Screaming Yellow

by Rachel Green

  Jennifer perked up. “I could probably manage a gin. Just the one, though, or the roast will spoil.”

  “And we couldn’t have that.” Simon patted her arm. “It would be such a waste when there are so many starving in Africa.”

  Jennifer’s laughter faded in the face of Meinwen’s frown. “Something our mother used to say all the time.”

  Meinwen nodded. “I see. I don’t think mine ever did, not that she had two pennies to rub together. She couldn’t abide waste, though. Whatever was left would go back into the pot for the next day.”

  The pub was busy and they had to fight their way through to the bar. “That was a good sermon today, Father,” said one man as they passed.

  “Aye. It was short,” said another, causing the group to laugh. Meinwen looked at the priest’s fixed smile and kept her own to herself.

  “It’s not like you to come in on a Sunday, Father.” Mike grinned behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

  “A brandy, a gin and tonic and a…” He looked at Meinwen.

  “I’ll have a pint of the Heavy please, Mike.” Meinwen grinned at the barman, almost lost in the press of customers.

  Simon fumbled in his pocket for the money but Meinwen slapped a ten-pound note on the table. “I’ll get these. Have one yourself.”

  Mike poured the drinks and gave her the change. “Anything else?”

  “Yes.” Meinwen leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Do you remember a young man in here last Tuesday night, about half-past nine? He would have been flashing money about a bit.”

  “Aye.” Mike replied. “It’s always a bit quiet on a weeknight. Vodka shots he was drinking. He was here until eleven then dashed off to catch a train.”

  “Thanks.” Meinwen worked her way past the other customers to Simon and Jennifer. “Rogers was telling the truth. He was here until eleven.”

  Simon took a sip of brandy. “I didn’t know Susan Pargeter had a son. Fancy abandoning a child.”

  “Shush.” Jennifer pulled at his arm. “You don’t know the circumstances. You don’t have room to talk, anyway.”

  “Oh?” Meinwen raised her eyebrows.

  “He wasn’t always a priest,” said Jennifer. “He sowed his own wild oats in college.”

  Simon lowered his voice. “I had a son once. I wanted to marry his mother when I found out, but her family wouldn’t hear of it. She dropped out of college and I never saw her again.”

  “How long ago was this?” Meinwen sipped her drink.

  “A long time ago.” Simon shrugged. “He’d be grown up now. I never even saw him as a baby.”

  “You must have loved her,” said Meinwen. “I can imagine how heartbreaking it would have been to be denied fatherhood.” She bit her lip. “In a literal sense, I mean.”

  “It was.” Simon gazed through her for a moment. “Did you believe Rogers when he said Susan gave him money for college?”

  “Not in the least.” Meinwen drained her glass and put it down. “I think he may well be our blackmailer.”

  * * * *

  Mary Markhew spent the afternoon in her bedroom with a DVD and a book. At least, that was what she told her mother at lunch. Jean might have approved of the historical romance had she bothered to look at the post arriving from Mary’s online rental, but she would have confiscated Pirates of the Rutty Ark on sight. It was fortunate Mary hadn’t shown it to her.

  She slipped it in the player and lay on the bed, her fingers slipping under the elastic of her knickers. Minutes later, and without reference to the film, she began moaning with pleasure, her eyes half-lidded.

  It wasn’t Richard she was thinking of, but Peter.

  * * * *

  Jennifer paused as Meinwen turned up the hill instead of down it as the trio walked home. “Where are you going? The Herbage is this way.”

  Meinwen turned and walked backward to face him. “I have an errand to do. Nothing your profession would approve of.”

  “Ah.” Simon gave her an upward nod. “Perhaps we’ll see you later then. Will you be at Robert’s funeral tomorrow?”

  Meinwen raised her arms with a shrug. “I don’t know. I’d like to, but being so involved with the case I don’t think that Jean Markhew would appreciate my presence.”

  “Funerals are for those left behind.” Jennifer leaned against the telephone box on the corner. “It gives them release.”

