by Rachel Green
“Help me out, would you?”
Susan climbed out to open the back door. “Is there anything you need, ma’am?”
Jean walked her to the front of the car where she sat on the hood, grateful for the heat of engine against the cold wind. She fumbled in her handbag for her cigarettes and offered one to the housekeeper. “Filthy habit but I feel the need. Did you know Father Brande smoked? You could have knocked me over with a feather when he took one.”
“I didn’t, actually.” Susan lifted a cigarette to her lips and waited for Jean to do the same, cupping her hands around the end when the older woman held out Robert’s lighter.
Jean took a long drag in silence, blowing out the smoke through pursed lips. “You’re staying with me, aren’t you?” She sounded tired.
“Yes, ma’am.” Susan stared straight ahead as Jean studied her profile.
“Why did Catherine decide to leave?”
“I don’t know for sure.” Susan looked into her employer’s eyes. “Some sort of argument with Sir Robert, I think. It upset her.”
Jean took another drag of her cigarette and dropped the rest on the tarmac, grinding it out with her heel. “I don’t know why he employed her in the first place. She’s quite useless.”
“He didn’t, ma’am.” Susan frowned. “It was a favor to Richard, I think.”
“Was it indeed? How interesting.” She went to the hedge and broke off a straight wand of hazel, trimming off any side shoots with her fingers. “I want you spread-eagled across the hood. She positioned herself to one side, lifting Susan’s skirt and pulling her knickers taut to expose her bottom. “Think of this as a reward.” Jean ran a finger down the stick she’d just cut then raised it high, her target the crease where Susan’s arse met her thighs.
She ignored the hoots of passing drivers.
* * * *
Jennifer jumped as Simon poked his head into the kitchen. She hadn’t heard him come in.
“What a lot of jam! No need to tell me what you’ve been doing today.”
“I’ve been quite the busy bee.” Jennifer put down her jam labels and reached for the kettle. “How was your day? Did you get your sermon done?”
“Eventually, once I’d got rid of Jean Markhew.” Simon sat at the table. “That woman can whine for England.”
“I’ll bet. Did she say anything interesting?”
“Not much.” Simon shrugged off his coat, leaving it draped over the back of his chair. “She’s worried about the will and whether Meinwen would think she murdered Robert.”
“Was it?”
“What?”
Jennifer peered through the glass front of the oven. “Was it her who killed him? Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
“No, of course not. The idea of her killing someone is absurd.”
“She was here earlier. I’ve promised her some jam.”
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Who? Jean Markhew?”
“No, Meinwen. She wanted to know what cellphone Richard used.”
“Oh. It was a Nokia, I think. I don’t know what one, though. I don’t take any notice of other people’s phones because I’m happy with the one I’ve got. You won’t catch me coveting my neighbor’s cell.”
“Yours is a brick,” Jennifer said.
“But easy to use.” Simon pulled it out of his trouser pocket. “I don’t have to remember where all the functions are. I don’t need any gadgets.”
Jennifer laughed. “As the bishop said to the actress.”
Chapter 22
Jennifer scurried out of her office when her brother came home the following evening, to find him stomping about the hall, his coat and briefcase flung untidily onto the hall pew. She half led, half dragged him to the sitting room where he dropped into his favorite easy chair and sat back rubbing his temples. “That’s tomorrow’s sermon done as well as the end-of-year accounts.” He opened his eyes and reached for the scotch. “I loathe that job.”
Jennifer switched on the gas fire. “Well, you can forget about them now, at least until the bishop sends them back with a query note attached.”
“Don’t!” Simon made the sign of the cross. “He’s been on at me about my fuel usage as it is.”
“Is that why you’ve started to walk a lot more?”
“Yes, and it’s killing me. I shall have to get a bicycle if the diocese funds will allow it.”
