Smoke and Mirrors: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  “You don’t have to make it up to me, Celia.”

  “I really am very sorry about what I said, truly. I feel quite ashamed. But it would be good to have a makeover, even if only in our wing.”

  A pause. “Let me check out my commitments and see what might be possible.”

  “When can we talk about it?”

  “After the weekend.”

  Celia sounded brighter. “I’ll ring you Monday.”

  It had become the season for reconciliation and contrition. Without hesitating, Marnie picked up the phone and dialled the vicarage.

  “Angela Hemingway.”

  “Hi, Angela. It’s Marnie.”

  “Hallo, Marnie’ There was real warmth in the tone. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Apologetic. I want to say how sorry I am about my churlish behaviour yesterday. It was inexcusable.”

  “Not at all. When I thought about it afterwards I realised how you must’ve been feeling.”

  “I turned away a friend who came to be supportive, ex-friend, perhaps.”

  “True friend, Marnie. And the sandwiches weren’t much good I can tell you. I bought them at the garage. Yuck!” She laughed. “I thought about giving them to the Salvation Army, but decided it might get me unfrocked.”

  Marnie laughed. “Let me make amends. The forecast for tomorrow isn’t bad. Ralph’s coming home tonight. We’re planning a tootle with lunch on the boat. Can you join us?”

  “Well …”

  “No sandwiches from the petrol station, I promise.”

  “That’s a very persuasive argument, Marnie. The thing is, Randall’s hoping to come over.”

  “Ah, you’ve already made plans.”

  “Can I check with him and get back to you?”

  “Of course. Until later, then.”

  “Marnie, I’m not sure I said this properly yesterday. I of all people ought to understand how you were feeling. Randall and I have to be so careful about our … relationship, with me being the vicar and him the rural dean. Imagine how the tongues could wag.”

  *

  There was to be no let-up that morning. Marnie had barely started on her latest project when she heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. WDC Cathy Lamb entered the office with a folder under her arm and a smile on her face.

  “Come to arrest me for moral turpitude?”

  “No danger of that, Marnie.”

  “I always knew you were a fair-minded woman.”

  “Nope. It’s because I couldn’t spell it on the charge sheet.”

  Marnie read the statement while they drank coffee. It was a clear summary of her involvement with the grave and the headstone, the bare minimum of facts. As Marnie signed the document, Cathy Lamb looked at her speculatively.

  “You know who smashed it, don’t you, Marnie, or at least you have your suspicions?”

  “Maybe. But I wouldn’t want to make any unfounded accusations. I’ve got no proof of anything and I certainly wouldn’t speculate about something like that, least of all to the police.”

  “Sergeant Binns is wondering if the smashing was connected with the second body. What do you think?”

  “If I thought that, I’d tell you. But he’s wrong, in my view. Are you any closer to knowing whose body it is that you’ve found?”

  Lamb shook her head. “The autopsy didn’t reveal much, apparently. The pathologist didn’t have much to go on. If you know anything, Marnie, anything at all that might help our enquiries, you know you really should tell us.”

  Marnie made a cross over her heart and looked Lamb straight in the eye. “Cathy, I haven’t the remotest idea about who the other body might be. And that’s the honest truth.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what happens now with the remains?”

  “We get a second opinion.”

  “What could another pathologist find out that your one missed?”

  Lamb shrugged.

  Marnie got the picture. “You’re not able to tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “You’ll probably find out soon enough. Have you heard of Dr Rob Cardew?”

  “Cardew? I know the name, in fact we’re swapping phone messages at the moment. He’s an archaeologist.” Marnie’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, so you do think the remains are ancient.”

  “I told you, we don’t know. Perhaps another type of expert – like an anthropologist – can give us a lead. Why has Dr Cardew been in touch with you?”

  “It seems he wants to dig holes down here. Perhaps he thinks I know where the bodies are buried.”

  *

  Hugh Devere parked his Saab on the driveway beside his wife’s convertible and walked through to the terrace at the back of the house. Tall, burly, with dark hair receding from the temples, he wore an expensive pinstriped suit, silk tie and handmade brogues. A leather briefcase completed the image of the city businessman. Celia was where he expected to find her, reclining on a steamer chair, her head cushioned on navy and white striped upholstery. She was wearing shorts and a skinny top, reading a magazine, sunglasses pushed up on top of her hair.

  “You’re back early. I wasn’t expecting you. Are you staying for lunch?”

  Hugh kissed the top of her head. “Yes. I’ve had enough of bloody meetings for one week. I’m taking the afternoon off.”

  “Won’t the firm collapse without you?”

  “Not after the deal I’ve pulled off in the past few days. All I want right now is a peaceful weekend with no hassle.”

  “You haven’t forgotten we’re going out to dinner tonight with the Littlejohns?”

  He groaned. “Are we? Do we have to go?”

  “It’s Meg’s birthday.”

  Hugh loosened his tie and sat down heavily with a grunt on the other recliner. “With the bonus I’ll make on this week’s deal, we could afford to put in a swimming pool.”

  “Could we run to a redecoration of the house, our part of it, at least?”

