Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

“No.” Mary sat on the wing of the lawnmower. “It was in the back room of the White Art. We figured a marriage would please Uncle Robert and leave us free to pursue our own interests. We’re just good mates really.” She rearranged her skirts. “I know that he didn’t kill Uncle Robert.”

  “So where is Richard Godwin?” White asked.

  “I honestly don’t know.” Mary’s voice rose in pitch, convincing Meinwen she was indeed telling the truth. “His phone’s been switched off since Tuesday.”

  White sighed. “You’ve led us a merry chase, Miss Markhew. I’ve a good mind to arrest you for perverting the course of justice.”

  “Why? All I did was borrow a hundred quid.”

  White’s voice dropped to an icy monotone. “Because of your lie, Miss Markhew, we were under the impression that your uncle was still alive at nine forty-five. Now he may have been dead before that. Everyone’s alibis will have to be re-examined.”

  Mary shrugged. “Sorry. I was just trying to protect myself.”

  “At the cost of how many lives, Miss Markhew?” White turned and stalked back to the house, pulling out his phone.

  Meinwen went the other way and caught up with Peter. “Don’t be too hard on her.”

  Peter stopped, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “I don’t know what to do about her. She begs me to…to love her and then treats me like a child.”

  Meinwen put a hand on his arm. “She’ll grow into herself. She’ll be her mother’s daughter.”

  Peter gave a derisive bark of laughter. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.” Meinwen nodded. “She just doesn’t know what she wants yet. She doesn’t love Richard, if that’s any help.”

  “She doesn’t?” Peter looked confused. “But I thought…”

  “It was an engagement of convenience.” Meinwen picked a sprig of early mint. “Made to please her uncle.”

  * * * *

  The funeral went well, Jennifer thought, watching the clouds scud past the vestry window late that afternoon. It had been a good turnout for the old boy. His entire household had come, though several had commented upon Richard’s absence. Mr. Waterman and his friend had stood respectfully at the back, leaving a handsome donation for the church upkeep fund as they left. Inspector White and his sergeant had stood even farther back, probably in the hope of apprehending Richard if he turned up. There were a few reporters but on the whole the funeral had passed beneath the journalism radar.

  She’d watched the mourners at the graveside, knowing each was wondering who had reduced the charismatic Robert Markhew to the occupant of a plain pine box. They had filed away in silence, each mourning the man who had touched their lives so profoundly. A marker had already been commissioned in the local granite and a passage from the Bible would be engraved to ease him to redemption. Her brother had been shaking his head as he read the closing prayers. Much as she had liked the man, she didn’t expect to meet him in Heaven.

  Grace Peters’s quiet memorial had been less well attended. Only Susan Pargeter and Inspector White had joined them for the five-hundred yard journey and witnessed the pot being placed in unconsecrated earth. An engraved slab would show the final resting place of a murderess. If no one else commissioned it, Jennifer intended to pay for it out of her own pocket. The woman had given her the plot of her next novel.

  Chapter 28

  Meinwen watched the sad little ceremony from a discreet distance as Grace Peters’s ashes were interred. She took out her phone. “Directory enquiries? I’d like a number in Coventry, please. Harry Thomas. Thank you.”

  She waited to be connected. Who would have guessed that Old Tom was named for his surname?

  “Two-three-nine-four. Hello?”

  “Harry Thomas? My name is Meinwen Jones from Laverstone. May I ask if your brother is available?”

  “Aye.” The line went quiet. “Fred? A young lady on the phone for you.” A moment later the line crackled again. “Hello?”

  “Fred Thomas? This is Meinwen Jones, in Laverstone. It’s very important that I ask you a couple of questions, if I may.”

  “Aye. Go on then.” Meinwen heard a whistle of breath.

  “Are you Old Tom, the gravedigger?”

  “I am. What’s this about?”

  “Can I ask why you left so suddenly.”

  “It wasn’t sudden, like. Not Really. Father Brande said to take a couple of weeks off.”

  “I see. And you caught the late train?”