  “Then I will leave that dubious pleasure to her. See you.”

  “Bye.” Simon shook his head as he watched her stump up the hill. “She’s a strange woman.”

  “What did you expect?” Jennifer put her arm in his. “She has a different set of values to you. You can’t always expect two such distinct belief systems to interlock.”

  “I suppose not. What’s for lunch, anyway?”

  “With any luck–” Jennifer picked up the pace. “–a lovely piece of beef if it hasn’t burned to a crisp after all this time.”

  * * * *

  Meinwen labored up The Bank. “You have to be fit to live here,” she said to no one in particular. The short row of terraced cottages at the top of the steep hill were just coming alive with color, the gray stone of the walls gathering the warmth of the sun and sending it back in bursts of yellow from the late winter jasmines and the early broom and forsythias.

  Of the four cottages, one had a plastic swing set in the garden, one had washing out, one showed no signs of life, and the last was pristinely kept. She chose the last one to knock at. It was opened by an elderly lady.

  “Yes?” She looked Meinwen up and down. “I don’t buy anything at the door and I’ve got no money or valuables in the house.”

  “I’m not selling anything, not even religion.” Meinwen smiled at her and visibly relaxed. “I’m just looking for Old Tom.”

  “You won’t find him. He’s gone up to his brother’s for a fortnight.”

  “Really? That’s a shame.” Meinwen took out her wallet and flashed a picture of her Aberdovey Hill Ramblers club membership card. It was in Welsh, but had a nice picture of her. “I’m from the premium bonds. He’s come into a bit of money.”

  “Has he?” The woman smiled. “That’ll be nice for him, he deserves a bit of a break. He looks after my garden for me, see?”

  “It’s beautiful.” She turned and gave it an admiring look. “I like the way you’ve got herbs interspersed with the bulbs. That’s the first rue I’ve seen this year.”

  The lady’s smile was almost warm enough to bask in. “You know your herbs. Would you like to come in? I think I’ve got his brother’s address in my book.”

  “Thank you. That would be kind.” Meinwen followed, glad she had no ill intent toward the lady. The front door led directly into a sitting room where a wood-framed armchair was festooned with wool and pieces of knitting. A radio played softly in the background and the woman switched it off. “I can’t afford a telly. Not even with the reduced license.” She went into the kitchen. “It’ll be in the drawer. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’m Edie, by the way.” The woman pulled open a drawer and took out a thick book full of pieces of paper. “Edith, really, but everyone calls me Edie.” She sat at the little table next to the glass-paned back door and started flicking through the loose papers. She seemed out of breath.

  Meinwen sat in the other chair. “Have you got nettles in the garden?”

  Edie looked up. “There’re some behind the shed, I think.” She gestured to the door. “Why?”

  “May I pick some?”

  “They’re weeds,” Edie said. “You can have as many as you like, but not so many as the caterpillars starve.”

  Meinwen went into the tiny back garden and found a patch of nettles with their first shoots crowding the gap between the shed and the garden wall. She picked a handful, glad that their sting hadn’t yet developed. She returned to the kitchen where Edie was still sorting through her book.

  “Do you have a pan?”

>   Edie indicated the cupboard next to the electric cooker. “What are you going to make?”

  “An herbal remedy. You’ve got a touch of anemia, and a bit of nettle tea will do you good.”

  Edie frowned. “If you say so.” She began writing an address onto the back of an envelope in neat copperplate handwriting.

  Meinwen stood at the hob until the infusion had simmered for five minutes then strained it into a cup. “You can add a bit of honey if it’s too bitter.”

  “Thank you.” Edie smiled. “Can I give you something for it?”

  Meinwen shook her head. “Just the address of Tom’s brother.”

  * * * *

  The sun had set by the time Meinwen got back to The Herbage and drank a pot of Earl Grey in front on her computer. An hour of navigating the electoral registers furnished her with several pages of notes and a good idea of Jack Rogers’s history.

