by Rachel Green
Jean nodded. “She could do worse, though how she would react if it ever came out…” She let the question hang.
Peter reached up and clasped her hand. “She must never know. She has a little of Robert’s personality, and it is enough that I can see a little of him when I look at her.”
“Very well, you can stay.” She lifted a small metal box from the floor and set out some of its contents onto the bench. The tang of alcohol filled the air and the skin of Peter’s right thigh went suddenly cold as she swabbed it. “I will give you a symbol to hold on to,” she said as the tip of a fresh scalpel blade bit into his flesh. “This is the symbol of Isis, goddess of Egypt. It is from her the myth of the virgin mother came to the West, the one we now worship as Mary. It will be fitting you bear the symbol for my daughter’s name in the flesh of your thigh.”
“Dionysus was born from the thigh of Zeus,” Peter murmured as the scalpel traveled in a series of arcs.
“True.” Jean finished the cutting with the sting of alcohol again and wiped away the trail of blood. Peter sat up to look at it. The symbol of Isis was a circle surmounted by an arc like a pair of curved horns to represent the wings of the Queen of Heaven.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He drew her hand to his lips for a kiss.
* * * *
Jennifer picked at the lumps of diced meat with her fork. It was certainly an unexpected dish after the leek soup. “I haven’t had these since I was in school. I used to think they were made out of brains.”
Meinwen laughed. “Ffagodau are made of liver with a bit of sage and onion and suet to keep it all together. I used to make them for my da.”
“He liked faggots, did he?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “It’s not something we go a bundle on, though they do make a refreshing change.”
“Thank you.” Meinwen grinned as she sliced one in half with her fork and smothered it in gravy. “Actually he hated them, but I didn’t like him either.”
Jennifer laughed. “Why did he eat them then?”
“It was either that or fend for himself, and that would mean getting up from his chair. I was glad when I was fifteen and I could get out.”
“You left home at fifteen? Wasn’t that a bit young?” Simon scooped up part of a faggot and chewed slowly as if she might have laced them with hemlock.
“Not really. Youth is a state of mind, I think. By that time I’d looked after the house and hung on to two jobs for best part of three years since my mam died. I couldn’t wait to leave. You look at some of the youngsters who leave home today. They’re a damned sight younger than I was.”
“I suppose.” Jennifer took one more mouthful to show willing and pushed her plate away. “I would have thought you’d be a vegetarian with your profession.”
“My profession? You make me sound like a prostitute. It’s a rare witch who’s a vegetarian, Jennifer. What would you do when the farmer calls you in to help birth a difficult pig and offers you bacon in exchange? Say ‘no thank you, I’d rather gather some berries?’” She shook her head. “No. Part of being a witch is not to have the pride to refuse a gift. If you refuse the gift of a poor man, you take away his pride.”
“That’s an interesting theory.” Simon used half a boiled potato to scoop up the last scraps on his plate. “Surely it’s not the case these days, though. You could ask for money instead and buy your own food, or grow it.”
“Then I’d be a merchant instead of a witch.” Meinwen put down her cutlery. “Do you expect to get paid for what you do?”
“No, but I’m in the service of God.”
“As am I, though my God is a Goddess and I don’t limit my services to those who agree with me.” She smiled at Jennifer. “So no, I’m not a vegetarian.”
“But you don’t drink tea,” said Simon. “Real tea, I mean. Tea’s natural, isn’t it?”
“And full of caffeine and tannin,” Meinwen countered. “If I wanted to preserve myself like an Egyptian mummy I’d pull my own brain through my nostril, not do it by inches.”
Simon pushed his plate away. “If I hadn’t finished already I would be now. What about coffee? You drink that.”
“Decaffeinated, preferably, but it would have been churlish to refuse the one you bought me, wouldn’t it?” She grinned, reaching out to pat his hand. “Sorry. I’m not actually against caffeine but I prefer to avoid it unless I need the boost of energy.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, Jennifer sipping from a glass of Meinwen’s apple wine. “It’s funny.” She stroked away a line of condensation on the glass. “You being here, I mean. A priest and a witch. Doesn’t the Bible say ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live?’”
“I think you’ll find the original text says ‘poisoner.’” Meinwen collected the plates. “King James had the wording changed so that he could seize land from old women. How were the mushrooms, Simon?”
“Very nice.” The priest narrowed his eyes. “They weren’t poisoned, were they?”
“No.” Meinwen carried the crockery into the kitchen. She raised her voice “Why didn’t you mention the conversation Jennifer overheard? It may well be important.”
“I didn’t think it was.” Simon raised his voice as well. “It only casts Richard in an even worse light.”
“Inspector White would have thought it important.” Meinwen returned from the kitchen with a plate of tarts. “As do I.”
“Well, you know now.” Simon shrugged and sat back with his glass of wine. “Who do you think he was talking to?”
“I’ve no idea. Help yourself to the tarts sioned,” she said. “I’ll get you some cream.”
“What are they?” Jennifer picked one up and sniffed at it. “They smell like lemon.”
