Screaming Yellow (29 page)

“Thanks.” Meinwen worked her way past the other customers to Simon and Jennifer. “Rogers was telling the truth. He was here until eleven.”

Simon took a sip of brandy. “I didn’t know Susan Pargeter had a son. Fancy abandoning a child.”

“Shush.” Jennifer pulled at his arm. “You don’t know the circumstances. You don’t have room to talk, anyway.”

“Oh?” Meinwen raised her eyebrows.

“He wasn’t always a priest,” said Jennifer. “He sowed his own wild oats in college.”

Simon lowered his voice. “I had a son once. I wanted to marry his mother when I found out, but her family wouldn’t hear of it. She dropped out of college and I never saw her again.”

“How long ago was this?” Meinwen sipped her drink.

“A long time ago.” Simon shrugged. “He’d be grown up now. I never even saw him as a baby.”

“You must have loved her,” said Meinwen. “I can imagine how heartbreaking it would have been to be denied fatherhood.” She bit her lip. “In a literal sense, I mean.”

“It was.” Simon gazed through her for a moment. “Did you believe Rogers when he said Susan gave him money for college?”

“Not in the least.” Meinwen drained her glass and put it down. “I think he may well be our blackmailer.”

* * * *

Mary Markhew spent the afternoon in her bedroom with a DVD and a book. At least, that was what she told her mother at lunch. Jean might have approved of the historical romance had she bothered to look at the post arriving from Mary’s online rental, but she would have confiscated
Pirates of the Rutty Ark
on sight. It was fortunate Mary hadn’t shown it to her.

She slipped it in the player and lay on the bed, her fingers slipping under the elastic of her knickers. Minutes later, and without reference to the film, she began moaning with pleasure, her eyes half-lidded.

It wasn’t Richard she was thinking of, but Peter.

* * * *

Jennifer paused as Meinwen turned up the hill instead of down it as the trio walked home. “Where are you going? The Herbage is this way.”

Meinwen turned and walked backward to face him. “I have an errand to do. Nothing your profession would approve of.”

“Ah.” Simon gave her an upward nod. “Perhaps we’ll see you later then. Will you be at Robert’s funeral tomorrow?”

Meinwen raised her arms with a shrug. “I don’t know. I’d like to, but being so involved with the case I don’t think that Jean Markhew would appreciate my presence.”

“Funerals are for those left behind.” Jennifer leaned against the telephone box on the corner. “It gives them release.”

“Then I will leave that dubious pleasure to her. See you.”

“Bye.” Simon shook his head as he watched her stump up the hill. “She’s a strange woman.”

“What did you expect?” Jennifer put her arm in his. “She has a different set of values to you. You can’t always expect two such distinct belief systems to interlock.”

“I suppose not. What’s for lunch, anyway?”

“With any luck–” Jennifer picked up the pace. “–a lovely piece of beef if it hasn’t burned to a crisp after all this time.”

* * * *

Meinwen labored up The Bank. “You have to be fit to live here,” she said to no one in particular. The short row of terraced cottages at the top of the steep hill were just coming alive with color, the gray stone of the walls gathering the warmth of the sun and sending it back in bursts of yellow from the late winter jasmines and the early broom and forsythias.

Of the four cottages, one had a plastic swing set in the garden, one had washing out, one showed no signs of life, and the last was pristinely kept. She chose the last one to knock at. It was opened by an elderly lady.

“Yes?” She looked Meinwen up and down. “I don’t buy anything at the door and I’ve got no money or valuables in the house.”

“I’m not selling anything, not even religion.” Meinwen smiled at her and visibly relaxed. “I’m just looking for Old Tom.”

“You won’t find him. He’s gone up to his brother’s for a fortnight.”

“Really? That’s a shame.” Meinwen took out her wallet and flashed a picture of her Aberdovey Hill Ramblers club membership card. It was in Welsh, but had a nice picture of her. “I’m from the premium bonds. He’s come into a bit of money.”

“Has he?” The woman smiled. “That’ll be nice for him, he deserves a bit of a break. He looks after my garden for me, see?”

“It’s beautiful.” She turned and gave it an admiring look. “I like the way you’ve got herbs interspersed with the bulbs. That’s the first rue I’ve seen this year.”

The lady’s smile was almost warm enough to bask in. “You know your herbs. Would you like to come in? I think I’ve got his brother’s address in my book.”

“Thank you. That would be kind.” Meinwen followed, glad she had no ill intent toward the lady. The front door led directly into a sitting room where a wood-framed armchair was festooned with wool and pieces of knitting. A radio played softly in the background and the woman switched it off. “I can’t afford a telly. Not even with the reduced license.” She went into the kitchen. “It’ll be in the drawer. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m Edie, by the way.” The woman pulled open a drawer and took out a thick book full of pieces of paper. “Edith, really, but everyone calls me Edie.” She sat at the little table next to the glass-paned back door and started flicking through the loose papers. She seemed out of breath.

Meinwen sat in the other chair. “Have you got nettles in the garden?”

Edie looked up. “There’re some behind the shed, I think.” She gestured to the door. “Why?”

“May I pick some?”

“They’re weeds,” Edie said. “You can have as many as you like, but not so many as the caterpillars starve.”

Meinwen went into the tiny back garden and found a patch of nettles with their first shoots crowding the gap between the shed and the garden wall. She picked a handful, glad that their sting hadn’t yet developed. She returned to the kitchen where Edie was still sorting through her book.

