Screaming Yellow (8 page)

“Ah, I’m flattered but I couldn’t accept. Vows of poverty, remember?”

“I’ll leave it to the church, then. Pity for St. Pity’s.”

“Splendid. Thank you.” Simon twisted to look back at the painting. “It’ll hang in the Lady’s Chapel.”

“As you wish.” Robert sighed. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose? Richard’s engagement?”

“Indeed I have.” Simon smiled. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

“I expect so.” Robert nudged Simon’s arm. “Sly little bugger, eh? Still, it keeps everything in the family. Shall we go in? I believe dinner is ready.”

* * * *

Nicole knocked softly on the door to Peter’s cottage. As the gardener and handyman he had the place to himself, a cottage built originally as an adjunct to the main house for visitors to occupy. It served Peter very well, leaving him free to work at any hour without disturbing the rest of the occupants.

It served Nicole well, too. No noise carried from Peter’s cottage to the rest of the house, leaving them free to pursue a relationship outside that of Sir Robert and the rest of the family.

He knew about it, naturally. Little went on at The Larches without Robert knowing the details, but as long as their activities didn’t impinge on either their work or his demands he allowed their relationship to flourish.

After no reply to her knock, Nicole tried the handle. The cottage was empty, Peter’s coat missing from the hook on the back of the door. She kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom, switching on the two wall lights to bathe the room in a soft glow.

She pulled off her dress and put some music on, selecting a book from the shelves to read. Peter wasn’t one for fiction, preferring instead to acquaint himself with the intricacies of whichever cars the house owned or the complexities of maintaining a large garden for year-round color and cut flowers. Between the manuals for the lawn mowers and the Jaguar, though, was a slim volume of poetry. She took it out and sat on the bed in the uniform stockings and underwear Robert Markhew dictated his female staff should wear and began to read.

Much of the book comprised haiku, each one a glimpse into the life of the writer. Nicole flicked back to the cover, where the author was listed as Paul Oldman. She flicked back to the page she’d just read:

secretary smile.

she takes down all he dictates–

silk stocking, torn.

Nicole frowned. It sounded like her. Could Peter have written this under a pseudonym?

She read through several more of the poems. Here was one about Robert, one about love, one about sex between two men…

The minutes ticked by into an hour. The CD she’d put on had begun to repeat the first song and she realized she hadn’t heard the other tracks. She’d read the entire volume by the time she heard the outer door open and Peter’s gruff baritone.

“Who’s here?” He came into the bedroom, his smile when he saw her creasing the corners of his eyes. “Did we have an arrangement tonight? I must have forgotten.”

Nicole held up the book of poetry and his face fell. “Did you write this?”

He nodded, crossing the gap between the door and the bed to sit next to her. He fumbled for her hand. “Don’t tell anyone. We’re not supposed to profit from our positions here.”

“That depends how good you are.” She reached back and unhooked her bra. “Let’s make haiku together.”

* * * *

The dinner was a quiet affair if you discounted Mary’s constant monologue about her engagement. Jennifer was sick of hearing about it even before the main course was served. There were only so many times one could feign interest.

“Have you met Amanda?” asked Robert, when the girl who’d opened the front door came in to take away the remains of the soup course. “She’s staying with us for a little while for some training.”

“Briefly, at the door.” Simon half stood and held out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Father Brande and this is my sister, Jennifer.”

Jennifer smiled, noticing the maid’s honey complexion. “Where are you from, Amanda? Spain?”

“No, ma’am. Basingstoke. My mother’s Spanish, though.” Amanda had a soft, lilting voice and was clearly nervous in front of guests. She gathered up the bowls with an efficiency any restaurateur would envy.

“How long have you had her?” Simon asked when Amanda left the room.

“What?” Robert seemed startled by the question. “Oh. A month or two. Not long. She’s quite good, isn’t she?”

“Quite.”

Jennifer raised her eyebrows but Simon seemed to be deliberately looking away. This at least was a piece of news and she wondered how to work Amanda into her web of Robert’s theoretical harem.

Simon busied himself with his napkin. “Is Susan all right? She was leaving just as we arrived.”

“Was she?” Robert looked around the table. “I hadn’t noticed she wasn’t here, to be frank. Her duties are fairly light with Richard away.”

“Talking of which, how did he propose?” Simon addressed the question to Mary, who was only too happy to discuss the unexpected web chat that initiated such a change to her life.

Jennifer had memorized the details by the arrival of the main course and watched as Simon tucked into the beef and vegetables as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. Robert merely picked at his, pushing the plate away before it was even half finished.

The one-sided conversation from Mary died out by the time they were served cheesecake and coffee. Jean had remained as silent as her brother throughout the meal and even Jennifer, usually so eager to gather gossip, had seemed subdued.

When Amanda had cleared away dessert, Robert looked up. “Would you care for brandy and a cigar in the library, Simon?”

Jennifer pursed her lips, knowing this was an opportunity to gather information she wouldn’t be privy to. Simon would be insufferably smug about it afterward. “I’d be delighted,” he said, rising. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies.”

The moment they’d gone, Mary left the table too, her heels clattering as she dashed up the stairs. Jean watched her daughter until she was out of sight, a smile on her face.

“It’s lovely to see her so happy.”

