Screaming Yellow (14 page)

She shrieked as the whip pulled off a piece of wax. “Who killed Robert?”

“I don’t know.”

The whip struck again, taking off another piece of wax and leaving a long welt in its place.

“Who killed Robert?”

Nicole shook her head. “I don’t know.”

The whip struck again and again, each blow eliciting a squeal of pain from the bound girl. “Who killed Robert?”

The twelfth strike made Nicole scream. “Yellow!” Tears streamed down her face. “Yellow.”

The cool of an ice cube replaced the heat of the wax and the Jean’s leather-clad hand brushed the sweat-matted hair from her eyes. “Drink.” Jean held a straw to her lips and Nicole sucked in cold water. “Good girl.”

* * * *

Later, after a shower, Nicole groaned again.

“What?” asked Jean. Nicole twisted the laptop around so she could see the screen.

“These are Sir Robert’s accounts.”

“What about them?” Jean put on her glasses and studied the figures. “Twenty thousand pounds withdrawn?”

“This morning. Only Robert, Richard and I had access to it and it wasn’t me.”

“Which makes my future son-in-law a thief at the very least,” said Jean.

* * * *

“So this is the murder room?” Meinwen closed her eyes and turned in a small circle. “It’s cold.”

“Can you feel the spirits?” asked White. “I think the heating’s off.”

“No, the window’s open.” Meinwen stepped over the stained carpet as she crossed to the casement. She avoided touching the glass. “Which way were the shoeprints facing?”

White consulted his notebook. “Inward. The intruder stood looking in for several minutes, to judge by the even depth of the tread. The window wasn’t forced.”

Meinwen crossed to the glass-topped cabinet. “This is where the knife was kept until seven o’clock?”

“That’s right, yes.”

Meinwen squatted to look more closely at the sliding drawer. “Just because Simon heard the case open doesn’t mean the knife was being removed. When a door opens it could be to let someone in or let someone out.”

“The knife was removed, though. It was the murder weapon.”

“It was certainly removed at some point,” Meinwen agreed. “Would you call Amanda, please?”

White crossed to the door and spoke to his constable. Amanda arrived within moments and Meinwen stared at her powerful build before shaking her hand. “You’re Amanda James?” she asked, watching her face.

Amanda nodded. “That’s right, ma’am. I look after the house and guests.”

“Do you look after the heating as well?”

“That’s right. Robert–Mr. Markhew was quite particular about having a warm study.”

“Was the heating on high or low last night?”

Amanda shrugged. “It was just normal. Same as it always was.”

“Was the study warmer than the rest of the house?”

“Of course. Mr. Markhew didn’t like to be cold.”

Meinwen nodded. “Whether the room was hot or not will tell us if Mr. Markhew opened the window for air or to let someone in. If the room was no warmer than usual, it seems the latter is likely. That may or may not have been Richard.” She turned back to Amanda. “Was there anything else unusual that night?”

The maid raised her eyebrows. “Such as?”

“I don’t know,” said Meinwen. “I’m not familiar with this room. Were there any books missing from the shelves, pictures taken down, that sort of thing?”

“No.” Amanda pointed at one of the wing chairs. “That’s back in position, though.”

“The armchair?”

“Yes.” Amanda looked down at her. “Sir Robert generally used it for reading, last thing at night. When we found him…” She faltered and took a deep breath. “When we found the body the chair had been pulled up in front of the desk, like someone had sat in it, talking to him. It usually faces the other one across the fireplace. I was going to put it back when the police had left, but I remembered they said not to touch anything in here. Someone has, though.”

“Someone with something to hide, I’ll warrant.” White examined the floor around the chair.

“Everyone has something to hide.” Meinwen looked at the maid. “Don’t they Amanda?”

She cocked her head to one side. “I expect so. Is there anything else?”

“I thought you were supposed to be psychic.” White tapped his notebook with his pencil. “Haven’t the spirits told you what happened yet?”

“The spirits help those who help themselves,” Meinwen replied. “What’s the old saying? You can give a man a fish and feed him for a day, or you can teach him how to fish and feed him for a lifetime.”

“Very philosophical.” White led them out of the murder room and helped her take off the disposable foot coverings. “That doesn’t answer any questions, though, unless you’re offering to buy us all dinner.”

“If I solve the case, you owe me a dinner.” Meinwen went into the sitting room to speak to Mary. “You were the last person to see your uncle alive.”

“Apart from the killer.”

Meinwen gave her a tight smile. “Obviously. Was the window open when you saw him?”

Mary’s forehead creased in thought. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Was there a draft? Did you hear anything? ”

Mary bit her bottom lip. “Wait! I heard the church bell striking the quarter hour.”

“Is that usual?”

Mary shook her head. “No, but the window must have been open for me to hear it.”

“Excellent.” Meinwen looked at the inspector. “Then we know Mr. Markhew was alive after the visitor he let through the window had been and gone.”

White’s cell rang with a garish modern pop song. “Excuse me.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I’ll have to take this.”

The others waited while he discussed something in a low voice. After a few minutes he put it back in his pocket and turned. “That was my sergeant. We’ve traced the call made to the rectory at eleven fifteen last night. It came from the platform two of Laverstone station.”

