Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  “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.

  * * * *

  “Who’s that?” Jennifer nodded toward a man on the side of the road. “He’s waving at us.”

  “I’ve no idea.” Simon laid his hand on her arm. “Better pull over and see what he wants.”

  Jennifer indicated and stopped the car next to the man. Simon rolled down his window. “Can we help you?”

  “Cheers for stopping, mate.” The man smiled as he leaned down to the height of the window. “Magic. Can you tell me where The Larches is?”

  “The Larches?” Simon’s voice raised in surprise. “Of course. Go to the end of the road and turn left into Cherry Tree Road and the house is past the first bend on your right.”

  “Cheers mate. I owe you one.” He stood, rapping on the roof of the car and leaving nothing but the impression of aftershave and an odd accent. Simon craned his neck to look behind the car.

  “What an odd fellow. I wonder who he was.”

  “You should have asked him.” Jennifer indicated and pulled out again. “He might have been Grace’s lover or something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jennifer. He’s probably a friend of Richard’s from college.” He looked at the time on the dashboard clock. “It’s early yet. How about a nightcap at the White Art?”

  “Are you sure?” Jennifer was dubious. “You’ve had several already.”

  “A little one won’t hurt. Come on. You know you want to.”

  “Very well.” She accelerated toward Laverstone’s only hotel. The internet could wait another hour for her presence.

  The White Art was a rambling old building on the corner of Lovatt Street and Taunton Road. Several men stood at the open doorway smoking cigarettes but Jennifer pulled into the car-park at the back and followed Simon into the lounge. She glanced up at the sign as she passed beneath. It depicted a full moon bisected by the lines of a pentagram. “You ought to complain about that sign.”

  Simon laughed. “Why should I? It’s been like that since before I was assigned the post here.”

  “It’s not right. They should go back to being called the White Hart instead of all this witchery nonsense.”

  “It’s good for the tourists. Mike makes a mint when they come to see the village stones. He gets quite a bit of trade in the summer from the folks doing the Stonehenge and Glastonbury tour.”

  The lounge was quiet, though a fair amount of noise filtered through from the bar. Jennifer stood at the bar and removed her gloves while Simon flagged down the barman.

  “Father Brande. This is a pleasant surprise.” Mike Chapman jerked his head toward the bar. “You any good at darts? We’re being thrashed by the team from Morley Croft.”

  Simon shook his head. “Sorry, Mike.”

  “No matter. What can I get you?”

  “A small scotch for me and...” He looked at Jennifer, his eyebrows raised.

  “I’ll have a port and lemon.” Jennifer looked at the other guests. There was no one she recognized.

  “There you go.” Simon took out his wallet and laid a five-pound note on the bar. “Is Richard upstairs?”

  “I don’t know offhand.” Mike glanced into the bar. “I’ve not seen him, though he might well have come in and gone straight up.”

  “Mind if I check?”

  Mike shook his head. “Help yourself.”

  “Splendid.” Simon touched Jennifer’s arm. “I'll only be a minute. You go and sit down.”

  * * * *

  “So what did you find out?” asked Jennifer when they got home. She was already seething from the silent car journey. “You were gone for ages when you went to see Richard and then just swallowed your drink in one gulp. It must have been something important.”

  “Actually, no. Richard wasn’t there so I left him a note to come and see me. The trouble was I had to go and find a pen and then needed a piece of paper.” Simon looked at her as she took his coat to hang up. “I have to think.” He kicked off his shoes and put his slippers on. “Robert told me some disturbing news. I need to pray for guidance.”

  “Tell me something, at least.” Jennifer put the discarded footwear onto newspaper. “You and Robert were cloistered in his study for over an hour.”

  Simon headed up the stairs. “You were right all along. I’m going to bed.”

  “Right about what?” Jennifer shouted, her exasperation with her secretive brother reaching boiling point, but he gave her no reply.

  * * * *

  Jennifer was engrossed in an online conversation about Margaret’s dog when the phone rang. She looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. Eleven-fifteen. The ringing stopped, answered by Simon in his bedroom. Minutes later he came thundering down the stairs pulling his clothes on as he went.

  Jennifer ran into the hall. “What’s happened?”

  His face was grim. “That was Amanda, the maid at The Larches. Robert’s been murdered.”

  Chapter 10

  Jennifer pulled up onto the gravel drive, avoiding scraping the other parked car by a finger’s width. “That was close,” she said, turning off the engine.

