Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  Jennifer linked arms with her. “Will you join us for supper? Simon promised fish and chips.”

  * * * *

  Jean Markhew carried a silver case into the guest bathroom and gestured for Susan to set a stool next to the sink. “I want an extension cord.” Jean set the case on the tiled vanity unit and flipped open the catches.

  Susan bobbed affirmation and returned a few minutes later paying out the cable. She set the plugs within easy reach, raising an eyebrow at the sterile pads and pot of black ink.

  Jean pointed at the stool. “Sit. Take off your blouse first, though.”

  Susan pulled it off over her head, folded and draped it over the side of the bath. She sat facing the mirror.

  Jean pulled her hair forward to reveal her neck, her hand trailing down over the pert breast. “Lovely. When did you enter Robert’s service?”

  “Eleven years ago, after his wife died.” Susan’s voice caught in her throat. “He was kind to me.”

  “I should think he was. You do a good job.” Jean’s fingers trailed over a nipple and Susan shuddered. “This is the last time I will offer this. Do you wish to leave my service?”

  “No, ma’am.” Susan shook her head, her hair falling back over her shoulders. Jean tutted and exposed her neck again.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Then that is also the last time you will call me ‘ma’am.’” Jean leaned forward and kissed the back of Susan’s neck before cleaning it with an alcohol wipe and shaving a small patch. “In private, anyway.”

  Susan looked up it time to catch her smile in the mirror.

  “From now on,” Jean said, “You will call me ‘Mistress.’”

  She smiled as Susan closed her eyes, the buzz of the tattoo gun singing over the white tiles of the bathroom, changing pitch as it dipped into her skin.

  * * * *

  Jennifer undressed in the darkness, looking through the window. Simon was downing a last scotch downstairs. He claimed it helped him sleep. Jennifer suspected the extra-large helping of haddock and chips would do that.

  A flash of brightness caught her eye and she leaned toward the window to see into the garden of The Herbage.

  The light flared again in the center of the circle Meinwen had leveled and by the light of the fire Jennifer could see her pacing, lighting five candles. Jennifer recognized the geometric shape of a pentagram.

  She stared, too fascinated to move away as Meinwen squatted next to the small fire she’d built, her back toward the rectory. Every few moments her hands flashed outward, lit by the orange of the fire and the silver of the moon.

  Jennifer watched for several more minutes before fatigue overtook her and she drew the curtains, ready for bed.

  * * * *

  Meinwen’s hands flickered over the keyboard. The hour of meditation in the garden had done her the world of good and now her thoughts flew fast and clear as she typed queries into search engines.

  It took her until after midnight to find what she wanted. Dating sites and chat rooms furnished her with pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that was itself only a single interlocking piece of the larger canvas of murder.

  Alt.sex.org furnished her with the last piece. A three-year-old query from a woman whose husband had completely lost interest in sex led to a mention in the Hampshire Times of a divorce and a three-line paragraph about the sale of a marital home.

  Amanda James had been christened Charles Edward James.

  Chapter 25

  “Dearly Beloved…”

  Jennifer looked around the church as Simon’s voice rang out over the congregation. It was fuller than usual, the recent murder and her brother’s incidental part in its investigation swelling the ranks with the curious and the gossipmongers. Even Jean Markhew had brought her daughter, Mary’s presence breaking her four-month absence since the midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

  She wished she’d written his sermon. With the recent events and the accounts to complete it was obvious he’d dashed out a rehash of the parable of the Good Samaritan and called it a day. She was relieved when he got to end and asked them all to stand. Jerusalem was her favorite hymn.

  * * * *

  Meinwen walked around the church until she found Jean Markhew’s Jaguar in the small car park. Susan Pargeter, dressed in a chauffer’s uniform, sat on the stone wall next to it smoking a cigarette in the sunshine. The woman talking to her was just the person Meinwen was looking for.

  “Amanda? Can I have a word?”