“I could have a look on Freecycle.” Jennifer was the local administrator for the free trading group. “I see bikes go up for grabs occasionally. I could even ask for one on your behalf if you like. It’s more reasonable than the post that I saw this morning that was asking for a luxury saloon car.” She bustled into the kitchen
Simon raised his voice. “Yes, please. That would be a big help. I’m glad our computer is good for something.”
“I couldn’t write without it.” Jennifer returned, placing a cup of tea in front of him. “It suits me to do all my research at the click of a button instead of spending hours poring over dusty books in the library.”
“Thanks.” Simon handed her the empty glass and picked up his tea. “The council had a meeting about the library. It seems a lot of people are of the same opinion and they’re thinking of closing it.”
Jennifer scowled. “We’ll see about that. I can soon rally a petition to save it.”
“What’s the point? If nobody uses it let it close.”
“I’ll have a word with Mrs. Sedgewick after church tomorrow. She’s been the librarian since we were tots.”
“Aye. She was a rabid old battleaxe and never changed. When’s dinner?”
“Not for an hour yet. You were home early for a Saturday.” Jennifer sat on the sofa. “Why don’t you go and tell Meinwen about Jean Markhew?”
“I don’t want to.” Simon kicked off his shoes and began massaging his feet.
Jennifer wrinkled her nose at the smell from his socks. “You need a shower. Preferably before I have to start opening windows.”
“It’s too early for an evening shower and too late for a morning one.” Simon took off his cassock to reveal mundane shirt and pants. He sat back down. “It would smack of vanity to have one now.”
“Being clean isn’t a deadly sin, you know.” Jennifer swapped to the farther end of the sofa. “Though your feet should be declared one.”
“I don’t care.” Simon replied. “I’ve had a shitty day and I just want to relax for half an hour.”
“Isn’t that sloth?” She went into the hall to hang his coat up.
* * * *
“We have unfinished business.” Jean Markhew trailed the end of her crop across Susan’s cheek, causing the younger woman to blush.
“Yes, ma’am.” She stood in the “ready” stance–feet shoulder-width apart and arms behind her back, each hand lightly touching the opposite elbow. Her back and head were straight, eyes facing forward.
Jean trailed the crop across her breasts and back. “Go to the dungeon, strip and wait for me.”
* * * *
“Nicole Fielding knocked on the door today.” Jennifer went into the kitchen, sure he would follow. For all Simon decried gossip he thrived on it.
“What did she want?” He loitered at the door while she put a dish in the oven.
Jennifer straightened. “She was looking for Meinwen.”
Simon picked a loose sliver of wood from the edge of the jamb. “What about? Did she say?”
“I don’t know. Only that it was important. I sent her over to The Herbage.” Jennifer pressed a jar of her mixed fruit jam into his hands. “Why don’t you take that over to Meinwen and ask her. You’re burning with curiosity just as much as me.”
“I’m not. I really don’t care anymore. Inspector White will sort everything out whether or not I have any involvement.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Jennifer moderated her language in her brother’s presence. “You want to be kept in the loop, you’re just too proud to admit it.”
“I am not.” Simon
stared at the jam. “All right. I’ll take the jam over and leave it at her door, but I’m not going in.”
* * * *
Susan knelt in the dungeon, hands clasped tight and gazing up at the cross on the wall.
Her knees against the hard tiles took her back to hours spent in the church and her mind relaxed as she put aside her daily worries. Finance, chores and commitments melted away until there was only her and the darkness and the scent of frankincense from the incense burner on the mock altar.
She shivered, her bare legs adjusting to the lower temperature, and prayed for peace to come upon the house and Sir Robert’s murderer to come to a sudden and sticky end. She had no idea how long Jean would make her wait but it didn’t matter. She was one with the solitude and darkness. One with God.
She just wished that her knees were one with the hard floor.
* * * *
Meinwen answered the door, surprised to see the secretary from The Larches on her stoop. “Can I help you?”
“I dropped by earlier, but you weren’t in. Miss Brande at the rectory said you’d been out all day.”
