Screaming Yellow by Rachel Green Page A

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