Screaming Yellow (11 page)

White nodded and made another note in his book. “If that’s the case and this is our man, then he came here with the intent of seeing Markhew. This was no aggravated smash and grab.”

“That does seem likely,” Simon agreed, “assuming the lad is our murderer. I don’t see who here would have a motive.”

“Don’t you?” White sat forward in his chair. “What about blackmail?”

“Blackmail?” Simon shook his head. “Sir Robert didn’t need to blackmail anyone. He was comfortably off in his own right. Old money, I think, and a portfolio of investments as long as your arm from what I’ve heard, and that’s not mentioning his books.”

“I didn’t think he was a blackmailer,” White said. “But it’s certainly possible that he was being blackmailed. The secretary, Nicole Fielding, stated that she overheard him telling someone that he couldn’t afford to give them any money.”

Simon shrugged. “It’s possible.” He lowered his voice. “Jean asked my sister to talk to him about a settlement for Mary now that she’s engaged.”

“I heard about that,” White said. “To Richard Godwin, I believe, Markhew’s stepson. Any idea where he is? I was told ‘somewhere in London’ which isn’t terribly helpful.”

Simon smiled. “Try the White Art in town. You’ll find that Richard has been staying there for the best part of a week, just to avoid his stepfather.”

“Has he indeed?” White made another note. “He’ll be the main beneficiary, I suppose. That gives him the oldest of motives.”

“Not Richard. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Simon sat back in his seat, stretching his legs under the table. “I’ve known him since he was an infant.”

“Do you really know anyone, I wonder?” asked White. “Everyone has something to hide, especially from a man of the cloth.”

“I can’t deny that.” Simon laughed. “I only recently found out something interesting about Grace Peters that she never confessed to me herself.”

“Oh?” White raised an eyebrow. “What might that be?”

Simon lowered his voice. “I suppose it can do no harm now that she’s dead. Robert only told me yesterday, but she was being blackmailed for the murder of her husband.”

White let out a whistle. “Henry Peters? The sly old bag. She had us convinced. We had it down as an accidental death.”

“We all did,” Simon said, “except for my sister. She was sure he’d been bumped off.”

“Why didn’t she come forward with that information?”

“No proof. She has this group of friends on the internet. They’re all into conspiracy theories, though if you ask me all they seem to do is gossip like old women.”

White looked down at his notes. “You were discussing it with Mr. Markhew this evening, you said.”

“Yes.” Simon leaned forward in his chair. “Robert asked me my advice about it. Grace Peters had asked him for help because of their closeness and because she’d run out of money. He was torn between turning her over to the police and helping her out. While he thought about it she killed herself. He was wracked with grief and thought that the only thing left for him to do was to bring the blackmailer to justice. He asked me if I’d any idea who the blackmailer was.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Why would I?”

“You’re the parish priest.” White played with his pen. “You’re in a unique position to spot if someone is unexpectedly flashing the lucre about.”

“No one comes to mind, Inspector. Perhaps it wasn’t a churchgoer. If someone had confessed to me I would have been hard pressed to offer absolution.”

“It’s an avenue of enquiry, anyway.” White smiled. “I don’t really know much about confession, I’m afraid. I’m Church of England myself.”

Simon smiled back. “I won’t hold that against you.”

White looked down at his notes. “So let me get this clear. Grace Peters killed her husband, someone found out about it and blackmailed her, so she eventually confesses it to Robert Markhew and kills herself. Then last night, after dinner with you and your sister, Robert has an argument with someone who asks him for money and is murdered.” He looked up. “Have I missed anything?”

“The letter.” Simon leaned forward. “Just before I left he received a letter from Grace, sent before she committed suicide, obviously. He read it but said it was nothing pertaining to the blackmail. I’m sure he was covering it up. Someone in this house, perhaps.”

“Then we must find this letter,” said White. “It must be the key to the murderer.” He got up from his chair and crossed to the door. “Davies!” he called.

The younger man came running. “Yes, sir?”

“Tell them to look for a letter,” he said. “It’s important.”

“It was delivered by hand,” Simon added.

Sergeant Davies nodded. “Yes, sir.” He headed toward the forensic experts in the murder room.

White returned to the chair. “What about the maid, Amanda James? She looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

“In what way, Inspector?” Simon sat back again and crossed his legs. “She hasn’t been here long, I understand. I hardly know her. You’re surely not going to declare ‘the maid did it’ are you? That’s almost as clichéd as the butler.”

“She tried to get in the study to see Mr. Markhew at least twice during the evening. Mary told her that Robert was not to be disturbed, yet found Amanda trying to see him again after that.”

“It’s possible.” Simon made a steeple with his fingers. “Do you think she’s the blackmailer?”

“If she’d gone in again after Mary went upstairs to watch her film, she could have killed Robert, left through the window and come back in through the side door.”

“Perhaps,” Simon agreed, “but that could be true of anyone in the house.”

“It could.” White stood. “Let’s go and have a look.” He led Simon back to the study, where the forensic team were just finishing. “Any sign of that letter?” he asked.

“No guv,” replied the older of the pair. “Not a trace.”

The other snorted with suppressed laughter.

“What’s so funny?” asked White. “This is a murder you’re laughing about.”

“Sorry, sir.” The man composed himself. “It was just the pun on ‘not a trace.’” He paused, seeing the blank look on White’s face. “Being forensics, you see.”

