Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  “If you insist.” Simon led the way along the path. “I don’t understand why you’re so skittish.”

  “You know that feeling when you walk into a cathedral and you feel so peaceful you could just lie on the floor and sleep?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “This is the opposite.” She stopped stock-still. “What’s that noise?”

  Simon cocked his head to one side like a dog. “It’s the river. We’ll cross it in a minute. There’s a waterfall farther up, where the Laver leaves the High Chalk. They call it Lover’s Leap, a romantic bastardization of Laver’s Leat.”

  “A waterfall?” Meinwen stared into the woods.

  “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

  Meinwen shook her head. “No, thanks. Not today. I’d rather get out of the woods, please.”

  “As you like.” Simon pointed at a patch of light through the trees. “Look! There’s the edge of the wood, just past the bridge.”

  “Thank goodness.” Meinwen picked up her pace, forcing out a laugh. “I hope there are no trolls here.”

  Simon chuckled and followed her out, nearly bumping into her when she stopped to pick up something from the path. “What now? Another wedding ring?”

  “No.” Meinwen paused, deep in thought. “It’s a raven’s feather.” She looked up into the trees, trying to spot the bird.

  “Ugh.” Simon grimaced. “Put the filthy thing down.”

  “Why?” Meinwen turned to him, her anxiety about the woods forgotten.

  “They’re unclean.” The look on Simon’s face was sheer horror at the blue-black feather in Meinwen’s hand. “Ravens represent impurity, destruction, deceit and desolation.”

  “Also wisdom, knowledge and protection.” She ran the feather through her fingers. “Tha gliocas an ceann an fhitich.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Gaelic. It means ‘There is wisdom in a raven’s head.’” Meinwen smiled. “In Irish folklore Raven is associated with the Triple Goddess, the Morrigan, who took the shape of Raven over battlefields as Chooser of the Slain. She was a protector of warriors, such as Cu Chulain and Fionn MacCual.”

  “And it was cursed by Noah for not returning to the ark with news of the receding flood.” Simon stomped past her. “It’s an ill omen, I tell you.”

  “Yet, conversely, the Bible also says that ravens were the protectors of the prophets.” Meinwen tied the feather into her braid and caught up. “They fed Elijah and Paul the Hermit in the wilderness and helped St. Cuthbert and St. Bernard.”

  “That was an exception.” Simon stepped out of the wood onto Lew Road. “Ravens represent evil. For centuries both witches and the Devil have been able to take the shape of a raven.”

  “And why shouldn’t they? It’s a pleasing shape to take.” Meinwen looked up at a tall man in an expensive grey suit carrying a furled umbrella. He wore sunglasses even in the shadow of the trees, the edges of the glass all but invisible against his dark skin. The feeling she’d had when she entered the wood returned so fast it gave her a headache.

  “Mr. Jasfoup.” Simon’s smile was so fake he could be selling used cars. “What a lovely surprise. We were just admiring your wood.”

  “Harold’s wood, really. I’m just staying at Laverstone Manor between contracts.” Mr. Jasfoup was tall with the elegance of someone who knew how to make the best of his assets. His skin was darker than Daffyd’s, the color of rich Belgian chocolate. “But I am remiss in my etiquette. Introduce me to your charming companion, Father Brande.”

  “Oh, this is Meinwen. Meinwen Jones. She’s just moved into the town.”

  “Oh, the new tenant at The Herbage?” Mr. Jasfoup bowed, his Italian suit creasing in exactly the right place. “I’m delighted to meet you, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” Meinwen could make out a shadow around the gentleman as if his aura was shifting. She decided on the spot she didn’t trust him.

  “Well, I won’t keep you.” Mr. Jasfoup nodded to them both. “Father Brande, please pass my condolences on to Mrs. Markhew and the family. I heard about the unfortunate incident.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Simon nodded, his voice guarded, and the gentleman walked past them into the wood, heading toward the mansion at the other side of the wood.

  “Who was that?” Meinwen asked when he was out of earshot. “He gives me the willies.”

