Roots of Evil

by K. C. Wells

  “Not that I suppose it matters now. She won’t be making any more,” Jonathon added in a low voice.

  She gave a slight shudder. “A horrible business. Jason was quite upset.”

  “Is it true that Mrs. Teedle delivered him?” Jonathon helped himself to more coffee from the pot. “Someone told me a story about that.”

  Mrs. Barton laughed and settled back against the cushions, apparently more at ease. “Perfectly true. To be honest, I shouldn’t have gone to the fete in the first place. I was overdue, after all. But it was such a lovely day, and I was fed up being stuck at home. John was away that day on business—not that he wanted to go, it being so close to the birth. So there I was, strolling through all the stalls, when I suddenly realized my waters had broken.”

  “You must have been scared.”

  “I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. Everyone had said the first labor usually lasts forever. Not mine. But Mrs. Teedle was wonderful.” Mrs. Barton smiled. “I remember lying on a first-aid cot, covered in this coarse green blanket, with Jason wrapped up in a clean tea towel, and thanking her. She laughed and said it wasn’t as if that was the first baby she’d ever delivered.”

  “Then you were fortunate to have her around,” Jonathon commented.

  “That’s what I’m always telling her.” Mr. Barton came into the conservatory, smiling. “I thought I heard voices out here.” He walked over to his wife and kissed her cheek. “Meetings all done for the day.” Then he came over to Jonathon, his hand outstretched.

  Jonathon attempted to rise to his feet but was prevented by the very solid Goldie.

  Mr. Barton laughed. “Stay where you are. It looks like the old boy is comfortable, though how he could possibly be so on someone’s feet is beyond me.” His gaze settled on the coffee table, and his eyes lit up. “Ooh, coffee, good.” He promptly took the empty space next to Jonathon.

  Mrs. Barton got up. “I’ll fetch another cup.”

  Mr. Barton gave him a jovial smile. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  Jonathon explained quickly about the feedback on the bonfire party, and he beamed.

  “Fantastic evening. I think making it an annual event would be wonderful.” He leaned back, his arm resting along the edge of the couch. “I hear you had a visitor yesterday.” His bright blue eyes twinkled.

  “Ah. Jason told you he came up to the manor house?”

  Mr. Barton nodded. “This was the first time I’d heard of his ideas for a career. I must admit, it came as a surprise.”

  “What career?” Mrs. Barton asked as she placed a cup in front of him.

  “Our son wants to be a photographer,” Mr. Barton said as he poured himself a cup.

  Mrs. Barton stared at him.

  “That’s right,” he told her. “We talked about it Wednesday night. I got the impression he was going to talk to you about it tonight. Not that we didn’t already know he was interested in photography—that’s been obvious for the last six months—but as for a career in it?”

  Jonathon’s stomach churned. “My father certainly doesn’t see it as a career. He’d be happier if I went into law, like the rest of the family.”

  To his surprise, Mr. Barton scowled. “Reminds me of my father. He wanted me to go into medicine, to follow in his footsteps. I did try. I went to medical school, but it became clear to me—and him—that it wasn’t the path for me. I told him that I wanted to go into business and that it was my life, after all. I dropped out of medical school and got a job with a large retail company in Reading. Worked my way up.” His scowl deepened. “Caused a rift between us that has never healed. Well, I’m not going to let the same thing happen with Jason. If this is what he wants to do, then he should do it, with our blessing. We can be there for him, advise him, support him, but ultimately he has to lead his own life, make his own mistakes—not that I’m saying this would be a mistake, you understand,” he added quickly.

  “Having seen some of his photos, I think he has a real gift,” Jonathon said, his tension bleeding away.

  “Then I’m glad he came to see you,” Mr. Barton said warmly. He lapsed into silence as he drank his coffee. Goldie shifted to place his chin on Mr. Barton’s knee, and he stroked the soft, silky coat.

  Mrs. Barton drank as she stared out over the garden.