  A pause for reflection. “Don’t see why not.”

  “There’s an interior designer in the village. I thought I might get her involved.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thank you, darling.” Celia looked at her husband. “Have you come across her?”

  “Don’t think so. Who is it?”

  “Her name’s Marnie Walker.” Celia watched her husband for a reaction. “She lives down near the canal, on a boat.”

  Hugh looked at his watch. “Really? Well, I’ll leave that side of things to you.” He stood up. “I’m going to get out of this suit. Fancy going for a walk this afternoon?”

  “A walk? Where?”

  “Knightly Woods? Should be pleasant up there, nice day like this. Shady trees.”

  Celia stretched her long legs. “Why not?”

  *

  Marnie was outside the main house talking to Bob, the foreman builder, when a Land Rover came slowly down the track and pulled off onto the grass at a respectful distance from the farm complex. She forced herself to concentrate on the matter under discussion and listen to what Bob was telling her.

  “I know it’s less obtrusive, Marnie, but if it was me, well, I’d go for ordinary radiators any time.”

  “But underfloor heating is so good these days, Bob. I’ve used it before on other projects.”

  “All right, if that’s really what you want.”

  “Why are you so anti?”

  “It’s more complicated to install, for a start, so it’s pricey, and if you need to get at it for maintenance or a leak … Call me old-fashioned, but –” He stopped abruptly and looked over Marnie’s shoulder. “You expecting someone?”

  She turned to see a man walking towards the office barn, turning his head slowly, scanning the surroundings. Marnie muttered at Bob before addressing the newcomer.

  “Hallo, can I help you?”

  The man stopped. “My name’s Cardew. I’m looking for Mrs Walker.” He smiled. “I think I’ve probably found her.”

  Cardew was in his
thirties, of medium height and build, very tanned, with short brown hair. Black wire-rimmed glasses and a beaky nose gave him an owl-like countenance. He looked the rugged outdoor type in check shirt, faded jeans and walking boots. A brown leather bag was slung over one shoulder. He could have been an early studio prototype for Indiana Jones.

  Marnie was surprised when he accepted her offer of a drink and something to eat while they talked. By the time they had reached Sally Ann, they were on first name terms and Marnie had learnt he was a research fellow in the Institute of Archaeology and a lecturer at New Melville Hall, Cambridge.

  Marnie scrabbled together a simple lunch. While Rob took safari chairs and a picnic table out onto the stern deck, she warmed pitta bread in the oven and mixed tuna with mayonnaise and a squeeze of lemon juice. To complete the filling she shredded a little gem lettuce, chopped some cucumber into cubes and diced half a red pepper. Rob carried the stuffed pittas outside on a tray while Marnie poured designer water into tall tumblers and added ice cubes and a wedge of lime.

  In between mouthfuls, Rob pulled a map out of his bag and showed Marnie the area being studied. A brown sunburnt finger traced the extent of the works, extending over several nearby villages. He spoke quietly and calmly but had a gleam in his eyes as he explained the project.

  Marnie scrutinised the map. “So you’re looking at how people in these villages changed the landscape over time. That’s the idea?”

  Rob nodded. “Settlements. Some of the communities were too scattered to be villages as we now know them, quite isolated units for centuries. It was much more wooded then, of course, mainly oak and elm.”

  Marnie extended her gaze over the countryside. “Even these open meadows and pastures?”

  Another nod. “All this used to be ancient woodland. There are only a few pockets remaining and they’re carefully managed. What you see has been man-made, all of it.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Depends. It was in phases. Some of it was already fields when the Romans came two thousand years ago. It’s going on all the time.”

  “Even now?”

  “The countryside is always undergoing change, Marnie. It’s never static. Don’t get me started. I could talk field patterns and land usage from now till Christmas.”

  Marnie sensed that in his quiet way, he was passionate about the land. He saw it differently from other people and read it like a book or a chart. To Rob Cardew the country was there to be interpreted; it was peopled with the ghosts of past generations.

  “And what do you want to do here at Glebe Farm?”

  “Just dig a few test pits, well, initially. Then see what we find and what you’d agree to. I can’t be more precise until we’ve got a few holes in the ground.”

  “How many?”

  “Half a dozen, maybe? It’s up to you entirely, Marnie.”

  “Actually, I’d have to check with Leonard Fletcher, the farmer. Although it’s my land, I let the field to him for grazing.”

  Rob checked his notebook. “He won’t be putting any sheep in here until autumn. His flocks are over on Blackbird Close and the Pightle till then.”

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  A shrug. “He told me when I asked him about his fields. It was he who said I should talk to you.”

  “Okay. What happens next?”

  “We dig a few test pits, one metre square. We record whatever we find – if anything – and fill them in at the end of the day. The turf will go back on top. In a few weeks you’d never know we’d been there. That’s the deal.”

  “When will this happen?”

  “Some time over the next few weeks.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “Not a thing. We’re self-contained …” That smile again, “… like an army on the move.”

  Marnie smiled back. “Without the same impact, I hope.”

  “So do I.”