  “That was the companion,” Simon managed to sneer through the word, “of the lord of the manor, Mr. Harold High-and-Mighty Waterman. I don’t know that much about him, he tends to keep himself to himself.”

  Meinwen shuddered. “I hope I don’t run into him very often.”

  They crossed Lew Road and Simon motioned her through an old iron kissing gate into the cemetery beyond. The gate clanged closed behind her and she waited while he caught up. “You don’t like this Waterman chap very much, then?”

  “I’m sure he’s a fine gentleman, and I’ll admit he gives generously to the church,” said Simon, “but he’s very standoffish. He has a way of talking with a sneer as if he’s tolerating you about as much as a ground beetle. Good for the community but not something he wants to spend any time with.”

  “Not a Catholic, then?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t struck by lightning if he set foot in St. Pity’s.”

  Meinwen laughed. “It’s a beautiful building.” She paused to gaze up at the spire. “How old is it?”

  “Mostly nineteenth century.” Simon pointed at a section built from a different shade of stone. “Though St. Mary’s Chapel goes back to the sixteenth and the catacombs below even further.”

  “Catacombs?” Meinwen raised an eyebrow. “That’s unusual for a town.”

  “It is. They’re all blocked off, I’m afraid. They used to connect the town with the Long Wynd.”

  “Long Wynd?”

  “The barrows to the east. You should visit them. Bronze Age, I believe.”

  “I will.” They walked under the lich-gate into Church Lane. Meinwen looked up the road. “I know where we are now. My house is just up here.”

  “Indeed it is.” They walked side by side up the road.

  “Tell me about Grace Peters,” Meinwen said. “How did her husband die?”

  “We all thought it an accident at the time. He had an accident while Grace was playing bingo at the Women’s Institute. I only found out recently she’d planned it.” Simon shook his head. “There’s one soul that I couldn’t save.”

  “I see.” Meinwen looked at the priest, his face drawn in genuine sorrow. She touched his arm. “I’m sorry. What relationship did she have with Robert Markhew?”

  Simon shrugged. “Just friends, I thought.”

  “I was surprised she had the same tattoo as the maid.”

  “A tattoo?” Simon frowned. “Grace didn’t have a tattoo. I’d have known. What tattoo did Amanda have?”

  “A double-R, like a monogram. Grace did have one on her neck, under her hair. The inspector checked. It was on the coroner’s report.”

  “Well I never saw it. And Amanda has one too? How curious. If that was Robert’s it would point toward something more…intimate.”

  “We don’t know it was Robert’s design.” Meinwen pressed her palms to her cheeks. “That’s only supposition at present. We don’t even know what it means. It could be the mark of a secret society or a cult.”

  “A cult?” Simon clenched his teeth. “What’s the betting that they’ve all got them? Jennifer said all along he had a harem. I’d rather she was right than find there was a cult under my very nose.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” They reached the house and Meinwen opened the gate to hide her blush. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  Simon checked his watch. “A quick one, perhaps, and then I must be on my way. I still have a sermon to write.”

  Meinwen unlocked the door and led the way inside, leaving Simon perusing her bookshelf while she made tea. A few minutes later she returned with a tray. Simo
n looked at it dubiously.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “This is just a breakfast blend.”

  She sat in the wing-backed armchair, the only heirloom she possessed. Whenever she used it, she could still smell the tobacco her grandfather had used in his pipe, though the chair had been professionally cleaned long since.

  “Do we know how Anthony Markhew died?” she asked.

  Simon tore his gaze away from the bookshelf, crammed with books like The Use of Fetishes in Long-distance Spellcraft and Blood Rituals: How to Avoid the Interest of the Lower World. “Jean Markhew’s husband? If I recall correctly he died of a stroke accompanied by massive internal bleeding. I never actually met him, though. They lived up north, somewhere in the God-forsaken wastes. Leeds, I think. Why?”

  Meinwen steepled her fingers. “If Robert Markhew had a relationship with his sister-in-law is it possible he had something to do with his brother’s death?”

