to know?”

Jonathon laughed. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Drinks served, Paul,” Mike said in a low voice. He placed a squat glass in front of Paul. “And that’s on the house.”

Paul gave the amber liquid an appreciative glance. “Aw, thanks.” He got to his feet, his glass held high. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s raise our glasses to the late Dominic de Mountford. We’ll say our proper goodbyes when they finally lay him to rest, but for now let’s remember him for the good man he was. He drank with us, talked with us, an’ was never too busy to spend time with us. To Dominic.”

“To Dominic.” The words echoed around the still pub, and tears pricked the corners of Jonathon’s eyes as he lifted his glass of Coke to his lips.

“I’d like to make a toast too.” Mike’s voice rang out in the quiet that followed. “Welcome to Merrychurch, Jonathon de Mountford. May you truly feel at home here and build lasting friendships with all who meet you.” His gaze met Jonathon’s as he raised his glass.

“Welcome.” Voices were raised along with glasses, and Jonathon stood straight, smiling at the faces turned in his direction. The tribute to Dominic had been unexpected, but Mike’s toast sent one emotion flooding through him.

Hope.

 

 

“Y’KNOW, THE more I think about it,” Jonathon murmured drowsily, “the more convinced I become that my father knows more than he’s letting on.”

Mike shifted behind him, and a solid arm encircled Jonathon’s waist as two warm lips were pressed against his shoulder. “Good morning to you too.” Mike chuckled. “Do you always wake up like this? And what, exactly, is it that you think your father knows more about? I must have missed something, or else I was still asleep when you said it.”

Jonathon wriggled, pushing back against Mike’s furry chest. Damn, the man was a great snuggler. “I was thinking about Dominic’s possible son and my father’s reaction to that photo.”

Mike removed his arm and rolled onto his back. “And we’re back to this again.”

Jonathon turned over and propped his head on his hand. “What don’t you like about this theory?”

“I just think it’s unlikely that Dominic was in a relationship with a woman, given what we now know about him.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t come out until much later? What if he was bi? And there are plenty of gay dads out there, trust me.”

“Okay, okay. So let’s say you’re right and Dominic has a son somewhere. Why isn’t he here? If he was important enough that Dominic kept a photo of him all these years, why isn’t he here now? Why wasn’t he named in the will?”

“I don’t know, all right?” Jonathon sat up, running his fingers through his untidy hair. “But there’s one thing I can do to find out.” He threw back the covers and got out of bed.

“Gonna share it with me?” Mike called out as he left the bedroom en route to the bathroom.

Jonathon stuck his head back around the door. “I’m going to call my father, right after breakfast.”

“Wait—not now? Not striking while the iron is hot?” Mike smirked, sitting up against the pillows, the sheets puddled around his waist.

Jonathon rolled his eyes. “At seven o’clock on a Sunday morning? He’d have a fit. There’s such a thing as protocol, you know.” He gave Mike a wink and headed for the shower.

The last thing he wanted was to get his father in a bad mood, not when Jonathon needed him to provide some answers.

 

 

BREAKFAST WAS over, the dishwasher loaded, and there was fresh coffee in the pot. Jonathon couldn’t put off the moment any longer.

He got out his phone and scrolled through to his father’s mobile number. He didn’t want to call the house phone for fear of getting his mother. She’d only distract him.

“Here.” Mike placed a full cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of him. “You’ve only had two cups so far.”

Jonathon laughed. “You’re really getting to know me well, aren’t you?” He took a sip of the hot, aromatic brew, then pressed Call. “Here goes.”

Mike took the chair facing him, his own cup in his hands.

After three or four rings, his father answered. “Good morning. I was wondering when you’d get around to calling us. I suppose you’re up-to-date with the scandal.”

“Hardly a scandal. So Dominic was having an affair. So what?”

“With a married man. And I can’t think why I’d expect a different response from you, seeing as—”

“We’re not going to get into this now,” Jonathon said firmly. “I called because I need information.”

“About what?”

“Remember I mentioned a missing photo? The one Dominic said was me as a child?”

“Yes.” Jonathon couldn’t miss the cautious note that had crept into his father’s voice.

“Well, I think we both know it wasn’t me. My theory is that the boy was Dominic’s son.”

Silence. Jonathon could almost hear the crickets.

“Father?”

“I don’t want to discuss this,” his father said tightly.

“I’m afraid what you want doesn’t matter, not when there’s now another murder investigation going on.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Someone was murdered Friday night, and we think it might be linked to Dominic’s death. And knowing who that boy was might be a clue to it all.” Jonathon waited, the seconds ticking away as he prayed for his father to relent.

A heavy sigh filled his ears. “Very well. Dominic hadn’t been with the firm very long, maybe a year, when they discovered he was having an affair. With a secretary.” Disdain dripped from his father’s voice.

“How old was Dominic at this point?”

“Twenty-five, I think. I only got to hear about it because I heard your grandfather and your great uncle Frederick discussing it at the house. I was home from Eton at the time. I was seventeen. Anyway, when this secretary revealed she was carrying Dominic’s child, your grandfather had her fired.”

Jonathon stilled. “This was when—the early eighties? You don’t just fire someone because they get pregnant. She could have taken the whole firm to an industrial tribunal for that.”

Across the table, Mike widened his eyes.

His father snorted derisively. “As if the family would let her do that. No, she was paid handsomely to keep her silence. Dominic made some noises about marrying her, doing ‘the right thing,’ but my father soon put him straight on that account. Hmm. Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words, given the circumstances. So, she was paid, and Dominic was told to break all contact with her. No one in the firm was to speak of her again. She left, and that was the last anyone heard of her.”

“Except you know that’s not true, right? The photo proves that Dominic had some contact with her after the birth.”

