Screaming Yellow (15 page)

“It’s unusual.” Meinwen took the girl’s hand. “Is it his initials?”

“Yes.” Amanda pulled her hand back. “Is that everything? I’m neglecting my duties.”

“Do you still have duties now Mr. Markhew is dead?”

Amanda frowned. “Of course. There are still seven other people living here. Life must go on.” She looked at the heavy boots both White and Meinwen wore. “Especially with you lot tramping all over the place. Have you seen the hallway after last night? It looks like a herd of pigs has been through.”

“Now now,” said White.

Amanda blushed. “I meant it literally. Mud from the garden, fingerprint powder, that sort of thing. It’ll take a month just to get the house clean again after so many people have been tramping about.”

“Isn’t there anyone else to help? The housekeeper?”

“Susan?” Amanda dropped her voice to a whisper. “She wouldn’t stoop to housework.”

“Oh?” White lowered his, too. “There’s no love lost between you then?”

“Not really. She thinks she’s above the likes of me.” Amanda checked her watch. “Can I go now?”

“Of course.” White stepped to one side. “We’ll call you if we need you again.”

“Thanks. I hope you find him soon. The killer I mean.”

“Him, Miss James? How do you know the murderer is a man?”

Amanda shrugged. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? Sir Robert was a very charismatic man, at least to the ladies. None of the women would have killed him, so it had to be a man.”

“That’s what we’re endeavoring to find out.”

“Good.” Amanda stalked out of the room.

Meinwen rubbed her temple with her fingers. “If she’d had that tattoo to honor a boyfriend, wouldn’t she have had it somewhere more prominent? Have you come across anyone else with a neck tattoo?”

White shook his head. “Not that I know of. Is it important?”

“It could be.” Meinwen felt the back of her own neck. “The placement. It’s like a cattle mark. What about the woman who committed suicide?”

“Grace Peters? White raised his eyebrows. “She was an upstanding member of the church. I doubt she’d have a tattoo done but I can find out. Her autopsy report will be on the computer.” He took out his phone and dialed. “Peters? Are you at base?”

He listened for a minute then spoke again. “Pull up the report on Grace Peters, will you? Does it mention a tattoo anywhere?”

White put a hand over the mouthpiece. “It won’t take a minute. Everything’s on the intranet now. There’s no need for him to go searching for case files.” His phone bleeped. “Yes? There is? Can you describe it to me?”

He closed the connection a few minutes later. “Here’s one for the books. I don’t know how you knew, but you were right. She had the same tattoo as our Miss James. They couldn’t have had the same boyfriend, surely? I mean, Amanda’s a young woman and Grace was into her sixties.”

“They might well have had, but I still don’t know how it fits into the murder, if it does at all.” Meinwen rubbed the back of her neck. “Can we have another look in the study before we go?”

“If you like.” White led the way and nodded to the constable as he took another two pairs of disposable bootees. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Meinwen bent to cover her shoes and went in, pausing for a moment then crossing to the desk. “Was there a computer here? The desk is awfully bare for someone who spent so much time at it.”

“There was.” White consulted his notes. “A Magelight-brand laptop. We’ve taken it in to have a look at his files.”

Meinwen nodded, thinking back to one of the conversations she’d had online before she moved here. It had been a Thursday night and the shop had been closed all day. She’d wanted to go out, but there weren’t many places to go on a wet Thursday night in Aberdovey, not if you didn’t fancy sitting in the pub watching the darts players holding their bellies in and pretending to be virile. She’d stripped down to her undies and logged online instead. The conversation had gone on for an hour.

Scribe: What if I wanted more than this? More than a few words on a screen every now and then?

Sir Real: Are you talking about a real-world meeting? That’s a big step. It’s a big pond full of little fish.

Scribe: I’m not just a little fish, though am I? I have you to protect me.

Sir Real: Not in Wales you don’t. I don’t know anything about the scene in Wales, other than what goes on in Bristol and Cardiff.

Scribe: Bristol isn’t in Wales.

Sir Real: Don’t be pedantic.

Scribe: What if I came down to see you? Where do you live?

Sir Real: A little west of London. You would be welcome. I have one or two girls already, though. You would be a small fish in a very small pond here. You might stir up a few jealousies. My girls don’t like change.

Scribe: Do you play with both of them?

Sir Real: Of course. That’s what they come here for. They live the life that they want to. It costs them nothing and they live under my protection. I’m well enough off to support myself in the manner I most enjoy.

Scribe: I could come if you wanted me.

Sir Real: The question is more would you want to take that step? If you want to be mine in real life there are certain rules you must adhere to.

Scribe: What sort of rules?

Sir Real: Persistent, aren’t you? For one, I insist upon absolute obedience, no matter how much you protest at the work I give you to do.

Scribe: I can do that. What else?

Sir Real: Feel the back of your neck, just above the hairline. Locate the spot where your neck feeds into your skull. Do you feel it?

Scribe: Yes.

Sir Real: I require all my girls to have a tattoo there.

Scribe: I want it.

Sir Real: That’s just desire talking. Remember that this is a permanent mark that would be with you for the rest of your life. Think about it carefully. You can ask me again in two weeks.

Scribe: Any other rules?