“What train runs from there at that time of night?” asked Meinwen.

“The night express to Glasgow, which departed at eleven twenty-three.”

Chapter 13

Mary gave a bark of laughter, covering her mouth when the others stared at her. “It couldn’t have been Richard then. I don’t think he knows anyone in Glasgow.”

Meinwen patted her shoulder. “It does stop en route. Milton Keynes, Coventry, Birmingham, Carlisle…”

“Birmingham?” Jennifer clutched at Inspector White’s coat. “Do you remember the strange chap who asked Simon and me for directions? He had a Birmingham accent.”

“You said it seemed familiar at the time.” White took out his pocket book. “I’ll make a note but it’s not much help at the moment. It’s not like I can check who got off the eleven twenty-three at Birmingham Station.”

Mary shrugged. “If it had been Richard he would have gone to London, not any of those northern places.”

“Is it possible he phoned from the northbound platform and took a southbound train?” Meinwen happened to glance upward. “Why is there a hook in the ceiling, Amanda?” she asked.

She followed her gaze. “It’s been there since before I came here. Perhaps it was to hang a projector screen up with.”

“Not in front of a gas fire, surely?” Meinwen stood under the hook and tried to reach it. Even with her arms stretched above her head she was a foot too short. “The light would show through the screen and ruin any slides or film that was showing.”

Amanda shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Mary walked back to the study and returned with a collection of Robert’s photography, a folio edition fifteen years old. “I’ve never seen that hook used.” She leafed through the book until she found the print and turned the book around for them. “But it used to be.” The full-page photograph portrayed in monochrome a naked man hanging from the hook, his flesh partially stripped away and pierced with dozens of thorns. Mary trailed a finger down the image. “Uncle’s books were supposed to be locked away when I was little but I knew where he kept the key.”

White frowned and leafed through several more pages. “Mind if I hang on to this?”

Meinwen raised her eyebrows. “Latent homosexual urges, Inspector?”

White scowled. “Nothing of the kind. There may be a connection between these photographs and the murder. Perhaps it was one of the men in here who did him in.”

Mary shook her head. “I doubt it, Inspector. This book is ancient and, besides, he always had his models sign release forms.” She brushed back her hair with one hand and glanced at her watch. “Would you mind if I left you to it? It’s gone two already.”

“Has it?” Meinwen pulled out her cell to check. “I’ve missed lunch.” She looked at White. “I don’t need her for anything else. Do you?”

“Not at all.” White smiled at Mary. “You run along then. I think we’re about done here.”

Meinwen’s phone slipped from her fingers and landed with a
thud
on the soft carpet.

“Allow me.” said Amanda, reaching down. Her hair fell forward, obscuring her face, and Meinwen stared. On the back of the maid’s neck, where it would normally be obscured by the hair, was a small tattoo, no more than an inch high.

Meinwen leaned forward to examine it. “Stay there a moment.”

Amanda paused as Meinwen pushed the rest of her hair forward.

White leaned in over her shoulder. “A tattoo? Nothing to get excited about, Ms. Jones. What young girl doesn’t have one these days? That’s an unusual one, though, I’ll admit. It’s normally dolphins and butterflies.”

“Body art is about empowerment.” Meinwen ran her finger over the design. It looked like a pair of letter Rs drawn back to back and sharing a central stalk. “People have been performing body modifications for centuries. They found a mummy in ice dating back to the fourth century BC with scarification, and Julius Caesar wrote about the Celtic tribes tattooing themselves with woad.” She motioned Amanda to get up again. “Three of the warriors in the
Water Margin
were described as having full-body tattoos as well.”

“I used to like the
Water Margin
.” White gazed into space, as if his childhood was being replayed on a screen. “It was on every Friday night at tea time. My mum always made fish and chips and, as a treat, I was allowed to watch that with a pineapple cream cake.”

Meinwen stared at him, her mouth open with astonishment. “I was referring to the book. It was based on the activities of Song Jiang, who died in eleven twenty-seven. The television series was hardly accurate.”

“I just liked the design.” Amanda handed Meinwen her phone. “Something a bit different, you know?”

“Heathens, according to the Bible.” Meinwen lifted the sleeve of her blouse to display a tattooed armband. “It’s a good job Father Brande isn’t here, he’d have a fit. God specifically denounces the use of tattoos in Leviticus chapter nineteen, verse twenty-eight, which states ‘Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you.’”

“That’s hardly adhered to now, though, is it?” White sketched the design of Amanda’s tattoo in his notebook. “If you kicked all the people with tattoos out of the church you’d have no congregation left.”

“They have to accept the penitent back into the fold. The Old Testament is pretty much overruled by the New Testament, anyway, not that is stops it being used politically.” Meinwen rubbed her eyes. “Those fire-and-brimstone preachers scare me.”

“Me too, actually.” White closed his note book. “There are precious few of them in England, I’m glad to say.”

“Even Jesus had a tattoo according to the Revelations of St. John. The modern church tends to ignore Leviticus.” Meinwen patted his hand. “Apart from the bestiality.” She turned back to Amanda, who was smoothing her hair back and took her phone from the girl’s hand.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

Amanda put a hand to her neck. “Nothing much. I had it done for an old boyfriend.”