  “I shouldn’t without permission.” Amanda looked to Susan who nodded and shooed them away, leaning back against the smooth stone. Meinwen led the way to the relative privacy of the tomb of Sir Harold Lauder, 1798 to 1874.

  “Are you ready to tell me your secret?”

  Amanda smiled. “If you’re asking me now you probably already know it. I take it you’ve spoken to my ex?”

  Meinwen shook her head. “Not at all. I respect your privacy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I still need to know what went on that night. I don’t care about your past unless it relates to the death of Robert Markhew.”

  Amanda shook her head. “It doesn’t. I was hanging about to speak to Robert about the rest of the surgery I need. He’d been promising to speak to me all weekend and hadn’t had a chance.”

  “You’ve still got your–” Meinwen raised an eyebrow. “You look so…um…natural.”

  “Yes. I had an appointment with the surgeon on the Wednesday, that’s why I was so desperate to talk to him.” She shrugged. “I had to cancel it, of course. It doesn’t matter now.”

  Meinwen nodded. “I’m sorry. Will he have left you anything?”

  “I’m not counting on it. I’ve only been with him since the beginning of the year. Not much longer than Catherine, really.”

  “At least that explains your persistence in trying to see him.”

  Amanda sighed heavily and looked directly into Meinwen’s eyes. “I didn’t kill Master Robert. He was my ticket to a woman’s world.”

  * * * *

  Jennifer waited for Simon to finish in the vestry. It was odd she hadn’t seen the curate, though his presence was evident by the open grave awaiting the internment of Robert Markhew the next day. Grace Peters, as a suicide, would not be buried on consecrated ground but would instead be cremated and her ashes interred in the cemetery opposite.

  Her brother came out at last, holding his coat over one arm. “You needn’t have waited. I could have found my way home.”

  “That’s all right. The internet’s quiet on a Sunday.” She squeezed his arm. “Look! There’s Meinwen gathering bones and grave dust.”

  Simon laughed. “I doubt it. She doesn’t strike me as the type to desecrate the dead.” They sauntered along the path until they got to where Meinwen waited at the north gate next to the ancient stone, Long Mab.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to hang about a church on a Sunday, Miss Jones,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of all the good Christian vibes?”

  Meinwen dipped her head. “Good vibes are never something to be afraid of. No matter what the source, they increase the light in the world.” She looked across at the open grave. “Not so with murder, however.”

  “Anything new to report?”

  “We can rule out Amanda. She told me her secret and it’s not relevant to the case. She certainly didn’t kill her golden goose.”

  “Robert was giving her money then?”

  Meinwen nodded. “He would have done, had he lived. They had an arrangement.”

  Simon gave a nervous laugh. “Perhaps you’d better keep that to yourself. I am a man of the cloth, after all.”

  They began to walk back to their respective houses. “I still think it wasn’t Richard.” Jennifer looked past her brother to Meinwen. “He’s definitely been framed. What if it was Mary who did it and then framed Richard to inherit the whole house as the grieving wife of a murderer?”

  Meinwen stopped
to lean on the graveyard wall. “I don’t think it was anyone in the household. For all their minor squabbles they are a tight-knit group of people, each defending the next.” She took off her shoe and shook it until a stone fell out.

  Simon rubbed his face. “That doesn’t rule out the blackmailer, though. What if the blackmailer’s a member of the household even if the murderer isn’t?”

  Jennifer looked back at the church. The sun had almost reached its zenith now, throwing the steeple into dark relief against the blue sky. The silhouette of the minarets at the base of the steeple gave the whole building the look of the Klingon Daqtagh dagger used for the murder. She shuddered.

  “It’s possible.” Meinwen replaced her shoe and walked on. “But imagine, if you will, a young man, not very well off, who finds out a secret. He sees a way to make money from the knowledge. He doesn’t need the money but desires it nonetheless, for the acquisition of it is his weakness. He is not an evil man, but when the secret well runs dry and threatens to expose him, he kills out of desperation.”

