Roots of Evil

by K. C. Wells

“There was a whole heap of ginger root on the counter. Plus it looks like there’s another root shoved in there too.” When Mike cast a glance toward the cottage, Graham snickered. “You’ll have to wait, Sherlock, before you two can go rooting around in there—pun intended.”

  “What makes you think we want to do that?” Mike asked indignantly.

  Graham arched his eyebrows. “Because I know you? So do me a favor and take your fella home or for a coffee or something, while I wait for the coroner. He looks like he needs some sweet tea.”

  Mike took one look at Jonathon’s pale face and came to a decision. “Come on,” he said quietly, tugging on Jonathon’s arm. “Let’s go to Rachel’s.” He gave Graham one last nod. “Keep me in the loop?”

  Graham gave him a pained look. “You know I will.”

  Mike tried to lead Jonathon away, but he pulled out of his grasp. “I don’t need mollycoddling. I’m not going to faint or some nonsense like that.”

  “I know that,” Mike replied calmly. “But we’re still going to Rachel’s.”

  “Why?”

  Mike grinned. “Because she sees and hears a lot. And I have a few questions about Mrs. Teedle.”

  Jonathon smiled. “Ah. We’re on the case. That makes more sense. Come on, then.” He reached the car first, shuffling from foot to foot as he waited for Mike to unlock it.

  Mike chuckled. “God, you’re an impatient sod sometimes.”

  Jonathon climbed in, and as Mike got behind the wheel, he leaned over and kissed Mike on the cheek. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

  And wasn’t that the truth? Mike liked how things were working out between them. Three months into their relationship, and although they still had a lot to learn about each other, it was clear to him that they had something good going on.

  Mike couldn’t wait to see how things progressed.

  RACHEL BEAMED as they entered the coffee shop. “Well, if it isn’t the organizer of the best bonfire party ever. Oh, and his sidekick, of course.” She gestured to the empty tables. “Wherever you like, boys. As you can see, I’m swamped.” She rolled her eyes. “Why I even considered opening today, I’ll never know. Sundays are usually dead.”

  Mike chuckled. “I know why. You saw that group of ramblers in the village, the same as I did, and you thought ‘hey, there’s an opportunity.’”

  She laughed. “Damn. You got me. What can I get you? The usual? Two coffees and a couple of slices of whatever I’ve got in the way of delicious cakes?”

  “That sounds perfect.” Mike waited until Rachel had disappeared behind the door at the rear of the shop before leaning forward. “You sure you’re okay?” He kept his voice low.

  Jonathon shivered. “I keep seeing her in my head. That’s all. The awful way she was staring.”

  Mike reached across the table and covered Jonathon’s hand with his. “I know.”

  Rachel walked over to their table, carrying two plates. “I’ve got your favorite,” she told Jonathon, placing a slice of carrot cake in front of him.

  He smiled. “Just what I need.” He peered up at her. “Rachel? What do you know about Mrs. Teedle?”

  Rachel grinned. “Ah, you’ve finally met her? She’s a character, isn’t she? We get on, I suppose, but that’s probably because I buy her homemade jams to use here. I always try to use local produce where I can. But I think I’m in a minority.” She tut-tutted. “I hear so many people complaining about her rudeness. She can be a little… brusque, but I think that’s her way. Have you seen that cottage of hers?”

  “This morning, when I delivered her raffle prize. I couldn’t help noticing… all those jars and bottles.”

  Rachel gave a slow nod. “Just let me get your coffee.” She disappeared again.

  “You haven’t shared the small but significant detail that she’s no longer with us,” Mike remarked dryly.

  “I know. I figured I’d let her talk and find out what I could first.” Jonathon shut up as Rachel returned, carrying the tall coffeepot and cream jug. She placed them in the center of the table, then pulled out a chair and joined them.

  “So,” she began, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The jars and bottles contain all her ingredients.”

  “For jam?” Mike couldn’t recall much of their contents, but he didn’t think that sounded likely.

  Rachel burst out laughing. “Bless you, no. Mrs. Teedle makes homeopathic remedies.”

  “Do those things actually work?” Jonathon sounded skeptical.

