Screaming Yellow (18 page)

Jean waved a hand “I’m sure no one meant to murder my brother-in-law. It may well have been an accident. Someone slipped while holding the knife, I expect.”

“Why do you think that?” Simon collapsed onto one of the dining chairs. “It looked to be a deliberate murder to me.”

Jean shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. An inquest isn’t going to bring him back, is it? All I want is for all this to be done with and we can get back to normal. Then Richard can come home from wherever he is and marry Mary.”

* * * *

“Miss Markhew?” Nicole Fielding knocked on the door of the girl’s room. The noise of the melancholy music that had grated on her nerves for the past half an hour abruptly ceased.

“Yes?” Mary’s voice sounded thin and reedy. “What is it?”

“It’s Nicole, miss. I have a small problem, if you’d be so kind.”

The door opened a crack, just wide enough for Mary to peer out. Her hair was mussed, as if she’d been rubbing it against a pillow. “What problem?”

“It’s the petty cash, miss. I need to send someone down to the supermarket but I’ve no house money left. Mr. Markhew always used to give me the housekeeping on a Friday, but with him gone…” Her voice trailed off.

“Can’t you ask my mother?” Mary rubbed her eyes. “I don’t deal with that sort of thing.”

“I would, miss, but your mother’s gone into town.”

“Oh. very well. Where does he keep it?”

“In his bedside drawer, miss. I saw him put it there the night before he was murdered, but I don’t like to just take it without a witness.”

“Come on then.” Mary led the way to her uncle’s bedroom. “Where does he keep it?”

“That drawer there, miss.” Nicole pointed and watched as Mary took out a sheaf of bank notes. “Thank you.” She leafed through the stack. “Wait. This can’t be right, it’s a hundred short.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, miss. It’s always three hundred pounds. Never more, never less. There’s only two hundred here.”

Mary frowned. “Who else knew about it?”

Nicole counted on her fingers. “Mrs. Markhew, of course, and Catherine. She normally does the shopping but she’s put her notice in.”

“Really? Why?”

“She had an argument with Mr. Markhew before he died. She wants to leave right away.”

“Let’s go and ask her.” Mary led the way downstairs to Catherine’s room where she rapped on the door. Nicole could hear a few thumps before Catherine replied and she was able to follow Mary inside.

Catherine was sitting on her bed with a novel in her hand. A photograph in a frame had been turned facedown on the table and Nicole longed to look at it.

“I hear you’re leaving us.” Mary could sound as cold and impassive as her mother at times.

“That’s right.” Catherine stood, her face red and blotchy. “Mr. Markhew shouted at me because I shifted some papers on his desk without permission and he asked me to leave.”

Mary pressed on. “Do you know about the housekeeping money?”

Catherine nodded, twirling her pendant through her fingers. “Of course. I used to do all the shopping. That’s today, isn’t it? I’d forgotten with all the upheaval.”

“You didn’t take any of the housekeeping early, then?” Mary’s voice dripped with suspicion.

“No, of course not. I always wait for Sir Robert to give me what I need.”

* * * *

Mary leaned back against her headboard. The business with the missing money had been upsetting and she’d retreated to her room after imploring Nicole to “be a bit frugal this week.” At least they wouldn’t have to shop for Richard’s expensive tastes. The old man would happily pay more for an ounce of pâté than Mary’s whole weekly allowance. On the other end of the phone, Meinwen rabbited on about the murder.

“So you’ve no idea what she and Mr. Markhew were arguing about?”

“No.” Mary fingered the silk of a dress she’d found in the thrift shop. It was so pretty she hadn’t been able to resist buying it, even if it had been four sizes too small. “She said that it was over moving some documents but I don’t think that was the whole truth.”

“What was she doing on the night of the murder?”

“I don’t know.” Mary tried to remember. “I think she said that she went to bed early.”

“That’s not much of an alibi!”

“But would an argument be enough reason to kill my uncle?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.” Mary could imagine Meinwen laying out tarot cards to divine the murderer’s identity. “But then, people are killed over the loss of a parking space these days.”

Chapter 16

Peter felt the hood go over his neck, the holes fitting snugly over his nostrils. His breathing slowed and his heartbeat, hammering since he was called to the house, calmed until he was no longer aware of it.

“Good boy.” Jean’s voice filtered through the leather of the hood. “Be calm. Be still.”

The cold steel tip of a blade caressed Peter’s exposed lips, running down over the fabric of the mask and into the fabric of his shirt. There was a tug as she cut through the stiffened collar, then the icy touch of the edge as it followed the line of his spine, cutting the shirt from his back. He knew how sharp the knife was, having sharpened every one of Mr. Markhew’s toys. This, he could tell from the way it moved, was the stiletto.

His shirt fell to the front and was yanked off his arms, exposing his torso to scrutiny.

“He did play hard with you, didn’t he?” He could feel Jean’s fingers following the tracery of old cuts and scars Robert had taken pleasure in applying–every cut deep enough to bleed, and shallow enough to heal with nothing more taxing than a wash with warm water and a line of antiseptic cream.