  He lived with his father, John Rogers, in a house in Lickey, about ten miles south of Birmingham, since his birth in ’eighty-five. The house had been bought by John and Susan Rogers in ’eighty-one and they had lived there until she left six years later.

  Further investigation had revealed where Susan had moved to. In ’eighty-seven she had moved in with her mother, Grace Pargeter, who had, since her daughter had left home, moved to Laverstone, remarried and changed her name.

  Meinwen felt pieces of the jigsaw clicking into place. Grace Pargeter had become Grace Peters until her supposed suicide the previous week.

  Chapter 27

  White entered the church with slow, measured footsteps, noting the simple white flowers for the funeral. Despite his even tread, his boots rang against the stone until he paused at the rood screen separating the choristers from the nave. He inspected the carvings, marveling at the skill of the artisans.

  He straightened when the priest appeared from just below the altar. “I was just admiring the woodwork. Fifteenth century, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” Simon raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had an interest in architecture, Inspector.”

  “I’m sure there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Father Brande.” White gave a perfunctory smile. “I was passing the church and saw the door open. I dropped in to tell you we let Mr. Rogers go home last night. His alibi checked out. He was in the White Art at nine-thirty which rules him out for the murder.”

  “Yes.” Simon buffed the altar cross with the sleeve of his cassock. “We asked Mike about that too, actually. I was sure it was going to be him. We’re back to square one in the hunt for Richard, aren’t we?”

  “I’m afraid so.” White hesitated. “Will you tell Ms. Jones or shall I?”

  “She guessed he’d be cleared.” Simon stepped backward. “But since I’ve got two funerals this afternoon I’d be grateful if you would. I’ve enough on my plate as it is.”

  White nodded. “I don’t mind. There’s not a lot more I can do until Mr. Godwin turns up. I just hope she doesn’t give me any of that blasted foreign tea.” He nodded. “Good day to you, Father.”

  * * * *

  Mary Markhew slammed her bedside drawer shut and began to dress. Her bedroom looked out onto the rear garden and the irregular hum drew her to the window. Outside, Peter rode a large lawnmower over the fresh spring grass, the first cut of the year sending the scent of wet grass into the house.

  Since today was her uncle’s funeral it was a necessity she wore black. She chose her full-length velvet skirt and mock-Tudor top, the long sleeves complementing the handkerchief pattern of the hemline. Calf-length boots hid her striped tights from view and she spent half an hour applying make-up to give herself the effect of Cleopatra in mourning.

  She looked out of the window again. Peter was just putting the mower away.

  * * * *

  “Inspector.” Meinwen brandished a bowl of cereal. “Come in. I overslept, I’m afraid. I was supposed to open the shop this morning but I got a bit involved online and ended up not going to bed until three. What can I do for you?”

  “I dropped in to tell you that I released Rogers. Since his alibi checked out we had no reason to hold him.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.” Meinwen waved her spoon at him. “I think we’ve got the time of the murder wrong. If I’m right, the murder was committed much earlier, which puts him right on the scene.”

  White sighed, closing his eyes for a second or two. “What make you think we have the timing wrong? Eric Chambers, the coroner, said the murder had occurred within three hours, ergo, between nine PM. and midnight.”

  Meinwen swallowed another mouthful of oats. “Assuming the room had remained at the same temperature for those three hours. But what if the temperature had dropped significantly after the first hour? That would have given the body a higher temperature prior to that.”

  White took out his notebook. “I can’t fault your reasoning, but how do you arrive at the theory? There’s no evidence to suggest he was killed any earlier. We have witnesses who heard him after nine-thirty and Miss Markhew said goodnight to him at nine forty-five.”

  “I think Mary was lying. Do you want a cup of tea?” She headed to the kitchen, leaving White no choice but to follow her.

  “Where do you get that from? And yes, I’ll have a tea if you’ve got some English tea bags.”

  “Tea comes from the Far East. None of it is English, unless I can tempt you with dried elderberry and nettle.”

  “No, thanks.” White failed to hide his grimace. “I’ll have the supermarket variety if you don’t mind.”

