Screaming Yellow (5 page)

Susan frowned, lingering on the threshold. “But what if the sleeping pills were just a cover for something stronger? What if she’d taken heroin or worse after the sleeping pills? How would anyone be able to tell that?”

“She didn’t take any pills, Susan, and she didn’t take any heroin, none at all.” Simon ushered her out and locked the great oak doors behind them. “If she’d eaten or injected anything it would come up on the blood test.”

Susan stared at him for a moment, until Simon felt like looking away. “That’s good to know, Father, Thank you.”

Susan turned and hurried down the path toward the park, her coat tails flapping.

At the door, Simon turned to look back into the shadowed nave. A second image of Grace intruded, this time of her red and bloated face, looking up at him as she hung from the banisters. He rubbed his eyes and left, locking the church doors before his rounds.

* * * *

It was evening before Simon had finished visiting parishioners and was walking back through the cemetery on the way home. At least it was beginning to get lighter at night now, only a month ago it was already dark by six o’clock. When he passed the gate to The Herbage again the truck had gone and his remaining steps to the rectory door seemed a little lighter. He stepped out of the wind into the inviting warmth of the house and was surprised to find Jennifer was not on the computer but in the living room. She called out to him as he closed the door.

“Simon?” Her voice trilled with suppressed excitement. “We have a visitor.”

He shrugged off his coat and went in, setting his briefcase on the floor next to the armchair. The large gentleman sitting on the sofa next to his sister was none other than Robert Markhew himself, a trail of biscuit crumbs leading from his goatee to the treasure of a half-empty plate on the coffee table. He made to rise as Simon entered, pulling himself up with the aid of his stick, but Simon waved him down again.

“No need to get up. We don’t stand on ceremony here.” He turned to Jennifer and bent to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Is there any tea left in that pot?”

“It’ll have gone cold now.” She stretched upward for the chaste peck. “I can easily make up a fresh one for you, though.”

Simon waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He lowered himself into the easy chair and threw a leg jauntily over the arm. “Good to see you, Robert. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I came to invite you to dinner one evening.” Robert held his chin with one hand, his thumb stroking the grey hairs of his beard and dislodging crumbs over his sports jacket. “All this business with Grace dying has got me thinking about the afterlife.”

“Heaven, you mean?” Simon smiled. “I shall be delighted, of course. What day are we talking about?”

“Would tomorrow suit you?” Robert asked. “I don’t know when Grace’s funeral is yet, but it shouldn’t be this soon, and I know you’re busy on Sundays, of course.”

“Tomorrow will be fine.” Simon pulled out his pocket diary and wrote in the appointment. “Shall we say seven o’clock?”

“Capital.” Robert heaved himself upright and turned to Jennifer. “You’re invited too, my dear, naturally.”

“Thank you, Robert.” Jennifer smiled up at him. “Will Richard be present?”

“Ah.” Robert hesitated. “I’m afraid not. He’s in London at present.”

“Is he?” Simon stood to show his guest out. “I thought I saw him in the cemetery a day or two ago. He and Jean were leaving flowers on her late husband’s grave and chatting. They seemed to be quite close.”

“You must be mistaken.” Robert made his way to the front door. “He’s been there all week, looking for work in the museums.”

Simon shook his head. “My apologies.” He opened the door. “It must have been a trick of the light. We’ll see you tomorrow then. Seven o’clock sharp.”

Chapter 7

Nicole yelped as the hemp rope bit into her thigh. “I’m sorry, Sir.” She spoke through the two strands running vertically across her lips. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take this for long.”

“As you wish.” Robert relaxed the cord, allowing her to lower her foot to the floor again. “Good girl for telling me before I went any further with this form of binding.” He felt her hands. “Are your fingers all right? They feel a little chilly.”

“Fine, Sir, thank you.” Nicole shifted her weight to the other foot.

“How about this?” Robert used a length of silk rope wrapped several times around her thigh as padding against the bite of the hemp.

Nicole danced on one foot as her leg was hoisted in the air again. “Much…better, Sir.”

Robert laughed. “Relax. You’re not going to fall. Most of your weight is supported by the
karada
I’ve worked around your torso. Lean back.”

“I can’t.”

“Trust me.” Robert forcibly bent her supporting leg until her weight was suspended by the network of hemp and jute attached to the hook in the ceiling. He plucked at each of the ropes, refining and adjusting the web until each one supported her equally.

“Ooh,” she said. “I don’t think I can take this for very long, Sir. The ones around my waist are too tight.”

“Relax.” Robert stroked her hair. “How long can you manage, do you think? Ten minutes? Five? Do you need to call yellow immediately or do I have time to tie off the other leg and take a few shots?”

“Five, perhaps.” Nicole grunted as a lark’s hitch was tossed over her free ankle and attached to the hook. Her angle tilted nearer to the horizontal as Robert tightened the ropes supporting her foot, wrapping several loops around her to keep her leg straight. “You’re fully suspended now.” He brushed his lips across her shoulder. “I want you to count to two hundred and it will all be over.”

“Yes, Sir.” Nicole began. “One, two, three…”

“I meant in your head.”

Nicole stifled a giggle. “Sorry.”

Robert set up his lights with an efficiency born of practice. Hemp glowed under the bright lamps, every fiber visible against the dark cloth he’d attached to the picture rail. “Lovely,” he said, his camera flashes firing as she spun in a lazy circle. “This may well become the cover of the book. Turn your palms upward and lose the grimace.”

“I’ll try.” Nicole’s face dropped into a more relaxed expression.