“It is.” Jean looked at her with narrowed eyes and Jennifer felt she was being judged. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor.” Jean leaned forward to close the gap between them. “Would you mind talking to Robert for me? I’d ask your brother but Robert has a soft spot for the ladies.”

“I’ll try.” Jennifer held her hand. “What about?”

“Mary. She doesn’t really have anything of her own. Anthony, my late husband, didn’t leave us much and it was good of Robert to take us in.”

“So?” Jennifer filed away the tidbit of information. “How can I help?”

“Would you mind asking what sort of settlement he’s going to make on her? I know he’s not really obliged to give her anything, but it would help to get them off to a good start.”

“I’ll do my best.” Jennifer grasped the older woman’s hands. “I promise.”

* * * *

Robert led the way back to the study, unlocking the door and ushering Simon inside. While the priest looked at the huge array of books on the shelves he poured two large measures and sank into a wing chair by the fire. “Do sit.” He waved at the matching chair. “I don’t often get the chance to talk man-to-man with someone. Cigar?”

“Not for me. I don’t smoke.” Simon sat and picked up the brandy, cupping it in one hand. “Thank you, though.”

“I thought all priests smoked.” Robert took one for himself. “Part of the job description, like knocking back the communion wine and deflowering the nuns.”

Simon laughed. “Only in sitcoms and tabloids.”

Robert did his best to smile back but feared it looked polite but strained. He lit his cigar, deep in thought. After a minute or two he looked up, holding Simon’s eyes with his own. “It’s been a rough couple of days. Hell, in fact, if you’ll pardon my use of the expression.”

“I’m not surprised.” Simon leaned forward. “We’ve all been hit hard by Grace’s death and now you have an engagement to deal with.”

“You don’t understand,” Robert interrupted. “There’s more to it than that. Far more.” His voice softened. “You’re a priest. I know I can trust you. Over the last year, Grace and I became very close, close enough that we began to share our personal thoughts.”

“Go on.” Simon nodded.

“I’m not sure that there’s a polite way to say this,” Robert continued, “so I’ll be blunt. The day before she died, Grace told me what had happened with her husband.”

“Henry’s unfortunate demise?” Simon sat back, resting the glass of brandy on his leg. “It could have happened to anybody.” He blushed. “Well, almost anybody. The accident…”

“…was no accident.” Robert put down his glass and held his head in his hands. “Grace planned it all. She murdered him.”

“You can’t be serious.” Simon sat up in his chair. “Why?”

“There were…things…in that marriage that were not right,” Robert said. “Things that would have driven a saint to murder. He was abusing her terribly. I saw the marks he left on her when he was alive. One day she’d had enough.” He threw up his hands. “While he was asleep she altered the knot in the rope he used for his…activities. When he…er…spilled his seed it wouldn’t come loose again afterward. The police ruled the whole affair an accident.”

“That’s horrible.” Simon shook his head.

“There’s more, though. Someone found out about the murder and was blackmailing her for large amounts of money. She was at her wits’ end. She had to tell me because her bank account was almost dry. Another couple of months and she would have had to sell The Herbage. If she’d managed to let it earlier…” He let the sentence hang.

“Who?” Simon sat forward again. “Who was blackmailing her?”

“I don’t know.” Robert hung his head. A line of ash from his forgotten cigar dropped to the ground. “I asked her to give me twenty-four hours to think of what to do to help her before I took any action. Of course, she used that time to kill herself.”

“So Jennifer was right.”

“What?”

Simon looked up. “Jennifer was sure that Grace had killed Henry. I pooh-poohed the notion. I owe her an apology.”

“Not yet. I still don’t know who was blackmailing her. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

Simon reached across and touched his knee. “It’s not your fault, Robert. A suicide is nobody’s fault but their own. Leave any recriminations to God.”

“She’d still be alive if it wasn’t for that blackmailer,” Robert said. “I have to find out who it was. It’s the last thing I can ever do for her.”

“How will you manage that? A private investigator?”

Robert bit his lip. “That’s an idea. I could certainly afford to.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Grace said she’d write me a letter explaining everything. Something I could take to the police.” He frowned, standing. “Wait a minute.” He went to the door and opened it. “Amanda?”

The trainee maid came from the kitchen drying her hands on a tea towel. “Yes, sir?”

“Was there any post this morning?”

Amanda looked around. “No, sir.” She crossed to the sideboard in the hall. “But this was hand-delivered this afternoon. I put it on the side for you.” She handed Robert an envelope.

He looked at the handwriting. “Yes.” He closed the door and tore it open. “This is from Grace.” He scanned the opening paragraph.

My dear friend,

It grieves me to write this but I fear for my life. You may be aware that Father Brande has been visiting me regularly. At first he was a great comfort after the passing but lately I am discomfited by his presence. He–

Robert folded the letter back into its envelope.

Simon put down his glass. “What did she say?”

“Nothing of importance. A suicide note, nothing more. Perhaps if I’d read it sooner…” He tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for the talk. I appreciate you listening to my ramblings.” He opened the study door and stood to one side waiting for the priest to leave. “I’m sorry. This is one of those times I should keep her confidence.”

“It was no trouble at all. I quite understand.” Simon skulked past and Robert closed the door behind him.