  Meinwen laughed and dropped two tea bags into mugs. “What if Mary was lying when she claimed she’d said goodnight to her uncle? There’s still that missing hundred pounds unaccounted for and we know that although Markhew only gave her twenty pounds a week she has a bigger wardrobe than most working girls.”

  “All the working girls I’ve met had very little in their wardrobes,” said White, his face perfectly straight.

  Meinwen glared. “You know what I mean.”

  “So you think that Mary took the money and murdered her uncle?” White sat on a pine chair. “I find that a little hard to believe and I certainly don’t see any evidence to support it.”

  “No.” Meinwen brought the tea over and sat. “I don’t think she killed her uncle but I do think that she took the money then pretended to come out of the study. That’s why she wouldn’t let Amanda go in. She assumed her uncle would ask Amanda where she was, since she hadn’t said goodnight, thus proving she hadn’t been in the study at all.”

  White sipped his tea and made a face. “What is this?”

  “Tea, like you asked.” Meinwen winked. “The soy milk takes a bit of getting used to.”

  “Soy?” He looked into his drink. “Is there any sugar?”

  “No. I’ve honey or molasses if you want it sweetened.”

  “No sugar?”

  “Just honey. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll leave it, thanks,” White put the mug down.

  * * * *

  Mary found Peter in the garage cleaning off the lawnmower. The grass had been a little too damp and had caked the blades in wet cuttings. He was rubbing it down with an oily rag.

  “Peter?” Mary sauntered into the half darkness.

  “Mary? Do you need something?” Peter stood, picking up a clean cloth to wipe his hands. “What is it?”

  Mary stepped closer, running a hand over his chest. She’d watched her mother do that with her father, a long time ago. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “I want you to fuck me, right now, right here in this shed.”

  Peter dropped his rag.

  * * * *

  Meinwen and the inspector followed Amanda through the house and out the kitchen door. “I’m fairly sure she’s in the garden. I saw her go toward the sheds about half an hour ago.” The maid pointed the way.

  “Thank you.” White walked along the path and around the side of the house. They could hear
noise coming from the garage, like someone kicking a metal plate over and over. They headed toward it.

  White saw the tangled limbs and coughed loudly, turning away. Meinwen was not so prudish. “Don’t mind us. You carry on. It good to see the influence of the rampant god at springtime. Copulation is a perfectly natural response to the flood of growth throughout the land.”

  Mary shrieked and disentangled herself, stepping away from Peter and pulling down her skirt.

  Meinwen smiled. “I’m glad the potion worked. Lovely morning for it.”

  White waited until they were both decent, studiously ignoring the way Peter was smoothing his hair with sticky hands. “Can we have a word, Miss Markhew?”

  “Anything you say to me can be said in front of Peter. I trust him absolutely, and I have no secrets.” Mary’s tone was reminiscent of her mother’s but without the power.

  Meinwen smiled. “I think you do, Mary. I think that on the night of your uncle’s murder you stole a hundred pounds from his bedside table, and only pretended you’d said goodnight to him at nine forty-five to cover that up.”

  Mary’s eyes flickered between the two of them. “You’re right.” She took Peter’s arm. “I did take it. I’ve had to do a lot of that just to get by on the pitiful allowance he gave me. I’m fed up with lying about where I get my clothes and jewelry. I asked for a bigger allowance a hundred times but he’d never give it to me. Mother used to give me some. She remembers how expensive it is to be young.”

  “Did Richard know?”

  “Probably.” Mary shrugged. “He used to have to do things on the side as well. We’re very similar.”

  “She’s just protecting me.” Peter threw off her touch. “Mary knows I took the money under orders from Mrs. Markhew.”

  “Don’t be silly, Peter. Do run along now while I talk to these people.”

  “Run along?” Peter spat on the floor. “If that’s the way you want it.” He stalked out.

  “Peter!” Mary took a few steps as if to follow him. “Don’t be like that.”

  Meinwen watched him go. “Richard didn’t really propose by webcam, did he?”