“If he did,” his father remarked dryly, “he did it against the express wishes of the family. Not that I’m surprised by that. Dominic always went against the tide. At least now we know why.” He cleared his throat.

“Did she have a name?”

“What? Oh, her. Yes. Let me think for a moment.” A pause. “Moira Cunningham. That was it.” Another pause. “Do you really think this has something to do with Dominic’s death?”

“Let me put it this way. Somewhere out there is Dominic’s illegitimate son. He’d be in his thirties by now. What if he discovered who his father was and wanted to claim his inheritance? What if he came looking for Dominic?”

“You’re assuming that the child in the photo was in fact Dominic’s. We don’t know for certain that she had a son.”

“Now you’re just being obtuse.”

His father made an impatient noise at the back of his throat. “Okay, so the odds are favorable that it was Dominic’s son. This makes your situation somewhat precarious, don’t you think? Because if he does turn up and can prove that he is indeed Dominic’s son, then by rights the house should be his.”

“Fine.” That came out more nonchalantly than Jonathon intended. The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped him. He’d finally come around to accepting that his future lay in Merrychurch, only to acknowledge that this future might be about to change.

“Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To give up the house, to abdicate all—”

“And that’s an end to this conversation. I’ll let you know if there are any new developments. Goodbye, Father.” Jonathon disconnected the call.

“Is it me, or was that ending a little abrupt?” Mike asked. “And drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.”

Jonathon put down his phone and picked up his cup. “I don’t know why I expect him to change.” He drank down half the contents.

“Let’s not talk about him. Do we have a name?”

“Moira Cunningham.”

Mike nodded. “Then tomorrow morning, I’ll go to London. There must be birth records.”

“Good idea.” Jonathon sighed. “I guess it’s true. You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.” Right then he wanted nothing to do with his.

Mike stood. “Come on. It’s a lovely morning. Let’s go for a walk and feed the ducks.”

Jonathon smiled. “You know what? That sounds perfect.”

A stroll along the river, throwing bread to the ducks, watching their antics… and with Mike. Just what Jonathon needed.

 

 

AS THEY walked back toward the pub, Mike peered into the shadows against the church wall. “Wait a sec.” He hurried over and crouched down. Jonathon followed and saw a black-and-white cat curled up in a ball, nursing its front left paw.

“One of your neighbors?” he joked.

Mike surprised him by scooping the cat up carefully into his arms. “Sort of. This is Jinx. He’s Melinda’s cat. Well, actually he’s more like the church cat. He’s a great mouser.” Mike held the cat against him. “What did you do to your paw, kitty cat?”

Jonathon looked closer. “Ouch. It’s been bleeding.”

“He probably climbed over a wall that had glass or wire or something, designed to keep out cats.” Mike rubbed his bearded chin on top of Jinx’s head. “Let’s get you home, eh, Jinx?”

Jonathon smiled. “I didn’t know you were a cat person.” He liked that Mike could surprise him.

Mike arched his eyebrows. “Good thing or bad thing?”

Jonathon hastened to reassure him. “Oh, definitely a good thing. I love cats.”

Mike beamed. “Right answer. Because if you’d said you preferred dogs, that would have been it as far as I was concerned.”

Jonathon snickered. “I thought Sherlock goes nuts when he hears you coming?”

Mike gazed at him mildly. “Dogs like me. I never said it was mutual.” He went through the arch and up the path toward the church, with Jonathon behind him.

As they reached the vicarage, Melinda approached them from the direction of the garden, her eyes widening when she caught sight of Jinx. “There you are, you bad cat.”

“Hey, go easy on him. Jinx has hurt himself.”

Melinda’s manner changed instantly. “What? Let me see.” She eased the cat out of Mike’s arms and into her own. “What new trouble have you managed to get yourself into, cat?” She turned around and headed back toward the garden. “Come see what he did.”

As they neared the hothouse, Mike shuddered. “You won’t catch me going in there.”

Jonathon stared at him. “Why not?”

“Greenhouses, hothouses—they all give me the willies. Always have done since I was a kid.”

Melinda gazed at him in surprise. “But why?”

“Spiders.”

Jonathon did his best to keep a straight face. “Spiders?”

Mike nodded, shivering. “Especially those big fat ones that lurk in the corners, waiting to drop on your head, or run up your leg, or….”

Melinda let out a sigh. “There are no spiders in my hothouse, Mike Tattersall. Jinx sees to that.” She shook her head. “Big, strong man, afraid of a teeny tiny spider.”

“Hey, they have eight legs. Don’t you think that’s way too many?”

Jonathon couldn’t resist. “Yeah, but it could be worse?”

Mike whirled around and stared at him. “How? How could it be worse?”

Jonathon smiled sweetly. “Imagine if they had wings.”

Mike rolled his eyes heavenward. “You had to say that, didn’t ya? Now I’ll be having nightmares, dreaming about flying spiders, as big as birds….” He paused at the threshold, his nose wrinkling.

“What now?” Jonathon asked in amusement. “Don’t tell me—you can smell spiders. It’s your superpower.”

Mike slowly turned to face him. “That smell.”

Melinda made a gruff sound. “That’s why Jinx is in trouble. That cat knocked over a brand-new tin of Jeyes Fluid.”

“What’s Jeyes Fluid?” Jonathon asked.

“It’s for cleaning the patio and the paths,” Melinda told him.

Mike nodded. “That’s the smell I remember from being a kid in my grandma’s greenhouse. More importantly, however, that’s what I could smell yesterday morning in the crypt.”

“What?” Jonathon frowned. “Is it used to clean down there?”

Melinda shook her head. “Not as far as I know.” She regarded Mike, her brow furrowed. “In which case, what was it doing down there?”

Now that was a very good question.