Screaming Yellow (22 page)

“What about the drugs she was asking about in the church that day?” Jennifer pressed lightly on Meinwen’s arm. “That was suspicious.”

“I told you before, Jen. What does it matter? Robert was killed with a knife.”

“Everything matters.” Meinwen set a coffee pot and cups on the table and sat down. “Do you remember the stranger who asked you for directions?”

“Of course. What about him?”

“He was at the White Art earlier in the evening. The barman remembers giving directions to a stranger with a Birmingham accent.”

“That’s a relief.” Simon cut into a tart with his spoon and took a mouthful. “I was sure the inspector thought I was making him up. Is he the murderer then?”

“I doubt it. He would not have asked for directions twice if he was intent on killing Mr. Markhew. Also, if the murderer is the blackmailer, he would already know where The Larches was.”

“Good point.” Simon drew a coffee for himself and Jennifer. Meinwen shook her head at the offer. “Why was he going there then?”

“I think he intended to meet with someone.”

Simon sat up. “Who?”

“Susan Pargeter!” Jennifer exclaimed. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? They both have Birmingham accents. I bet she was running away from him and now he’s found out where she lives. She was probably married to him and ran away after years of being beaten with a stick.”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” said Meinwen, “though I don’t think she was running away from him. It doesn’t matter, anyway. If there’s a connection there, I’ll find it.”

“That phone call was from a train that was going north,” said Simon. “It may not have been Richard phoning at all, but the Birmingham man.”

“I thought it was Amanda on the phone?” Meinwen frowned. “You said that the call was from her, even though she denied making it.”

“It sounded like her but I couldn’t swear to it,” said Simon. “I would have put any accent down to the bad line and the stress of finding out Robert Markhew was dead. It could easily have been a northern accent instead of stress.”

“A northern accent, yes.” Meinwen took a lemon meringue tart from the plate. “Jean and Mary Markhew both came from Leeds.”

“You’re not suggesting either of them did it?” asked Jennifer. “They were kin.”

“And stood to inherit,” Meinwen said. “I will not be happy until I discover what they are hiding.”

“What about Catherine?” Simon asked. “She had an argument with Robert the night he died and was dismissed.”

“She too has a secret,” said Meinwen, “but I’m certain she is not the killer. She could easily have left but didn’t.”

“I think Richard did it after all.” Simon sat back and counted with his fingers. “One, he stood to inherit the house. Two, it was well known that he argued with Robert a lot. Three, he was overheard telling someone to be patient until his uncle died. Four, he wanted to marry Mary and five, he’s fled the area.”

“I still think he’s innocent,” said Jennifer.

“Why?” asked Simon. “I wanted to believe him innocent too. I’ve known the boy all his life, but you’ve got to face facts. His footprints were in the soil outside the window, he knew where the knife was and had access to it, he was in town but not staying at the house, he hasn’t seen Mary since the engagement, hasn’t answered any calls and he disappeared after the murder. That was probably his cell that they found at the murder scene. Much as I hate to admit it, it has to be him.”

“Has to be?” Meinwen shook her head. “There are too many motives. How often do people come to you for help because they have four things that trouble them? I bet they come to you with one thing or like Job, they carry the burdens alone.”

“I suppose.”

Jennifer put her coffee cup down with a bang. “I think Richard was framed.”

Chapter 20

Meinwen was woken far too early for her liking. She was still in her dressing gown which, contrary to her image, was decorated with paw prints. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked when she wrenched open the door.

“Seven-fifteen.” White walked into her house as if he owned it. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“If you must.” Meinwen yawned and shut the door. “Do you mind if I make some tea first?”

“Not at all.” White smiled. “White and two sugars please.”

She left him looking around the living room but he followed her to the galley kitchen. “Did you rent this house furnished?”

“Yes.” She put the tea things on a tray and pushed past him. “Why? Is that important?”

“Not really. I just thought that it didn’t really look like a witch’s cottage, that’s all.”

“And what does a witch’s cottage look like? I tried submitting a design based upon biscuits and sugar cane, but the council rejected it on the grounds of structural stability.”

White laughed. “I don’t know. I expected to find everything black and lit with tallow candles.”

“They’re a bugger to read by.” She put the tray on the table and poured the tea. “That’s why there are so many tales about people getting caught out by the loopholes in the small print. Tallow makes the clauses too indistinct. Give me a good fluorescent bulb and I’ll give you a demonic pact to write home about.” She smiled. “So what brings you here so early in the morning?”

“You tell me, Miss Scribe.”

“Ah.” Meinwen sank into the armchair chewing her bottom lip.”You’ve found the files on Robert’s computer.”

“You should have told me that you were involved. We had the devil of a job tracing those files back to the originating ISPs, then getting warrants for the names and addresses of all the users. He was quite the Jack-the-lad, our Robert Markhew, wasn’t he?”

“I should have told you as soon as I realized.” Meinwen sat forward, barely supported by the chair. “I didn’t want my connection with Sir Robert to color you against me. Mind you, I’ll admit I was taken aback by the number of intimate partners he seems to have had.” She took a deep breath. “It was a bit of harmless fun I thought might turn out to be just as saucy in real life.” She looked into the inspector’s dark eyes. “One odd thing, though. He intimated Jean Markhew was the head of the house and I couldn’t move in without her approval.”

