by Rachel Green
“Well, if you’re quite certain I can’t persuade you otherwise…”
“No. Go.” Meinwen made shooing motions and he climbed into his car, grinning. She waited for a moment but he pulled out his phone.
She set off, her feet crunching on the gravel drive as she admired Peter’s work on the garden. At the bottom of the drive she turned left at into the leafy avenue that led back to the town.
* * * *
Jean Markhew watched them go from the upstairs window, tapping a finger absently against her lips. “What horrors will your meddling cause?” she asked, her voice low.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Nicole looked up. Lines of rope above her breast snaked under her armpits and around the back of her neck, forcing her head down. Other coils fastened her arms together behind her back from her elbows to her wrist, a neat line of knots running down the center. The position of her arms thrust her chest forward. She kept her feet apart to maintain balance.
Jean looked up at the ceiling, spotting a thread of dust-encrusted spider silk. “Nothing for your ears, girl. Who killed Robert?” She trailed her crop across erect nipples.
Nicole held her gaze. “I wish I knew, ma’am,” she said. “I’d tell you in an instant.”
“Would you?” She gave the secretary three sharp strikes across her breasts. Nicole gasped. “Hurts twice, doesn’t it? The strike itself, the pressure of which forces blood away from the welt and the afterburn of the blood returning, such a simple toy but it can be so painful.”
Jean allowed her to regain her breath before striking her a further six times, each one heavier than the last. Nicole winced with each blow, her gasps running together until she was snorting. Tears of pain mixed with mucus. “Please, ma’am.” She whimpered as blows rained down upon her thighs and bottom. “Yellow.”
The blows stopped instantly and Jean bent to kiss her, feeling the secretary’s tense muscles relax under her touch. “Good girl.” Jean’s kisses were feather-light over Nicole’s cheeks, drying away the tears. “I know I can trust you now.” She began to undo the bonds and, as soon as her arms were free, Nicole dropped to her knees, pressing her lips against the soft leather boots Jean wore.
Her new mistress lifted her face up and gazed into Nicole’s cornflower eyes. She could bewitch anyone with those. “Why did you come here?” Her fingers left red marks on the pale skin. “Why did you want to work for my brother-in-law?”
“Money at first, ma’am.” Nicole said through the older woman’s hold. “I was out of college and out of work. I saw Sir Robert’s advertisement for a live-in secretary in The Lady and applied. He offered me the job and here I am.”
“And now that he’s gone?” Jean could pick out the smattering of freckles under Nicole’s foundation. “Do you want to leave?”
“Oh no.” Nicole’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “This is my home now. The people here are like family.”
“Will you stay and be mine? Serve me as faithfully as you served Robert? Will you provide as many…services? Now your master is dead you may leave freely if you wish. I will provide excellent references.”
“I will serve you, ma’am.” Nicole’s voice was the whisper of a lover.
* * * *
Meinwen pulled out her copy of Folklore of Laverstone and looked up Cherry Tree Road, discovering the existence of a gap in the stone wall that led through the park and into the woods at Laverstone Manor. From the map she determined she could follow the path through the wood into Vicarage Road and the church of St. Pity’s and home. She went through the gap which led, once she was past the hawthorn hedge that grew against the back edge of the wall, into a thin meadow already bursting with wildflowers. She bent to stare at the intricate tracery of vetch and cowslip. “This is beautiful,” she said. “I would never have guessed that an upmarket area would allow something like this to flourish.”
She checked the guidebook.
Pettin Lane. This patch of land once belonged to Owen Pettin (1736-1769) and formed his portion of a field. When he died he bequeathed everything to the church under the promise that his wife and child were allowed to remain on the land and work it. The rest of the field was sold during the nineteenth century but the Catholic church retained the portion that became known as Pettin’s Acre and later, Pettin Lane.
