Читать книгу Screaming Yellow - Rachel Green - Страница 14

Chapter 9

“They’ll be here soon.” Robert Markhew trailed his fingers down the rigid body, taking delight in the wild-eyed panic of the submissive woman bound in hemp rope before him. “What do you think they’d say if they found you like this?”

She grunted through the ball gag, the leather strap so tight the skin of her cheeks was white underneath it. Her breasts stood pert and hardened, confined within twin whorls of rope.

“What’s that?” Robert smiled. “I couldn’t quite hear you.” His fingers ran across her nipple and down over the bound torso, trailing over her mound. He could go no farther, for to prolong her agony and force himself to be patient, he had bound her legs, preventing access to that most precious area of her body.

She grunted again.

“It is indeed.” Whether Robert could distinguish her meaning remained unclear but he gave the appearance he had. Acceding or denying any request she might make was part of his enjoyment.

The alarm on his cellphone rang and he smiled.

“Time’s up,” he said. “We’ll continue this at another time.” He circled the woman, taking a last moment of pleasure from her discomfort before pulling out the thick rattan cane holding the ropes in place. They fell off her, pooling around her feet like a shoal of eels.

“Get your clothes on.” He straightened his bow tie in the mirror. “You need to be serving aperitifs as soon as they arrive. I need to get a bit more work done.”

* * * *

“They’ll be here any minute.” Jean said as she opened the study door to leave. “You don’t have time for any more playing on your computer.”

“I know. I’ll be out shortly.” Robert Markhew tapped his status to “away” and pulled another photograph onto the graphics program. Robert considered himself old school and composed his work in the camera but was not averse to digitally cropping and enhancing the colors of his masterpieces. His last show at the Downstairs Gallery had been an acclaimed success and he’d sold forty thousand copies of his book Palimpsests after the review of it in The Times.

He zoomed in to ten-times magnification and edited out a slight blur on the ink used to write page thirteen of Joyce’s Ulysses across the naked torso of his model for the day. All in the best possible taste, of course, soft lighting and sepia filters and close-up shots of tonal skin.

He pressed a shortcut for his voice recorder. “Nicole, please remind me to talk to Amanda about inking the models. Today’s page had bled. Check what ink he’s using. She’s using, I mean.”

He zoomed out again and saved the file. “Page thirteen stored and completed with file name jay-jay-you-oh-one-three-see. Mark up and transcribe. Single plate, left.” Nicole Fielding, his secretary could access his dictation files on the network and transcribe his notes in the morning. He turned off the recorder just as the doorbell rang.

“Time’s up,” he said to himself, disconnecting the camera, and standing. “Be pleasant to the parish priest and his lovely sister.” He crossed to the mirror and adjusted his bow tie, brushed off his beard and rubbed a spot of ink from his cheek.

* * * *

“Here we are.”

Jennifer indicated to turn into the wide drive of The Larches, waiting for the approaching car to pass. She was a careful driver, having treated herself to a new Mercedes when her first book topped the million sales mark. At seven years old it looked as good as it did when she’d bought it.

“It was kind of you to drive.” Simon adjusted his tie in the passenger vanity mirror. “It means you can’t have a drink.”

Jennifer smiled. “I’d rather stay teetotal than turn up to The Larches in that battered old thing the church lets you drive.”

She turned into the driveway but had to slam on the brakes as a blue Vauxhall shot out of the drive and into the road, heedless of either the Mercedes or any other traffic that might have been passing. Simon caught a glimpse of a tear-stained face at the wheel.

“That was Susan Pargeter.” Simon stared after the car. “I’m sure she was crying.”

“Really?” Jennifer’s mind was racing. “Perhaps Robert’s kicked her out of his harem.” She slipped back into gear and eased forward.

“That’s not very kind.” Simon returned his attention to the gravel drive. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so upset. I wonder what’s happened.”

Jennifer parked the car in the wide turning circle and stood back while Simon knocked on the door, waiting several minutes for a reply.

“We have got the right day, haven’t we?” he asked. “Robert did say tonight?”

“Of course he did.” Jennifer leaned past him and hammered on the door until it was opened by a flustered young woman.