  “I doubt it, though these books–” He gestured to the shelf. “–have made me think of long-distance fratricide by witchcraft. I don’t think Sir Robert and his brother were on speaking terms at the time.” He picked up a bag of white, knobbly objects. “What are these?”

  “Human knucklebones, used for divination.” Meinwen smiled at the speed with which the Catholic priest dropped the bag. “Why? Had they fallen out?”

  Simon shrugged and picked up a piece of stone, holding it to the light where the blue and white marbled texture glimmered. “I’ve no idea. Perhaps Robert really was fornicating with Jean.” He laughed and tossed the stone from hand to hand.

  “Be careful with that.” Meinwen clenched her teeth. “It’s a dried gallbladder.”

  “Eww. That’s disgusting.” Simon replaced it and sat, taking his tea from the tray. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to imagine who might have been blackmailing Grace. She pretty much kept herself to herself. Apart from Susan, I was the only one who visited her regularly.”

  “And you had no suspicions?”

  Simon shook his head. “None. You could have knocked me down with a feather when Robert told me about the blackmail.”

  “What sort of feather?” Meinwen twirled the one in her hair. “A raven’s?”

  * * * *

  Jean Markhew was waiting for him when Simon returned home. “Oh, Father Brande. At last.” She broke off from her talk with Jennifer. “Would you be a dear and talk to the blasted solicitor?”

  “Jean.” Simon put down his briefcase and shook her hand with both of his own. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw Robert’s car in the drive. What solicitor? What about?”

  Jennifer left the room, heading toward the kitchen. Jean watched her go “The one dealing with the will.” She crossed her legs, treating Simon to a flash of leather-heeled boots. “Robert only left me fifty thousand pounds, and he’s left Susan Pargeter twice that.”

  “The housekeeper? Why?”

  “You tell me. They weren’t very close. I don’t know what he saw in her.”

  “Perhaps you could contest it after the inquest,” suggested Jennifer, returning with a cup of tea she handed to Simon. “If all the beneficiaries agree, a will can be changed.”

  “Inquest?” Jean narrowed her eyes. “There isn’t going to be an inquest.”

  Simon sipped at the hot brew. “There must be, Jean. Robert was murdered.”

  Jean waved a hand “I’m sure no one meant to murder my brother-in-law. It may well have been an accident. Someone slipped while holding the knife, I expect.”

  “Why do you think that?” Simon collapsed onto one of the dining chairs. “It looked to be a deliberate murder to me.”

  Jean shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. An inquest isn’t going to bring him back, is it? All I want is for all this to be done with and we can get back to normal. Then Richard can come home from wherever he is and marry Mary.”

  * * * *

  “Miss Markhew?” Nicole Fielding knocked on the door of the girl’s room. The noise of the melancholy music that had grated on her nerves for the past half an hour abruptly ceased.

  “Yes?” Mary’s voice sounded thin and reedy. “What is it?”

  “It’s Nicole, miss. I have a small problem, if you’d be so kind.”

  The door opened a crack, just wide enough for Mary to peer out. Her hair was mussed, as if she’d been rubbing it against a pillow. “What problem?”

  “It’s the petty cash, miss. I need to send someone down to the supermarket but I’ve no house money left. Mr. Markhew always used to give me the housekeeping on a Friday, but with him gone…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Can’t you ask my mother?” Mary rubbed her eyes. “I don’t deal with that sort of thing.”

  “I would, miss, but your mother’s gone into town.”

  “Oh. very well. Where does he keep it?”

  “In his bedside drawer, miss. I saw him put it there the night before he was murdered, but I don’t like to just take it without a witness.”

  “Come on then.” Mary led the way to her uncle’s bedroom. “Where does he keep it?”

  “That drawer there, miss.” Nicole pointed and watched as Mary took out a sheaf of bank notes. “Thank you.” She leafed through the stack. “Wait. This can’t be right, it’s a hundred short.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, miss. It’s always three hundred pounds. Never more, never less. There’s only two hundred here.”