There are a number of orange-barked Silver Birches on the pasture. This is due to the high concentration of copper ore in the earth beneath. It was mined extensively by the Victorian entrepreneur Sir Harold Lauder (1798-1874) who later built the park which now occupies the site. There is a statue of him at the western entrance to the park
Beyond the birches the path led directly into the park itself, a regular route for locals if the width of the trail was anything to go by. Meinwen walked past the still-dormant rose garden and took her bearings from the just-visible spire of St. Pity’s.
She sat on a bench overlooking the bowling green and phoned Simon, hoping he’d finished his Mass at the hospital.
“Hello?” He answered after the fourth ring and sounded out of breath.
“Simon? Meinwen. Is this a bad time?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve just left the hospital. I was on my way to the car. What can I do for you?”
“Who inherits the Markhew estate? It might well have a bearing on the case, though I doubt that the beneficiary would be the murderer.”
“Why not? It’s served as an incentive for murder before.”
“Yes, straight out of an Agatha Christie.” Meinwen laughed. “Nobody is that foolish any more. You can’t benefit from murder.”
“What if that stranger I saw was an assassin hired by the beneficiary?”
“It’s highly unlikely.” Meinwen reached to pluck a few fresh hawthorn leaves from the hedge bounding the green. “Besides, how many assassins would ask the way to their target? They’d plan their route meticulously and back it up with a Sat Nav.” She began eating the leaves, savoring their peppery taste. “It’s almost a pity, really. If someone had hired an assassin there would have been a trail leading back to him.”
“Or her.”
Meinwen merely grunted.
“I wish I’d thought to ask about the will. Jean would know if Robert had a copy. She would have told me.” He cleared his throat. “There’s Jean herself, of course, Robert’s sister-in-law. Even if she’s not a beneficiary she would probably have leave to remain in the house. Then there’s Richard. Although he and Robert had arguments–”
“What family doesn’t?” interrupted Meinwen.
“Exactly. I can’t see Robert not giving him the bulk of the estate. Then there’s his niece, Mary. She’ll come away with a tidy sum I’ll bet.”
“Anyone else?”
Simon drew in a sharp breath. “That’s all the immediate family. He might have left a stipend for the staff, but I can’t see it being worth enough to kill him for.”
Meinwen nodded. “That leaves the blackmailer then. I wonder what happened to the letter you saw Sir Robert open.”
“The murderer must have taken it.”
“Which would indicate that he and the blackmailer are one and the same.”
“I thought that was obvious.”
Meinwen could hear an engine starting. “Nothing is obvious. Where are you?”
“I told you. St. Pity’s. You?”
“By the bowling green in the park.”
“I have to go. See you later?”
“Isn’t that Mary Markhew up ahead?”
“How should I kn–”
Meinwen closed the connection and stood. Mary was dancing at the edge of the boating lake. “She’s young and in love.” Meinwen smiled, shading her eyes against the slanting light as well. “Why shouldn’t she be happy, even if her uncle has died?”
* * * *
Mary felt the note in her pocket and couldn’t help smiling. Her feet skipped without her even thinking about it as she neared the pond, scattering the geese that ran squawking back into the water.
“You look happy.” Peter, the gardener from the house, caught up to her and she blushed.
“I know I shouldn’t, what with Uncle Robert being murdered and all.” Mary grinned and swung herself around a lamp post. “I can’t help it, though. I’m engaged to be married and I’ve inherited a big bucket of dosh.”
“Oh?” Peter smiled and walked along with her. “From your uncle, I suppose. He was rather well-off, wasn’t he?”
“More than I thought.” Mary pulled out the note to show him. “Mother found a copy of his will. I shall be getting a quarter of a million pounds! It means I won’t have to lie anymore.”
“I didn’t think you did.” Peter sounded surprised. “Look, perhaps I’d better leave you alone. It wouldn’t be right for an engaged woman to be seen with a single bloke.”
“Don’t be silly.” Mary took hold of his arm. “You’re practically family. I only meant I can stop groveling for pocket money and won’t have to spend hours scouring secondhand shops and pretending the things I’ve bought are new.”
“Oh, I see.” Peter smiled and patted her hand. “You should have said. I’d have bought you new clothes. You smell lovely, by the way.”
