“Oh yes.”
Mike got to his feet and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands. Seconds later, Detective Inspector John Gorland swaggered into the pub, wearing a dark gray suit and a sneer.
Maybe that’s his permanent expression.
Mike gave Gorland a broad smile that he knew would aggravate him. “Good afternoon, John. How nice to have you back in our neck of the woods.” Behind Gorland, Jonathon covered his mouth quickly, his shoulders shaking.
“You’ve been putting your nose in police business again, haven’t you?” Gorland’s eyes glinted. “And don’t bother denying it. I was at the police station just now when a pair of teenagers walked in, saying they’d been advised to pay us a visit. By you.” He narrowed his gaze. “And Mr. de Mountford. Which reminds me. Billings tells me congratulations are in order.” His sneer was still in place. “Congratulations.”
“Does the Met have to send you on another sensitivity course or LGBT awareness training session?” Mike reached for his phone. “Because I think I’ll call them and recommend exactly that. You obviously need it.”
The sneer disappeared, to be replaced by a scowl. “Stay out of this investigation. You were lucky the first time, and you happened to be in the right place at the right time with the last one, but not on this occasion. If I find out you’ve been interfering with police business, I’ll throw the book at you.”
Whatever else he’d been about to say was lost when Professor Harcourt entered the bar. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the door was open, so I—” He stared at Gorland, who reacted with obvious surprise.
“Professor Harcourt, I didn’t realize you were still in the village.”
The professor smiled pleasantly. “I’m in no hurry to go back to London. I’m staying at a B and B in the village. Besides, since I retired, I’m a man of leisure, and my wife is always pleased to get rid of me for a while. Plus, I’ve had a few ideas about this case that I wanted to share with these two.” He gave Mike a cheerful nod.
Gorland cleared his throat. “I am of course aware of your reputation, sir. You’ve worked on some important cases. Not to mention the fact that the commissioner speaks highly of you. But… please remember this is police business, and that Mr. Tattersall and Mr. de Mountford are only civilians, when all is said and done.”
Professor Harcourt nodded sagely. “And right now I’m here to talk about books.”
Gorland blinked. “Books?”
“Why, yes. The three of us are fans of the late Teresa Malvain.” Professor Harcourt gave him a polite smile. “Think of this as an impromptu book lovers’ meeting.”
Mike stifled a snicker. Like Gorland will swallow that one.
“I see.” Gorland cleared his throat. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Tattersall.” And with that, he strode out of the pub.
Jonathon applauded. “We’ve never got rid of him so fast. Thank you.”
Professor Harcourt rolled his eyes. “I know the type. I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with all that these days. They only call me in now and again when a case foxes them, or if I get asked to lecture. Nowadays my garden claims most of my time.”
“Do you miss it?” Jonathon asked.
He sighed. “At times. It was a fascinating career.”
Mike was curious. “Are you really a fan of her books?”
Professor Harcourt’s eyes gleamed. “I have all of them. Reading murder mysteries might seem like a busman’s holiday, but that’s how I relax.” He took a seat at the bar. “I don’t suppose I could have a coffee before you open?”
“No problem.” Mike got on with setting up the machine.
“Me too,” Jonathon added.
Mike chuckled. “I’d taken it for granted that I would be making one for you too. You haven’t had nearly enough caffeine today.”
Jonathon laughed. “It’s scary how well he knows me.” He paused. “Professor, can I ask you a question? It’s about something Teresa said at the dinner.”
“Please, ask away.”
“Teresa said she’d only once planned to write a book based exactly on a real-life case. Then she said to you, ‘Isn’t that right, professor?’ What was the book she was talking about?”
“My word, what an excellent memory you have.”
Mike turned to face them, carrying two cups. “Try living with him,” he muttered. “He never forgets anything.”
Professor Harcourt took a sip of coffee. “She knew from our meeting that I was a fan of her writing. Maybe she assumed I was a really big fan and knew the ins and outs of everything, like Fiona McBride. I swear she probably knows everything about Teresa, right down to the frequency of her bowel movements.” His eyes twinkled. “Pardon me. That remark was uncalled for.”
“But quite apt, coming from a pathologist.” Mike stilled. “You know what? Maybe we should follow Melinda’s advice.”
“Which particular bit?” Jonathon said with a wry smile.
“She said maybe we should read Teresa’s books. Teresa kept alluding to Merrychurch when she was talking about them. About why murder mysteries work well in village settings.” Mike stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So here’s an idea. What if one or more of Teresa’s books is based on someone in the village? She promised to answer all questions, remember. And she said she was basically lazy. So what if—”
“What if she wrote a book loosely based on something that really happened in the village?” Jonathon’s voice cracked with excitement. “Obviously not a real murder, because we’d all know about it. But a death that could have been murder.”
Mike nodded eagerly. “And maybe someone in the village got nervous. All this attention on her Summersfield books….”
Professor Harcourt arched his bushy eyebrows. “You think one of your neighbors might be a murderer?”
Jonathon met Mike’s gaze. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But there are twenty books in the series,” the professor exclaimed. “I can’t remember the plots of all of them.” He regarded Mike closely. “Do you have her books here?”
Mike nodded. “They’re in a bookcase on the landing.”
Jonathon blinked. “I never noticed them.”
Mike grinned. “Some detective you are.”
“Then here is what I propose we do,” Professor Harcourt continued. “We divide up the books between us, and we read them.”
“Now?” Mike inquired.
“As soon as possible. And I also suggest that we note the bare bones of each plot. Then we get together in a day or two and compare notes.”
“Then what?” Mike didn’t see where this would take them. Having lived slightly less than two years in Merrychurch, his knowledge of the village wasn’t sufficient for him to know which plots to investigate.
“Then we take our notes to someone who will be able to point us in the right direction,” Jonathon announced triumphantly.
The light dawned. “Melinda Talbot.” Mike smiled. If anyone would know which books were thinly disguised portrayals of real-life events, it would be Melinda.