“I’m so sorry.” She stood to one side to let them pass into the hall, decorated with paintings on either side of a paneled door. “I heard you knock but I was up to my elbows in entrails. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Jennifer smiled. “Long enough to feel the chill. It’s purgatory out there.”

“Jennifer!” Simon’s feigned outrage was sufficient admonishment.

“Good evening, Father, Miss Brande.” Mary trotted down the stairs with a smile almost wide enough to reach her eyes. “Amanda! Don’t just stand there! Take their coats.”

“Hello there.” Simon shrugged off his mac and handed it to the maid. He turned to Mary. “I hear you have some good news.”

“You’ve already heard!” She grinned even wider. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can hardly believe it myself.”

“I’m so pleased for you.” Jennifer kissed the blushing cheek and threw a glance at Simon from behind Mary’s back. “You must tell me all about it.”

“I admit I was surprised when Richard asked me.” She looked from Jennifer to Simon and back. “I didn’t think he had much interest in marriage, at least not with me. Since we’d known each other for so long I assumed he just thought of me as a sister or something.”

“He certainly seems to think more of you than a sister now.” Jennifer folded Mary’s hand into the crook of her arm and led her into the sitting room. “When’s the big day?” She left Simon in the hall, aware he’d take the opportunity to look at the Victorian paintings.

* * * *

“There you are, Father. I thought we’d lost you.” Robert Markhew appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping a spot of grease from his beard with a napkin. “I saw Mary talking to Jennifer and wondered where you’d gone.”

“I was just looking at this Pieta.” Simon indicated a large oil depicting Christ on the cross, a tearful Mary Magdalene washing his bloody feet with her tears. “Our Lady of Pity.”

“It’s been in the family for years.” Robert put an arm around Simon’s shoulders and guided him toward the sitting room. “I’ll leave it to you in my will, if you like.”

“Ah, I’m flattered but I couldn’t accept. Vows of poverty, remember?”

“I’ll leave it to the church, then. Pity for St. Pity’s.”

“Splendid. Thank you.” Simon twisted to look back at the painting. “It’ll hang in the Lady’s Chapel.”

“As you wish.” Robert sighed. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose? Richard’s engagement?”

“Indeed I have.” Simon smiled. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

“I expect so.” Robert nudged Simon’s arm. “Sly little bugger, eh? Still, it keeps everything in the family. Shall we go in? I believe dinner is ready.”

* * * *

Nicole knocked softly on the door to Peter’s cottage. As the gardener and handyman he had the place to himself, a cottage built originally as an adjunct to the main house for visitors to occupy. It served Peter very well, leaving him free to work at any hour without disturbing the rest of the occupants.

It served Nicole well, too. No noise carried from Peter’s cottage to the rest of the house, leaving them free to pursue a relationship outside that of Sir Robert and the rest of the family.

He knew about it, naturally. Little went on at The Larches without Robert knowing the details, but as long as their activities didn’t impinge on either their work or his demands he allowed their relationship to flourish.

After no reply to her knock, Nicole tried the handle. The cottage was empty, Peter’s coat missing from the hook on the back of the door. She kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom, switching on the two wall lights to bathe the room in a soft glow.

She pulled off her dress and put some music on, selecting a book from the shelves to read. Peter wasn’t one for fiction, preferring instead to acquaint himself with the intricacies of whichever cars the house owned or the complexities of maintaining a large garden for year-round color and cut flowers. Between the manuals for the lawn mowers and the Jaguar, though, was a slim volume of poetry. She took it out and sat on the bed in the uniform stockings and underwear Robert Markhew dictated his female staff should wear and began to read.

Much of the book comprised haiku, each one a glimpse into the life of the writer. Nicole flicked back to the cover, where the author was listed as Paul Oldman. She flicked back to the page she’d just read:

secretary smile.

she takes down all he dictates–

silk stocking, torn.

Nicole frowned. It sounded like her. Could Peter have written this under a pseudonym?

She read through several more of the poems. Here was one about Robert, one about love, one about sex between two men…

The minutes ticked by into an hour. The CD she’d put on had begun to repeat the first song and she realized she hadn’t heard the other tracks. She’d read the entire volume by the time she heard the outer door open and Peter’s gruff baritone.

