Screaming Yellow. Rachel Green
* * *
The church was filled with shadows when Simon turned the lights off at four o’clock. It was usually enough to send people scurrying to the refuge of the open doors at the end of the nave. The only light inside the church now came from the flickering votive candles as they burned away the prayers said over them.
Simon’s footsteps rang against the wood floor and echoed from walls of eighteenth-century granite as he walked past the pews, checking for lingering parishioners and lost possessions. He paused at the third row from the back at the sight of a silent figure on her knees, a rosary in her hands as she prayed.
“I’m sorry, I’m closing the church for the night.” His voice was soft enough to prevent her from being startled.
She looked up, her face translucent in the dim light from the stained glass windows. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll go.”
Simon held out a hand to help her to her feet. “It’s Susan, isn’t it? Susan Pargeter?”
“That’s right, Father.” Susan took his hand and edged out of the pew. “I was praying for Mrs. Peters. Is it true she killed herself?”
Simon shook his head. “There’s no doubt about it. I feel responsible. I used to see her regularly but I had no idea whatsoever she was so depressed or likely to do such a thing.”
“Nor I, Father. I saw her every day to take her a hot meal and she never once said she was tired of her life. I don’t like to think of her going to Hell. She was a good woman.”
Simon nodded, holding out his hand to help the woman out of the pew. “I’m sure that at worst she’ll spend a little time in purgatory, Susan.” He led the way to the doors. “What sins she had are between her and God now.”
“Then I’ll pray for Our Lady to intercede on her behalf.” Susan paused at the door. “Father? Is it true that she took sleeping tablets?”
“That’s just a rumor, Susan.” Simon held the door open for her and repeated what he’d said to Jean. “Gossip for old women and nothing to take any heed of.”
“But there’s no trace from sleeping pills, is there? How would anyone know if that’s what she took?”
“She didn’t, Susan.” Simon took out his set of keys in an effort to chivvy her out. “Besides, if she’d taken any pills at all it will be picked up in the autopsy. Your body can’t digest pills after you’re dead.”
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.