  Jonathon drank too, conscious of being torn. On the one hand, he had a really good feeling about Jason’s father. Every sense in Jonathon told him that coming out to him would not be as scary as Jason feared. Although nothing specific had been said, Jonathon thought it would be strange if someone who was so supportive of his son’s career choice turned out to be an asshole about his sexual orientation. In his—somewhat limited—experience, the trait of being an asshole tended to permeate through all aspects of a life.

  But that left Mrs. Barton.

  Jason had said how she’d been reluctant to talk about his birth, but Jonathon had gotten no sense of that. In fact, she’d appeared relaxed as she retold the story. And the only thing that had changed was that Mrs. Teedle was now dead.

  Then there was her reaction to being seen near the cottage. There had been no mistaking that initial spasm of fear or her first attempt at denial. She wasn’t going to admit to being there.

  Why, Mrs. Barton? Why don’t you want to be linked to Mrs. Teedle?

  What exasperated Jonathon was the lack of motive.

  We don’t know enough yet. Especially about Mrs. Teedle.

  It was time to call Mike’s friend Keith. They needed more information.

  Chapter Twelve

  JONATHON PARKED the car behind the Hare and Hounds, and strolled around to the front entrance. From inside the pub came music and chatter, inviting sounds for a cold night. But as he reached the door, Jonathon heard another noise.

  “Will you flippin’ well do your business so I can get back inside?”

  He peered into the dark toward the village green. A man stood there, illuminated by the streetlamp, watching a large dog sniffing at the ground. The man hugged himself, dressed in only jeans and a shirt and a pair of plaid slippers. In his hand he held a chunky metal dog leash.

  “Come on, Max, for Christ’s sake. Just find a shrub to piss up,” he hissed.

  Jonathon chuckled, and the man jerked his head in Jonathon’s direction. At that moment the large dog noticed him too, and ran over to him, tail wagging ten to the dozen.

  “Max, no jumping!” the man called out, but Max apparently wasn’t listening. A few seconds later, two large, heavy paws were at Jonathon’s shoulders, and a gorgeous German shepherd was attempting to lick his face by way of introduction. The man hurried over and grabbed his collar, pulling him off Jonathon. “I’m so sorry. He really is a friendly dog. That’s why I let him off the leash. Absolutely useless as a guard dog, however. He’d lick the burglars to death.” He was a tall man, maybe in his early fifties, with receding hair, his eyes appearing dark in the poor light.

  Jonathon laughed and bent over to pet the dog. “He’s great.”

  The man scowled. “Not when he whines to be let out to have a pee, then spends ten minutes investigating every interesting scent he can find. Meanwhile, I’m freezing my nu—I’m getting cold.”

  Right on cue, Max ran over to the lamppost and cocked his leg.

  “Thank God.” The man waited until he’d finished, then whistled. “Come on, boy. Back inside.”

  Max raced across the green, through the front gate of a nearby cottage, up the path, and stopped at the front door, whining.

  The man raised his eyes heavenward. “Now he’s cold.” He started to walk toward the house, then stopped and turned back to Jonathon. “Sorry. That was rude of me. And not quite how I wanted to introduce myself to the lord of the manor.” He extended a hand. “The name’s George Tyrell. I was going to say hello at the bonfire party, but you were always surrounded by people. And when I thought I’d got my chance, the mayor got in first.” George laughed. “Well, he is the mayor.”

  Jona
thon gestured toward the pub. “I’m going for a drink. Would you care to join me? Then we can talk properly.” He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been racking his brains for how to arrange an “accidental” meeting with George, and fate lent a hand.

  George sighed. “Thanks, but I tend not to drink outside of the house.” When Jonathon blinked, he snickered. “That sounded awful. Truth is, I’m a narcoleptic. I don’t socialize much. I do have a drinks cabinet that’s well-stocked, however, so if you’d care to join me for a drink one evening, that would be wonderful. The only thing you need to know is if I fall asleep, it’s not a comment on your conversational skills.” He tilted his head to one side. “And a little bird tells me you’re a dab hand with a cocktail shaker. I have this book—Two Hundred Cocktails—and I’ve never made a single one.”