“He was probably putting you off until he’d met you properly.” White sipped his tea. “Was he some kind of sex god? I was tempted to arrest everyone for gross indecency when I read the report on his computer files.”

“You can’t really.” She sat back again, relieved he didn’t seem bent on arresting her. “It’s all words and no pictures. It could be argued as pure fiction.”

“Oh, there are plenty of pictures,” said White. “He got up to all sorts, did our Mr. Markhew.”

“He was a writer and a photographer, don’t forget.” Meinwen pulled out two books from her shelf. “He was very well known in the art scene.”

“So it seems.” White skimmed through the books, his eyebrows rising at one or two of the more extreme pictures.

“You’ll find that all the models were volunteers and signed releases, I’m sure.” Meinwen smiled as he lingered over one or two of the more artistic shots. “You could check with Nicole Fielding for confirmation.”

“I already did after I borrowed a copy from The Larches.” White handed her the books back. “I can’t say I’m keen on all these art pictures of naked men, though Mrs. White borrowed it to read in bed. There’s nothing illegal in these unless I can arrest someone on living off immoral earnings.”

“But they don’t,” Meinwen said. “That’s just a normal household where there is a huge proportion of women to men.” She shrugged. “If he were alive, the best you’d have got Robert on was being a lucky bastard.”

“Not so lucky now.” White drank his tea. “Mind if I have a look at your neck?”

“Sure.” Meinwen shrugged herself out of her dressing gown, dropping it to just above her breasts and turning her back to him. He lifted her hair.

“Nothing.” He sounded disappointed.

“My guess is he only tattooed those he was intimate with on a long-term basis. His permanent lovers, though I’d be interested in knowing how many he had. Not all of them lived with him.”

“No.” White indicated for her to pull the gown back up. “How did he write? We found complete files on his hard drive, but most writers have a dozen revised drafts and I can’t imagine him deleting them.”

“I believe he dictated his books and his secretary typed them up. I’d look on her computer for early versions if you need them.”

“We didn’t find any tape recorders though.”

“They’re different now. Did you find an MP-three recorder?”

“A what?” White looked confused.

Meinwen went into the next room and pulled out her flash drive. “They look like this only with a few more buttons. They record directly to MP-three format which can be transferred to computer just by plugging it in.”

“So this is like a tape recorder?”

“Not that particular one, that’s basically just a chunk of removable hard drive, but you get the general principle.”

“I see.” White smiled and handed it back. “That explains why there were songs on his computer that were just him talking then. They were his dictations.”

“Of course!” Meinwen nodded to herself. “That explains a lot.”

* * * *

When Meinwen entered the graveyard she could see two figures near the south end of the church. One she guessed was the gravedigger and the other, much to her surprise, was Catherine. She edged closer, careful not to be seen but the two seemed to have eyes only for each other. She worked her way close enough to overhear the conversation.

Catherine leaned back against the tombstone. “I’m sure you’re not supposed to do this. Isn’t it disrespectful?”

“What can be more respectful than me making love to you on a tomb?” The gravedigger stepped forward to stand between her open legs. “It’s a re-affirmation of the cycle of life, isn’t it?”

“Birth, death and rebirth? I suppose so.” Catherine put her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss.

His hand followed the curve of her hip and dived under her skirt, tugging at her knickers and pulling them down. She gasped and fumbled with his pants, unzipping his fly and unbuttoning his waistband before snaking down to free his penis. Her legs folded around his waist, drawing him closer and he raised himself on tiptoe to enter her.

Catherine gasped. “What if someone sees us?”

“Right now?” His breathing grew heavy, his thrusts more urgent. “They’ll have to wait until we’re finished, because I’m not stopping.”

Meinwen ducked down below a headstone, not wishing to be more of a voyeur that she already was. Old Tom didn’t seem as old as his reputation, and Catherine seemed to know him very well indeed.

* * * *

Meinwen sat on the tomb next to the gravedigger. She leaned back with her hand supporting her and was surprised to find the tombstone was wet. She glanced behind and, recognizing the sticky white fluid, pulled her hand away and wiped it on a tissue.

“You’re Tom, aren’t you?”

He looked up from his sandwich. “That’s right. Do I know you?”

She shook her head. “I doubt it, I’m new here.” She held out her hand. “Meinwen Jones. I’m opening a shop in Knifegate.”

“Ah. The witchery place.” Tom wiped his hand on his jacket and shook hers. “It’s a bit funny you coming to a church, though. I thought you folk were afraid of God.”

“Not at all. Your God doesn’t like mine, but that’s all. What’s in your sandwich? It’s making me hungry.”

Tom chuckled. “You wouldn’t like this,” he said. “It’s ham, cheese and hot chili pepper. It’d burn the roof of your mouth right off.”

Meinwen grinned. “You’re probably right. I’m used to simple food. We wouldn’t have chilies where I come from.”

“Whereabouts in Wales is that?” Tom took another bite, crumbs from the bread catching in his stubble. He wiped his mouth with his free hand, a wedding ring flashing in the weak sunlight.

“You could tell I’m Welsh, then?” Meinwen exaggerated her accent and laughed. “I grew up in Aberdovey, on the coast.”

“What made you come here? Laverstone is about as far away from the sea as you can get.” Tom finished his sandwich and spoke through the bread in his mouth. “I bet it was a man, a lovely woman like you must be following her heart.”