Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  Simon dropped back into the armchair. “All right. Let’s pretend what you’re saying is true. How do you explain the phone call? The police have verified that it really happened. I didn’t just phone the home number from my cell.”

  “That was easy. Once I’d met Tom in the graveyard and suspected who he really was I asked around. The neighbor of the real Old Tom told me where he was. It was easy for me to get in touch with him. It was Old Tom who phoned you that night, exactly as you asked him to, to tell you that he was on his way to his brother’s.”

  Meinwen flipped a lever so that her chair could tilt and leaned backward, a half-smile on her face. “There was all the evidence I needed. Tom hadn’t a clue about the murder, so when you told Jennifer Robert Markhew was dead, there was only one way you could have known. You’d killed him yourself.”

  Simon yawned. “I suppose you can pretend that all the other clues point to me as well.”

  “Of course.” Meinwen put her coffee cup on the mouse mat. “You certainly have the skill with computers that the murderer needed. I’ve seen your profile on Jennifer’s for one thing and you’ve got the one in the church as well. You’re more than capable of setting up an audio file to play at a predetermined time. You knew Robert’s methods of working and knew enough about his program to extract the file of his argument with Catherine.”

  Simon leaned forward, inspecting his nails. “So could half the people in your investigation. Why would it have been me?”

  “As I explained to The Larches people, the only purpose of that telephone call was to enable the killer to be on the scene when the body was discovered. Amanda and Peter have alibis, leaving it a choice between you and Nicole. Nicole, although she had the computer skills, had no motive to kill her employer.”

  “So it conveniently falls upon me to have done the deed.” Simon yawned again, making a great show of patting his mouth with his hands. “Really, my dear, there’s not a shred of evidence here that would hold up in court.”

  “There’s certainly enough to send you to trial, though.” Meinwen sat up again now that he was at a safe enough distance away. “Robert Markhew was dead before you even left the house with your sister after dinner. When he came back into the study with the letter from Grace Peters you were desperate to know what it said. You had already removed the dagger from the glass case while he was talking to Amanda in the hallway and when he refused to read it in front of you, you killed him and took it.”

  Simon shook his head. “I must admit I knew pagans had an active imagination but I never expected it to be this fanciful. I had thought you rather a level-headed woman but this is preposterous. How can you possibly believe in all this guff?”

  “Because it’s true, Simon.” Meinwen smiled, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. “You turned the heating up to reduce the rate of cooling of the body, unlocked the study window, set the computer to play one of his dictation files–it was a lucky chance that you picked the one with an argument on it, unless he’d labeled it–and bid him a cheerful good night as if he was sitting at his desk as normal. No one was any the wiser.”

  “How would I know that no one would go in to see him before I returned? That would bring your theory crashing down.”

  “It was a risk you took,” said Meinwen. “You knew Robert didn’t like to be disturbed at night, and the dictation files would discourage anyone from knocking or coming in unannounced. When you returned, you climbed in through the window, turned the heating down and locked the study door, then planted the phone you’d stolen from Richard, left a set of footprints with his shoes and rejoined Jennifer on the drive, .”

  “You seem to have made up a lovely theory,” Simon said. “You should become a fiction writer. I know that Jennifer could give you some pointers, perhaps even introduce you to an agent.”

  “Perhaps I will write it up.” Meinwen scratched her neck as she thought about the prospect. “If I do, though, I’ll publish it under ‘true crime.’”

  “I wish you the best of luck.” Simon stood again. “Of course, if you do it will give me the perfect opportunity to sue you for libel instead of slander. It might even bring people flocking to the parish and I’ll be able to afford a new church roof.”

  “That will be someone else’s problem by then.” Meinwen stood as well. “The new parish priest’s.”

  Simon smiled. “I wish you well on your journey back to Wales. Give my regards to the mountains. You’ve got until morning to leave.”

  “I’ll certainly see them before you, Simon. You won’t be seeing any mountains for a long time where you’re going.” She paused. “I’m only warning you about all this for Jennifer’s sake, you know.”

  “I told you to leave her out of this.” Simon picked up his coat.

  “It’s too late for that. She has a murderer for a brother, and unless you do something about it she’ll be dragged through the courts with you. What then of your beloved church? It will come into disrepute just by association. If you really believe in God would you risk that?”

  “What would you have me do, if I was the guilty party? Just hypothetically, of course.”

  She smiled. “You could hang yourself like Henry Peters was thought to have done. You could take an overdose like Grace before you hanged her, or stab yourself like you did Robert.”

  “Suicide?” Simon laughed. “That’s a mortal sin.”

  “Not as bad as the blackmail and murders you’ve already committed.” Meinwen picked her coffee cup up, her fingers brushing across her computer keyboard. It bleeped once. “There is an alternative, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  She took the cups into the kitchen, Simon following on her heels. “I can offer you a way out that doesn’t involve death, but you would never see your sister or parish again, and people would think you were dead.”

  “Go on. What is this hypothetical method of escape?”

  “Come back in the morning and I’ll tell you. Just make sure you bring me a full confession to exonerate Richard and I’ll do the rest.” Meinwen led the way to the front door and opened it. She looked across to see Jennifer sat in front of her computer in the rectory. “Say hello to your sister for me.”