  That settled it. “How about tomorrow evening?” Mike would be working anyway, and Jonathon could combine cocktail shaking with a little sleuthing. “If you’re sure.”

  George smiled. “I’d love the company. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “In that case, I’ll get in the warm.” George gave a cheerful nod in Jonathon’s direction. “Good to meet you at last—even if it was while my dog was, er… relieving himself. Eventually.” He pushed open the door, and Max nipped inside. George gave one last wave and closed the door behind him.

  Jonathon hurried into the pub, pleased with the way things had worked out. Based on first impressions, he liked George. Then he had to remind himself that nice or not, George could be a suspect. And those large paw prints around the base of the table outside Naomi’s cottage could have been made by a German shepherd.

  Or a golden retriever. Don’t forget Goldie.

  At least Frisky was off the hook. Nathan Driscoll, however, certainly was not.

  MIKE TOOK one last look around the pub, checked that all the doors were locked, then switched off the lights and climbed the narrow wooden staircase located behind the door marked Private. At the top, the only light came from the lamppost outside, whose glow filtered through the gap in the curtains, and from under the door to Mike’s bedroom.

  Smiling to himself, he pushed open the door and found Jonathon sitting up in bed, his chest bare, his attention locked firmly on a notepad in which he was writing carefully.

  “Not what I thought I’d find,” Mike commented with a chuckle.

  Jonathon raised his head and gave Mike a bright smile. “I’ve been making notes.” His brow creased slightly. “What did that mean?”

  Mike gave him an innocent glance. “Nothing. It’s only… when you said you were going up and you’d be waiting for me, it all sounded a lot… sexier.”

  Jonathon snickered. “That’s because you, too, have a one-track mind. And are you implying my chest isn’t sexy?”

  “Not in the least. I just want to know what’s waiting for me under the sheets.”

  Jonathon’s eyes gleamed. “Later. Now, do you want to hear what I’ve written?”

  “Sure.” Mike sat on the edge of the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “I’ve been writing down what we’ve learned so far, and I have to say, it’s not a lot.” He cocked his head. “Can you call your friend Keith? We need to know whatever he can find out about Naomi Teedle’s life. There’s too much we don’t know. There has to be something in her past that would lead someone to kill her.”

  Mike removed his shirt. “So you don’t think the chemist murdered her to get rid of the competition?”

  Nathan Driscoll was certainly acting in a suspicious manner, but as motives went, it was pretty thin.

  Jonathon worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “I think he did send those leaflets to everyone, but having seen his shop, I also think his lack of business success is down to his high prices and lack of vision, rather than her stealing all his customers.”

  “Nathan might not see it that way,” Mike argued. “For all you know, he might think that his shop is absolutely perfect and that she was stealing his customers.”

  Jonathon gave a shrug. “I could be wrong. He was seen near the cottage, after all—and he borrowed a dog under dubious circumstances.”

  “So we’re not crossing him off the list?” Mike stood, removed his boots and sock, then casually unzipped his fly.

  Jonathon’s focus shifted momentarily, and he narrowed his gaze. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

  Mike grinned. “No—going commando was me doing things on purpose.” He lowered the zip just enough that Jonathon’s pupils darkened. Mike stifled a chuckle. “Now, where were we?” He sat on the edge of the bed again and shucked off his jeans, his back to Jonathon, who cleared his throat.

  “I’ve been thinking. We have a thirty-year gap when she lived in Australia. I might be able to help with that. Remember I told you I stayed with a guy and he taught me to mix cocktails? Well, his dad is a cop. He could run a background check on her, find out about her life over there. I’m pretty sure Wayne would ask him for me. We parted on good terms, after all, and it was an amazing three weeks.”

  Mike wasn’t sure he liked hearing about an amazing ex, but he had to admit, it was a great idea. “Fine. Get him on it, and we’ll see what he turns up. Meanwhile, I’ll call Keith in the morning and get him to run a check too.” He unfastened his prosthetic and placed it out of harm’s way. From beneath his pillow, he pulled a neatly folded pair of pajama bottoms and put them on, not missing Jonathon’s slight noise of disapproval. “What did you learn at the Bartons’?” When no reply came, Mike twisted around to look at Jonathon, who was staring at his notepad. “Sweetheart?”

