by Rachel Green
“I could sever this with a single stroke,” she said. “One slip of the blade and you’d never walk again, forever dependent upon me for your needs.” He felt the trickle of blood as the tip dug into the skin. “You wouldn’t be able to stop me. You wouldn’t be able to complain. The police might have something to say but we all know there’s a killer on the loose. He must have struck again.”
Peter began to shake.
“You’re connecting the dots, aren’t you?” She leaned in close and whispered again. “Robert liked to be on both ends of the blade. I bet you didn’t know that. His skin was a myriad of cuts, just like yours. Where do you think I learned to use a knife? Why do you think he knew just where to cut you for the effect he wanted? It’s because he’d felt them all himself.”
She switched sides, trailing the blade across his shoulders.
“Now you have doubts, don’t you? Now you’re wondering if Robert’s death was murder after all or if I was playing with him, trying to find the perfect spot for a non-lethal thrust. I was wrong that time, but this time I know just where to drive the knife home.”
The steel left his flesh and pricked him just above his lumbar joint. “Who was Robert talking to the night he died? Who did you hear through the open window?” She pressed harder. “Was it Nicole?”
A thin trickle of blood slid under the waistband of his jeans, channeled into the crack of his arse. “I don’t know.” His buttocks tightened. “It could have been anyone.”
More blood and his heart began to hammer anew. The steel slid farther into his anus, traveling deep into his body. Any moment now and he would be crippled for life.
“Who?” Her voice was insistent. “Think! You remember the voice. You’ve heard it before. Whose was it?”
“I don’t know!” His cheeks were wet under the leather. “Please? Yellow?”
“Good boy.” The hood was torn away, leaving him blinking in the bright light of the library. Jean smiled and showed him the teaspoon she’d exchanged for the blade. “The end of a spoon and warm lube. The rest of it was in your head.”
Chapter 17
Scribe: Jennifer? This is Meinwen, next door.
Cacoethes: Clever. How did you trace me?
Scribe: *laughs* I asked Simon what your username was.
Cacoethes: LOL. Fair enough.
Scribe: You know a lot of what goes on in this town. Can I ask you a question?
Cacoethes: Sure. Is it about the murder?
Scribe: Perhaps. I’m looking into backgrounds. The police seem to have ground to a halt.
Cacoethes: OK. What do you want to know?
Scribe: Who was Catherine Latt’s employer before Markhew?
Cacoethes: brb
Scribe: OK
Cacoethes: Back. It was Harold Waterman at the Manor.
Scribe: Oh, great. That place gives me the creeps.
Cacoethes: Want me to go up and ask him about her?
Scribe: You’d do that?
Cacoethes: Sure. I’ve wanted a reason to get inside there ever since he inherited it. I don’t know where he got the money from. One minute he owned a second-hand furniture shop and the next he owns the Manor. Not only that, but the place gets fixed up. He must have spent a fortune on it. The place was in ruins when the old man died.
Scribe: Old man?
Cacoethes: Frederick Waterman. He’d had the place since his parents died as a kid. Harold was his nephew. His sister–the mother–is still alive. She lives in The Terrace. Works for the other side occasionally.
Scribe: Satan?
Cacoethes: No, silly. St. Jude’s, the C of E church.
Scribe: Oh. *laughs* Where do you think the money came from?
Cacoethes: That kind of money? It had to be drugs.
Scribe: Ack. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll ask White to do it.
Cacoethes: Don’t you dare. I’m gone already.
Scribe: Be careful then. What time will you go?
Cacoethes: First thing in the morning, as soon as S leaves.
Scribe: Ring me as soon as you’re back so I know you’re safe.
Cacoethes: Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Scribe: Good night.
“Not playing with your witchy friend today?” Jennifer smiled as she helped Simon on with his coat.
“Professional acquaintance.” Simon smiled back. “Perhaps later. I rather neglected my duties yesterday. I need to check on the church first. The accounts need to be submitted by next Friday and I haven’t even made a start on them.”
