Screaming Yellow (12 page)

The second technician grinned, polishing the glass with an alcohol wipe. “This is it, sir. The latest thing. There’s no need for all the purple ink and dab sheets any more, this does it all for you and no mess for the people being tested.”

White grunted. “I don’t trust these modern gimmicks.”

“You’re just behind the times, sir.” The first technician pulled on latex gloves. “You’ve got to get with the groove.”

White scowled. “I’ll give you a groove if you’re not careful.” He looked around the room. “Father Brande? You and your sister can go now, if you like. I know where to find you if I need to ask you anything further.”

Simon looked disappointed. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do, Inspector? Give solace to the bereaved, perhaps?”

White shook his head. “Get off to bed, sir. We can handle it from here. Good night.” He turned back to the room. At least the list of interviewees was almost finished. “Susan Pargeter?”

* * * *

Jennifer slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, switching the interior heat to full and setting the windows to demist. “Come on, Simon,” she said aloud as she watched her brother pause to say something to a policeman on the doorstep. She switched on her headlights to hurry him. It worked. He waved goodbye and trotted across the gravel.

He opened the passenger door and leaned inside. “You go on, Jennifer. I’m going to walk back.”

“At this time of night? You’ll freeze.”

He laughed, causing the policemen to glance over. “I’ll be fine. I need to clear my head and talk to the boss for a while.”

“You’re mad, Simon.” Jennifer’s smile betrayed the lie. “Very well. See you at home.”

* * * *

“So what happened?” Jennifer stood by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. “You were with the inspector for hours and then you took twice as long to get home as you should have done. Have they any idea who did it?”

Simon lowered himself into the kitchen chair. “Not yet. Can you believe it? A knife in the back, no less.” He glanced at the clock. “Will you look at the time! I’ve got to be up in four hours!”

“Never mind that.” Jennifer made two cups of tea. “Who do you think murdered him?”

Simon took his drink, holding it in cupped hands. “I’ve no idea. Amanda seems the favorite suspect. She tried to get into Robert’s study several times, even after she was told Sir Robert wasn’t to be disturbed. She’s also the right height to have killed him and the right-sized feet to have left the footprints they found.”

“
Pfft
.” Jennifer snorted. “It wasn’t Amanda. She’s far too nice to be a killer. Even if she did want to kill Robert, she’s too much of a lady to use a dagger. She’d have poisoned him or strangled him. Something that doesn’t leave a mess.”

Simon laughed. “Because she’d be the one cleaning up afterward? What makes you so sure she didn’t do it? Not that I think she did, mind. My bet is on the chap that stopped us for directions.”

“I just know her too well, that’s all.”

Simon frowned. “How could you know her? We hadn’t met her before last night.”

“You hadn’t, anyway.” Jennifer smiled into her tea.

Simon twigged. “She’s one of your gossip cronies, isn’t she?”

“So what if she is?” she said through pursed lips. “I was right about Grace Peters, wasn’t I?”

Simon nodded, lost in thought. “You were indeed.” He was silent for a moment then looked up, his forehead creased. “That’s how you knew about the dagger as well! I never mentioned it.”

* * * *

With the police gone, the household had a chance to look over the scene of the crime, despite the yellow police tape over the door and Inspector White’s warning not to disturb anything.

Amanda pointed at the spatter markers and the red stain. “How am I supposed to get that out of the carpet? That’s the stain from Hell that is.”

Nicole loosened her hair from its tight pins. She couldn’t help herself. “How about Jesus soap-on-a-rope and holy water?” She grinned at the expression on Amanda’s face as she crossed herself. “And don’t give me that Catholic girl rot. I’ve known you too long.”

Peter grinned. “Don’t let our esteemed police confidant Father Brande hear you say that. He’d have you excommunicated.”

Chapter 12

Mary watched the priest pull up at the side of the White Art and jump out of his car, leaving it running on a double yellow line. With a perverse and somewhat guilty hope, she wondered if a policeman would come along and give him a ticket. She didn’t like Simon Brande much. He was too much the ladies’ man to be a proper priest.

He tried the door handle several times and resorted to banging on it. Was he really that much of an alcoholic that he was so desperate? She tucked herself behind a tree and took her phone out, opening the lens cover and setting it to video. At the very least an irate priest should earn her some page views on YouTube.

Simon pulled on the handle again, giving it one twist too much for tolerance. Mary had to clamp her hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh as the brass broke and, with the force of Simon’s tugging, flew back and banged him on the head. She’d never heard a priest swear before.
 

The door opened from the inside to reveal Mike Chapman the landlord, wearing grease-stained butcher’s apron. “Don’t you know what time it is?” He snatched the handle from the priest’s hand. “We’re closed. I haven’t even begun to serve breakfast yet.”

“I need to speak to Richard Godwin urgently.” Mary was gratified to see Simon’s attempt to just push his way into the hotel was met by an immovable landlord. “It’s about his stepfather.”

Mike shook his head. “No can do.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and yawned. “He checked out last night. You could try his phone.”

Simon pulled out his phone and dialed. He waited a minute and scowled. “Straight to voicemail.”

Mike’s face creased into a frown. “I thought you were friends with him?”

“I am.” Simon put the phone back in his pocket. “What time did he leave?”

“Sometime in the early hours, I think. I didn’t see him go.” Mike glanced into the bar behind him. “Is there anything else? I am busy, you know.”

