by Leo McNeir
Anne’s lists were a standing joke in their household. She produced a small notebook from her back pocket and waved it before ducking out of the door. Sitting in the car she had a sudden thought and pulled out a pencil. How much toilet paper would an army of archaeologists need in a fortnight? She added loo rolls – bumper pack to her list and set off.
*
Marnie was grateful for the next interruption when Rob Cardew stuck his head round the door. He recognised Cathy Lamb and from the body language he inferred that she was not conducting an interrogation. The two women smiled to see him.
“Have you got everything you need, Rob?”
“We’re fine, Marnie. The barn is just right, we’ve got power and water laid on, and Anne seems to have all our basic needs met: urn, loo. What more could anyone desire?”
“You’re excavating down here?” Lamb sounded surprised.
“Initially just a few test pits. Then we’ll take it from there. I’m assuming our equipment and things will be safe in the barn, Marnie?”
“I’ve no reason to suspect they might not be, but you won’t go leaving anything valuable around, will you … computers and such?”
“No.”
Lamb closed her notebook. “You’ll be keeping the barn securely locked, no doubt?”
Marnie shrugged. “That might be difficult.”
“As a police officer I should advise you at least to get a padlock fitted.”
“Like I said, that might be difficult. The barn doesn’t have any doors.”
Lamb frowned. “Your funeral. Talking of which …” She turned to Rob. “Are you doing anything up at the grave site?”
Rob glanced fleetingly at Marnie. “Not as such.”
Lamb seemed to ponder what his reply might mean. Marnie explained.
“Rob’s wife is involved in examining the modern remains in the laboratory.”
“I see. What about the coffin?”
Rob shook his head. “That’s not archaeology. It’s being treated as a burial, not our scene.”
“Oh?”
Marnie interjected again. “There are discussions going on in the diocese about whether Sarah should be moved into the churchyard.”
“So has everything come to a halt up there?”
This time Rob did not hesitate in replying. “Not quite. I think you’ll be getting the results back from the lab very soon.”
“What will they show?” Lamb flipped open the notebook.
After a brief pause Rob said, “I mustn’t pre-empt things, but I think you might be in for a few surprises.”
*
Anne emptied the bags from the supermarket trolley into the Mini’s small boot. The bumper pack of toilet rolls was so big it occupied most of the back seat. Fastening her safety belt, she sat thinking before turning the ignition key. An idea had been forming as she rolled the trolley up and down the aisles, and in her mind’s eye she was plotting a circuitous route home. The itinerary would cross the canal at every point possible on the way back from the supermarket to Glebe Farm.
In Blisworth, looking over the parapet of the bridge, she realised that such a village was too built-up, had too many residents and visitors, was too accessible. If Donovan really had returned and was still in the area, he would have chosen a more remote location if he did not want to be seen.
The next crossing point was in Stoke Bruerne, and she drove on without stopping. Threading her way through the narrow country lane that led to the main road, she turned right and accelerated over the lock bridge with barely a glance at the water.
In minutes she was standing on another bridge by a canalside pub looking down at boats moored on either side of the road. It was hopeless. The pub was popular, attracting frequent traffic tying up at the end of its garden, and there were permanent moorings in both directions. Anne turned and rested her back against the parapet. There were no other crossing places before Cosgrove, which meant there were a few miles of relatively secluded countryside going north and south. The words wild goose chase came to mind.
“Don’t worry, love, it may never happen.”
Anne had not noticed the man crossing the road, laden down with all the paraphernalia needed for angling. He put his bag down to adjust a collection of long tubes slung over one shoulder. Anne smiled faintly.
“Stood you up, has he? That’s a shame. Now if I was twenty years younger …” He winked but seemed to be friendly rather than lascivious.
Anne had an idea. “Do you come here often?” She laughed when she realised what she had said.
The angler joined in. “That’s supposed to be my line.”
“Sorry. Start again. I just wondered if you fished here regularly.”
“I’m on shifts, so it varies. I’m off this afternoon, not much point sitting at home when my wife’s at work, so I get down here when I can.”
“Were you here at the weekend?”
“Sunday morning. She likes me out of the way when she’s cooking.”
“I don’t suppose … No, it’s too improbable.”
“What is?”
Anne shook her head. “I’m looking for a boat belonging to a friend of mine. I think he may have come through over the weekend.”