  “You’re getting very tedious, Miss Jones.” Simon pulled on his overcoat against the night’s chill. “Good night to you.”

  “Don’t take this lightly, Simon. My findings will be with Inspector White in the morning.”

  “If I were the one making wild accusations I would be afraid for my own safety.” Simon turned and strode down the path to the rectory. Meinwen watched him go, then closed the door and leaned against it, letting all the pent-up tension out of her body with a sigh.

  She went back to the living room and tidied up, putting the extra chairs back in the kitchen. She made a cup of green tea to flush the coffee toxins from her body and returned to her computer desk. It was still only eleven-thirty–early to someone used to meditating under the moon. She switched on the computer screen and twitched the mouse to force the computer out of hibernation.

  The hard drive was almost full and Meinwen set about burning several copies of a video file to DVD. She had managed to stay calm during her talk with Simon but was relieved she’d taken the precaution of recording the past two hours as a streaming video file. It made an interesting addition to the evidence she’d collected, but she was glad she’d judged his character well enough to be confident he wouldn’t just attack her. With the house empty and the doors locked, she began to shake at the thought of what he might have done had she misjudged him.

  She logged on to her chat program.

  Scribe: Daffyd?

  Dovey_Daffyd: Hey Manny. You okay?

  Scribe: Sure. He’s gone. Thanks for keeping an eye on the cam feed.

  Dovey_Daffyd: No worries. Did it go to plan?

  Scribe: I’ll know in the morning.

  She closed the chat program and opened a browser window, typing in “Laverstone” and “unrepealed local
statutes.” There was precious little online about the town other than a short entry outlining the basic history and some photos of the local landscapes on a photo-sharing site. There were also numerous mentions on social networking sites and a badly maintained site for the Laverstone Times. Nothing pertaining to her query, however.

  She checked the time. Was eleven-thirty too late for a telephone call? Perhaps not. She pulled out the business card for Isaacs and Du Pointe, Solicitors. Overnight business hours were printed clearly and Ms. du Pointe had been friendly enough when she’d asked about the services she offered.

  Meinwen used the house phone to dial since her telephone provider gave her free calls in the evenings. “Miss du Pointe? This is Meinwen Jones from The Herbage. ”

  “Yes, I remember. How can I help? Not another murder I hope?”

  “No. The same one, actually. What are the laws relating to the justice at the hands of the lord of the manor? ”

  “Interesting you should ask. It was one of the first things I researched when I took over as solicitor here. Is there something specific you needed to know?” She laughed. “Did you know, for example, that it is still legal to shoot a Welshman with a bow and arrow, but only within the city walls of Chester and only on a Sunday after midnight?”

  “What is the position on murder? Does the lord have jurisdiction over killers?”

  “Technically, the Civil War, Laverstone, act of sixteen fifty-eight gives the lord of the manor the right to try anyone accused of killing in the Laverstone parish boundary. You have to be careful, though, because it refers to the boundary in existence in sixteen fifty-eight, not the one today which is considerably larger. There’s a map detailing it at the manor.”

  “Is The Larches inside the boundary?”

  “Alas, no.” There was a pause and Meinwen could hear the woman take a sip of something then swallow. It made her want another cup of tea.

  “What about Grace Peters’s house?”

  The came the sound of shuffling papers. “Hilltop? Yes, that’s well within. Why? Have you identified the killer? ”

  “Yes.” Meinwen took a deep breath. “Simon Brande.”

  “How ironic. You have proof of course?”

  “Not of Grace Peters’s murder, no. Only of his blackmailing her. ”

  “Blackmail?” Gillian du Pointe’s laugh was like music. “Even better. If there’s one thing generations of lords of Laverstone have ever agreed with, it’s money. ”

  “Then he can be tried by Mr. Waterman?”

  “Indeed he can, though it has to be in the presence of a bishop.”

  “Damn.”

  “I happen to know one.”

  “Excellent.” Meinwen couldn’t help smiling. “Can I arrange a trial then?”

  “Without involving the police? That’s a very gray area.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Very well. When?”

  “Tomorrow night? Eight-thirty?”

  “Short notice indeed. It has to be in the original demesne, mind.”

  “Does that include the top of the waterfall?”

  Chapter 35

  The April sun had cleared the horizon but it was still cold enough to freeze particular parts of a witch’s anatomy. That’s why, when Meinwen rose at sunrise and went out in the garden, she was dressed in her heaviest winter woolies.

  She lit a fire in her circle and meditated, her bottom going numb against the cold stone as she fed sticks into the small blaze. After an hour, when the noise from the distant M25 had grown to a noticeable hum, she let the flames die and returned indoors to warm up.

  To take her mind off the day ahead she began to write notes for a book about Laverstone. Although she’d only been here a week, she had gleaned enough knowledge about the area to at least make a start and it would, given the chance, provide her with both a small income and increased traffic to her shop.

  Half an hour later, just as she finished her Earl Grey, a knock sounded at the door.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be up yet.” Simon wore his cassock and carried a small book of common prayer. “Jennifer’s still asleep. She doesn’t tend to wake until eight, so I thought that I’d get this over with.”

