Screaming Yellow (40 page)

“Yes.” Jean elected to be blunt. “They look to me to guide them now.”

“I see.” Richard inspected his fingernails, looking up at her with his head to one side. “The worm turns, then? Did you kill my stepfather?”

“I did not.” Jean pursed her lips at the accusation. “I merely stepped in to fill the void left by his passing. I thought you were going to ring that woman and find out who the murderer was?”

“She wouldn’t tell me yet. She suggested I wait until the police announce it.” Richard looked toward the door as it opened. “Here’s the coffee.” He waited until Amanda had bent to place the tray on the ironwork table and put a hand over the maid’s neck to stop her rising. Even through the fresh scabs the new mark was clear–the double R symbol enclosed by a J. “How many of them have you claimed?”

“Only this one, though Susan and Nicole have both sworn fealty to me. Peter was holding a torch for Mary and Catherine, of course, elected to leave. I couldn’t understand that until yesterday.”

Richard allowed Amanda to rise and stand behind her mistress. “Then I propose you keep a position of power. Second to me, of course and Catherine is exclusively mine. You will need to find a replacement for her. I can advertise in the usual places.”

Jean nodded. “As you wish. Will you be keeping the others on?”

“If they want to stay. I’ll allow them to leave without penalty if they choose to, or else sign annually renewable contracts.”

“What about Mary?”

Richard shrugged. “What about her? Now that I am no longer obliged to marry her I have no interest. She can stay or go as she desires.”

“She enjoys Peter’s company.”

“Then she can stay.” Richard smiled and held out a coffee cup. “Would you like a little sugar with your bitter pill?”

* * * *

“So that’s how I feel,” said Peter, his gaze centered upon Mary’s booted feet. “I love you, see. It near broke my heart when you got engaged to Mr. Richard.”

“I know.” Mary patted his leg and he looked up. “I’ve known that you were in love with me for ages but didn’t want to rock the boat with Richard. When I get my inheritance I shall be able to do what I like, though.”

“Would you consider marrying me?” Peter smiled, his muscles rippling as he relaxed.

“No.” Mary laughed at the sudden dejected expression. “I like you a lot, Peter, but I like Nicole too. She and I have been lovers for nearly a year now. I couldn’t just give her up. I don’t know how I’d have coped if she hadn’t twisted the accounts in my favor.”

“You wouldn’t have to give her up.” Peter grinned. “We could both be your partners. We could all be each other’s partners.”

Mary nodded. “It’s worth a try. It worked for Uncle Robert, after all.”

* * * *

Catherine sat on the floor between Richard’s legs, her head cradled in his lap. He stroked her hair and talked to her. “You’ve had poorer and worse. From now on the marriage is going to be richer and better.” He looked up and nodded. Jean shaved a small patch on the back of Catherine’s neck and looked down at him.

“The usual.” Richard smiled as the tattoo gun began to buzz. “Why waste a design when the initials are identical? Just leave out your J this time.”

* * * *

At eight-thirty that night Gillian du Pointe knocked on the door of The Larches and waited. An early dinner with Harold had left her just enough time to make her first appointment of the night. The business of an evening solicitor was lucrative. People didn’t always have time in their busy daytime schedules to see her, and for an extra sixty pounds an hour she was more than happy to make house calls.

It took Amanda a little over a minute to answer the door. Gillian didn’t even raise an eyebrow at the oddly buttoned blouse. She held out her card. “I have an appointment with Mr. Godwin and Mrs. Markhew. I believe they’re expecting me.”

“Of course, Ms. du Pointe.” Amanda opened the door wider.

Gillian hesitated, looking at her watch.

“Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.” Gillian strode into the hall and paused, her gaze lingering on the Pieta.

Amanda closed the front door. “They’re waiting for you in the sitting room.”

Gillian entered, nodding to the assembled family. She glanced at each of them in turn while she opened her briefcase and took out the papers relating to Robert Markhew’s will and the estate and holdings. Jean Markhew was flushed, the pulse in her carotid artery beating at an elevated rate, revealing that it was she Amanda had been with prior to her arrival.

She flicked open the folder. “Thank you for arranging this appointment. This won’t take long now that the police have successfully identified the killer of the late Mr. Markhew.” She opened the will and read out the standard clauses.

Jean leaned forward. “Just skip to who gets what.”

Gillian raised an eyebrow. “Very well.” She turned to the following page. “To my stepson, Richard Godwin, I bequeath the property known as The Larches, the grounds and the contents, excluding those belonging personally to any guest or resident thereof, plus the sum of four hundred and fifty thousand pounds, all stocks and portfolios in my name, and the full rights to edit, publish and otherwise dispose of my creative works.”

Richard let out a huge sigh of relief and clutched Catherine’s hand, grinning. Catherine leaned toward him for a kiss.

Gillian coughed to recover their attention. “To my sister-in-law, Jean Markhew, I bequeath the sum of fifty thousand pounds and the right to live in The Larches in perpetuity, as this has become her home. To her daughter Mary I leave the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to begin a new life.”

Jean looked annoyed. This was hardly surprising since she had inherited so much less than her nephew. Mary, on the other hand, looked ecstatic, balling her hands into fists and shaking with glee.

Gillian went on “To my housekeeper Susan Pargeter I bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand pounds and to my devoted secretary Nicole Fielding and my companion Peter Numan I bequeath the sum of fifty thousand pounds each. The remainder of my estate I decree to be divided equally between Amanda James and Catherine Latt, after a tithe of ten percent for the church of Our Lady of Pity.”

The solicitor smiled. “That concludes the last will and testament of Robert Markhew. As the new owner of the house and largest beneficiary I will address my bill to you, Mr. Godwin.”

“What about the twenty thousand that went out of Robert’s account?” asked Jean.

Gillian gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Oddly that transaction was initiated after Sir Robert’s death, then canceled and recalled shortly afterward. You’ll find it’s all accounted for, though it left an odd trail in the recipient’s bank account.” She looked at her notes. “St. Pity’s Fund for Deprived Boys. I expect they’ll be a bit upset but you could always make them a donation.”

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.