  “Aye.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” Meinwen disconnected and looked up to see that the small service had ended, then watched as Jennifer and Simon walked back to the church and Inspector White and Susan Pargeter headed toward the car park. She intercepted them as they left the cemetery, feeling suddenly awkward in front of the bereaved woman. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Susan started. “My loss? I liked the old dear and felt sorry for her, that’s all.”

  Meinwen put a hand on her arm. “I know the truth and I know your secret. Can we talk?”

  Susan glanced at the cars in the car park. Most of the residents of The Larches had left at the end of Robert’s funeral. “I should get back to the house.”

  “It is important,” Meinwen insisted. “We could go somewhere private.”

  The inspector raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure there’ll be a spare room at the station. We could talk there.”

  Meinwen shook her head. “Thank you Inspector, but that would be a little intimidating, don’t you think? My shop is only five minutes’ walk away. We’d be comfortable there.”

  Susan pulled away. “I really have to get back. Another time, perhaps.”

  “Ms. Pargeter.” White drew himself up to his full height. “Things will go badly if you don’t talk to us now. We suspect the murder of Robert Markhew was committed earlier than we originally thought. That means that your son no longer has the alibi of being in the White Art public house.”

  Susan paled. “My son? You know about him?”

  “The truth does not hide from the Goddess. Nor from the eyes of those who have the patience to see.” Meinwen extended an arm. “Shall we?”

  Susan nodded. “Let me just phone the house then and tell them I’ll be a bit late back.”

  Meinwen nodded. She and the inspector withdrew a few feet to allow her to make the call in private. He tapped her on the arm. “Could you leave off the mumbo-jumbo? I prefer ‘crime doesn’t pay.’”

  Meinwen patted his arm. “That’s right. Usually it’s the insurance companies that fork out.”

  * * * *

  It was a good day for croquet, Jean thought as she measured the distance between her ball and Nicole’s. Robert’s favorite game–other than “hunt the sausage”–seemed a fitting tribute to the man she’d treated like a brother since her husband died. The balls flowed gracefully over the dense mat of freshly tended lawn and Amanda had served drinks in her funeral attire. She judged they had time for another game before the sun got too low to play, leaving her just enough time to thrash the staff before dinner.

  * * * *

  Meinwen led the way into the shop and sorted out another two chairs, placing them in a triangle to promote conversation. “Do sit. We just want a little chat with you.”

  Susan did as she was asked, glancing from Meinwen to White and back. “What about Jack? Is he in trouble?”

  “He is if he doesn’t have an alibi.” White sat on one of the remaining chairs. “I can soon have him dragged back here unless he can prove he isn’t the murderer.”

  “He isn’t. Jack’s a good lad who works hard at his studies. He was with me from seven until nine.”

  “What were you doing?” Meinwen sat back in her chair, her hand straying to her pentacle necklace. Holding it seemed to stave off her headache.

  Susan rubbed her face with her hands. “He needed money. He’d had an argument with his father and wanted to move out and get his own place nearer the university. He lives about ten miles from it, you see. He
told me he was coming and I dashed off to meet him from the train. That would be about seven. I took him for dinner at that Italian place on Cheap Street.”

  “I know the one.” White wrote it down. “La Caverna. I can check that.”

  Susan nodded. “We talked for about an hour and a half. I can recommend the carbonara, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give it a try.” White looked up. “Beryl likes a good meal out.”

  “Well, when we finished eating I gave him the money I’d drawn out for him. He said it wasn’t enough so I made a phone call to my solicitor and she lent me the money.”

  “At that time of night?” White frowned. “That doesn’t sound likely.”

  Susan took a card from her wallet. “It’s Isaacs and Du Pointe’s on Market Street. Ms. du Point only works at night, though she has staff during the day.”

  “Why would a solicitor lend you money? I’ve never heard of solicitors lending money to their clients before.”

  Meinwen coughed. “I think I know the answer to that one. She lent it to you against your inheritance, didn’t she?” She looked at the business card. It did indeed specify night hours.

