Roots of Evil

by K. C. Wells

  “I’ll get Graham to tell everyone,” Melinda called out as they walked toward the bottom of the field, where a control box had been set up. Everything would begin with the press of one button.

  When they got there, Jonathon paused and looked back. The facade of the manor house was lit by several lanterns, which cast eerie shadows over the stone frontage. The bonfire still burned, its flames reaching high into the sky. It would be a few hours before it would extinguish itself.

  Mike nudged him. “Ready to set fire to about a thousand pounds-worth of fireworks?”

  Jonathon chuckled. “To get everyone together like this, virtually the whole village? It was worth every penny.” He stood still, listening to Graham’s strident announcement via a megaphone. Suddenly the air was filled with voices as the countdown began.

  “Five… four… three… two… one!”

  And with that, Jonathon pressed the switch, then hurried back up the field to get a better view, accompanied by a chorus of oohs and aahs. The night sky was filled with showers of colored light, set against a soundtrack of whizzes, cracks, whistles, and bangs. Jonathon watched the display with joy, Mike’s hand curled around his.

  Yeah. Worth every penny.

  Chapter Two

  JONATHON ROLLED over in bed, smiling to himself to find Mike still there, on his side facing the window, obviously fast asleep. It wasn’t as if Mike shared Jonathon’s bed every night, not that Jonathon would mind that in the slightest, but Jonathon loved those nights when he heard the crunch of gravel outside as Mike drove his 4x4 onto the drive, and a thrill of anticipation rippled through him.

  I love it when he stays the night.

  Jonathon hadn’t had many relationships in his life thus far, and he knew it was still early days. The signs were good, however, in spite of the reception Mike had received from Jonathon’s father—enough to cause frostbite in the middle of August. Thankfully, Thomas de Mountford’s career kept him busy enough that visits to Merrychurch would be few and far between.

  Jonathon shifted across the bed, wrapped his arm around Mike’s waist, and planted gentle kisses across his shoulders.

  Mike stirred slightly, and a soft noise of appreciation gladdened Jonathon’s heart. “Morning.”

  Jonathon kissed Mike’s neck, loving the shiver that shuddered through his body. “It’s only seven. We have plenty of time.”

  Suddenly, Mike moved, pushing Jonathon onto his back and rolling on top of him. He gazed into Jonathon’s eyes, his lips twitching. “Time for what?”

  Jonathon let out a contented, drawn-out sigh. “Whatever you want.”

  Mike’s equally happy sigh was music to his ears. “I like the sound of that.” He drew the sheets over their heads and tugged Jonathon farther down the bed, the two of them lost in a cocoon of soft cotton, a padded mattress, and kisses that promised much more to come.

  Jonathon loved his mornings.

  “THERE’S MORE toast if you want it, sir,” Janet said as she cleared away the plates from the dining table. “And Ivy’s just brewed another pot of coffee, seeing as Mr. Tattersall is here.” Her pink cheeks glowed.

  Jonathon gazed at her in silence for a moment, then smiled. “Yes to both, please, Janet.”

  She nodded and disappeared from the room.

  Jonathon sighed. “It’s not much to ask, is it? I’m Jonathon. You’re Mike.” Janet had been with him a month and didn’t appear to have gotten the message.

  Mike’s eyes twinkled. “It’s not gonna happen. She’s your housekeeper. You’re always going to be sir.”

  “I’m still not convinced I need a housekeeper,” Jonathon grumbled.

  Mike laughed. “At least this way I know someone is looking after you, making sure you eat, seeing to the laundry, et cetera, when I’m not around.” He chuckled. “You need a keeper.”

  Jonathon straightened in his chair. “I managed to look after myself just fine in—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve traveled all around the world. Well, Mr. Explorer, you’re home now. You’re not staying in a shantytown or a tent or God knows what. You have a manor house to think about. And even though you may only live in part of it, the place still needs looking after and cleaning. As do you. So either like it or lump it, Mr. Lord of the Manor.” Mike folded his arms across his chest and stared at Jonathon as if daring him to reply.