  “Close? You could have wrecked Robert’s Jaguar.” Simon was breathing far too heavily for the simple drive. Jennifer put it down to the drinking. It always made him tetchy.

  “Anyway, what would it matter if Robert’s dead? He’s hardly going to complain is he?” Jennifer pulled off her leather driving gloves and stowed them in the glove box. “And if he comes back from the dead to moan about it, I’ll apologize, okay?”

  Simon scowled and got out of the car, forcing Jennifer to hurry after him toward the dark house.

  She caught his arm. “It’s all closed up for the night. If there’s been a murder here, why isn’t it bustling with activity and the police? Are you sure it wasn’t somebody’s idea of a joke?”

  He scowled. “It’s in very bad taste if it is.” He stepped back, looking up at the darkened windows. “Perhaps they’re all at the back. You wait here and I’ll go and check.”

  Jennifer wrapped her coat more tightly around her as he disappeared around the side of the house. She could hear nothing but the tink-tink-tink of the engine cooling and the hiss of traffic in the distance. She was just debating calling out when the crunch of gravel announced Simon’s return.

  “There’s not a light on anywhere.” He half-ran up the steps and banged on the door. “Better to wake the house than ignore the call, though. Imagine if Sir Robert were lying bleeding to death in his bed? ”

  It took several minutes for lights to come on and the door to be opened. Amanda was pulling a red silk kimono closed. “Father Brande? Did you forget something?”

  “What?” Simon tried to look behind her. “You phoned me about the murder.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was in bed.” Amanda rubbed sleep from her eyes. “What murder?”

  “Robert Markhew, your employer. You phoned me a few minutes ago.”

  Amanda shook her head, a few locks of hair falling from her tight braid. “I assure you I did no such thing, Father. As far as I know, Mr. Markhew is perfectly fine.”

  “Someone’s playing a joke on you, Simon.” Jennifer pulled at her brother’s sleeve. “Let’s leave these good people to their beds.”

  “No. I must insist upon speaking to Robert.” Simon looked from Jennifer to the maid, wide eyes reflecting the light from the hallway. “Someone phoned me and I can’t take the risk that Robert is lying dead or injured somewhere. Wake him up, please, if he really is asleep. If I am just the victim of a cruel prank I will happily apologize afterward.”

  “Best do as he says.” Jennifer pressed Amanda’s arm. “There’s no dissuading him when he gets like this.”

  Amanda shrugged and opened the door wider, standing to one side to allow them passage. There was none of the activity one would associate with a murder evident.


  “Amanda? What’s going on?” Nicole Fielding stood at the top of the stairs, frowning at the unexpected activity. For such an attractive woman during the day, Jennifer thought, she made up for it at night with her hair in curlers and a dressing gown that looked to be a hand-me-down from her grandmother.

  “It’s Father Brande.” Amanda closed the door and went to the bottom of the stairs. “He reckons Mr. Markhew’s been murdered and won’t leave until he sees him.”

  “Nonsense.” Nicole did up the cord of her dressing gown. “Come back in the morning.”

  “I must insist on seeing him forthwith.” Simon glared up the stairs. “Good God, woman, this is a matter of life and death. Would you wake him, please?”

  Nicole grimaced. “Very well but I shall blame you for the inconvenience. Sir Robert doesn’t take kindly to interruptions.”

  “Please do.” Simon looked back at Jennifer, who nodded encouragement.

  She guided Amanda to one of the high-backed chairs. “Let’s get all this sorted out and get back to bed.” Amanda said nothing, merely covering her mouth with her hand to yawn.

  “He’s not in his room or his studio.” Nicole returned to the landing. “Why isn’t he there?”

  “How should I know?” Amanda asked. “He was in the study, the last I heard.”

  “Then let us check.” Simon stepped to the door and rapped on the old wood. “Robert? Are you in there?” When there was no reply he tried the handle. “It’s locked.”

  “Break it down,” Nicole urged, having come downstairs at last. “If something’s happened to him…”

  Simon threw himself against the door but the oak didn’t budge. He tried again with the same result.

  “This is ridiculous,” Nicole said. “Amanda? Go and fetch Peter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Amanda hurried off.

  “Peter Numan?” Simon rattled the doorknob one last time and stepped away. “I didn’t know he was here as well.”

  “Yes, he looks after the cars and the grounds.” Nicole bit her lip as she looked toward the kitchen. “Mr. Markhew took him on when he left school. He was a good friend of Richard’s at the time and didn’t have the qualifications for university. It seemed an apt solution.”