Screaming Yellow (27 page)

“It might have been Catherine’s.” Latitia leaned forward. “She was always into the Celtic jewelry. It could easily have been hers.”

“Why would she throw it away?” Jennifer asked.

Latitia shrugged. “I still think it was Mary’s. Perhaps she’s secretly married Richard already and had to throw the ring away to pretend she wasn’t.”

“Perhaps she married Peter instead,” said Simon.

“Why would she? I’m telling you, she’s a lesbian and she’ll only marry Richard for the money. Why would she want Peter if she can have Richard?”

“She’s got a point, you know.” Jennifer drained her third gin and tonic. “Everybody knows she doesn’t like Richard.”

Chapter 24

Inspector White looked at the clock and groaned. Beryl was going to be annoyed and when Beryl was annoyed, White would rather be anywhere than in the range of her sarcasm. The problem was, if he didn’t go home soon and suffer the sarcasm, it would turn into silence and that was worse.

He glanced at the phone. One more call before he could leave. Perhaps he’d pick up a Chinese meal on the way. Beryl would like that, and it would offset the pointed comments about burned dinners.

He read the number off a sheet of paper and dialed. “Mr. J Stevens?”

“Yes?”

“Hello, it’s Laverstone CID here.”

“CID? What’s happened?”

“Nothing to worry about, just a routine check. Would you please confirm your travel for the evening of Tuesday the tenth of April?”

“Er…Was that the night I was in Laverstone? I took the late train home.”

“You took the eleven twenty-five express back to Chester? Thank you. If I could ask you one more thing… Did you see anyone else on the train?”

“Anyone else? There were a few people. I just read the paper though. Sorry.”

“He would have been Caucasian, in his twenties, unshaven and wearing a hoodie.”

“A what?”

“Like a hooded sweatshirt, sir”

“Oh, yes. Jack. We met in the pub. Nice enough lad. A student, I think.”

“Splendid! Where did he get off the train?”

“Birmingham New Street. I saw him light a cigarette on the platform. You’re not allowed to do that, you know.”

“Indeed not, sir. Thank you. You’ve been a great help.”

White replaced the phone, grinning to himself for the confirmation that the unknown stranger had indeed been on the train to Birmingham.

He picked up the phone again.

“British Transport Police? This is Inspector White here, Laverstone CID.”

* * * *

Meinwen shivered and pulled her coat tight as she stepped out of the pub. “Aren’t you cold?”

Latitia laughed. “You get used to it. Parts of the manor are a lot colder than this.” She looked up at the sky. “At least it’s a clear night. There shouldn’t be any rain.”

“No.” Meinwen left the relative shelter of the doorway. “Mind if I ask you something?” She glanced at the pub door. Simon had gone to visit the gents on their way out and Jennifer had hung back to wait for him.

Latitia followed her look. “Something you don’t want your friends to hear, eh? Go ahead then. Fill your boots.”

“What do you know about Tom, the gravedigger-handyman at the church? I heard he sometimes does work at the manor.”

Latitia shrugged. “Not much. He’s not there often. The house staff are pretty handy and can turn their hand to just about anything. We only really see him if we need someone to coach paint the truck. He’s a dab hand at that. Used to do it for years until the plastic signs forced him out of business in the eighties.”

Meinwen frowned. “Coach paint?”

“You know. Putting the little gold lines on and the shop name.”

“Ah!” Meinwen nodded vigorously. “But you’re talking about Old Tom. I meant the young one, his son.”

It was Latitia’s turn to frown. “What are you on about? Tom was never married. Never had a son. He lives on his own in Bank Cottages.”

“Oh.” Meinwen forced a laugh. “I must have got the wrong end of the stick. Never mind, then. I’ll see you again?”

Latitia nodded. “I expect so. It’s not that big a town.” She headed off toward the manor, turning to wave goodbye.

Meinwen shivered, hugging herself until the door opened and Simon and Jennifer came out.

Jennifer linked arms with her. “Will you join us for supper? Simon promised fish and chips.”

* * * *

Jean Markhew carried a silver case into the guest bathroom and gestured for Susan to set a stool next to the sink. “I want an extension cord.” Jean set the case on the tiled vanity unit and flipped open the catches.

Susan bobbed affirmation and returned a few minutes later paying out the cable. She set the plugs within easy reach, raising an eyebrow at the sterile pads and pot of black ink.

Jean pointed at the stool. “Sit. Take off your blouse first, though.”

Susan pulled it off over her head, folded and draped it over the side of the bath. She sat facing the mirror.

Jean pulled her hair forward to reveal her neck, her hand trailing down over the pert breast. “Lovely. When did you enter Robert’s service?”

“Eleven years ago, after his wife died.” Susan’s voice caught in her throat. “He was kind to me.”

“I should think he was. You do a good job.” Jean’s fingers trailed over a nipple and Susan shuddered. “This is the last time I will offer this. Do you wish to leave my service?”

“No, ma’am.” Susan shook her head, her hair falling back over her shoulders. Jean tutted and exposed her neck again.

“Sorry, ma’am.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Then that is also the last time you will call me ‘ma’am.’” Jean leaned forward and kissed the back of Susan’s neck before cleaning it with an alcohol wipe and shaving a small patch. “In private, anyway.”