  Simon shook his head. “It’s an interesting tale but if you’re relating this to life you’re off the mark. Grace Peters committed suicide.”

  “Did she?” Meinwen shrugged. “I have no proof, of course, but is it not possible that when she took her usual sleeping tablets this blackmailer gave her heroin and staged the hanging? Who is then to say she did not do it herself, either by accident or design?”

  Jennifer gave her arm a squeeze. “It does seem a little far-fetched, dear, though I could use it as a plot for my next book.” She grinned. “He could be blackmailing her for sex.”

  “Jennifer, please. We’re trying to be serious.” Simon pulled and they walked on.

  “I am serious.” Jennifer punched him on the bicep. “Older women are sexy.”

  “Let me continue.” Meinwen fell into step with them. “This blackmailer thinks that’s the end of it, but then discovers that his money pot told someone she was being blackmailed and may even have mentioned his name. What can he do about it? In a fit of desperation he takes a knife from the open case, plunges it into the back of the confidant and steals the letter.”

  Simon laughed. “It all sounds very plausible when you say it like that, my dear, but I still think–” He was interrupted by the beeping of his cell phone. “Yes? That’s right.” His face went through a series of expressions as Jennifer and Meinwen watched. He finished with “I’ll be right there. Thank you.”

  “What was that about?”

  “That was the police,” Simon said. “They’ve picked up the stranger who asked for directions and they want me to identify him.”

  Chapter 26

  Jennifer balled her hands into fists. “An identity parade? How exciting!”

  Simon put a hand on her arm. “You’d better go back to the house, Jennifer.” He tried to steer her in that direction but she shook it off.

  “Not on your life. I was driving that night, remember? I’ve got as much right to be involved as you have.”

  “She’s right, Simon. We’ll all go.” Meinwen began walking to the police station, looking back after a few yards. “Come on, slowcoaches.”

  Simon grimaced. “Why does she have to come with us? She wasn’t there at all.”

  “She does seem to have some insights into the case.” Jennifer skipped a step or two. “Come on, Simon. Don’t be such a naggle-puss.”

  When they’d arrived at the station and introduced themselves to the desk sergeant, Inspector White came out, gave them visitors’ badges and ushered them through to the interview rooms.

  Jennifer took in the shabby walls and nicotine-colored ceilings. “It’s a bit dingy, isn’t it? It looks much more salubrious on CSI.”

  “It’s the cutbacks, miss.” White showed them into a room where a constable sat with a small CCTV monitor. “It’s all right for them to go spending millions on the new offices at Scotland Yard, but five grand for refurbishing this place was rejected because it was ‘unnecessary.’ You try telling that to the lads who work here.” He gestured toward the screen. “That’s the lad we picked up. Do you recognize him?”

  Simon shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was dark in the street. It could be him but I couldn’t swear to it. He’s not even wearing a hoodie anymore.”

  White sighed.

  * * * *

  “Who is he?” Meinwen peered closer at the screen. “Do we know anything about him?”

  White picked up a file. “His name is Jack Rogers, a student at Birmingham University who lives with his father there. He admits to being in Laverstone on the night of the murder but won’t tell us why. We can’t hold him for long without any evidence of wrongdoing.”

  On the screen a constable came in to give the man a cup of tea. “Can we hear what he’s saying?” Simon asked.

  White nodded and flicked a switch.

  “Will somebody tell me what I’m here for?” Jack Rogers’s voice was thickly accented. “They said I was a suspect in a murder case and I’m scared shitless. I haven’t killed anybody. I don’t even know who’s been killed.”

  The constable paused at the door. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t discuss anything about the case with you. I’m sure someone will be in shortly.”

  “Shortly? I’ve been here two hours and that’s not counting the ride down from Brum. I have rights, you know.”

  The constable said nothing as he left the room, the click of the lock echoed by the expression on Rogers’s face.

  Simon pointed at the screen. “That’s him. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”

  “Yes. That’s him all right.” Jennifer clutched at the inspector’s arm. “Will you arrest him?”