  Jonathon knew better. He let out another sigh. “When I was a kid, we had a cook, a housekeeper, and a gardener. That’s how I grew up. So maybe I simply need to get used to that kind of life again.”

  Mike’s smile spoke of approval. “Exactly. And Ivy’s more forthright than Janet. She’s not shy about telling you what she thinks, is she?”

  That made Jonathon laugh. Ivy was a middle-aged woman whose children had all grown up and left the nest. Her husband was away a lot on business, and she’d needed something to do. Cooking for Jonathon provided that. And he had to admit, her culinary skills were amazing. He’d never eaten so well.

  “Ivy’s great. They both are.”

  Before Jonathon had taken them on, one of the first topics he’d brought up had been the subject of Mike. The last thing he wanted was people working for him who would not be comfortable with the reality of a gay employer. As it was, he couldn’t have wished for better staff. Ivy’s older brother was gay, a fact she’d shared almost instantly, and Janet’s face had flushed when she announced she was more than happy to work for him. That only left old Ben Threadwell, who worked in the gardens. He’d given Mike an odd glance or two at first, but that had been it.

  Janet entered the dining room with a pot of coffee and a replenished toast rack. “Can I just say what a great time I had last night, sir? That bonfire was wonderful, and I’ve never seen so many fireworks. And I won a prize in the raffle.” She beamed. “There was this lovely, soft rainbow scarf and gloves. That’ll do me a treat this winter.”

  Mike smiled broadly. “Aw. My sister knitted those.”

  Jonathon had been delighted by how many tickets they’d sold. All the prizes had been collected, with the exception of the hamper. “You’ve both reminded me. I have to inform the winner of the grand prize today.”

  “Who won it?”

  Jonathon grinned. “The village witch, apparently.” He straightened his features. “Sorry. That was how she was described to me last night. It conjured up images of her crouching beside a cauldron, stirring a boiling liquid….”

  To his surprise, Janet pursed her lips. “You may think it’s a joke, sir, but trust me, there’s no smoke without fire. The stories I could tell you about that Mrs. Teedle….” She drew herself up to her full height of five feet. “But I’m not one to speak ill of people behind their backs.” And with that, she marched out of the room.

  Jonathon stared at the closed door. “Wow. I think I touched a nerve.” He glanced across at Mike. “What do you know about Mrs. Teedle?”

  Mike snickered. “You keep forgetting, I’ve not been here all that long, not much more than a year. I’ve seen her once or twice in the village, but that’s all. She doesn’t come to the pub, and she hadn’t popped up on my radar.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s like young Jason said last night—she’s just a harmless old lady who likes to live alone.”

  “And is that what Sue says?” Jonathon asked with a grin.

  Mike speared him with a look. “Seeing as my sister has an opinion on everything and everyone in this village, of course she has something to say. She thinks Mrs. Teedle is a creepy old lady, but most of that is based on where she lives.”

  Now Jonathon was intrigued. “And where is that?”

  “You know the forest that starts right at the outer edge of the village? Not far from Ben’s place? She has a house there, just along the path that leads into the forest.”

  “What—in the forest?” Jonathon gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’m with Sue, then. That sounds spooky.”

  Mike bit his lip. “Well, you get to see for yourself today. As she left before the raffle
was drawn, it’s your duty to deliver the prize to her. And she is one of your tenants, after all.” When Jonathon blinked, Mike nodded deliberately. “Her house belongs to the estate. She did say so last night. You’re her landlord.” He smiled. “I guess you’ve had so much on your plate since you moved here that you haven’t come to terms with it all yet. Now maybe you understand why I keep saying you need to add an estate manager to your staff. Right now you can’t keep track of it all.”

  Mike had a point. “Maybe you’re right.” Jonathon gazed at the table, covered in its snow-white cloth. “I’ll go see Mrs. Teedle later this morning.”

  “And why not now?”

  Jonathon snickered. “Not when we still have toast and fresh coffee.”

  MIKE PARKED the 4x4 in a lay-by at the edge of the forest and switched off the engine. “Okay, grab the hamper and let’s get this done.” He opened the door and climbed out.