“I might drop by later then, and bring you a cup of tea.”
“Make it a double mocha coffee from the deli and I’ll love you forever.” Simon grinned. “In a spiritual, fraternal way, obviously. I don’t want to commit an irredeemable sin.”
Jennifer laughed. “It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.”
She waved him off before throwing on her own coat, backing her Mercedes into the road and heading up to the manor where she was forced to stop. The gates were opened by means of an electronic key she didn’t have. On the gatepost was an intercom terminal.
“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice and Jennifer could hear a child in the background.
Jennifer pressed the intercom button. “Hello. I’d like to see Mr. Waterman, please.”
“Elder or younger?”
“Er,” Jennifer recalled the details. “Harold Waterman.”
“Right. Of course. What is it about?” The baby in the background giggled.
“I’m chasing up a reference for a previous employee? Catherine Latt?”
“Okay. I’ll buzz you through.”
The gates opened inward to leave a gap Jennifer could drive through. The suspension on her car handled the cattle grid with barely a vibration. In the mirror Jennifer could see the gates closing behind her.
She pulled up in a wide gravel turning circle. The manor was bigger than it looked on Google maps, a Georgian-style building with two wings leading off the main house and a stable block to the left hand side, all painted white. The top of the central block–which looked older than the wings–was crenulated in the style of a fortified house and a domed cupola rose from the center. There were at least a hundred windows on four floors. She was glad she didn’t have the job of cleaning them.
“Coo-ee.” Jennifer recognized the voice as belonging to the woman on the intercom. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with skin the color and texture of the mocha she’d promised Simon later. Her hair was braided into corn rows and she wore a t-shirt, jeans and a wide, easy smile. The child on her hip looked to be about eighteen months old, one hand clutching the trailing ends of his mother’s hair and the other balled into his mouth. “We only use the front door for weddings and funerals.” She pointed to the side of the house. “Come ’round the back.”
The back turned out to be a stable yard with several outbuildings and a half-glazed door to the west wing of the house. The woman led the way into the kitchen.
Jennifer held out her hand. “Jennifer Brande. You must be Mrs. Waterman.”
“Hell, no.” The woman laughed. “Do I look sixty? Mrs. Waterman is Harold’s mum. I’m Latitia Campbell.”
“Are you and Mr. Waterman…” Jennifer let the question trail off.
“I’m just the interior decorator and this–” She heaved the child farther up her hip. “–is Levin.”
“He’s adorable. Hello, Levin.” Jennifer smiled at the baby, who dribbled.
Latitia led the way inside and plonked him on the floor where he promptly climbed onto the small two-seater sofa and reached for the remote. Latitia frowned. “He doesn’t respond to Telly Addict yet.” She looked back at Jennifer, her smile fading. “What can I do for you?”
“It was Mr. Waterman I came to speak to.” Jennifer glanced around the kitchen. For such a huge house, it was extremely cluttered, with a dining table crammed into one corner and a mini-lounge in the other. Next to the door was an array of outdoor gear
–coats, boots, several shotguns and an unstrung hunting bow. “Is he here?”
“Aye. Will you get him?” Latitia spoke to someone over Jennifer’s shoulder, but when she turned around there was no one there.
“Sorry.” Latitia smiled at Jennifer’s confused frown. “That must have looked strange. They have a voice-activated intercom system installed. Would you like some tea?”
“Please. White, no sugar.” Jennifer sat at the table. “It’s a lovely place. Is there any chance I could look around while I’m here?” She twisted to see a set of Victorian daguerreotypes on the wall.
“Probably not today,” Latitia set out a tray. “We’re a bit busy with the end-of-tax-year returns.”
“I see. Another time perhaps.” Jennifer turned back to see a tray with three cups of tea already on the table. “That was quick.”
“Harold likes his tea.” Latitia pressed a tippy cup of juice into Levin’s chubby hand.