“I do.” White sighed. “Look, can you give me any details of the killer? Man or woman? Big? Short? Have you found any prints?”

“A few, sir.” The second technician indicated a line of numbered cones. “We’ve got a spatter pattern here, indicating that the knife was inserted, removed and re-inserted.” He stood behind the body and mimed stabbing the victim. “The murderer was right-handed and between five-feet-four and five-feet-ten. That’s all I can say at the moment.”

“What about the footprints outside?” White asked.

“We’ve got an impression of them,” the first said. A man’s size eights. I couldn’t tell you what, though, until we can do a comparison check.”

“All right.” White nodded toward the evidence bags. “Let’s have a little look.”

“Yes, sir.” The second technician handed over the cast.

White held the footprints under the light. “It’s a lead, I suppose,” he said, running his finger across the treads. “You don’t think it’s a tad convenient, though? The killer leaves so little evidence in the room yet plants his feet carefully in a damp patch of earth underneath the window.”

“Perhaps it didn’t occur to him, sir.”

“These are high-quality shoes.” White pointed at the pattern. “Now, if they were work boots or Doc Martens like the gardener’s, you might not notice stepping in mud but this fine footwear? You feel every drop shift under your weight.”

“Drop, sir? Shouldn’t that be blob? Blob of mud?”

“Don’t be facetious, Constable.”

“Even if this is a genuine lead, it doesn’t rule out any suspects.”

“No.” Simon stared at the corpse. “Average height, average shoe size.”

“Give me a couple of photographs of the weapon,” he said to the technicians. “Let’s see what I can find out about it.”

They handed him a pair of Polaroid photographs. “It’s quite distinctive,” said the first. “It’s a fantasy weapon rather than a practical one.”

White glanced at the trails of blood. “It looks practical enough from here.”

* * * *

“Nicole Fielding, please?” White looked into the living room where the secretary was now fully dressed, her hair tucked up into an efficient loop at the back of her head.

She stood and followed them to the dining room. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“That may be so, Miss Fielding.” White treated her to a rare smile. “We want to ask you about this, though.” He gave her the two pictures of the knife.

“That’s Mas–” she corrected herself. “Mr. Markhew’s. It was a gift from Peter.”

“Was Peter in the habit of giving his employer gifts?”

“Not often,” Nicole said. “This was special, though. He got it from an exhibition he went to. Mr. Markhew kept it in the glass case in his study.”

White looked at Simon. “Give Mr. Numan a shout, would you? Let’s ask him as well.”

Simon left the room, returning moments later with the gardener-handyman.

“What can you tell me about this knife?” asked White, taking the photographs from Nicole and giving them to Peter.

“It’s the one I gave to Mr. Markhew.” Peter tapped the photograph. “It’s only for show, though. It wasn’t meant to be used.”

“I’m sure Mr. Markhew would agree with you, sir.” White took the pictures back. “Are you in the habit of giving deadly weapons as gifts? Has your aunt received an Uzi, perhaps, or your grandmother a Gatling gun?”

Peter laughed. “Heaven forbid. This was a special gift. Robert…Mr. Markhew…and I were supposed to go to an exhibition together. Something came up at the last minute and I went on my own. I brought him this back as a souvenir.”

“What exhibition would this be?”

“The
Star Trek
exhibition in London a couple of years ago.” Peter smiled. “It’s a Klingon
Daqtagh
. We were both really into it see, though we used to argue who made the best captain.” He faltered. “Nothing serious, you understand, nothing I would have killed him about.”

“Miss Fielding here tells me that it was kept in the glass case in the study.” White collected the photographs again. “Is that correct?”

“That’s right.” Peter nodded. “It has a drawer thing that slides out. It makes a terrible racket, though. I keep meaning to oil it.”

“Is it a high-pitched shriek?” asked Simon. “As if someone trod on a cat’s paw?”

“Sort of,” agreed Peter. “Though I’ve never trodden on a cat.”

“I heard that noise,” said Simon, his face lit with excitement. “When Jennifer and I came to dinner.”

“What time would this have been?” Peters asked, making a note in his book.

“Seven o’clock?” Simon suggested. “Give or take five minutes. No later than ten past, certainly. I was studying the crucifixion painting at the time. Jennifer was talking to Mary in the sitting room.”

“That could be helpful,” said White.

“It couldn’t have been Robert, though,” Simon said. “He wasn’t in the study. He was with me admiring the
Pieta
and made a point of telling me he had the key in his pocket.”

* * * *

White watched the coroner, Dr. Eric Chambers, and his assistant remove the corpse of Robert Markhew on a gurney then turned to the people in the sitting room. “Right then, ladies and gentlemen. One last task and we’ll let you rest in peace.” He frowned. “Er, in a manner of speaking.” He called to the forensic technicians. “This way if you please, gentlemen.”

“What’s going on now?” Mary had managed, with the aid of a coffee and a small glass of something medicinal, to come downstairs.

“We just need to take everyone’s fingerprints. For elimination purposes.”

She pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. “What if I refuse?”

White raised his eyebrows. “Why should you if you’re innocent? I could get a warrant for them tomorrow if you prefer.”

“I was just asking.” She sat again. “I don’t mind, really.”

White looked at the two technicians setting up a piece of glass attached to a laptop. “What are you doing? Get the dabs kit out.”