  *

  Hugh had been right about the woods. By the time they had eaten lunch, the afternoon heat was becoming oppressive, and they had been only too glad to drive to Knightly Woods and take one of the footpaths through the trees. Others had had the same idea. They had been walking for barely five minutes when Hugh stopped and scanned the forest.

  Celia looked around uneasily. “What is it, darling?”

  “It’s like Piccadilly bloody Circus! Just look, people everywhere.”

  “But it is cool and shady, like you said. You don’t want to go back, do you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not going to be chased out of my own woods by a load of plodders.”

  Celia was confused. “Do we own these woods? I thought they were Forestry Commission.”

  “They are now. Grandfather had to sell ’em. Death duty years ago. He brought me up here when I was about six or seven, not long before he died. Told me how the government would be stealing my birthright. I still think of them as ours. I’m going to get them back one day.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t worry about it. That’s not the problem this afternoon.”

  “What is?”

  “How to find some peace and quiet without being trampled on by all and sundry. Come on.” He set off up the slope away from the footpath. “This way.”

  “But the path goes down there.”

  “Celia, a path doesn’t have to have markers and little blue arrows painted on trees to be a path. There’ve been tracks all over this hill for thousands of years. You just have to know how to find them.”

  Celia trailed after her husband, planting her feet – in their calf leather walking boots – carefully on the rough ground. Soon they were on their own. Trusting Hugh’s judgment, she relaxed and began to enjoy a feeling of independence, breathing in clean, cool air, fresh with the smells of trees and vegetation. The canopy overhead protected them from the sun’s rays and dappled the ground with light and shadow. After ten minutes of steady climbing, she asked for a pause to get her breath.

  Hugh pointed. “Just a bit further. There’s open ground ahead. It’ll be nice up there.”

  Hugh reached it first and sat down on a patch of moss, leaning back against a tree, both legs thrust out in front. Celia caught up with him and perched on a tree stump.

  “You knew this clearing was here.”

  “I know every part of these woods, practically grew up in them. Even after they were taken over by the Forestry I used to roam about all over. They were felling trees then, coppicing, replanting. That was before they were opened to the public.”

  “That was good, wasn’t it, darling? Isn’t that sort of thing necessary?”

  Hugh looked pained. “They changed the character of the place. It had been ancient woodland. The new owners marked out footpaths, cleared space for rustic woodland tables.” He emphasised each word with contempt. “Turned it into a glorified picnic site.” He let out a long sigh.

  Celia stood up and walked to the middle of the clearing. With eyes closed she turned her face to the sun and felt its warmth on her cheeks. For the first time she became aware of birdsong. Somewhere far off through the trees a voice called out. A distant dog barked. A motor droned faintly, an aeroplane way beyond the treetops. She breathed in slowly and rhythmically, catching a light whiff of woodsmoke on the air.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  Hugh was watching her. “What is?”

  “You think you’re far from everything, far from the madding crowd. But things are going on around you all the time. Even here it isn’t really silent.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Is this one of the spaces they cleared for picnics?” She spoke with her eyes still closed.

  “No. This is way off the beaten track.” He pulled his feet up and rested both forearms on his knees, turning his head to look down through the woods. “This place is a mass of bluebells in the spring.”

  “Yet you’ve never brought me here until now.” There was an edge of reproach in her tone.

  “We’ll come again.
We’ve missed the bluebells this year, but we’ll come back next time they’re out.”

  “Perhaps there’ll be crowds of people here to see them then.”

  Hugh shook his head. “I doubt if anyone comes up here.”

  “Someone must’ve been. They made a fire. There’s ash on the ground.”

  He turned to see her scuffing the soil with her foot. “Foresters, I expect.”

  “Hugh, are there animals in these woods?”

  “Of course. Probably badgers, rabbits of course – they get everywhere – hedgehogs, squirrels, grey ones.”

  “Do you get sheep?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “What’s that, then?”

  Hugh got up and went to join her. Celia pointed at the ground. “Doesn’t that look like a sheep’s skull to you?”

  He squatted down. “Mm … odd …” He reached forward.

  Celia exclaimed. “No! Don’t touch it. It looks, I don’t know, creepy.”

  Hugh ignored her and picked it up. “It’s hardly going to bite.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  He turned it over in his hands. “Too small for a sheep, I’d say.”

  “A lamb?”

  “Surely not up here.” Hugh examined it from all angles. “I wonder …”

  “You know what it is?”

  “Could be a muntjac. Yes, that’s possible.”

  Celia was dubious. “I’ve never seen one.”

  “You don’t, at least not very often, but they do live round here. They’re all over the county in fact, bit of a nuisance. They eat the bark off the young trees.” He turned the skull round again. “Mm …”

  “What?”

  “It isn’t quite the right shape when you look closely.”

  Celia shuddered and backed away. “I don’t want to look closely.”

  Hugh held it out in front of him in both hands. “I know what it is. It’s a goat skull.”

  “A goat? Are there wild goats in England, Hugh? Are you sure that’s what it is?”

  “Yes. You can see the shape of it. Look.”

  He held it out to Celia, but she took two steps backwards. “I don’t want –” Her foot caught something and she stumbled.