“There were hardly any boats passing when I was here Sunday morning. What’s the boat like?”
“It looks a bit unusual, painted dark grey, with a black hull.”
“I can assure you that no boat fitting that description came past here on Sunday morning.”
“I thought not. It was just a longshot, but –”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t here at all.” The angler was smiling. “Now, if you’d asked me if I’d seen a boat like that when I came out of the pub on Saturday night …”
*
Marnie needed a break from the drawing board later that morning, so she went round to see what Rob Cardew and his team had done in the HQ barn. Like Anne, she was impressed with the purposeful appearance of the place and was sure the equipment would be safe, though Cathy Lamb’s warning was echoing in her mind. It was curious how people’s views varied. Marnie saw the barn as rural vernacular architecture. To Rob Cardew it was a useful space. Cathy Lamb regarded it as a security risk.
Marnie could hear the phone ringing before she reached the office barn. She picked it up just before the answering machine cut in, thankful that it was Angela and not Celia.
“Anne asked if you could borrow the urn from the church hall for the archaeologists, Marnie.”
“So I gather.”
“I’ve checked with the clerk to the PCC and she says it’s available if you want it, so could you send Anne up and I’ll hand it over. I’m going to the church in about five minutes. I could meet her there.”
“She’s out at the moment, actually.”
“Oh well, we can fix another time. I just thought as I was –”
“No. Now will be fine. I’ll come. Nice to have a break.”
Marnie spotted Angela’s car outside the church hall as she drew up. Inside, the vicar was wiping the urn over with a cloth.
“There you are, Marnie. I think that’s presentable. You just turn the switch here to the temperature you want. It’s got a thermostat. Easy.”
“Great. We’ll make an appropriate contribution for the loan.”
“That’s nice. The church needs all the help it can get.”
“Angela, don’t mind me saying this, but when you arrived at Celia’s yesterday, you looked rather drawn.”
“Not surprising. I’d just come from a meeting with the Archdeacon.”
“Would that be the Archdeacon, your brother in Christ?” Marnie thought that sounded sharper than she had intended. “Sorry. That was –”
“I know what you meant, Marnie. The theory is sound. But the old codger …” She smiled ruefully. “That’s my old codger in Christ, as you might say, he ambushed me.”
Marnie was alarmed. “What did he do?”
“Oh, not like that. I meant he brought
up the subject of Sarah’s reburial. We were supposed to be discussing interfaith relationships and the development of the lay ministry.”
“But he sprang Sarah on you?”
“Yes. He’d just mentioned that part of his role was to promote growth in numbers and said it sent out the wrong messages if we kept getting publicity for reburying someone that most people thought was a witch.”
“But she had nothing to do with –”
“I know, I know. But the Archdeacon said that was what the public thought of her.”
“I don’t see how he can lay that at your door.”
“He thinks I’m an easy target, that’s how. He knows he wouldn’t get away with that if Randall was there. He wouldn’t stand any nonsense.”
Marnie grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Randall ended up as Archbishop of Canterbury one day.”
Angela laughed. “I hope not.”
“Why not?”
“He’s just the sort who’d get bumped off for being awkward, like Thomas Becket!”
Marnie picked up the urn, surprised at how light it was. “All this because of the Archdeacon. I’m sure you’ll win him round in the end. He can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Believe me, Marnie, he has as much charm as Genghis Khan.”
Marnie looked at her distorted reflection in the urn’s shiny surface. “How apt. Didn’t Genghis Khan bump off his enemies by throwing them into vats of boiling water?”
Angela managed to shudder and laugh at the same time, as Marnie headed for the door.
*
Anne rang Marnie but there was no reply and she left a message on the answerphone to say she would be getting back a little later than expected. She had an extra call to make.
That sector of the canal wound its way along a contour line between open rolling fields. The towpath was gravelled, firm and dry, but tall weeds sprouted at the waterside and Anne was on her guard to avoid stinging nettles. After walking for half a mile she stopped believing that she would find Donovan’s boat round the next bend. She checked her watch and gave herself ten more minutes before turning back.
Almost immediately she saw it. At first the boat looked like a shadow under the trees, tucked in among clumps of bushes that spilled out over the water on the far side. The sight of it made her pulse quicken. There could be no mistake. Danny had been right. This was Donovan’s stealth boat. Anne walked along the path, all the while staring across the canal. At the prow was the enigmatic name, X O 2, in stencilled characters. It had taken Ralph’s insightful brain to work out its meaning, and even he might not have solved the conundrum had he not been attending a conference in Barcelona at the time.