Mary laughed. “That’s very sweet, but I doubt you earn much as a gardener.”
“I will one day.” Peter stopped, his smile radiant. “Richard said when he inherits he’ll invest in a garden center and have me manage it. They’re all the rage now, garden centers. Everybody goes. It’s like a national institution.”
“That will be wonderful, Peter.” Mary smiled for him. “You’ll be an instant hit. You might even get your own television program. You’ve got the looks for it, and the muscle.”
It was Peter’s turn to blush. “Do you think so? That would be my dream.”
“Then you should follow it. You know Richard will keep his promise.”
“Where is Richard? I heard that he’d vanished.”
“He’ll be back.” Mary skipped a few steps. “Everyone thinks he did it, but he’ll be cleared when Meinwen finds the real killer. She’s a psychic.”
“A psychic?” Peter smirked. “You’re having me on.”
“No, really.” Mary squeezed his arm. “I’ve seen her do things.” She looked ahead. “Shh! Don’t say a word. That’s her.” She waved. “Meinwen!”
* * * *
Meinwen walked the remaining few yards to catch up. “Hello Mary. Who’s this Adonis?” She smiled up at Peter.
“Peter, this is Meinwen. Meinwen, this is Peter Numan, the gardener and handyman at the house.”
“Ah.” Meinwen smiled again and shook his hand. “I’ve heard about you. You were one of the party that found the body, I believe.”
“That’s right. Along with Father Brande and his sister, Nicole and Amanda. I was taken aback and no mistake. Who would have wanted to kill a nice man like Master Markhew?”
“Master?” Meinwen raised an eyebrow.
“Mister, I mean.” Peter blushed. “I didn’t do very well in school.”
“That’s all right.” Meinwen smiled at them both. “What are you so cheerful about? You look like you’ve won the lottery.”
“I almost have.” Mary grinned and pulled out the note she’d shown Peter. “I had three good pieces of luck this week. I got engaged to Richard and Mother found the will. I’ll be getting a quarter of a million, look!” She held out the scrap of paper.
“And the third piece of luck?”
“I found a ring.” Mary dug into her pocket and pulled it out. “It’s gold, look. I was going to take it to the jeweler’s in Cheap Street.”
“May I see?” Mary passed it to her.
“How odd,” she said. “Someone will be bemoaning the loss of this.” The ring had a Celtic design Meinwen recognized as a lover’s knot, a continuous line twisted into triangles to represent the three faces of the Goddess–maiden, mother and crone–and a promise to love the wearer in all three phases of their life. It was more than that, though, it was a wedding band, its thin width suggesting a woman’s finger. She held it up to the light. “Where did you find it?”
“In the fountain at home.” Mary held out her hand to get it back. “A bird must have dropped it.”
Meinwen frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, it’s a wedding ring, isn’t it? Nobody at The Larches is married except my mother, and it’s certainly not hers. Can you tell whose it is?”
Meinwen shook her head. “Of course not. Why would I?”
“I thought you were psychic? Don’t you get a sense of the owner when you touch something?”
“Oh, psychometry, you mean.” Meinwen patted her arm. “I have to set out candles and things before I can attune myself to an object. That, a scanner and a good internet connection.”
Peter squinted at the band of gold. “Why would anyone throw away a ring?”
“Lover’s tiff?” Meinwen passed it to him. “You don’t recognize it either?”
Peter shook his head. “Should I?”
“Not really. It just seems very serendipitous finding it now, the day after a murder. What’s the betting we know the owner? Have any of the girls in the Markhew household been married?”
“No.” Peter half-laughed. “Sir Robert preferred his staff single.”
Meinwen took the ring back off him. “Would you mind if I hung on to this for a little while?”
Mary bit her lip. “I suppose so. As long as I can have it back afterward. It’s got to be worth a hundred at least.”
“Of course.” Meinwen tucked it into her wallet. “If nobody claims it, it’s yours.” She looked at Peter. “Did either of you hear or see anything prior to the murder that might help with the investigation?”