  Rachel shrugged. “Who knows? I always say, if we look hard enough, Nature has a cure for everything, right on our doorstep, from the common cold to cancer.” She chuckled. “I have to say, sometimes when I go to collect the jams, I half expect to find her crouched beside a cauldron, stirring away at some strange-smelling brew, and then a hand floats up to the surface, like in the horror films.”

  Jonathon gaped. “I had the same thought this morning. Well, except for the hand part.”

  “Does she have many customers?” Mike didn’t think she would have had a lot of business in Merrychurch.

  “More than you might think. I know Nathan Driscoll, the chemist, is always complaining about her, but I put that down to him being scared of a little competition. And I know she sends her remedies to people by post too, so she must be doing something right.”

  “How long has she lived in the village?” Mike asked before helping himself to a forkful of rich chocolate cake.

  Rachel stroked her chin. “Let me think. Jason Barton is about seventeen now, so it was a few years before then. Maybe twenty years?”

  “She told us that last night,” Jonathon added. “Remember? She was saying how living in Merrychurch for twenty years hasn’t robbed her of her Australian accent.”

  Mike gazed at him proudly. “Well remembered.” Then he frowned. “Why reference Jason Barton?”

  Rachel chuckled. “Because she delivered him, that’s why! It was during the summer fete of 2000. Debra Barton was there, already a couple of weeks overdue. Well, when her waters broke, Mrs. Teedle was amazing. She took her into the first-aid tent, gave a lot of instructions to people, and delivered the baby like she did it every day of the week. It was all the village talked about for months.” She shook her head. “Probably the only positive story I’ve heard in relation to her.”

  “There have been others that weren’t so positive?” Mike wished he was writing all of this down, but then he reasoned that Jonathon was likely to remember it all.

  Rachel pursed her lips. “Most of the time it’s just talk. I mean, she lives alone in that creepy house, she doesn’t interact much with the rest of the village, and her manner is a little… cold. But yeah, there have been stories. Like the one concerning Dawn Dangerfield. A few years back, she was our Miss Merrychurch.”

  Jonathon smiled. “What—like a beauty queen?”

  “Sure. Except she went on to win Miss Wiltshire. The next step was the national stage, and Dawn thought her chances of winning were pretty good. Until… she got this rash on her face, you see, and she went to Mrs. Teedle for a cream to treat it.” Rachel grimaced. “She had an allergic reaction to something in the cream, and her whole face… erupted. It wasn’t pleasant. To this day, she still blames Mrs. Teedle for her not being able to take part in the competition. So much bitterness there.”

  Jonathon’s expression grew thoughtful. “I think we met Dawn at the bonfire.”

  “Yeah, well, there are more tales like that. Some of them are simply because people are stupid and don’t follow instructions. But there are plenty of people who don’t like her and are more than happy to tell you why.” Rachel gazed around her. “I hear so much of what is said in here.”

  “Well, you’re going to hear a lot more of it, once the news breaks,” Mike said quietly.

  Rachel stilled. “What news? Has something happened to her? Has she had an accident?”

  Jonathon sighed. “If only.” He looked Rachel in the eye. “Don’t say anything yet,
because Graham’s only just started his investigations, but… she’s been murdered.”

  Rachel’s mouth fell open and her eyes widened. After a moment, she took a deep breath. “You think you get used to something, but no, it’s still a shock. I thought when they arrested Sebastian that I’d had all my shocks for this year.” She sagged into the chair. “How was she killed?”

  “Not all the details are known yet,” Mike admitted. “Doubtless once the coroner’s report is in, word will soon spread.” He wasn’t about to share what they’d seen.

  Rachel gave a wry smile. “Of course. This is Merrychurch, after all. Nothing stays a secret for long around here. Although….” Her eyes sparkled. “No one guessed about Dominic and Trevor’s affair, so maybe I’m wrong. The way I describe it, you’d think secrets lurk behind every door.”

  The bell above the main door tinkled, and Rachel got up to greet a group of four walkers.

  “Well, someone in Merrychurch has a secret,” Jonathon said under his breath. “Unless we’re proposing she was killed by a stranger who happened to be passing through or who came here deliberately to murder her.”

