Screaming Yellow (21 page)

“I don’t have secrets,” Mary said.

“Nor I,” said Nicole.

Peter shook his head, not speaking.

“Please,” said Meinwen. “If one of you tells me, it will save a lot of time and embarrassment, because I will find out what they are.”

She looked at their faces. Even Simon averted his eyes.

“I think you should leave now.” Jean stood and drew herself to her full height. “I’ve heard enough.”

“Very well.” Meinwen held up her hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry none of you felt you could trust me.”

Chapter 19

Meinwen was halfway down the road by the time Simon caught up with her. “Insufferable people.” She glared at him. “They close ranks against outsiders like an arsehole against a finger.”

Simon coughed. “I say! I am still a priest, you know.”

“Sorry.” Meinwen waved her
Guide to Laverstone
. “I don’t want to go through the woods today. Show me a bit more of the town instead.”

“If you like, though avoiding the woodland path adds a further fifteen minutes of walking. We’ll have to travel right to the opposite end of the park then double back to get to the east gate.”

“Are you afraid of a little extra walking?”

“Hardly.” Simon led her a different way, pointing out the boat house and the miniature railway station, closed at present, and as they left by the eastern gate, the old Dillon’s Fabrication plant, a building left derelict by the steel industry collapse in the eighties.

“They seem a little reticent about helping you with this investigation.” Simon fell a step behind when they at last turned into their road and Meinwen’s mood brightened.

“More than a little,” Meinwen replied. “Each of them thinks that their little secret is important. In normal times it probably is, but against the backdrop of a murder it all pales to insignificance.”

Simon nodded. “Unless one of them is the murderer.”

Meinwen paused. “Exactly. That’s the secret I would understand them keeping, though it will be out in the end. Hugin will tell me.”

“Who?” Simon dug his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a string of rosary beads. He kept it in his hand as they talked, fingers stroking the jade beads.

“Hugin, one of Odin’s ravens, named for thought.”

“Oh. Those blasted birds again.”

“Of course.” Meinwen walked on. “The Goddess gave me an omen to reassure me that I would find the truth. Hugin’s feather.”

“Omens. What nonsense you believe, Meinwen. There are no omens, just serendipitous occurrences you can interpret to mean whatever you like.”

Meinwen laughed. “You’re a priest and you don’t believe in omens?”

“Of course not. God has no need to give us such things, they are an abomination.”

“That old chestnut again.” Meinwen smiled. “Deuteronomy this time, I believe?”

Simon nodded.

“I thought we’d established that the Old Testament was outdated? What if the three astrologers from the East had taken that view? The birthday party of Jesus would have been a small affair.” Meinwen patted Simon’s shoulder. “Admit it. The church changes its mind with the seasons.”

“Hardly.” Simon clutched the cross on the end of the beads. “I’d be defrocked if I disagreed with doctrine, whatever my personal opinion.”

“Can you honestly say you’ve never had a feeling of impending doom?” Meinwen asked.

Simon shrugged. “I’d be lying if I did, but I think of that as an angel’s warning, not an omen.”

“Just as I do.” Meinwen smiled again. “Angels are supernatural beings in any theology. Just because I don’t have the mental image of a winged eunuch in a white robe doesn’t make my belief in them any less real.”

“I’m glad we agree on something at least.” Simon stopped at the gate to Bridge House. “Much as I enjoy our debates on theology, I must get on. I’m neglecting the parish duties.”

“And I must get down to the shop.” Meinwen walked a little past his gate before turning. “I’ll see you later, shall I?”

“Perhaps. If I’ve got time.”

“You must eat.” Meinwen glanced at her own house “How about dinner? I’ll ask Jennifer too.”

“All right.” Simon seemed reluctant. “Six o’clock?”

* * * *

The sunlight felt warm on Peter’s skin. The glass of the conservatory amplified the heat without the chilling effects of the April breeze and the bench he was lying on had been in the sun for an hour already. His cock stirred as dust mote patterns danced on his closed eyelids.

“You like it here then?” Jean trailed red-tipped fingers across his chest, following the trail to his bare thighs before lifting them at his knees. Peter blushed as he felt his erection grow.

He could hear the bubble of humor in her voice as she stroked the length of his shaft. “You’re the only man around here now. I could elevate you to a position of some authority, if you have the mind for it.”

He opened his eyes. Jean looked younger when she was relaxed and he felt an attraction to her that was incongruous. “No, ma’am. I could not be your partner. I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed. May I ask why? Are you gay?”

Peter grinned. “Not exactly. I would have thought that much was obvious.”

“Not necessarily.” Jean sat on the edge of the bench by his knees. “You had your eyes closed. You could have been thinking about Robert, imagining him touching you.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied. “I could smell your scent over that of the gardenias. I knew that it was you touching me. I loved Robert dearly, but I’m bisexual rather than gay. I love the person before the gender.”

“Then why? Can you not imagine loving me in the same way?”

He rolled onto his side and raised himself on one elbow “I can imagine it but I cannot countenance it. That woman was right when she said I had a secret.”

“Would you care to tell me what it is?” Jean stopped touching him and pulled back, watching him with the intensity of a cat watching a canary.

“I love your daughter. She doesn’t know and I would never tell her, especially since she’s in love with Richard. When Robert died I stayed to look after her. I’ll stay for as long as you both allow me to, though she will never know the truth. Not from me, at any rate.”