Simon took a step backward “No, I suppose not. Thanks for your time, Mike.”

“Any time, Father.” Mike grinned. “If it wasn’t for your sermons I’d lose half of my Sunday trade.”

Simon returned to his car with a face like thunder. He glanced once more at the hotel as the door closed and roared off.

Mary ended the recording and played it back. The camera on her phone wasn’t brilliant and lent the audio a booming quality but it was clear enough to make out every word of the exchange. She tried Richard’s number on her own phone again. Just as it had done four times already, it dropped her straight to voicemail. Richard was not taking calls.

“Arse.” Mary stuffed the phone back into her pocket and turned away. It seemed Richard really wasn’t here after all. Mike might cover for his residents but he would never lie to a priest.

* * * *

Jean Markhew opened her eye at the slight rattle of china and raised herself onto one arm. “I’m the mistress by default now, am I?” she asked, looking at the bowed head of the semi-naked girl at the side of her bed. Amanda made a slight inclination of her head sufficient to answer the question.

Jean looked at the cup of steaming tea, plate of toast and copy of the morning’s
Laverstone Times
on a silver tray. She made no indication Amanda should put the tray down. “Hmm?”

“You are, ma’am.” The maid bowed her head in acknowledgement and respect. “Though I wish it were in better circumstances.”

Jean reached out with her free hand to stroke Amanda’s hair. “As do I,” she said with a chuckle, “though beggars can’t be choosers and I’m sure he’ll have left me very comfortable. I shall be happy when all this business is done with and they catch whoever did it.” She sat up, pulling the pillows vertical so she could lean against the headboard. “Pass the tea, there’s a dear.”

She took the proffered cup, leaving the saucer on the tray, and flicked open the paper. “
Murder at The Larches
” proclaimed the headline with a shot of the outside of the house, obviously taken early this morning for there was a policeman standing at the gate but no vehicles other that Robert’s Jaguar on the drive. “Have you seen this?” she said. “How do they get the news so quickly?”

“I really couldn’t say, ma’am.” Amanda still stood bolt upright and Jean glanced up.

“I appreciate the formality but do relax, dear. Massage my feet while I breakfast, would you? Your other duties can spare you a few minutes, surely?”

“Of course.” Amanda put the tray on the side table and sat on the bottom of the bed, raising the covers until Jean’s feet were exposed. She began to massage them, her thumbs kneading the pressure points on her new mistress’s soles.

Jean glanced up from the paper and smiled. “Much better.”

She read the lead story and followed it to page five. Much of the article was stock background on Robert and his books and political work. One phrase stood out. “Listen,” she said. “‘Police are looking for a member of the household to assist them in their enquiries but are unwilling to release any names at present.’”

“Richard, I suppose, ma’am, though he’s not been here all week.”

“I doubt the boy would have the balls.” Jean folded the paper and took the plate of toast. “Robert never wanted me to be his submissive. Being Anthony’s widow made it too close for comfort, too much like a hint of incest, though we were never even slightly related. I didn’t even know him very well before Anthony died, though I recognized that look in his eye.” She glanced down the bed, catching Amanda’s eye. “You know the one.”

She finished the tea and replaced it on the tray. “I shall have to put on a show that I’m upset by his death.” She began buttering the toast. “Set out the black for today. It will at least please Father Brande that I wear mourning black for a while.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Amanda rose to stand, the single movement graceful and obviously well practiced.

“Did you kill him?” Jean asked.

Amanda looked up, her bright eyes glistening in the single ray of sunlight that danced between the closed curtains. “No, ma’am, I did not.”

Jean nodded. “We’ll see. Though I’m inclined to believe you.”

* * * *

“I’m back.” Simon’s voice echoed from the hall as the door slammed.

“There’s tea in the pot.” Jennifer went to the kitchen doorway and watched as he dropped his coat and briefcase on the pew in the hall. “We have a visitor.”

He strode into the kitchen and stopped, a look of surprise on his face. “Mary? What are you doing here?”

“I come to ask you for your help, Father.” Mary twisted a paper napkin in her fingers. “I want you to come with me to The Herbage.”

“Next door?” Simon sat. “Whatever for?”

Jennifer got up to fetch him a cup. “Now don’t have a coronary but she wants to ask the witch who killed Robert.” She patted him on the arm as she set the cup down, “She’s afraid you’ll excommunicate her for it.”

Mary blushed, which clashed terribly with her hair.

Simon reached out and patted her hand. “I chatted with Miss Jones yesterday and she’s actually very nice. We may have opposing theologies but she’s an intelligent woman who can put forward a convincing argument.”

“She’s psychic as well.” Mary’s eyes were wide, her words breathy. “She can find out everything and tell us who the killer is.”

Simon laughed. “I’m not sure I’d go that far. If she was, though, would you be willing to hear the truth? What if it turns out that Richard is guilty? How would you feel then?”

Mary smiled. “Richard is no saint but he’s not a killer. He wouldn’t hurt a fly if it didn’t beg him first.”

“I don’t understand.” Simon frowned. “What does that have to do with anything? This was a crime of passion. Men do strange things in a fit of passion.”

“Not Richard.” Mary shook her head. “He might like it rough, but he would never be violent. Especially not with his stepfather.”

Jennifer poured the tea, trying to be unobtrusive but relishing every moment. Wait until she told the girls.