“Miss Brande? What a pleasure to have you visit.” Harold Waterman was a striking man. Not exactly handsome, he looked like a disgracefully aging rock star, dressed in leather with his white hair tied back into a ponytail.
“Mr. Waterman.” Jennifer stood and shook the man’s hand. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about a previous employee of yours. Catherine Latt?”
“What about her?” Harold sat and took one of the cups of tea. “She was an excellent worker. I have no complaints.”
“Why did she leave?”
Harold paused for a moment and Jennifer watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed a mouthful of Darjeeling. She tried her own, but it was still too hot. “She wanted to work somewhere nearer town, I think.” Harold flashed a smile and Jennifer felt herself warm to him. “We’re a bit isolated up here, and she didn’t really like all the ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
Harold grinned, patting her arm. “In an old place like this? There are several, you know. Most of them are friendly, so don’t worry.”
Jennifer laughed. “If you say so. Was Catherine trustworthy?”
“Absolutely. She can certainly keep a secret.”
“What sort of secret?”
Harold leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret.”
“Did she ever take anything that didn’t belong to her?”
“Of course not. We hang thieves, you know.”
“He’s having you on, love.” Latitia was obviously used to her employer’s humor. “We haven’t hanged anyone in years.”
“Yes. Sorry. I got that mixed up,” Harold said. “We don’t hang thieves. I expect we give them a lollipop and send them on their way.” He frowned. “This was all in the reference I wrote at the time. What are you really after?”
“Could you tell me where she came from? How she came to work for you?”
Harold’s face darkened and he stood. “I think I’ve answered enough questions, Miss Brande. I don’t know where all this is leading, but I think I’ve answered sufficiently for a background check.”
“Just one more.” Jennifer rose as well, the scrape of her chair against the tiled floor loud enough for Levin to turn the television up. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“A few days ago,” said Harold. “Now be off with you. I can assure you Catherine is no murderer.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I have my reasons,” said Harold. “Latitia will see you out.”
* * * *
Inspector White checked the details of the autopsy on his printout. Robert Markhew had been stabbed twice between the fifth and sixth rib, puncturing the lung and left ventricle of the heart. Death would have occurred within seconds. There were no defensive wounds on the body, but the skin displayed signs of a huge number of scars from sharp blades.
Other identifying marks included a small tattoo on the back of his neck, similar to a stylized lunar landing pod.
White leafed through the attached photographs. Markhew had sported the identical tattoo to the one he’d seen on the neck of the maid.
He dropped the file onto his desk. Were they all part of some cult?
White dialed his sergeant’s desk. “Peters? Have you still got the case file for Grace Peters? I need to have a read of it.” A thought occurred to him. “Was she any relation to you?”
* * * *
“That’s his shop over there.” Jennifer pointed through the window.
“I sort of gathered that.” Meinwen handed her a coffee and followed her gaze. “I was going to go in until I met that creepy Jasfoup bloke.”
“They’re rich.” Jennifer shrugged. “They just have different values to the rest of us.”
“I suppose.” Meinwen put her cup down and began to unpack a box. The shop was due to open at the end of the week and so far she’d neglected it. She’d asked Jennifer to meet her there when she’d called to say that her meeting with Harold Waterman had concluded. “What did you find out?”
Jennifer shrugged. “Nothing really. A little about his living arrangements and his interior designer has the most beautiful little boy. A real angel.”
“I meant about Catherine Latt.” Meinwen grinned.
“Oh.” Jennifer pulled herself away from the window. “Not much about her, either. He said that she’d been an excellent worker and he had no problems at all. She left his employ to get a job nearer town. He said that she was trustworthy but got shirty when I asked him how she’d come to be in his employ.”
“That’s when he threw you out?”
“Yes. He kept talking about secrets, and how they wouldn’t be secrets if he told me about them.”
“How odd.” Meinwen opened a box of assorted packs of tarot cards and began putting them on display. “You’ve heard nothing new about Richard Godwin then?”