  “We’ve nothing to charge him with.” White extracted himself from her grip. “There’s no law against asking for directions.”

  Meinwen smiled at him. “Inspector? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  White shrugged. “It can’t do any harm I suppose. Father? If you and your sister will remain here? The constable will stay with you.” He nodded to the policeman at the desk.

  He led Meinwen along the corridor into the interview room. Rogers looked up as they entered. White checked his watch.

  “Interview with Jack Rogers. Fifteenth of April, Twelve-twenty AM. Present are Inspector White and Meinwen Jones, civilian assistant.” He sat. “Mr Rogers, you are a suspect in the murder of Robert Markhew at The Larches last Tuesday night. We have a witness who has testified you asked for directions to the house at approximately nine-fifteen PM, shortly before the murder.”

  Jack shook his head. “I’m not saying anything. I didn’t murder no one.”

  Meinwen leaned forward. “But you did go to the house. You went to see your mother, didn’t you?”

  Jack sneered and folded his arms. “My mother? My mother left me when I was two years old. I don’t have a mother.”

  Meinwen nodded. “You may not have a relationship with her, but you know exactly who she is. Should I ask the inspector to compare your DNA with the residents of The Larches?”

  Jack shook his head again, his eyes lowered to the table. “No.” He unfolded his arms and looked at her. “There’s no need. All right. I was at The Larches, but only as far as the drive. I didn’t go into the house.”

  “Is that where you met her?” Meinwen stared in his eyes.

  “Yes, but it was only for a minute. I was gone ten minutes later. She can testify to that.”

  “Just who is your mother?” White opened his notebook.

  “Susan Pargeter. She won’t want it known she abandoned me, though. No one wants it bandied about they’re a bad mother.”

  “What was the meeting for?”

  Jack shrugged. “Guilt money. I’m a student, see. I need books and supplies and a laptop. Dad can’t afford it so I traced her and asked her.”

  “Did she give it you?”

  Jack nodded. “Five grand. She told me it was all she had.”

  “When did you
leave Laverstone?”

  “I caught the eleven twenty-three back to Birmingham.”

  Meinwen raised her eyebrows. “Two hours later? Why didn’t you get an earlier train?”

  “I stopped to celebrate, didn’t I? Some pub between the house and the station.” Jack smiled, and his eyes sparkled for the first time. Beneath the frightened, sullen exterior he was quite a handsome young man.

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  Jack shrugged. “Maybe. The landlord or an old bloke called Tom. We walked to the station together. He was catching the same train.”

  Meinwen touched his arm. “Tom? Did he have a last name?”

  Jack shook his head. “Not that I remember.”

  Meinwen frowned.

  * * * *

  Jean accepted the tea from Amanda and stood at the window. Outside, Peter was pruning the roses and mulching them with shredded bark. “When I came out of church yesterday you were talking to that Welsh woman. What were you talking about?”

  Amanda looked down. “She found out who I was, ma’am. Who I used to be. I had to reveal the real reason why I was trying to speak to Robert that night.”

  “To ask him for the money for your cosmetic surgery?”

  “That’s right. Not just cosmetic, though. I’ll go mad without it.”

  “If I inherit the whole estate, you may go ahead and have the surgery done privately.” She took a sip of the tea and glanced up at Amanda’s beaming smile.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That will save me years of waiting for NHS treatment.”

  Jean nodded. “I know. I looked up the figures for people waiting for the operation. The suicide rate is twice the national average. I’d rather keep you alive.” She reached across and slapped her on the bottom. “I’m sure we can think of ways for you to pay off the debt to me.”

  * * * *

  Meinwen was thoughtful as they left the police station and they walked part of the way back in silence. “Mind if we pop in to the White Art on our way home? I want to verify his story.” She jerked her head to indicate Jack Rogers in the interview room.

  Simon pulled on a pair of leather gloves. “Fair enough. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t go amiss either.”