“Do you have a pan?”

Edie indicated the cupboard next to the electric cooker. “What are you going to make?”

“An herbal remedy. You’ve got a touch of anemia, and a bit of nettle tea will do you good.”

Edie frowned. “If you say so.” She began writing an address onto the back of an envelope in neat copperplate handwriting.

Meinwen stood at the hob until the infusion had simmered for five minutes then strained it into a cup. “You can add a bit of honey if it’s too bitter.”

“Thank you.” Edie smiled. “Can I give you something for it?”

Meinwen shook her head. “Just the address of Tom’s brother.”

* * * *

The sun had set by the time Meinwen got back to The Herbage and drank a pot of Earl Grey in front on her computer. An hour of navigating the electoral registers furnished her with several pages of notes and a good idea of Jack Rogers’s history.

He lived with his father, John Rogers, in a house in Lickey, about ten miles south of Birmingham, since his birth in ’eighty-five. The house had been bought by John and Susan Rogers in ’eighty-one and they had lived there until she left six years later.

Further investigation had revealed where Susan had moved to. In ’eighty-seven she had moved in with her mother, Grace Pargeter, who had, since her daughter had left home, moved to Laverstone, remarried and changed her name.

Meinwen felt pieces of the jigsaw clicking into place. Grace Pargeter had become Grace Peters until her supposed suicide the previous week.

Chapter 27

White entered the church with slow, measured footsteps, noting the simple white flowers for the funeral. Despite his even tread, his boots rang against the stone until he paused at the rood screen separating the choristers from the nave. He inspected the carvings, marveling at the skill of the artisans.

He straightened when the priest appeared from just below the altar. “I was just admiring the woodwork. Fifteenth century, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Simon raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had an interest in architecture, Inspector.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Father Brande.” White gave a perfunctory smile. “I was passing the church and saw the door open. I dropped in to tell you we let Mr. Rogers go home last night. His alibi checked out. He was in the White Art at nine-thirty which rules him out for the murder.”

“Yes.” Simon buffed the altar cross with the sleeve of his cassock. “We asked Mike about that too, actually. I was sure it was going to be him. We’re back to square one in the hunt for Richard, aren’t we?”

“I’m afraid so.” White hesitated. “Will you tell Ms. Jones or shall I?”

“She guessed he’d be cleared.” Simon stepped backward. “But since I’ve got two funerals this afternoon I’d be grateful if you would. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.”

White nodded. “I don’t mind. There’s not a lot more I can do until Mr. Godwin turns up. I just hope she doesn’t give me any of that blasted foreign tea.” He nodded. “Good day to you, Father.”

* * * *

Mary Markhew slammed her bedside drawer shut and began to dress. Her bedroom looked out onto the rear garden and the irregular hum drew her to the window. Outside, Peter rode a large lawnmower over the fresh spring grass, the first cut of the year sending the scent of wet grass into the house.

Since today was her uncle’s funeral it was a necessity she wore black. She chose her full-length velvet skirt and mock-Tudor top, the long sleeves complementing the handkerchief pattern of the hemline. Calf-length boots hid her striped tights from view and she spent half an hour applying make-up to give herself the effect of Cleopatra in mourning.

She looked out of the window again. Peter was just putting the mower away.

* * * *

“Inspector.” Meinwen brandished a bowl of cereal. “Come in. I overslept, I’m afraid. I was supposed to open the shop this morning but I got a bit involved online and ended up not going to bed until three. What can I do for you?”

“I dropped in to tell you that I released Rogers. Since his alibi checked out we had no reason to hold him.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.” Meinwen waved her spoon at him. “I think we’ve got the time of the murder wrong. If I’m right, the murder was committed much earlier, which puts him right on the scene.”

White sighed, closing his eyes for a second or two. “What make you think we have the timing wrong? Eric Chambers, the coroner, said the murder had occurred within three hours, ergo, between nine PM. and midnight.”

Meinwen swallowed another mouthful of oats. “Assuming the room had remained at the same temperature for those three hours. But what if the temperature had dropped significantly after the first hour? That would have given the body a higher temperature prior to that.”

White took out his notebook. “I can’t fault your reasoning, but how do you arrive at the theory? There’s no evidence to suggest he was killed any earlier. We have witnesses who heard him after nine-thirty and Miss Markhew said goodnight to him at nine forty-five.”

“I think Mary was lying. Do you want a cup of tea?” She headed to the kitchen, leaving White no choice but to follow her.

“Where do you get that from? And yes, I’ll have a tea if you’ve got some English tea bags.”

“Tea comes from the Far East. None of it is English, unless I can tempt you with dried elderberry and nettle.”

“No, thanks.” White failed to hide his grimace. “I’ll have the supermarket variety if you don’t mind.”

Meinwen laughed and dropped two tea bags into mugs. “What if Mary was lying when she claimed she’d said goodnight to her uncle? There’s still that missing hundred pounds unaccounted for and we know that although Markhew only gave her twenty pounds a week she has a bigger wardrobe than most working girls.”

“All the working girls I’ve met had very little in their wardrobes,” said White, his face perfectly straight.

Meinwen glared. “You know what I mean.”

“So you think that Mary took the money and murdered her uncle?” White sat on a pine chair. “I find that a little hard to believe and I certainly don’t see any evidence to support it.”