Susan looked up it time to catch her smile in the mirror.

“From now on,” Jean said, “You will call me ‘Mistress.’”

She smiled as Susan closed her eyes, the buzz of the tattoo gun singing over the white tiles of the bathroom, changing pitch as it dipped into her skin.

* * * *

Jennifer undressed in the darkness, looking through the window. Simon was downing a last scotch downstairs. He claimed it helped him sleep. Jennifer suspected the extra-large helping of haddock and chips would do that.

A flash of brightness caught her eye and she leaned toward the window to see into the garden of The Herbage.

The light flared again in the center of the circle Meinwen had leveled and by the light of the fire Jennifer could see her pacing, lighting five candles. Jennifer recognized the geometric shape of a pentagram.

She stared, too fascinated to move away as Meinwen squatted next to the small fire she’d built, her back toward the rectory. Every few moments her hands flashed outward, lit by the orange of the fire and the silver of the moon.

Jennifer watched for several more minutes before fatigue overtook her and she drew the curtains, ready for bed.

* * * *

Meinwen’s hands flickered over the keyboard. The hour of meditation in the garden had done her the world of good and now her thoughts flew fast and clear as she typed queries into search engines.

It took her until after midnight to find what she wanted. Dating sites and chat rooms furnished her with pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that was itself only a single interlocking piece of the larger canvas of murder.

Alt.sex.org
furnished her with the last piece. A three-year-old query from a woman whose husband had completely lost interest in sex led to a mention in the
Hampshire Times
of a divorce and a three-line paragraph about the sale of a marital home.

Amanda James had been christened Charles Edward James.

Chapter 25

“Dearly Beloved…”

Jennifer looked around the church as Simon’s voice rang out over the congregation. It was fuller than usual, the recent murder and her brother’s incidental part in its investigation swelling the ranks with the curious and the gossipmongers. Even Jean Markhew had brought her daughter, Mary’s presence breaking her four-month absence since the midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.

She wished she’d written his sermon. With the recent events and the accounts to complete it was obvious he’d dashed out a rehash of the parable of the Good Samaritan and called it a day. She was relieved when he got to end and asked them all to stand.
Jerusalem
was her favorite hymn.

* * * *

Meinwen walked around the church until she found Jean Markhew’s Jaguar in the small car park. Susan Pargeter, dressed in a chauffer’s uniform, sat on the stone wall next to it smoking a cigarette in the sunshine. The woman talking to her was just the person Meinwen was looking for.

“Amanda? Can I have a word?”

“I shouldn’t without permission.” Amanda looked to Susan who nodded and shooed them away, leaning back against the smooth stone. Meinwen led the way to the relative privacy of the tomb of Sir Harold Lauder, 1798 to 1874.

“Are you ready to tell me your secret?”

Amanda smiled. “If you’re asking me now you probably already know it. I take it you’ve spoken to my ex?”

Meinwen shook her head. “Not at all. I respect your privacy.”

“Thank you.”

“I still need to know what went on that night. I don’t care about your past unless it relates to the death of Robert Markhew.”

Amanda shook her head. “It doesn’t. I was hanging about to speak to Robert about the rest of the surgery I need. He’d been promising to speak to me all weekend and hadn’t had a chance.”

“You’ve still got your–” Meinwen raised an eyebrow. “You look so…um…natural.”

“Yes. I had an appointment with the surgeon on the Wednesday, that’s why I was so desperate to talk to him.” She shrugged. “I had to cancel it, of course. It doesn’t matter now.”

Meinwen nodded. “I’m sorry. Will he have left you anything?”

“I’m not counting on it. I’ve only been with him since the beginning of the year. Not much longer than Catherine, really.”

“At least that explains your persistence in trying to see him.”

Amanda sighed heavily and looked directly into Meinwen’s eyes. “I didn’t kill Master Robert. He was my ticket to a woman’s world.”

* * * *

Jennifer waited for Simon to finish in the vestry. It was odd she hadn’t seen the curate, though his presence was evident by the open grave awaiting the internment of Robert Markhew the next day. Grace Peters, as a suicide, would not be buried on consecrated ground but would instead be cremated and her ashes interred in the cemetery opposite.

Her brother came out at last, holding his coat over one arm. “You needn’t have waited. I could have found my way home.”

“That’s all right. The internet’s quiet on a Sunday.” She squeezed his arm. “Look! There’s Meinwen gathering bones and grave dust.”

Simon laughed. “I doubt it. She doesn’t strike me as the type to desecrate the dead.” They sauntered along the path until they got to where Meinwen waited at the north gate next to the ancient stone, Long Mab.

“I wouldn’t expect you to hang about a church on a Sunday, Miss Jones,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of all the good Christian vibes?”

Meinwen dipped her head. “Good vibes are never something to be afraid of. No matter what the source, they increase the light in the world.” She looked across at the open grave. “Not so with murder, however.”

“Anything new to report?”

“We can rule out Amanda. She told me her secret and it’s not relevant to the case. She certainly didn’t kill her golden goose.”

“Robert was giving her money then?”

Meinwen nodded. “He would have done, had he lived. They had an arrangement.”