  Jonathon chuckled. “No one said you had to come with me, you know.”

  Mike shrugged. “I was around. It made sense. Abi’s opening the pub.” He grinned. “And besides, what else am I going to do on a Sunday afternoon?” Jonathon coughed, and Mike aimed a mock glare in his direction. “Besides that.” He pointed to the path that disappeared into the forest. “That way.” Mike shivered.

  “I thought it was Sue who said this place was creepy.”

  “Forests are creepy, full stop. They’re too quiet. Why do you think there’s always a house in a spooky old forest in all those horror films? The stuff of nightmares.”

  Trying not to laugh, Jonathon carried the hamper carefully in both arms, glancing at the ground to see where he was going. “This path looks well used, though.”

  “Ramblers use it all the time. If you carry on along it, eventually it brings you out on the far side of your estate.”

  “It does?” Jonathon was having a hard time working out the topography.

  Mike sighed. “I thought you’d be good at geography, Mr. Well-Seasoned Traveler. The forest is kinda laid out in a curve around the estate.” He shook his head. “I’m sure somewhere in that manor house, there’s an aerial photo of the hall. That would make things a lot simpler.” His eyes twinkled. “I forgot—you’re a visual learner, aren’t you?”

  Jonathon had the distinct feeling they weren’t talking about geography.

  “There’s a well somewhere too.” Mike came to a stop and pointed. “There you go. That’s the place.”

  Jonathon stared at a dark gray stone cottage that had seen better days. The roof was covered in moss, and ivy clung to its walls, snaking itself around windows and doors, of which there were two. Ridge tiles had gone and some of the roof slates had moved, giving the cottage a sad air of neglect.

  What caught his eye was the table standing by the nearest door. On it were lots of jars with brightly colored labels, and to the left was a metal box, fastened with a padlock but with a slit cut into the top. A clipboard was attached to the edge of the table, with a pencil dangling from it on a string. Jonathon put down the hamper on the solid doorstep and peered at the table.

  “Ah. She said something last night about jams,” he said quietly to Mike.

  “Yeah. Lots of folks around here do this. They put out their jams and an honesty box.” Mike pointed to the clipboard. “People can leave comments here, and there’s a price list too.” He picked up a jar. “This sounds lovely. Mango-and-peach jam.” The colorful printed label contained a handwritten date.

  Jonathon chuckled. “You couldn’t just leave a box out like this in some places. It’d get stolen. And how would you know if people put in the correct amount?”

  Mike patted his back. “That’s why it’s called an honesty box? They expect you to be honest.” He gestured toward the hamper. “Okay, pick it up and let’s do this. If you’re good, I’ll buy you some jam for your morning toast when we’re done.”

  Jonathon hoisted the hamper into his arms. “If I’m good,” he muttered.

  Mike rapped on the aged wooden door, but there was no sound from within. He repeated the action. Still no reaction.

  Jonathon snickered. “I’m beginning to have déjà vu here.”

  Mike said nothing but tried the heavy doorknob. The door swung inward with a loud creak. “Mrs. Teedle?” he called out.

  It seemed to Jonathon that silence had fallen all around them. There was no birdsong, not even the rustle of the wind through the trees. Cold trickled its way through his body. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

  Mike held a finger to his lips, then stepped into the cottage. Jonathon followed. They were in a large room that had the appearance of a kitchen at first. One wall was covered in shelves, and every shelf was lined with glass jars and bottles. Along the opposite wall were yet more shelves, and beneath them was a long counter, into which was set a deep Belfast sink. The surfaces on either side of it were cluttered with yet more jars, labels, bowls, mortars and pestles, a rack of knives….

  “Jonathon.” Mike touched his arm.

  Jonathon followed Mike’s gaze to…. “Oh shit.”

  Mrs. Teedle sat at the heavy oak kitchen table, leaning back in a chair, her eyes wide open, her mouth stuffed with what looked like gnarled roots, her cheeks bulging.