Peter shrugged. “Nothing that will help. I heard…Mr. Markhew talking to a woman about some papers. I assumed it was Nicole.”
“When was this?” Meinwen leaned in close. Peter’s breath smelled of cigarettes and beer.
“About half-past nine?” The rise in Peter’s voice sounded as if he were asking her. “I’d been to the White Art and was on my way home. I live in the little cottage at the back of the house.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“I saw a woman leaving the gate just as I got back. I couldn’t tell who it was, though.”
“What did she look like?”
Peter held his hands up, his face a tight-lipped expression of hopelessness. “I don’t know. It was dark and I only saw her for a moment. I only know it was a woman because she was wearing a skirt.”
“All right, Peter. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Mary, enjoy the rest of your day.” Meinwen clasped both of their hands then walked on, picturing the ring and trying to imagine it on the fingers on the Markham household. She was sure she’d seen the design before.
Chapter 15
When Meinwen reached the northern gate to the park, where two life-size terracotta lions guarded the black iron gates, she found Simon sitting on a bench beside the winter-dormant fountain. “I thought I’d walk you the rest of the way.” He proffered a cardboard cup of coffee, the companion to one in his other hand. “I wasn’t sure what you drank so I got you a soy latté. Was that all right?”
“Perfect.” Meinwen sipped it, unaware of how cold she’d become until that moment despite her walk under the watery sunshine. “I saw Mary and Peter Numan earlier. Mary’s getting a substantial disbursement from the will. She was celebrating.”
“I can’t say I blame her.” Simon stood and gazed at the fountain. The bronze swans were etched with verdigris, the water beneath thick with plastic bottles and empty beer cans. “It’s not like they were particularly close. What were you talking to Peter Numan about? Is he a suspect too?”
“Everyone’s a suspect, Simon, but no, I don’t think he did it. He did hear Robert talking to someone he thought was Nicole after you had gone, though. Did Robert usually have that many visitors to his study in an evening? It seems like the whole household wanted to
speak to him.”
Simon drank the last of his coffee and dropped the container in a bin. “I’ve no idea. I know he was feeling mortal after the death of Grace Peters. Perhaps he was calling them in. Did he hear what was said?”
“No, or he wouldn’t tell me if he did. He did tell me he saw a woman leaving through the gate, though.”
“Good heavens! The place was busier than Piccadilly Circus! Who?”
“He didn’t know, but it’s another knot in the puzzle string that needs to be unraveled.”
“Could it have been Susan Pargeter?” Simon held out his arm and Meinwen took it. “I saw her leaving in a car earlier.” He led her toward a small path and a wooden gate.
Meinwen stopped and took out the ring. “Here’s something else. Meinwen found it in the fountain at The Larches. Any idea who was married?”
Simon held it up to the light. “Celtic. Not a proper wedding ring.” He passed it back. “I’ve no idea. Sorry.”
Meinwen consulted her guide book. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home, the pretty way.” Simon led her out of the park and along a short path into the woods that belonged to Laverstone Manor. She stopped at the threshold, her heart hammering.
“What is it?” Simon paused and turned back.
“I’m not sure.” Meinwen looked up at the beech trees, last year’s tired brown leaves just beginning to drop as the copper-hued buds began to open. “It feels a little oppressive here, as if dark deeds were performed.”
“Nonsense.” Simon held up a low branch of elder for Meinwen to walk under. “It’s just a wood. I thought you people liked woods?”
“You people?” Meinwen plucked up courage and stepped onto the trail. The feelings washed over her and settled. Her heart ceased its hammering and she compared it to visiting the dentist, where the smell of antiseptic and chlorine washed over you as you opened the door, only to fade into the background after a few breaths.
“Witches, pagans.” Simon smiled. “I thought you were all into the forest as a primeval metaphor for growth.”
“Cernunnos, the Lord of the Forest,” she said. “And Herne, his English counterpart.” She caught up with the priest. “There’s no calling to them here. Let’s hurry, please.”