  That was when Mike realized he needed to know more about the late Naomi Teedle. Maybe the answers lay in her past.

  All they had to do was root them out.

  Chapter Four

  FOR A Sunday night, the Hare and Hounds pub was surprisingly full. But once Jonathon had caught some of the conversations, the reason for the sudden surge became obvious.

  Word had gotten around.

  Paul Drake sat on his usual stool at the bar, nursing a pint. “Merrychurch used to be such a quiet little spot—before you arrived,” he said, his eyes gleaming as he aimed an intense stare in Jonathon’s direction. “Now we got dead bodies piling up all over the place.”

  Mike guffawed. “Hardly.” He glanced toward Jonathon. “Don’t listen to him.”

  Jonathon laughed. “It’s okay. I know Paul well enough by now to spot when he’s pulling my leg.”

  Paul gave him a nod of approval. “That’s it, nipper. You’ve got your head screwed on all right.” He gazed around the pub, shaking his head. “This is bloody weird.”

  “What is?” Jonathon couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, apart from the influx of drinkers.

  Paul leaned across the bar, and Jonathon copied him, almost conspiratorially. “I’m sittin’ ’ere listenin’ to this lot talking about old Mrs. Teedle.”

  “Well, of course they’re talking about her,” Jonathon said quietly.

  Paul huffed. “It’s not so much that they’re jabbering on. That’s normal. It’s more a case of what they’re sayin’—or what they’re not sayin’, if you get my drift. Everyone’s being nice as pie.” He took a long drink of beer and wiped his lips.

  “Is it just a case of not speaking ill of the dead?” Jonathon suggested.

  Paul cackled. “Nah. If you ask me, it’s more a case of not being caught sayin’ something that might make you a murder suspect.”

  Mike nudged Jonathon. “Especially now.” He inclined his head toward the door.

  Jonathon glanced up as Graham Billings approached the bar, dressed in jeans, a thick sweater, and a heavy jacket. “Pint, please, Mike. I’m gasping.” He sat on a barstool and gave Jonathon a friendly nod. “Good evening. You okay now?”

  “I was okay then, but thanks for asking.” Jonathon walked over to him. “Where are you up to?”

  “Well, the body’s gone. SOCO will be in the house first thing in the morning. And I’ve called her next of kin.” Mike placed a pint glass in front of him, and Graham’s face lit up. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ve been dreaming of this all flipping day. So much for a peaceful Sunday on duty.” He lifted the pint and drained a third of its contents.

  “SOCO.” Paul smacked his lips. “Sounds like something off the TV.”

  “Scene-of-crime officers to you,” Graham said, nodding toward him.

  “Who’s minding the station?” Mike asked with a grin.

  Graham let out a satisfied sigh. “I roped in Dan Fitch.”

  “The special constable?” Mike asked with a frown.

  “That’s him. About time he did a shift anyway. Not that he won’t call me if things get hairy.” Graham drank some more. “And Dave Frogatt will be back off holiday tomorrow.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Teedle’s next of kin?” Mike asked, pulling another pint for a customer.

  “She’s got a daughter in Australia. Married with three grown-up kids. She sounded awful. Not surprising, really. Said she’s gonna book a flight over here as soon as she can, but it might take a while. Her husband’s away at the moment.”

  Someone cleared their throat loudly, and Jonathon’s attention was seized by a middle-aged man with a definite case of middle-aged spread, his round cheeks flushed.

  “Don’t you think we should all be raising a glass to the dear departed?” he said, addressing Mike. “To show our respect?”

  Paul snorted. “If anyone but you had said that, I might have said yes.” From behind him came murmurs of agreement.

  Jonathon gazed at the pub’s occupants in surprise.

  The man’s flush deepened. “I don’t know what you mean, I’m sure.”

  Paul widened his eyes. “The dear departed? Respect? That was you, wasn’t it, last week, mouthing off in ’ere about her? Something about charlatans, fake healers, con artists…. Didn’t notice much respect in anything you had to say then.” He narrowed his gaze. “And don’t think for a second that we don’t know who was behind that smear campaign. That had your mucky prints all over it.” His eyes gleamed. “Yeah. Now there’s a thought. Maybe Graham ’ere should be testing one of those flyers for fingerprints. If there are any left, of course. Mine ended up on the fire, where all rubbish belongs.”