“Nothing, no. Not since that morning in the park.” Jennifer sipped her coffee.
“What was that?”
“Didn’t I tell you? He was telling someone to be patient and that he couldn’t afford to upset his uncle until he inherited the estate.”
“That’s interesting. Who was it?”
Jennifer shook her head. “I don’t know. I was in the manor woods, behind the park wall. He was on the other side of it. I put out a search on it but no one saw.”
“Curious.” Meinwen put a black cloth over another shelf and began to fill it. “That makes it look worse for Richard, of course, if he was desperate to inherit.”
“He didn’t do it.” Jennifer picked up a set of cards depicting angels. “He’s too obvious. I think someone’s trying to pin the blame on him. Why would he get engaged to Mary and then kill his uncle? It doesn’t make any sense. My money is still on Susan Pargeter.”
“Oh?” Meinwen stopped what she was doing. “Why?”
“She was really upset about Grace Peters’s suicide and was asking Simon all about pills and the effects that they had on the body, and whether they could be detected after death.”
“That does sound suspicious,” Meinwen agreed, “but Robert Markhew was killed with a Klingon dagger.” She grinned. “It was not a good day to die.”
“Not for him, no.”
Meinwen began to open another box. “Who does Simon visit on his rounds? I never knew what a priest actually did on a home visit.”
* * * *
“Undo the top two buttons of your shirt, Peters.”
Inspector White looked at the paperwork on his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were related to Grace Peters?”
“I didn’t think I needed to, sir. She was a distant relative. A great aunt, I think. The last time I saw her was twenty years ago. She gave me a packet of chocolate buttons.”
“Nevertheless, Peters, it could compromise the case.” White stood and moved around his sergeant, pulling down the back of his collar to expose his neck. He was almost disappointed to find there was no tattoo.
“You can button up again,” he said.
“What
did you expect to find, sir?”
“A tattoo, like the one we found on Markhew, the maid and your great aunt.”
Peters shrugged. “I don’t even know what they mean, sir.”
* * * *
“I spent most of the day with your friend Meinwen,” Jennifer said over dinner.
Simon was non-committal. “Oh yes?”
“She’s a lovely woman. She knows all sorts of things about religion.”
Simon grunted through a piece of lemon meringue pie. “Don’t believe everything she says. She’ll only corrupt you.”
Jennifer nodded and took a sip of her wine. “She asked a lot of things about you as well. Who you visited on your rounds, what a priest did on a home visit, that sort of thing. She said we’d better find Richard soon or it will look bad for him.”
Simon looked up. “You didn’t tell her about that conversation you overheard, did you?”
“Of course. She’s investigating the case. She doesn’t think he’s guilty though. I think she fancies Susan Pargeter for the murder.”
“That’s ridiculous. Susan was asking about pills and Robert was clearly stabbed. Look, don’t say anything more about Richard. You’re just helping to incriminate him. I wouldn’t like to see him go down for something he didn’t do.”
“I’m sure they won’t, Simon. Between Meinwen and the police the murderer is bound to be caught.”
Simon grunted, reaching for a second piece of pie. “I hope so. Let’s just hope she’s better at witchcraft than she is at detection. It’s almost a pity the Church banned burnings.”
Chapter 18
Jean sat nestled against pillows, her bedroom curtains closed against the heavy April rain. Amanda stood once more at the side of her bed, holding the saucer for the cup she was drinking from.
The soft light of twin bedside lamps illuminated the girl standing at the foot of her bed. Jean sipped her tea thoughtfully, admiring Catherine’s silent form.
“I don’t care that my brother-in-law dismissed you. Do you still wish to leave?” she asked. “Whatever you and Robert argued about can remain between you and his grave. I am perfectly willing to let you start again with a clean slate. A cook like you is hard to replace.” She finished her tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. Amanda moved it to the silver tray and waited for further instruction.