His hands were twisted behind his back and he gripped each elbow with the opposite hand. No need for bondage, Peter was more than willing to take whatever she offered. Even through all of Robert’s attentions he had called yellow only once, and that was when he had become faint from blood loss and had to be helped to a seat.

Robert had taken great care of him that night, bathing his wounds personally and kissing each one better before laying him down on freshly laundered linen sheets as he slid his penis into Peter’s accepting arse, his hand reaching around to assist Peter in his own orgasm until they both came together and lay still, entwined in each other’s arms for the rest of the night.

“I said kneel.” Her voice broke his train of thought and he dropped to his knees, splaying his legs as Robert had preferred. She ignored his cock, running the blade once more down his spine.

“I could sever this with a single stroke,” she said. “One slip of the blade and you’d never walk again, forever dependent upon me for your needs.” He felt the trickle of blood as the tip dug into the skin. “You wouldn’t be able to stop me. You wouldn’t be able to complain. The police might have something to say but we all know there’s a killer on the loose. He must have struck again.”

Peter began to shake.

“You’re connecting the dots, aren’t you?” She leaned in close and whispered again. “Robert liked to be on both ends of the blade. I bet you didn’t know that. His skin was a myriad of cuts, just like yours. Where do you think I learned to use a knife? Why do you think he knew just where to cut you for the effect he wanted? It’s because he’d felt them all himself.”

She switched sides, trailing the blade across his shoulders.

“Now you have doubts, don’t you? Now you’re wondering if Robert’s death was murder after all or if I was playing with him, trying to find the perfect spot for a non-lethal thrust. I was wrong that time, but this time I know just where to drive the knife home.”

The steel left his flesh and pricked him just above his lumbar joint. “Who was Robert talking to the night he died? Who did you hear through the open window?” She pressed harder. “Was it Nicole?”

A thin trickle of blood slid under the waistband of his jeans, channeled into the crack of his arse. “I don’t know.” His buttocks tightened. “It could have been anyone.”

More blood and his heart began to hammer anew. The steel slid farther into his anus, traveling deep into his body. Any moment now and he would be crippled for life.

“Who?” Her voice was insistent. “Think! You remember the voice. You’ve heard it before. Whose was it?”

“I don’t know!” His cheeks were wet under the leather. “Please? Yellow?”

“Good boy.” The hood was torn away, leaving him blinking in the bright light of the library. Jean smiled and showed him the teaspoon she’d exchanged for the blade. “The end of a spoon and warm lube. The rest of it was in your head.”

Chapter 17

Scribe: Jennifer? This is Meinwen, next door.

Cacoethes: Clever. How did you trace me?

Scribe: *laughs* I asked Simon what your username was.

Cacoethes: LOL. Fair enough.

Scribe: You know a lot of what goes on in this town. Can I ask you a question?

Cacoethes: Sure. Is it about the murder?

Scribe: Perhaps. I’m looking into backgrounds. The police seem to have ground to a halt.

Cacoethes: OK. What do you want to know?

Scribe: Who was Catherine Latt’s employer before Markhew?

Cacoethes: brb

Scribe: OK

Cacoethes: Back. It was Harold Waterman at the Manor.

Scribe: Oh, great. That place gives me the creeps.

Cacoethes: Want me to go up and ask him about her?

Scribe: You’d do that?

Cacoethes: Sure. I’ve wanted a reason to get inside there ever since he inherited it. I don’t know where he got the money from. One minute he owned a second-hand furniture shop and the next he owns the Manor. Not only that, but the place gets fixed up. He must have spent a fortune on it. The place was in ruins when the old man died.

Scribe: Old man?

Cacoethes: Frederick Waterman. He’d had the place since his parents died as a kid. Harold was his nephew. His sister–the mother–is still alive. She lives in The Terrace. Works for the other side occasionally.

Scribe: Satan?

Cacoethes: No, silly. St. Jude’s, the C of E church.

Scribe: Oh. *laughs* Where do you think the money came from?

Cacoethes: That kind of money? It had to be drugs.

Scribe: Ack. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll ask White to do it.

Cacoethes: Don’t you dare. I’m gone already.

Scribe: Be careful then. What time will you go?

Cacoethes: First thing in the morning, as soon as S leaves.

Scribe: Ring me as soon as you’re back so I know you’re safe.

Cacoethes: Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

Scribe: Good night.

“Not playing with your witchy friend today?” Jennifer smiled as she helped Simon on with his coat.

“Professional acquaintance.” Simon smiled back. “Perhaps later. I rather neglected my duties yesterday. I need to check on the church first. The accounts need to be submitted by next Friday and I haven’t even made a start on them.”

“I might drop by later then, and bring you a cup of tea.”

“Make it a double mocha coffee from the deli and I’ll love you forever.” Simon grinned. “In a spiritual, fraternal way, obviously. I don’t want to commit an irredeemable sin.”

Jennifer laughed. “It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.”

She waved him off before throwing on her own coat, backing her Mercedes into the road and heading up to the manor where she was forced to stop. The gates were opened by means of an electronic key she didn’t have. On the gatepost was an intercom terminal.

“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice and Jennifer could hear a child in the background.