Meinwen stepped back to allow Nicole to enter. “I was organizing the shop. What can I do for you?”
Nicole stepped into the living room and Meinwen could see the look of surprise as she took in the oak paneling and chintz. She reached for a line of horse brasses.
Meinwen touched her lightly on the arm. “They won’t turn into body parts. Try to separate your perception from the ingrained tales of witches you’ve been fed by the media since you were a child. I don’t have green skin and I don’t boil children. Not at the weekend, anyway.”
Nicole let out a breath and her whole body relaxed. “Was it that obvious? I was expecting…” She shrugged. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”
Meinwen nodded and led the way into the narrow kitchen. “It’s a rented house. I can’t really festoon it with spider’s webs and shrunken heads. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks.” Nicole looked at her watch. “I have to get back soon. I’m on duty at five.”
Meinwen leaned with her back the sink. “So?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What was so important you waited for me to come home?”
Nicole swallowed, her fingertips circling a whorl on the counter-top. Meinwen caught a flash of stocking as she fidgeted. “My skin is crawling like a carrier bag full of kittens. You accused us all of having secrets, and you’re right, I do have a secret. I’m up to my eyes in debt. That’s why I signed on as Robert’s secretary. It saved me having a registered address for a while and got the debt collectors off my back. It gave me a breathing space. The fifty thousand he promised to leave me will go a long way to paying myself clear of them.”
“That doesn’t sound like a terrible secret. Many people are in debt these days. May I ask what it was for?”
“I told my parents I was working my way through college. What I actually did was party for three years and now I’m paying for it.”
Meinwen nodded. “I can’t say I approve but you’re only young once. I can’t condemn you for that.”
“There’s more.” Nicole pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. “Peter and I were writing a book together about our experience in the house. It was going to be published under a pseudonym but our contracts forbade us to publish any details about living there.”
“You’re having an affair with Peter?”
“Yes. No.” Nicole hesitated. “Peter and I are lovers, but it’s not really an affair. Everybody knows about it, even Mr. Markhew. Nobody minded. That’s where I was at the time of the murder, in Peter’s bed.”
“I see.” Meinwen straightened, reaching for an apple from the bowl on the windowsill. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“No, that’s all.” Nicole smiled. Her fidgeting had stopped and she looked calm and relaxed. “Thanks for not condemning me. I feel a lot better now that I’ve told you my secret.”
“It doesn’t have any bearing on the case as far as I can see. We’ll just keep it between ourselves.”
“Thanks.” Nicole looked at her watch again. “I’d better get back to work or Jean will dock me some time.”
“I thought the staff at The Larches weren’t paid by the hour?”
“We’re not.” Nicole grinned. “But we accrue time off and privileges, so I must dash.”
* * * *
Meinwen opened her front door to see Nicole out but the girl stopped on the threshold, confronted by the priest holding out a pot of jam.
“Thank you, Father, but we’ve plenty of jam at the house.” Nicole grinned as she skidded past him back to her car.
“Is that for me?” Meinwen gestured to the jam with her half-eaten apple
“Um. Yes.” Simon handed it to her and she read the label.
“Mixed fruit? That’s what our mam used to call anything she couldn’t remember. I’m sure it will be lovely. I’ll try it in the morning.”
“I’ll tell Jennifer.” Simon smiled. “Oh, and she asked me to tell you that Richard’s cellphone was definitely a Nokia. I wouldn’t know the difference, to be honest. They all look the same to me.”
“Not to worry.” Meinwen opened the door wider. “At least that confirms something. Are you coming in?”
“I won’t, thanks. Jennifer will be putting the dinner out soon and I’ve got to have a shower first.”
“As you wish.” Meinwen nodded. “I do have something to show you, though.”
“Oh?” Simon hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. “Just for a minute then. What did Nicole want?”
“To tell me her secret.” Meinwen closed the door. “Although it has no bearing on the case and I promised not to reveal it.”