“Who’s here?” He came into the bedroom, his smile when he saw her creasing the corners of his eyes. “Did we have an arrangement tonight? I must have forgotten.”

Nicole held up the book of poetry and his face fell. “Did you write this?”

He nodded, crossing the gap between the door and the bed to sit next to her. He fumbled for her hand. “Don’t tell anyone. We’re not supposed to profit from our positions here.”

“That depends how good you are.” She reached back and unhooked her bra. “Let’s make haiku together.”

* * * *

The dinner was a quiet affair if you discounted Mary’s constant monologue about her engagement. Jennifer was sick of hearing about it even before the main course was served. There were only so many times one could feign interest.

“Have you met Amanda?” asked Robert, when the girl who’d opened the front door came in to take away the remains of the soup course. “She’s staying with us for a little while for some training.”

“Briefly, at the door.” Simon half stood and held out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Father Brande and this is my sister, Jennifer.”

Jennifer smiled, noticing the maid’s honey complexion. “Where are you from, Amanda? Spain?”

“No, ma’am. Basingstoke. My mother’s Spanish, though.” Amanda had a soft, lilting voice and was clearly nervous in front of guests. She gathered up the bowls with an efficiency any restaurateur would envy.

“How long have you had her?” Simon asked when Amanda left the room.

“What?” Robert seemed startled by the question. “Oh. A month or two. Not long. She’s quite good, isn’t she?”

“Quite.”

Jennifer raised her eyebrows but Simon seemed to be deliberately looking away. This at least was a piece of news and she wondered how to work Amanda into her web of Robert’s theoretical harem.

Simon busied himself with his napkin. “Is Susan all right? She was leaving just as we arrived.”

“Was she?” Robert looked around the table. “I hadn’t noticed she wasn’t here, to be frank. Her duties are fairly light with Richard away.”

“Talking of which, how did he propose?” Simon addressed the question to Mary, who was only too happy to discuss the unexpected web chat that initiated such a change to her life.

Jennifer had memorized the details by the arrival of the main course and watched as Simon tucked into the beef and vegetables as if he hadn’t eaten for a week. Robert merely picked at his, pushing the plate away before it was even half finished.

The one-sided conversation from Mary died out by the time they were served cheesecake and coffee. Jean had remained as silent as her brother throughout the meal and even Jennifer, usually so eager to gather gossip, had seemed subdued.

When Amanda had cleared away dessert, Robert looked up. “Would you care for brandy and a cigar in the library, Simon?”

Jennifer pursed her lips, knowing this was an opportunity to gather information she wouldn’t be privy to. Simon would be insufferably smug about it afterward. “I’d be delighted,” he said, rising. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies.”

The moment they’d gone, Mary left the table too, her heels clattering as she dashed up the stairs. Jean watched her daughter until she was out of sight, a smile on her face.

“It’s lovely to see her so happy.”

“It is.” Jean looked at her with narrowed eyes and Jennifer felt she was being judged. “I wonder if I could ask you a favor.” Jean leaned forward to close the gap between them. “Would you mind talking to Robert for me? I’d ask your brother but Robert has a soft spot for the ladies.”

“I’ll try.” Jennifer held her hand. “What about?”

“Mary. She doesn’t really have anything of her own. Anthony, my late husband, didn’t leave us much and it was good of Robert to take us in.”

“So?” Jennifer filed away the tidbit of information. “How can I help?”

“Would you mind asking what sort of settlement he’s going to make on her? I know he’s not really obliged to give her anything, but it would help to get them off to a good start.”

“I’ll do my best.” Jennifer grasped the older woman’s hands. “I promise.”

* * * *

Robert led the way back to the study, unlocking the door and ushering Simon inside. While the priest looked at the huge array of books on the shelves he poured two large measures and sank into a wing chair by the fire. “Do sit.” He waved at the matching chair. “I don’t often get the chance to talk man-to-man with someone. Cigar?”

“Not for me. I don’t smoke.” Simon sat and picked up the brandy, cupping it in one hand. “Thank you, though.”