  Susan didn’t even look surprised this time. “That’s right. Mum didn’t have much in the way of money, less than twelve thousand in fact, but she did own two houses outright.” She smiled weakly at Meinwen. “I’m your new landlady, I’m afraid.”

  White gestured with his pen. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me you’re Grace Peters’s daughter?”

  “That’s exactly what she’s saying.” Meinwen picked up the solicitor’s card and used it to emphasize her points. “She bought a house in Birmingham with her husband John in nineteen eighty-one and they had Jack in nineteen eighty-five.” She looked at Susan for confirmation, who nodded. “Susan left in nineteen eighty-seven.”

  Susan nodded. “Rover made John redundant. It had been touch and go with the Longbridge plant for years, what with their ownership changing regularly, but they’d always kept him on until then. We used part of his redundancy to pay off the mortgage but he squandered the rest and turned to drinking. He got violent afterward and when he broke my arm I knew I had to leave.”

  “Why did you leave your son behind?”

  “He said he’d let me go if I left Jack.” Susan looked into the middle distance. “I wanted to take him, but he threatened to hunt us down if I did.” She shrugged. “He was always a good father and I wasn’t afraid on Jack’s behalf so I let him keep him.” Her eyes caught Meinwen’s. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I was right to do it.”

  Meinwen chewed her lip. “So you moved in with your mam, changed your name back to Susan Pargeter and started a new life.”

  “That’s right. Mum had remarried as well. Dad died during the Falklands War. Henry was a charmer. I wasn’t surprised she fell in love with him. I stayed there for ten years until I met Robert and took on the role of nanny for Richard. Not that he needed it. Richard was an independent ten year old when I met him, almost resentful of the fact I had some of Robert’s attention.”

  White tapped his notebook with his pencil. “Let’s get back to last Tuesday for a minute. You left your son, Jack Rogers, and went to this solicitor–”

  “Gillian du Pointe.”

  “Yes. Why was Jack looking for The Larches? Why didn’t he just go with you or meet you back at the train station.”

  “I had to get back to work. Robert was in the habit of working at night and needed me to type up his files for him. Jack was in no hurry, so he said he’d meet me back there for the money before going home. I gave him the directions but he must have got lost. I met him back at the house at twenty past nine, we said our goodbyes and he left.”

  “Did you run after him?”

  Susan nodded. “I did, actually. I wanted to ask him for his email address.”

  Meinwen nodded. “Then it was you Peter saw when he came back from the pub.”

  White smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Pargeter. Assuming the restaurant and Ms. du Pointe confirm your visits that will be both your alibis confirmed.”

  Susan nodded. “Thank you. You will keep this secret, won’t you? I wouldn’t like my past generally known.”

  “Of course.” It was Meinwen’s turn to smile. “You can be assured of my discretion.”

  “I appreciate that.” Susan stood.

  “Just one more thing.”

  Susan turned again. “Yes?”

  “Why did you give your mother the heroin?”

  * * * *

  Jean Markhew whacked Nicole’s croquet ball into the bushes and used the free shot to nudge hers into the finishing post. She grinned at the three other players. “My game, I think. I’ll have to devise your forfeits.”

  She motioned to the maid. “Amanda? Collect up the set. You can leave the hoops out but the balls and mallets need to be put away.”

  “What about the yellow, ma’am?”

  “The yellow? Oh, Nicole’s.” She stared at the secretary. “She can fetch that one herself.”

  * * * *

  Even the inspector looked surprised. “What heroin?”

  Susan slumped back into her chair. “How did you know?”

  “Your mother had heroin in her system. She was being blackmailed and wouldn’t have dared to ask Father Brande for it. Her only other regular visitor was her daughter. You were the only one she could ask.”

  Susan nodded. “Yes, I gave it to her and showed her how to use it. She wouldn’t tell me who the blackmailer was, though, in case they came after me. She was at her wits’ end and terrified of the truth coming out. She felt killing herself was the only way out. What could I do but help her?” Susan began to cry and Meinwen handed her a silk cloth. “I didn’t help her do it or anything, just got her the packet of drugs.”