  The man’s eyes bulged. “I’m not going to stand here and be… maligned like this.”

  Paul gave him a sweet smile. “There’s the door. Don’t let it hit your arse on the way out.” He raised his new pint. “Cheers, Mike.”

  The man glared at Paul before striding toward the door, pushing through customers.

  Jonathon gaped from behind the bar. “Okay, who was that?”

  “That was Nathan Driscoll, our chemist,” Graham informed him. He glanced at Paul, his lips twitching into a wry smile. “And remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  Paul huffed. “Come on. He deserved it, the little shit. He’s been bad-mouthing Naomi Teedle for as long as I can remember.” He snorted. “‘Dear departed,’ my arse.”

  “What’s this flyer you mentioned?” Jonathon was intrigued.

  Before Paul could reply, Graham coughed. “You don’t know he was behind it. He could do you for slander, if he was feeling vindictive.”

  Paul let out another derisive snort. “Yeah, right. Like that’s gonna happen. It was Nathan, all right.” He tilted his head. “Could you test for fingerprints, though?”

  Graham sighed patiently. “Yes. But even if he did write it, that doesn’t mean he murdered her.”

  “Will one of you tell me about this flyer?” Jonathon demanded. Both Graham and Paul stared at him, and he bit his lip. “Sorry, but I’m obviously missing something important here.”

  Graham took another long drink from his pint before responding. “A while back, before you came to the village, we all received a flyer through the post. It was about homeopathic remedies and what a load of rubbish they are. How you should only trust tried-and-tested medications from reputable sources… like your local chemist.”

  “It didn’t mention which chemist,” Paul added, “but it was fairly obvious who’d put it together.”

  Graham coughed again. “Supposition.”

  Mike laughed. “You can cough as much as you like, Graham, but you won’t change Paul’s mind. Now, suppose we talk about more useful topics—like when we can get a look at Mrs. Teedle’s house. From the inside.”

  Graham burst into laughter. “Oh God. Sherlock and Watson
are back, aren’t they?”

  Mike gave him an innocent glance. “Well, technically speaking, Jonathon does have a right to look at his property… doesn’t he?”

  Graham stilled. “Oh. Yeah. I’d forgotten.” He leveled a hard stare at Mike. “And I suppose you’d go along too, to take notes, right?”

  Jonathon chuckled. “He knows you too well, Mike.”

  Graham cackled. “You’re both as bad as each other. So I tell you what I’ll do. When SOCO have concluded their investigations, I’ll give you a call. Then you can go and search that creepy old place to your hearts’ content. As long as that’s all you do. No more sleuthing, okay? Leave it to the professionals this time.”

  Mike gave him a hurt look that didn’t fool Jonathon for an instant. “Aw, but we helped last time, didn’t we? I mean, we solved the case.”

  Graham studied him in silence, then sighed heavily. “I’m not gonna be able to stop you. I can see that. So all I’m gonna say is… if you turn up anything relevant, anything important… let me know? Don’t go charging in and putting yourselves in danger.” His eyes glinted. “This isn’t like last time. Somewhere out there is a murderer.”

  That sent a shiver down Jonathon’s spine, but the frisson of excitement that followed soon pushed it from his mind. What if we could work out who the killer was? Graham wouldn’t mind that, surely?

  He glanced across at Mike and found him grinning, as though he could read every thought in Jonathon’s head.

  Graham was right about one thing. He and Mike were as bad as each other.

  Tuesday, November 7

  JONATHON TOOK one last look at his editing suite. He’d just finished kitting it out and was pleased with the end result. A wide monitor sat on a long desk, and next to it was his PC. A shelf above the desk contained several cameras, and below that was a box filled with different lenses and filters. Two tripods stood against the wall, and next to them was a wide table where his large printer was located.

  All ready to begin.

  Jonathon’s planned visit to Vietnam had been postponed due to Dominic’s death and the subsequent events, and he’d assumed that once life had settled back into some form of routine, he’d reschedule the trip. Only, something had changed.