“I thought all priests smoked.” Robert took one for himself. “Part of the job description, like knocking back the communion wine and deflowering the nuns.”

Simon laughed. “Only in sitcoms and tabloids.”

Robert did his best to smile back but feared it looked polite but strained. He lit his cigar, deep in thought. After a minute or two he looked up, holding Simon’s eyes with his own. “It’s been a rough couple of days. Hell, in fact, if you’ll pardon my use of the expression.”

“I’m not surprised.” Simon leaned forward. “We’ve all been hit hard by Grace’s death and now you have an engagement to deal with.”

“You don’t understand,” Robert interrupted. “There’s more to it than that. Far more.” His voice softened. “You’re a priest. I know I can trust you. Over the last year, Grace and I became very close, close enough that we began to share our personal thoughts.”

“Go on.” Simon nodded.

“I’m not sure that there’s a polite way to say this,” Robert continued, “so I’ll be blunt. The day before she died, Grace told me what had happened with her husband.”

“Henry’s unfortunate demise?” Simon sat back, resting the glass of brandy on his leg. “It could have happened to anybody.” He blushed. “Well, almost anybody. The accident…”

“…was no accident.” Robert put down his glass and held his head in his hands. “Grace planned it all. She murdered him.”

“You can’t be serious.” Simon sat up in his chair. “Why?”

“There were…things…in that marriage that were not right,” Robert said. “Things that would have driven a saint to murder. He was abusing her terribly. I saw the marks he left on her when he was alive. One day she’d had enough.” He threw up his hands. “While he was asleep she altered the knot in the rope he used for his…activities. When he…er…spilled his seed it wouldn’t come loose again afterward. The police ruled the whole affair an accident.”

“That’s horrible.” Simon shook his head.

“There’s more, though. Someone found out about the murder and was blackmailing her for large amounts of money. She was at her wits’ end. She had to tell me because her bank account was almost dry. Another couple of months and she would have had to sell The Herbage. If she’d managed to let it earlier…” He let the sentence hang.

“Who?” Simon sat forward again. “Who was blackmailing her?”

“I don’t know.” Robert hung his head. A line of ash from his forgotten cigar dropped to the ground. “I asked her to give me twenty-four hours to think of what to do to help her before I took any action. Of course, she used that time to kill herself.”

“So Jennifer was right.”

“What?”

Simon looked up. “Jennifer was sure that Grace had killed Henry. I pooh-poohed the notion. I owe her an apology.”

“Not yet. I still don’t know who was blackmailing her. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

Simon reached across and touched his knee. “It’s not your fault, Robert. A suicide is nobody’s fault but their own. Leave any recriminations to God.”

“She’d still be alive if it wasn’t for that blackmailer,” Robert said. “I have to find out who it was. It’s the last thing I can ever do for her.”

“How will you manage that? A private investigator?”

Robert bit his lip. “That’s an idea. I could certainly afford to.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Grace said she’d write me a letter explaining everything. Something I could take to the police.” He frowned, standing. “Wait a minute.” He went to the door and opened it. “Amanda?”

The trainee maid came from the kitchen drying her hands on a tea towel. “Yes, sir?”

“Was there any post this morning?”

Amanda looked around. “No, sir.” She crossed to the sideboard in the hall. “But this was hand-delivered this afternoon. I put it on the side for you.” She handed Robert an envelope.

He looked at the handwriting. “Yes.” He closed the door and tore it open. “This is from Grace.” He scanned the opening paragraph.

My dear friend,

It grieves me to write this but I fear for my life. You may be aware that Father Brande has been visiting me regularly. At first he was a great comfort after the passing but lately I am discomfited by his presence. He–

Robert folded the letter back into its envelope.

Simon put down his glass. “What did she say?”

“Nothing of importance. A suicide note, nothing more. Perhaps if I’d read it sooner…” He tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for the talk. I appreciate you listening to my ramblings.” He opened the study door and stood to one side waiting for the priest to leave. “I’m sorry. This is one of those times I should keep her confidence.”

“It was no trouble at all. I quite understand.” Simon skulked past and Robert closed the door behind him.