“Isn’t that concealing evidence?”
“A witch’s house is as sacred as a confessional. People can tell me things in private without fear of my passing them on. As it happens, she also gave me her alibi for the night of the murder.”
“Can you at least tell me that?”
“Yes. She was with Peter Numan.”
“With?”
“Amorously entwined.”
Simon frowned for a moment then his eyes opened wide. “Oh! Can they be each other’s alibi?”
“I don’t see why not. The killer was only one person.”
“But was the blackmailer?”
“The same person as the killer?” Meinwen shrugged. “I’ve been assuming it was, but you may be on the right track thinking they weren’t. We’d have two crimes to solve for the price of one.”
“You can rule out Jean Markhew as well.”
“Oh?”
Simon sat on the arm of the sofa. “She confessed her little secret to me yesterday. It seems she was in the habit of ‘seeing what Robert’s little trinkets were worth.’ Jennifer looked up her eBay account and half of the contents of The Larches have gone up for sale over the last few months.”
“I see.” Meinwen sat at her computer and logged on to the auction site. “Do you know her seller ID?”
“It’s ‘mistressmarkhew,’ all as one word. Jean told me it was because she considered herself the mistress of the house.”
A few clicks revealed the truth of his words. “Ooh! I like the look of that Kenyan goddess figure. She’s got it listed at half its value. Hang on a minute while I place a bid.” She entered her details and opened a spreadsheet. “When you talked to Susan Pargeter, did she ask about heroin?”
“She did, actually. Why?”
Meinwen opened her desk drawer and pulled out a folder. “I’ve got Grace Peters’s autopsy report here. She died of a heroin overdose. The suicide by hanging was just a cover.”
“That’s suspicious.” Simon glanced at the report. “Do you think Susan Pargeter did it?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t seem the type. Why would she have killed Grace Peters? If she was the blackmailer, she was killing the golden goose.”
<
br /> He handed it back. “It doesn’t seem likely.”
“It’ll need looking into.” Meinwen made another note. “It’s certainly a tangle of lies and deceit at The Larches. What about the maid, Amanda?”
Simon shrugged. “What about her? She doesn’t seem the type though I’ll admit to there being something a bit iffy about her.”
“Is there a type?” Meinwen twisted her swivel chair to face him. “She’s certainly hiding something and if she did it she’s going to prison.”
“She is?”
“Everybody is.” Meinwen stared at Simon for a moment. “Hiding something, I mean. Amanda was the most likely one to find that missing letter, wasn’t she? Perhaps she’s the blackmailer.”
“I suppose so.” Simon sighed. “She seems such a nice girl.”
“She does. “Meinwen turned and stared at the computer screen. “Something isn’t right about the timing of the murder. I think we need to re-enact the evening.”
“Like an Agatha Christie!” Simon laughed. “Will they go for that do you think?”
“Let’s hope so.” Meinwen smiled at him. “Will you phone Jean Markhew and arrange it? She seems to like you better than me.”
Simon seemed reluctant to take the phone. “I can’t think why. Anyone would think you’d accused her of stealing or something.”
* * * *
Jean snapped the single-tail, leaving a thin welt across Susan’s back, a match to the seven already there. She had forced the woman past the point where it hurt, her knowledge of biochemistry and the soft moans of her target indicating endorphins were coursing through Susan’s body, sending her into a dreamy state of euphoria.
The knock on the door was soft, but her ears were attuned to extraneous sounds and she picked it up instantly. She put the whip down and ran a leather-gloved hand over Susan’s back.
“Stay.” Jean turned away from Susan, who was strapped to a full-size cross screwed to the wall. “I’ll only be a moment.” She crossed the room and opened the door just wide enough to see through. “What is it? I said not to disturb me.”
“It’s Father Brande.” Amanda stood in the hallway, holding the house phone with a finger on the silence button. “He insists on speaking to you. He and that Welsh woman want to stage a re-enactment of the night of the murder.”