“Excellent.” Robert’s cameras clicked through their maximum shutter speed. He was glad he’d switched to digital cameras when the quality became comparable to film. Scenes like this would have cost a fortune to develop otherwise, never mind the expression of the lady in the chemist when he went in for his prints.

“Two hundred, Sir. Yellow.” Nicole’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Coming.” Robert stepped forward and kissed her nearest shoulder. “Not literally, mind.” He untied knots with a quiet efficiency and within moments he’d released her legs and allowed her to support her own weight. His rope-work was designed to be easy to take off and Nicole was completely free, but for the chest harness, in under a minute.

He smiled and kissed her properly. “Well done.” He stepped back and took several more shots of the rope marls left on her skin. “Now coil the ropes while I download these photographs.”

Chapter 8

Breakfast at the rectory was a civilized affair. Jennifer made toast while Simon set the table and put out bowls and their three boxes of cereal. They both took tea and although he professed to prefer Earl Grey, Simon drank the brand Jennifer bought at the local supermarket. They sat together, each lost in their own thoughts until their bowls had been pushed to one side.

“Was it just me, or was it a bit strange that Robert thought Richard was in London?” Simon asked, spreading a generous amount of Seville marmalade on his toast.

Jennifer nodded. “I thought it was, too. Everybody knows he’s been staying at the White Art in town.”

“Everybody meaning your webcam cronies.” He took a sip of the tea, holding the cup around the rim instead of by the handle. Jennifer thought the method uncouth. “Have they said why he’s staying there and not with his stepfather?”

“No.” Jennifer leaned forward, the tips of her hair brushing across the strawberry jam on her toast. “Haven’t you found out from your sources?”

“No. Not that I’d be able to reveal anything I learned in the confessional.”

“Heaven forbid.” Jennifer smiled. “I know people gossip to you though. Outside of your little rosewood box, I mean.”

“Not that I’d listen to such idle chatter.” Simon took a bite of his toast, a little of the marmalade slipping off and adhering to his chin. He wiped it off with a napkin. “Perhaps he just wants to be out of the way of Robert’s harem.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jennifer took a sip of her tea. “All the women who visit The Larches have good reason to do so. I can’t imagine Jean having truck with a harem.” She giggled at the thought of the balding Robert Markhew as an Arabian sultan.

Simon waved the butter knife at her. “Scoff if you must,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure Robert is a very attractive man when clad only in his boxers. If I weren’t a priest I’d be tempted, and not least by the biscuit crumbs in his beard.”

Jennifer snorted tea from her nose.

“You can spray what you like,” Simon continued, “but he probably has a huge bed for six in that private room of his.”

“Private room?” Jennifer wiped her face with her napkin. “What private room?”

“The one that Jean isn’t allowed in.” Simon smirked at the expression on his sister’s face. He picked up his cup again. “Didn’t you know about it?”

“You know I didn’t.” Jennifer poured more tea and did her best to remain composed against his insufferable smugness. “I shall do soon, though.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” Simon held out his cup for a refill. “What about our new neighbors then? Do you know anything about them?”

“Not much,” Jennifer admitted. “The ice-truck is registered to a company in Machynlleth, so they must be Welsh. Her name is Meinwen Jones and she used to run a shop in Aberdovey but it closed down a month ago according to Melanie at the post office. I don’t know anything about him other than he’s called Dafydd Thomas.”

“I saw them yesterday when they were moving in.” Simon chose honey for his second slice of toast. “Not to speak to though. She looks to be a bit of a hippie, all floaty skirts and patchouli oil.”

“That’s odd.” Jennifer finished her toast and pushed the plate away. “What does she want to come here for? Nothing ever happens here.”

* * * *

Meinwen smiled at the customers. “I haven’t really opened yet.” She nodded to the boxes of merchandise stacked two or three high, all waiting to go on display. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

The girl in the t-shirt pushed her friend forward. Her purple hair looked nice, but clashed with the zebra-striped vest top, the bondage pants and the Doc Marten boots. Her stripy purple socks went well enough though, and were a match to Meinwen’s own.

“Do you do love potions?” She bit her bottom lip, looking at everything but Meinwen. “Or a spell I can do myself?”

“Certainly.” Meinwen reached under the counter and took out a small blue bottle. “Here you go, Mary. You need to add a hair of the two people you want to fall in love and bury it at the root of an oak tree overnight. That’ll be a tenner.”

“Wow.” Mary grinned, holding the tiny bottle up to the light. “You must be a good psychic to have guessed my name.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out the money. “How long will it take?”

“No more than a week or so.” Meinwen tucked the money under a statue of Buddha and rubbed his belly for luck. “Wear a little of it whenever you expect to see the object of your desire.”

Mary sniffed at the contents. “Cool,” she said. “It smells like musk.”

Meinwen watched them walk down the street before returning to her unpacking. Her reputation as a witch would grow exponentially, at least among the town’s teenage population. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned she knew Mary’s Uncle Robert, who had not only sent her Mary’s picture but described her to a T.

* * * *

Later, Meinwen was working in her new garden when the vicar appeared next door. She didn’t stop digging, but caught a glimpse of him every time she lifted a spadeful of the damp, chalky soil. Had she been looking for a man to share her life with, she could have done worse than this young chap. He looked to be forty or so, with an easy smile and ash-blond hair that fell across his eyes. He was, as far as she could tell, quite physically fit. Probably from pushing the ratty old car she’d spotted in the driveway. She paused, leaning on her spade as he approached the low wall dividing the two properties.