* * * *

“Who’s that?” Jennifer nodded toward a man on the side of the road. “He’s waving at us.”

“I’ve no idea.” Simon laid his hand on her arm. “Better pull over and see what he wants.”

Jennifer indicated and stopped the car next to the man. Simon rolled down his window. “Can we help you?”

“Cheers for stopping, mate.” The man smiled as he leaned down to the height of the window. “Magic. Can you tell me where The Larches is?”

“The Larches?” Simon’s voice raised in surprise. “Of course. Go to the end of the road and turn left into Cherry Tree Road and the house is past the first bend on your right.”

“Cheers mate. I owe you one.” He stood, rapping on the roof of the car and leaving nothing but the impression of aftershave and an odd accent. Simon craned his neck to look behind the car.

“What an odd fellow. I wonder who he was.”

“You should have asked him.” Jennifer indicated and pulled out again. “He might have been Grace’s lover or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jennifer. He’s probably a friend of Richard’s from college.” He looked at the time on the dashboard clock. “It’s early yet. How about a nightcap at the White Art?”

“Are you sure?” Jennifer was dubious. “You’ve had several already.”

“A little one won’t hurt. Come on. You know you want to.”

“Very well.” She accelerated toward Laverstone’s only hotel. The internet could wait another hour for her presence.

The White Art was a rambling old building on the corner of Lovatt Street and Taunton Road. Several men stood at the open doorway smoking cigarettes but Jennifer pulled into the car-park at the back and followed Simon into the lounge. She glanced up at the sign as she passed beneath. It depicted a full moon bisected by the lines of a pentagram. “You ought to complain about that sign.”

Simon laughed. “Why should I? It’s been like that since before I was assigned the post here.”

“It’s not right. They should go back to being called the White Hart instead of all this witchery nonsense.”

“It’s good for the tourists. Mike makes a mint when they come to see the village stones. He gets quite a bit of trade in the summer from the folks doing the Stonehenge and Glastonbury tour.”

The lounge was quiet, though a fair amount of noise filtered through from the bar. Jennifer stood at the bar and removed her gloves while Simon flagged down the barman.

“Father Brande. This is a pleasant surprise.” Mike Chapman jerked his head toward the bar. “You any good at darts? We’re being thrashed by the team from Morley Croft.”

Simon shook his head. “Sorry, Mike.”

“No matter. What can I get you?”

“A small scotch for me and...” He looked at Jennifer, his eyebrows raised.

“I’ll have a port and lemon.” Jennifer looked at the other guests. There was no one she recognized.

“There you go.” Simon took out his wallet and laid a five-pound note on the bar. “Is Richard upstairs?”

“I don’t know offhand.” Mike glanced into the bar. “I’ve not seen him, though he might well have come in and gone straight up.”

“Mind if I check?”

Mike shook his head. “Help yourself.”

“Splendid.” Simon touched Jennifer’s arm. “I'll only be a minute. You go and sit down.”

* * * *

“So what did you find out?” asked Jennifer when they got home. She was already seething from the silent car journey. “You were gone for ages when you went to see Richard and then just swallowed your drink in one gulp. It must have been something important.”

“Actually, no. Richard wasn’t there so I left him a note to come and see me. The trouble was I had to go and find a pen and then needed a piece of paper.” Simon looked at her as she took his coat to hang up. “I have to think.” He kicked off his shoes and put his slippers on. “Robert told me some disturbing news. I need to pray for guidance.”

“Tell me something, at least.” Jennifer put the discarded footwear onto newspaper. “You and Robert were cloistered in his study for over an hour.”

Simon headed up the stairs. “You were right all along. I’m going to bed.”

“Right about what?” Jennifer shouted, her exasperation with her secretive brother reaching boiling point, but he gave her no reply.

* * * *

Jennifer was engrossed in an online conversation about Margaret’s dog when the phone rang. She looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. Eleven-fifteen. The ringing stopped, answered by Simon in his bedroom. Minutes later he came thundering down the stairs pulling his clothes on as he went.

Jennifer ran into the hall. “What’s happened?”

His face was grim. “That was Amanda, the maid at The Larches. Robert’s been murdered.”