“And so they are.” Meinwen handed them a dish each and put a jug of cream in the middle. “My mother’s recipe. Tell me about Susan Pargeter.”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Simon helped himself to two tarts and a generous amount of cream. “She’s been with Robert for a long time. Very efficient, from what I hear. I don’t think there’s any reason to suspect her.”
“What about the drugs she was asking about in the church that day?” Jennifer pressed lightly on Meinwen’s arm. “That was suspicious.”
“I told you before, Jen. What does it matter? Robert was killed with a knife.”
“Everything matters.” Meinwen set a coffee pot and cups on the table and sat down. “Do you remember the stranger who asked you for directions?”
“Of course. What about him?”
“He was at the White Art earlier in the evening. The barman remembers giving directions to a stranger with a Birmingham accent.”
“That’s a relief.” Simon cut into a tart with his spoon and took a mouthful. “I was sure the inspector thought I was making him up. Is he the murderer then?”
“I doubt it. He would not have asked for directions twice if he was intent on killing Mr. Markhew. Also, if the murderer is the blackmailer, he would already know where The Larches was.”
“Good point.” Simon drew a coffee for himself and Jennifer. Meinwen shook her head at the offer. “Why was he going there then?”
“I think he intended to meet with someone.”
Simon sat up. “Who?”
“Susan Pargeter!” Jennifer exclaimed. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? They both have Birmingham accents. I bet she was running away from him and now he’s found out where she lives. She was probably married to him and ran away after years of being beaten with a stick.”
“It’s certainly a possibility,” said Meinwen, “though I don’t think she was running away from him. It doesn’t matter, anyway. If there’s a connection there, I’ll find it.”
“That phone call was from a train that was going north,” said Simon. “It may not have been Richard phoning at all, but the Birmingham man.”
“I thought it was Amanda on the phone?” Meinwen frowned. “You said that the call was from her, even though she denied making it.”
“A northern accent, yes.” Meinwen took a lemon meringue tart from the plate. “Jean and Mary Markhew both came from Leeds.”
“You’re not suggesting either of them did it?” asked Jennifer. “They were kin.”
“And stood to inherit,” Meinwen said. “I will not be happy until I discover what they are hiding.”
“What about Catherine?” Simon asked. “She had an argument with Robert the night he died and was dismissed.”
“She too has a secret,” said Meinwen, “but I’m certain she is not the killer. She could easily have left but didn’t.”
“I think Richard did it after all.” Simon sat back and counted with his fingers. “One, he stood to inherit the house. Two, it was well known that he argued with Robert a lot. Three, he was overheard telling someone to be patient until his uncle died. Four, he wanted to marry Mary and five, he’s fled the area.”
“I still think he’s innocent,” said Jennifer.
“Why?” asked Simon. “I wanted to believe him innocent too. I’ve known the boy all his life, but you’ve got to face facts. His footprints were in the soil outside the window, he knew where the knife was and had access to it, he was in town but not staying at the house, he hasn’t seen Mary since the engagement, hasn’t answered any calls and he disappeared after the murder. That was probably his cell that they found at the murder scene. Much as I hate to admit it, it has to be him.”
“Has to be?” Meinwen shook her head. “There are too many motives. How often do people come to you for help because they have four things that trouble them? I bet they come to you with one thing or like Job, they carry the burdens alone.”
“I suppose.”
Jennifer put her coffee cup down with a bang. “I think Richard was framed.”
Chapter 20
Meinwen was woken far too early for her liking. She was still in her dressing gown which, contrary to her image, was decorated with paw prints. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked when she wrenched open the door.
“Seven-fifteen.” White walked into her house as if he owned it. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“If you must.” Meinwen yawned and shut the door. “Do you mind if I make some tea first?”
“Not at all.” White smiled. “White and two sugars please.”
She left him looking around the living room but he followed her to the galley kitchen. “Did you rent this house furnished?”
“Yes.” She put the tea things on a tray and pushed past him. “Why? Is that important?”
“Not really. I just thought that it didn’t really look like a witch’s cottage, that’s all.”
“And what does a witch’s cottage look like? I tried submitting a design based upon biscuits and sugar cane, but the council rejected it on the grounds of structural stability.”
White laughed. “I don’t know. I expected to find everything black and lit with tallow candles.”
“They’re a bugger to read by.” She put the tray on the table and poured the tea. “That’s why there are so many tales about people getting caught out by the loopholes in the small print. Tallow makes the clauses too indistinct. Give me a good fluorescent bulb and I’ll give you a demonic pact to write home about.” She smiled. “So what brings you here so early in the morning?”
“You tell me, Miss Scribe.”
“Ah.” Meinwen sank into the armchair chewing her bottom lip.”You’ve found the files on Robert’s computer.”
“You should have told me that you were involved. We had the devil of a job tracing those files back to the originating ISPs, then getting warrants for the names and addresses of all the users. He was quite the Jack-the-lad, our Robert Markhew, wasn’t he?”