  “You’ve decided to confess then?” Meinwen led the way back into the kitchen and put the kettle on for more tea.

  “Confess what?” Simon sat. “I’ve done nothing to confess.”

  Meinwen raised an eyebrow. “I thought lying was a sin? Bearing falsehood unto God and all that.”

  “Perhaps you’d know about falsehoods more that I, with your accusations and ravings.” Simon accepted the tea. “Thank you.”

  Meinwen leaned against the sink. “So why did you come?”

  He stirred his tea, a creature of habit despite Meinwen not providing any sugar. “I want you to leave. Go back to Aberdovey or wherever it is you come from. It will be easier if you go voluntarily, though I can make a few impassioned speeches about the corruption of moral standards in allowing witches to live in our lovely town.” He wagged a finger at her. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

  “‘Poisoner’ not ‘witch.’”

  “Semantics.” Simon grimaced at the tea and pushed it away. “History recognizes the replacement. Who in Britain would condemn me for preaching from the English text?”

  “Not many,” Meinwen admitted, “unless they were aware that you were a murderer.”

  “Give it a rest, girl.” Simon rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. Despite his assurances of the previous evening it was clear that he had not slept well.

  “I will after today. I warned you I’d be sending my findings to Inspector White. After that I shall have nothing more to do with the affair.”

  “Those findings are inflammatory and misleading,” said Simon. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were arrested for wasting police time.”

  “I doubt it.” Meinwen allowed herself a smile. “At the very least I’ll have given them a focus for their investigation.”

  Simon glared at her. “You have no proof of anything. Why would you destroy so many lives just for the sake of sticking to your wild theory?”

  “It is my duty to do so,” Meinwen said. “Are you really prepared to let the case go to court with all the suffering it would cause to the parish and Jennifer?”

  “My sister will stick by me,” he said. “She won’t believe I’m a murderer.”

  “And a blackmailer,” Meinwen reminded him. “There’s certainly evidence you did that.”

  “Circumstantial at best.” Simon glanced at his watch. “Grace Peters killed herself. I am not responsible for that. I don’t even know where she got the pills from nor why she chose to hang herself afterward.”

  “You tied the rope and pushed her off, unaware she’d already taken the heroin. You could have left her alone and she’d have been dead but you couldn’t take the risk she’d expose you. If only you’d known about the letter, you could have intercepted it and not murdered at all.”

  “If I was the blackmailer I would have to say that she brought it upon herself. She was a self-confessed murderer. Robert told me.”

  “She was a battered wife before that. As her priest you must have known and yet you did nothing. Without any of your other sins this would condemn you in the hearts of your parishioners.”

  Simon’s fingers traversed the gilt cross on the cover of his prayer book. “I did know about the abuse, yes. But she told me within the sanctity of the confessional. I couldn’t tell anyone. I urged her to seek professional help but she was too ashamed.”

  “She told you she’d murdered him in the confessional too. That didn’t stop you acting upon it.”

  Simon smiled. “I prayed for her. She was absolved of the sin. She wasn’t absolved of trying to commit suicide, though, and for that she will remain in Hell for eternity.”

  Meinwen shook her head. “It is a cruel place, your world, to be driven to such a desperate act and yet be condemned for it.”

  “Is y
ours any better? Blood is spilled upon your altars, witch.”

  Meinwen nodded. “I can’t deny it though times have changed and the only blood spilled now is by those willing to make it. We live by rules which predate those of the church.”

  Simon stood, his chair scraping along the tiled floor. “I didn’t come here to debate theology. Jennifer will soon be up and I must go. I give you a final warning. Leave today and I won’t hound you out.”

  “And I give you a final warning, Father Brande. Give me your confession and the reputation of your church will be spared. Besides, what about Richard?”

  “Richard?” Simon paused. “All the evidence against him is circumstantial. At best he’ll get a suspended sentence for perverting the course of justice.”

  “What will my revelation do to him, though? He respects you. How will he feel when he realizes his father is a murderer?”

  Simon scowled. “He’ll survive. They all will.”

  “But to know that the blood of a murderer runs through his veins?”

  Simon narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Richard is your son by blood as well as by faith, isn’t he?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You told me about your time at university and the woman who broke your heart. That was Edith, wasn’t it? Richard Godwin’s mother. It must have given you a shock when she turned up as the wife of Robert Markhew. It was sweet of her to give him a family name that harked back to the man she loved. ‘Godwin’ from ‘won from God.’”

  “She was Meredith Brake when I knew her. She was the one woman I’ve loved in all my life.” Simon looked down at the floor. “She never contacted me again. When she came to Laverstone she begged me not to reveal our past. I worked out that Richard was mine from his birth date. He doesn’t know, of course.”

  “Then for his sake I ask you to confess. That’s the one secret you kept from me that I’m prepared to keep hidden.”

  “What if I disappear? I promise that you will never see or hear from me again.”

  “And let you get away with murder?” Meinwen took a sheet of paper from the printer tray and placed it onto the table with a pen. “I cannot allow that. I gave you your alternatives last night.”