  Mary frowned. “Who else knew about it?”

  Nicole counted on her fingers. “Mrs. Markhew, of course, and Catherine. She normally does the shopping but she’s put her notice in.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “She had an argument with Mr. Markhew before he died. She wants to leave right away.”

  “Let’s go and ask her.” Mary led the way downstairs to Catherine’s room where she rapped on the door. Nicole could hear a few thumps before Catherine replied and she was able to follow Mary inside.

  Catherine was sitting on her bed with a novel in her hand. A photograph in a frame had been turned facedown on the table and Nicole longed to look at it.

  “I hear you’re leaving us.” Mary could sound as cold and impassive as her mother at times.

  “That’s right.” Catherine stood, her face red and blotchy. “Mr. Markhew shouted at me because I shifted some papers on his desk without permission and he asked me to leave.”

  Mary pressed on. “Do you know about the housekeeping money?”

  Catherine nodded, twirling her pendant through her fingers. “Of course. I used to do all the shopping. That’s today, isn’t it? I’d forgotten with all the upheaval.”

  “You didn’t take any of the housekeeping early, then?” Mary’s voice dripped with suspicion.

  “No, of course not. I always wait for Sir Robert to give me what I need.”

  * * * *

  Mary leaned back against her headboard. The business with the missing money had been upsetting and she’d retreated to her room after imploring Nicole to “be a bit frugal this week.” At least they wouldn’t have to shop for Richard’s expensive tastes. The old man would happily pay more for an ounce of pâté than Mary’s whole weekly allowance. On the other end of the phone, Meinwen rabbited on about the murder.

  “So you’ve no idea what she and Mr. Markhew were arguing about?”

  “No.” Mary fingered the silk of a dress she’d found in the thrift shop. It was so pretty she hadn’t been able to resist buying it, even if it had been four sizes too small. “She said that it was over moving some documents but I don’t think that was the whole truth.”

  “What was she doing on the night of the murder?”

  “I don’t know.” Mary tried to remember. “I think she said that she went to bed early.”

  “That’s not much of an alibi!”

  “But would an argument be enough reason to kill my uncle?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.” Mary could imagine Meinwen laying out tarot cards to divine the
murderer’s identity. “But then, people are killed over the loss of a parking space these days.”

  Chapter 16

  Peter felt the hood go over his neck, the holes fitting snugly over his nostrils. His breathing slowed and his heartbeat, hammering since he was called to the house, calmed until he was no longer aware of it.

  “Good boy.” Jean’s voice filtered through the leather of the hood. “Be calm. Be still.”

  The cold steel tip of a blade caressed Peter’s exposed lips, running down over the fabric of the mask and into the fabric of his shirt. There was a tug as she cut through the stiffened collar, then the icy touch of the edge as it followed the line of his spine, cutting the shirt from his back. He knew how sharp the knife was, having sharpened every one of Mr. Markhew’s toys. This, he could tell from the way it moved, was the stiletto.

  His shirt fell to the front and was yanked off his arms, exposing his torso to scrutiny.

  “He did play hard with you, didn’t he?” He could feel Jean’s fingers following the tracery of old cuts and scars Robert had taken pleasure in applying–every cut deep enough to bleed, and shallow enough to heal with nothing more taxing than a wash with warm water and a line of antiseptic cream.

  His hands were twisted behind his back and he gripped each elbow with the opposite hand. No need for bondage, Peter was more than willing to take whatever she offered. Even through all of Robert’s attentions he had called yellow only once, and that was when he had become faint from blood loss and had to be helped to a seat.

  Robert had taken great care of him that night, bathing his wounds personally and kissing each one better before laying him down on freshly laundered linen sheets as he slid his penis into Peter’s accepting arse, his hand reaching around to assist Peter in his own orgasm until they both came together and lay still, entwined in each other’s arms for the rest of the night.

  “I said kneel.” Her voice broke his train of thought and he dropped to his knees, splaying his legs as Robert had preferred. She ignored his cock, running the blade once more down his spine.