  Jonathon smiled. “I like the sound of that.” Then he tapped his notes with his index finger. “It’s hard to picture her strangling Mrs. Teedle, I have to admit. But something tells me she’s involved somehow. It’s not much, just a feeling, but….”

  Mike knew all about such feelings. “Sometimes we have to go with our instincts.” Like the one that had been niggling him ever since he’d seen those village shop diaries. “I’ve been thinking. Why would Naomi write in code?”

  Jonathon stared at him. “I’ve been thinking about that too. We need to look at those diaries again. She obviously didn’t want anyone to know what she was writing, but she also needed to keep track of something. My first thought was….” He hesitated, letting out a nervous laugh.

  Mike gave a nod of encouragement. “Say it.”

  “Do you think she was… blackmailing people?”

  Mike grinned. “Very likely.”

  Jonathon’s eyes widened. “But… she was a little old lady.”

  “With a beautifully decorated home and a taste for expensive champagne,” Mike added.

  “So how do we prove it?”

  Mike had already considered that question. “First off, we have to get evidence. Show monies going to her on a regular basis.”

  Jonathon huffed. “I don’t see how we can do that. For all we know, her victims paid her cash and she stuffed the money under her mattress. No trail to follow.” He stilled. “Maybe we should check there.”

  Mike let out a gruff chuckle. “If she was blackmailing people in the village, they would not want to be seen regularly going to her cottage. No, it would be easier for them to pay cash into her bank account.”

  Jonathon groaned. “The police will have asked for her financial details. I can’t see them willingly letting us have a look. Especially now there’s a new DI in charge.”

  “There’s no reason for them to look into her finances—not yet, at least. But I’d be willing to bet she has paper copies at the cottage.”

  “Who does that these days? Everyone’s gone paperless, with online banking.”

  Mike smiled. “You said it yourself. She was a little old lady. Can you see her with her banking details on her phone? No. She’s old-fashioned enough to stick with paper, which means somewhere in that cottage are all her bank statements. We simply have to see if anything matches. Then ther
e’s the small but important task of cracking the code.”

  “Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Jonathon rolled his eyes. “I’m an expert. I crack codes instead of doing crossword puzzles.”

  Mike leveled a stern gaze at him. “Sarcasm is not helpful.” He got into bed. “Who’s left to see from the list Ben gave the police?”

  Jonathon consulted the notepad. “I’m having a drink tomorrow night with George Tyrell. That leaves our MP, Mr. Joshua Brent.”

  Mike chuckled. “Good luck trying to run into him by accident. Now there’s a very busy man.” He removed his glasses before prizing the notepad from Jonathon’s hands and placing it on the bedside cabinet. “No more sleuthing tonight.”

  Jonathon gave him a lazy, sexy smile that sent heat pulsing through him. “Oh, really? And I thought you wanted to discover what was hiding under the sheets….”

  Mike glanced down at the tented sheet and grinned. “I hate to tell you this, but your secret has just been blown.”

  Jonathon switched off the lamp. “Not yet, it hasn’t,” he whispered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday, November 10

  “IS EVERYTHING as you’d want it, sir?” Janet asked, adjusting the vase of flowers on the dressing table.

  Jonathon glanced around the sunny bedroom that had been prepared for his father. Fresh towels and fresh bed linens, in what had been Dominic’s former bedroom.

  And on the other side of the house to where I sleep. Jonathon didn’t want to even entertain the possibility of having his father anywhere near, especially as he could see Mike wanting to stay the night. Not to rub his father’s nose in it by any means, but Mike wouldn’t change his plans for fear of upsetting him.

  What am I thinking? That would be Mike’s way of cutting through the bullshit and forcing my father to face up to this.

  God, he loved that man.

  “Everything is perfect,” Jonathon assured her. “My father should be arriving at some point tomorrow morning, and he’ll be leaving Sunday afternoon.”