  Jonathon approached her haltingly as Mike drew closer to delicately place two fingers at her neck. Not that he needed to. It was obvious she was dead. On the table in front of her was a plastic mat, on which were chopped green flower stalks. More stalks and big-lobed leaves were on the table. Beside the mat lay a pair of black gloves and a large kitchen knife, its silvery edge stained slightly with….

  “Is that blood?” Jonathon took a deep breath. “Look, I have to put this down. It weighs a ton.” He brushed aside some of the leaves and stalks with the edge of his hand and placed the hamper on the table before straightening his back. Something sticky clung to his hand, and he brushed it against his jeans. “What on earth is this stuff?”

  Mike gaped at him. “I’ll tell you what it is. This is a crime scene. So put your hands behind your back or in your pockets and touch nothing.”

  Jonathon scowled at him. “All I did was move some plant stuff.” He peered at the plastic mat. “I’m not even sure I know what this is.”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “Which is why I said don’t touch anything. I have to call Graham—and we have to leave. Now.”

  That was fine by Jonathon. “Graham is not going to believe this.” He took one last look at Mrs. Teedle and shivered. “There’s no way this can be called an accident.”

  Mike’s expression was grave. “No. We’re talking murder.”

  “But… who would want to murder an old lady?” Jonathon’s hand itched a little. “And what the hell was she chopping?”

  “Good questions that can wait until we’re somewhere else, with a hot cup of coffee inside us.” Mike glanced around the kitchen and shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.” He strode out of the cottage, with Jonathon not far behind him, still stunned.

  To have one murder in the village had been unfortunate.

  But two?

  Chapter Three

  MIKE HAD to admit, Graham Billings hadn’t wasted any time. Ten minutes after he’d finished the call to Merrychurch’s police station—which was more of a police house—Graham had arrived at the cottage on his bike. Mike and Jonathon got out of the car and met him at the front door as he leaned his bike against the wall.

  Graham gave Jonathon an amused stare. “This is getting to be a habit, you finding dead bodies.”

  Jonathon shivered. “Well, trust me, this was no fall. This is murder.”

  Graham glanced at Mike. “I know that’s what you said on the phone, but really?”

  Mike pointed to the cottage. “One look inside, mate. That’s all you’ll need.”

  Graham got out his notebook. “Stay here.” He pushed open the door and entered.

  Mike put his arm around Jonathon’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really
.” Jonathon gave another shiver. “This isn’t like Dominic.”

  Mike could understand that. Finding his uncle dead of a fall had been one thing. At least Jonathon knew his death hadn’t been deliberate. But this? “There’s such… malice behind this. All that stuff in her mouth. Who would do that?”

  Before Jonathon could reply, Graham came out of the cottage. He regarded them both sternly. “You haven’t touched anything in there, have you?”

  “I touched the outer doorknob,” Mike said, “but nothing inside.”

  Graham made a note before giving Jonathon a speculative glance.

  Jonathon bit his lip. “Just some of the green stuff she was chopping. When I put down the hamper.” His eyes widened. “The hamper!”

  “Can stay where it is for now,” Graham said firmly.

  “But it’s got meat and—” Jonathon clammed up when Graham gave him a hard stare.

  “I’m gonna call the coroner. She won’t like having her Sunday ruined, but then, neither do I. But you two are not to go in there until SOCO have been over it, and that might not be until tomorrow. Doubtless they’ll send the boys from Winchester.” His face fell. “Yeah, that’d be right. They’re not gonna let a village constable investigate a murder, are they?”

  Mike groaned. “As long as they don’t send Gorland, like last time.”

  Jonathon snorted. “It’s not high-profile enough for him.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’ll probably be some detective from CID.” Graham’s expression was gloomy.

  “Any ideas as to the cause of death?” Mike hadn’t had time to take a good look, but the skin around her neck had appeared a little odd.

  “There’s blood on the back of her head, so maybe someone bashed it in. But there are other indications that need checking out too.” Graham grimaced. “Why stuff her mouth full of ginger?”

  “Is that what it was? I didn’t get a close look.” Mike had been too busy trying to get Jonathon out of there.