Sir Real: I also share my house with my late brother’s wife. She can be…difficult. If you’re serious about moving here I’ll find you a place to live in town. I know someone who has a vacant house not far from here. You’ll have to cultivate a friendship with Jean before you could ever think of moving in.

Scribe: I’ll do my best.

White coughed. “Are you all right, Ms. Jones?” He put his hand on her back. Meinwen could feel it, cold and hard like a lump of ice against the heat of her memory. “I lost you there for a minute.”

“I was meditating.” Meinwen turned away to cover her blush. Robert Markhew and her Sir Real were the same person. If the police had his computer, there was a good chance they would find her conversations with him. Should she should tell Inspector White now or hope to uncover the murderer before he found out she was implicated?

Chapter 14

“May I offer you a lift back into town?” Inspector White paused before getting into his car.

Meinwen shook her head. “I prefer to walk. It puts me in tune with nature and allows me to organize my thoughts.”

He looked up the street. “I’m not sure I can let you walk alone, Ms. Jones. There is a killer on the loose.”

She touched his arm. “Thank you, honestly, but I’ll be fine. I’m happy to walk on my own. If nothing else it will give me a sense of the town.”

“Well, if you’re quite certain I can’t persuade you otherwise…”

“No. Go.” Meinwen made shooing motions and he climbed into his car, grinning. She waited for a moment but he pulled out his phone.

She set off, her feet crunching on the gravel drive as she admired Peter’s work on the garden. At the bottom of the drive she turned left at into the leafy avenue that led back to the town.

* * * *

Jean Markhew watched them go from the upstairs window, tapping a finger absently against her lips. “What horrors will your meddling cause?” she asked, her voice low.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Nicole looked up. Lines of rope above her breast snaked under her armpits and around the back of her neck, forcing her head down. Other coils fastened her arms together behind her back from her elbows to her wrist, a neat line of knots running down the center. The position of her arms thrust her chest forward. She kept her feet apart to maintain balance.

Jean looked up at the ceiling, spotting a thread of dust-encrusted spider silk. “Nothing for your ears, girl. Who killed Robert?” She trailed her crop across erect nipples.

Nicole held her gaze. “I wish I knew, ma’am,” she said. “I’d tell you in an instant.”

“Would you?” She gave the secretary three sharp strikes across her breasts. Nicole gasped. “Hurts twice, doesn’t it? The strike itself, the pressure of which forces blood away from the welt and the afterburn of the blood returning, such a simple toy but it can be so painful.”

Jean allowed her to regain her breath before striking her a further six times, each one heavier than the last. Nicole winced with each blow, her gasps running together until she was snorting. Tears of pain mixed with mucus. “Please, ma’am.” She whimpered as blows rained down upon her thighs and bottom. “Yellow.”

The blows stopped instantly and Jean bent to kiss her, feeling the secretary’s tense muscles relax under her touch. “Good girl.” Jean’s kisses were feather-light over Nicole’s cheeks, drying away the tears. “I know I can trust you now.” She began to undo the bonds and, as soon as her arms were free, Nicole dropped to her knees, pressing her lips against the soft leather boots Jean wore.

Her new mistress lifted her face up and gazed into Nicole’s cornflower eyes. She could bewitch anyone with those. “Why did you come here?” Her fingers left red marks on the pale skin. “Why did you want to work for my brother-in-law?”

“Money at first, ma’am.” Nicole said through the older woman’s hold. “I was out of college and out of work. I saw Sir Robert’s advertisement for a live-in secretary in
The Lady
and applied. He offered me the job and here I am.”

“And now that he’s gone?” Jean could pick out the smattering of freckles under Nicole’s foundation. “Do you want to leave?”

“Oh no.” Nicole’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “This is my home now. The people here are like family.”

“Will you stay and be mine? Serve me as faithfully as you served Robert? Will you provide as many…services? Now your master is dead you may leave freely if you wish. I will provide excellent references.”

“I will serve you, ma’am.” Nicole’s voice was the whisper of a lover.

* * * *

Meinwen pulled out her copy of
Folklore of Laverstone
and looked up Cherry Tree Road, discovering the existence of a gap in the stone wall that led through the park and into the woods at Laverstone Manor. From the map she determined she could follow the path through the wood into Vicarage Road and the church of St. Pity’s and home. She went through the gap which led, once she was past the hawthorn hedge that grew against the back edge of the wall, into a thin meadow already bursting with wildflowers. She bent to stare at the intricate tracery of vetch and cowslip. “This is beautiful,” she said. “I would never have guessed that an upmarket area would allow something like this to flourish.”

She checked the guidebook.

Pettin Lane. This patch of land once belonged to Owen Pettin (1736-1769) and formed his portion of a field. When he died he bequeathed everything to the church under the promise that his wife and child were allowed to remain on the land and work it. The rest of the field was sold during the nineteenth century but the Catholic church retained the portion that became known as Pettin’s Acre and later, Pettin Lane.

There are a number of orange-barked Silver Birches on the pasture. This is due to the high concentration of copper ore in the earth beneath. It was mined extensively by the Victorian entrepreneur Sir Harold Lauder (1798-1874) who later built the park which now occupies the site. There is a statue of him at the western entrance to the park