“I should have told you as soon as I realized.” Meinwen sat forward, barely supported by the chair. “I didn’t want my connection with Sir Robert to color you against me. Mind you, I’ll admit I was taken aback by the number of intimate partners he seems to have had.” She took a deep breath. “It was a bit of harmless fun I thought might turn out to be just as saucy in real life.” She looked into the inspector’s dark eyes. “One odd thing, though. He intimated Jean Markhew was the head of the house and I couldn’t move in without her approval.”
“He was probably putting you off until he’d met you properly.” White sipped his tea. “Was he some kind of sex god? I was tempted to arrest everyone for gross indecency when I read the report on his computer files.”
“You can’t really.” She sat back again, relieved he didn’t seem bent on arresting her. “It’s all words and no pictures. It could be argued as pure fiction.”
“Oh, there are plenty of pictures,” said White. “He got up to all sorts, did our Mr. Markhew.”
“He was a writer and a photographer, don’t forget.” Meinwen pulled out two books from her shelf. “He was very well known in the art scene.”
“So it seems.” White skimmed through the books, his eyebrows rising at one or two of the more extreme pictures.
“You’ll find that all the models were volunteers and signed releases, I’m sure.” Meinwen smiled as he lingered over one or two of the more artistic shots. “You could check with Nicole Fielding for confirmation.”
“I already did after I borrowed a copy from The Larches.” White handed her the books back. “I can’t say I’m keen on all these art pictures of naked men, though Mrs. White borrowed it to read in bed. There’s nothing illegal in these unless I can arrest someone on living off immoral earnings.”
“But they don’t,” Meinwen said. “That’s just a normal household where there is a huge proportion of women to men.” She shrugged. “If he were alive, the best you’d have got Robert on was being a lucky bastard.”
“Not so lucky now.” White drank his tea. “Mind if I have a look at your neck?”
“Sure.” Meinwen shrugged herself out of her dressing gown, dropping it to just above her breasts and turning her back to him. He lifted her hair.
“Nothing.” He sounded disappointed.
“My guess is he only tattooed those he was intimate with on a long-term basis. His permanent lovers, though I’d be interested in knowing how many he had. Not all of them lived with him.”
“No.” White indicated for her to pull the gown back up. “How did he write? We found complete files on his hard drive, but most writers have a dozen revised drafts and I can’t imagine him deleting them.”
“I believe he dictated his books and his secretary typed them up. I’d look on her computer for early versions if you need them.”
“We didn’t find any tape recorders though.”
“They’re different now. Did you find an MP-three recorder?”
“A what?” White looked confused.
Meinwen went into the next room and pulled out her flash drive. “They look like this only with a few more buttons. They record directly to MP-three format which can be transferred to computer just by plugging it in.”
“So this is like a tape recorder?”
“Not that particular one, that’s basically just a chunk of removable hard drive, but you get the general principle.”
“I see.” White smiled and handed it back. “That explains why there were songs on his computer that were just him talking then. They were his dictations.”
“Of course!” Meinwen nodded to herself. “That explains a lot.”
* * * *
When Meinwen entered the graveyard she could see two figures near the south end of the church. One she guessed was the gravedigger and the other, much to her surprise, was Catherine. She edged closer, careful not to be seen but the two seemed to have eyes only for each other. She worked her way close enough to overhear the conversation.
Catherine leaned back against the
tombstone. “I’m sure you’re not supposed to do this. Isn’t it disrespectful?”
“What can be more respectful than me making love to you on a tomb?” The gravedigger stepped forward to stand between her open legs. “It’s a re-affirmation of the cycle of life, isn’t it?”
“Birth, death and rebirth? I suppose so.” Catherine put her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss.
His hand followed the curve of her hip and dived under her skirt, tugging at her knickers and pulling them down. She gasped and fumbled with his pants, unzipping his fly and unbuttoning his waistband before snaking down to free his penis. Her legs folded around his waist, drawing him closer and he raised himself on tiptoe to enter her.
Catherine gasped. “What if someone sees us?”
“Right now?” His breathing grew heavy, his thrusts more urgent. “They’ll have to wait until we’re finished, because I’m not stopping.”
Meinwen ducked down below a headstone, not wishing to be more of a voyeur that she already was. Old Tom didn’t seem as old as his reputation, and Catherine seemed to know him very well indeed.
* * * *
Meinwen sat on the tomb next to the gravedigger. She leaned back with her hand supporting her and was surprised to find the tombstone was wet. She glanced behind and, recognizing the sticky white fluid, pulled her hand away and wiped it on a tissue.
“You’re Tom, aren’t you?”
He looked up from his sandwich. “That’s right. Do I know you?”
She shook her head. “I doubt it, I’m new here.” She held out her hand. “Meinwen Jones. I’m opening a shop in Knifegate.”
“Ah. The witchery place.” Tom wiped his hand on his jacket and shook hers. “It’s a bit funny you coming to a church, though. I thought you folk were afraid of God.”
“Not at all. Your God doesn’t like mine, but that’s all. What’s in your sandwich? It’s making me hungry.”
Tom chuckled. “You wouldn’t like this,” he said. “It’s ham, cheese and hot chili pepper. It’d burn the roof of your mouth right off.”
