Screaming Yellow
Page 28
Richard was still grinning. “Thank you, Ms. du Pointe. Amanda will see you out.”
* * * *
Jean stood as soon as the solicitor had left the room. “I never did like that woman. How could Robert leave me less than his servants?”
Richard kissed her on the cheek. “At least you will always have a place to live, Aunt, though I’d appreciate it if you could move your things into Catherine’s old room by the end of the week.”
* * * *
“Meinwen?” Jennifer leaned over the wall toward the woman sitting in front of her fire pit.
Meinwen looked up. She looked tired and her eyes were blotchy, as if she’d been crying too. “Hello. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me after all that’s happened.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Jennifer hesitated. “I saw your fire and brought out a couple of blankets. Do you mind if I sit with you a bit? I’ve gone off prayer as a cure-all.”
“Not at all.” Meinwen helped her to climb over the stone wall. “A friendly ear is something we all need at times.”
“Thanks.” Jennifer sat next to the fire and warmed her hands. “I’ve got the internet and the Women’s Institute, but they all know me as ‘Jenny Butcher, crime fiction author.’ Only you know the real Jennifer Brande, really.” She went silent for a moment and Meinwen let her be, feeding the fire with sticks and the remnants of an old chair “He’s dead, you know. They found his arm and matched his fingerprints. Inspector White has just been ’round.”
“I’m sorry.” Meinwen stared into the flames. “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know. The bishop phoned me. He says I can stay in the house until they appoint a new priest for the parish. After that…” She shrugged.
Meinwen patted her knee. “You’re welcome to share my hearth.”
Jennifer politely removed the witch’s hand. “I’m not that sort of girl. I prefer boys.”
Meinwen laughed. “So do I.” She put some extra sticks on the fire. “I hear that the internet is great for meeting people.”
* * * *
Brother Simon knelt on the hard stone flags, his shoulder still swathed in bandages under the coarse linen of his robes. In lieu of clasped hands he clutched the rosary at his belt, gazing up at the sunlight streaming through the great rose window on the Abbey of St. Albans. At the altar, the abbot was saying Mass, but the words were lost in the voices of angels. He smiled, lips mumbling prayers despite the stitched stump of his missing tongue.
* * * *
Nurse Chapman marked the medication cart and moved on. They’d named the unknown patient in room twenty-three “Brother Robert” since that was the only name he could mumble when he was brought into A&E suffering from blood loss and hypothermia. He’d been lucky the water had been so cold else he’d have died long before. He thought the psychiatric wing was an abbey and who was to say it wasn’t?
Epilogue
Jennifer hit “save” when she heard the knock on the door. Although the computer auto-saved her work, she didn’t want to have to re-write the last half a dozen paragraphs. She’d have to edit them when the book was finished, of course, but for now she valued the free-flow of writing more.
She got up and answered the door. Even now, a month after the quiet, empty-coffin funeral, she still expected Simon to come waltzing in, dropping his bag and coat onto the pew. She thought it a measure of her faith that she still believed he was alive somewhere.
“Tom? What are you doing here?” The groundsman and curate raised his hat.
“I’m sorry, Miss Brande. I’ve got to deliver this letter to you. It’s from the bishop. He said it had to be delivered by hand.”
Jennifer took the letter, knowing that it was a notice of eviction. “It’s all right, Tom. I knew it would come, sooner or later.”
Tom nodded. “Well, I’m sorry all the same.” He raised his cap again and turned back toward the church.
Jennifer closed the door and opened the embossed envelope. She had two weeks to vacate the rectory before the new parish priest, Father Harrison, moved in.
She dropped the letter on the table and returned to the computer. She was no longer in the mood to write about the incestuous relationships and kinky sex of a modern well-to-do family. She logged on to her chat program.
Within moments she was pinged.
Sir Real: Are you there?
Cacoethes: Yes. Not really up to chatting, though. I’ve had bad news.
Sir Real: Oh? Anything I can help with?
Cacoethes: *laughs* Not unless you know somewhere I can live. I’ve just been given two weeks’ notice of eviction.
Sir Real: Oh dear. *hug* I could probably sort something out.
Cacoethes: Really?
Sir Real: Yes. You can move in here.
Cacoethes: Honestly? Thank you, Sir Real.
Sir Real: It’s my pleasure, or will be. Call me Richard.
Rachel Green
Rachel Green is a kinky, English lesbian who writes constantly with a cup of tea on her desk. Screaming Yellow is set in the fictional town of Laverstone, the scene of her paranormal humor stories involving Harold Waterman and his friend Jasfoup.
On the rare occasions she’s not at her desk, Rachel is either out walking her dogs through the Derbyshire countryside (though not once has she run into the Bronte’s) or painting in watercolors or oils. She is also an accomplished swordswoman with the rapier, the saber and the Japanese katana and practiced the art of ju-jitsu until she broke both her legs.
She also writes poetry and twitters haiku daily. Follow her @leatherdykeuk
If you’re very nice to her, she might show you her canes. No, not the kind for walking with.
Rachel’s Website:
www.leatherdyke.co.uk
Reader eMail:
leatherdykeuk@gmail.com
Also by Rachel Green
Laverstone Chronicles
Sons of Angels
White Lies
Viridian Tears
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2010, Rachel Green
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: September 2010
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-194-5