  Meinwen held out a hand to stifle White’s questions. “Why did she kill her husband?”

  Susan looked up, the tears stopping as anger flashed to the surface. “Henry abused her. When I left he began to resent the way she didn’t keep the house as clean as I did, or the washing wasn’t done on time, or she didn’t cook as well as I had. He began by just being cruel to her. Turning off the television when she was watching something or refusing to take her out in the car. By the time she killed him she was black and blue almost constantly. He broke her leg and her arm. It was always an accident but I recognized the signs. She just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “So she strangled him.”

  “More like she let him strangle himself. She made the knot in his rope self tightening.”

  White coughed. “Henry Peters died from auto-asphyxiation. He came and went, as it were.”

  Meinwen grimaced.

  Susan clenched her teeth. “She was right to do it. I’d support anyone in the same situation.”

  Meinwen put her hand one the woman’s knee. “Thank you for being honest with us.”

  White stood and helped her up. “Where did you get the heroin, Ms. Pargeter? From your son?”

  Susan looked at him. “You’d never prove it. He doesn’t use it and he doesn’t deal in it. He just knew someone who knew someone.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Meinwen shot a warning glance at White. “He won’t be arrested, will he, Inspector?”

  * * * *

  Meinwen locked the shop. “This investigation has cost me a week’s work. Is there any chance I can claim for loss of earnings?”

  “Nope.” White walked on in silence until Meinwen caught up. “I’ll buy you a meal when we close the case. How about that?”

  “Sounds like I’m not going to get a better offer.” Meinwen laughed. “Fish and chips on the beach?”

  “I can do fish and chips on the edge of the boating lake.” White grinned. “I should prosecute for the drugs, you know.”

  “Does it really matter?” Meinwen asked. “Neither of them are users or dealers and Grace Peters is past caring. Concentrate on the blackmailer and the killer instead.”


  “I suppose.” White walked on a little. “I wish I’d known.”

  “About what?”

  “About Henry Peters. I’d have had his hide.”

  Meinwen shook her head. “The trouble with domestic abuse is that the abused don’t think there’s anyone to turn to for help.”

  “But there is. It’s part of my job.”

  Meinwen nodded. “It’s a funny thing but battered wives rarely want to get their husbands into trouble. They love them, see.”

  * * * *

  The crack of a whip sounded like gunfire as it echoed from the walls of the white-painted house. Jean Markhew tested it again, first an overhand then a circular over-the-head crack, pulling the leather body of the single tail back to wrap like a strand of DNA around her body as it came to rest.

  Nicole flinched. The whip hadn’t touched her, not yet, but she knew this was going to hurt. The trunk of the beech tree felt rough against her naked arms and breasts, though Jean had allowed her to retain her black skirt and boots in an uncharacteristic gesture of public decency.

  Not that there were any public present. The long garden was walled with hedges and trees, and no other houses overlooked the secluded lawn and specimen beech tree.

  “Are you ready?” Jean’s voice sounded too close for the four-foot whip. Nicole shook her head. “Yellow.”

  Jean tutted. “You can’t safe-word before I’ve done anything. How would I trust you to safe-word when it hurts unbearably if you cry yellow before I’ve even started?”

  “Sorry, Mistress.” Nicole sniffed. “I hate whips. Always have.”

  “For now.” Nicole could hear the smile in her voice. “Don’t safe-word until you mean it. Shout, cry, scream all you like, but don’t safe-word unless you have to.”

  Nicole nodded and Jean began with dog-tailing, a movement of the whip from side to side. No crack and hardly any sting, the frayed end of the cracker danced lightly across Nicole’s back.

  She closed her eyes. Perhaps whips weren’t as scary as she’d thought.

  * * * *

  The email from Hertfordshire Constabulary stood out at the top of the list flagged as important. Meinwen smiled as she read it. Sergeant Peters was a good man. She clicked “print” and logged in to chat.