Jean nodded. “She could do worse, though how she would react if it ever came out…” She let the question hang.

Peter reached up and clasped her hand. “She must never know. She has a little of Robert’s personality, and it is enough that I can see a little of him when I look at her.”

“Very well, you can stay.” She lifted a small metal box from the floor and set out some of its contents onto the bench. The tang of alcohol filled the air and the skin of Peter’s right thigh went suddenly cold as she swabbed it. “I will give you a symbol to hold on to,” she said as the tip of a fresh scalpel blade bit into his flesh. “This is the symbol of Isis, goddess of Egypt. It is from her the myth of the virgin mother came to the West, the one we now worship as Mary. It will be fitting you bear the symbol for my daughter’s name in the flesh of your thigh.”

“Dionysus was born from the thigh of Zeus,” Peter murmured as the scalpel traveled in a series of arcs.

“True.” Jean finished the cutting with the sting of alcohol again and wiped away the trail of blood. Peter sat up to look at it. The symbol of Isis was a circle surmounted by an arc like a pair of curved horns to represent the wings of the Queen of Heaven.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He drew her hand to his lips for a kiss.

* * * *

Jennifer picked at the lumps of diced meat with her fork. It was certainly an unexpected dish after the leek soup. “I haven’t had these since I was in school. I used to think they were made out of brains.”

Meinwen laughed. “
Ffagodau
are made of liver with a bit of sage and onion and suet to keep it all together. I used to make them for my da.”

“He liked faggots, did he?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “It’s not something we go a bundle on, though they do make a refreshing change.”

“Thank you.” Meinwen grinned as she sliced one in half with her fork and smothered it in gravy. “Actually he hated them, but I didn’t like him either.”

Jennifer laughed. “Why did he eat them then?”

“It was either that or fend for himself, and that would mean getting up from his chair. I was glad when I was fifteen and I could get out.”

“You left home at fifteen? Wasn’t that a bit young?” Simon scooped up part of a faggot and chewed slowly as if she might have laced them with hemlock.

“Not really. Youth is a state of mind, I think. By that time I’d looked after the house and hung on to two jobs for best part of three years since my mam died. I couldn’t wait to leave. You look at some of the youngsters who leave home today. They’re a damned sight younger than I was.”

“I suppose.” Jennifer took one more mouthful to show willing and pushed her plate away. “I would have thought you’d be a vegetarian with your profession.”

“My profession? You make me sound like a prostitute. It’s a rare witch who’s a vegetarian, Jennifer. What would you do when the farmer calls you in to help birth a difficult pig and offers you bacon in exchange? Say ‘no thank you, I’d rather gather some berries?’” She shook her head. “No. Part of being a witch is not to have the pride to refuse a gift. If you refuse the gift of a poor man, you take away his pride.”

“That’s an interesting theory.” Simon used half a boiled potato to scoop up the last scraps on his plate. “Surely it’s not the case these days, though. You could ask for money instead and buy your own food, or grow it.”

“Then I’d be a merchant instead of a witch.” Meinwen put down her cutlery. “Do you expect to get paid for what you do?”

“No, but I’m in the service of God.”

“As am I, though my God is a Goddess and I don’t limit my services to those who agree with me.” She smiled at Jennifer. “So no, I’m not a vegetarian.”

“But you don’t drink tea,” said Simon. “Real tea, I mean. Tea’s natural, isn’t it?”

“And full of caffeine and tannin,” Meinwen countered. “If I wanted to preserve myself like an Egyptian mummy I’d pull my own brain through my nostril, not do it by inches.”

Simon pushed his plate away. “If I hadn’t finished already I would be now. What about coffee? You drink that.”

“Decaffeinated, preferably, but it would have been churlish to refuse the one you bought me, wouldn’t it?” She grinned, reaching out to pat his hand. “Sorry. I’m not actually against caffeine but I prefer to avoid it unless I need the boost of energy.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Jennifer sipping from a glass of Meinwen’s apple wine. “It’s funny.” She stroked away a line of condensation on the glass. “You being here, I mean. A priest and a witch. Doesn’t the Bible say ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?’”

“I think you’ll find the original text says ‘poisoner.’” Meinwen collected the plates. “King James had the wording changed so that he could seize land from old women. How were the mushrooms, Simon?”

“Very nice.” The priest narrowed his eyes. “They weren’t poisoned, were they?”

“No.” Meinwen carried the crockery into the kitchen. She raised her voice “Why didn’t you mention the conversation Jennifer overheard? It may well be important.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Simon raised his voice as well. “It only casts Richard in an even worse light.”

“Inspector White would have thought it important.” Meinwen returned from the kitchen with a plate of tarts. “As do I.”

“Well, you know now.” Simon shrugged and sat back with his glass of wine. “Who do you think he was talking to?”

“I’ve no idea. Help yourself to the
tarts sioned
,” she said. “I’ll get you some cream.”

“What are they?” Jennifer picked one up and sniffed at it. “They smell like lemon.”

“And so they are.” Meinwen handed them a dish each and put a jug of cream in the middle. “My mother’s recipe. Tell me about Susan Pargeter.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Simon helped himself to two tarts and a generous amount of cream. “She’s been with Robert for a long time. Very efficient, from what I hear. I don’t think there’s any reason to suspect her.”