The name had been adopted by Donovan when he had dropped out of a university course that had not met his expectations. The boat was his way of dropping out, even if only temporarily. The number two in Spanish was dos. The name spelt Exodos, the Greek word for way out or exit. It was a strange, convoluted kind of name, but then Donovan was not your ordinary Joe.
Anne looked up and down the path. It was deserted. She cupped her hands round her mouth and called out.
“Donovan!”
She waited. Nestling there in the undergrowth, the boat had an abandoned air. Was Donovan out? Could he be on his way to see her at Glebe Farm? Might he already be there, sitting in the office with Marnie, coffee mug in hand, reminiscing about old times?
“Donovan!” Louder this time.
The curtains over the portholes and windows were closed, mid-grey material in the dark grey paintwork. Anne moved a few paces to her left, straining to see if there was a bicycle on the roof. Donovan had used one for local journeys when he had been in the area the year before, a Muddy Fox, a classic mountain bike in yellow with black paw prints on the frame. He liked classics. That bike had been sacrificed when he had had to leave Northampton in a hurry. Questions were being asked about the shooting of the prominent politician of the extreme right wing.
“Donovan!”
There was no bicycle as far as Anne could make out. What to do? If she gave up now, she might miss him. On the other hand she could hardly spend the rest of the day loitering on the towpath. She tried phoning the office again, but there was still no reply. Where was Marnie?
Anne walked a few paces. This was all very unsatisfactory. Absentmindedly, she kicked at some loose stones in the compacted gravel. A glance across at the boat. A glance down at the gravel.
Anne scraped up a few stones, weighing them in her hand, asking herself if this was really a good idea. How would she feel if someone threw stones at Sally Ann or Thyrsis, even with the best of intentions? She knelt down and tugged at a clump of earth and grass. It broke loose and she examined it for stones. Without further questioning, she drew back her hand and hurled the clod over the water. It hit the topside of X O 2 with a satisfying thud. She waited. No response or reaction. No angry boat-owner leaping out on deck with an irate cry of “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
Kneeling again, she assembled a collection of the smallest stones until she had a fistful. Trying a different technique this time, she swung back underarm and let the tiny pebbles fly. They came down on the boat with a sound like hailstones on a tin roof. Anne dusted her hands together. She had given it her best shot – her last shot – and it was time to go home.
Wondering what else she could do, Anne began walking slowly away. She turned her head as if to say good-bye to the boat and saw a face framed in a window.
*
Celia was the last person Marnie wanted to see as she came out of the village shop. She had nipped in for a tin of soup and emerged onto the pavement as Celia was passing her car.
“No whizz-bang today, Marnie?”
“No what? Oh, the MG. No, not today. I came up to collect an urn from Angela. I thought the Disco was more suitable.”
The colour visibly drained from Celia’s face and, for a few seconds, Marnie thought she was going to pass out again. When Celia spoke, her voice was low and husky.
“An urn? My goodness! Whose ashes are they, Marnie?”
“Ashes? I don’t know what you –” Comprehension. “Oh, no, not that kind of urn, one for heating water, for making tea.”
It was extraordinary how the colour rushed back into Celia’s face. She blushed with embarrassment and put fingertips to her mouth.
“Oh, too silly! When you said an urn, then Angela, I just thought …” She laughed. “You must think me a complete fool.”
“Not at all.”
“Do I take it you’re getting ready for some kind of event down at Glebe Farm?”
“The archaeologists. They’re due after the weekend. You remember Rob said they’d be coming soon. We’re preparing for the onslaught.”
“Of course.”
“Talking of onslaughts, I’d better be getting back to the office. Anne’s out and I’ve got a mountain of work to get through.”
“Including Knightly Court, I hope.”
“Absolutely. I got some useful photos yesterday on my way out.”
“And made rather a conquest too, I gather.” A coquettish smile.
“Oh?”
“My father-in-law was quite taken with you, Marnie.”
“He was very charming, insisted on escorting me to the car. It was like meeting someone from another age.”
“I suppose that’s what he is, in a way. He’s the only one left now from that generation of the family.”
“So presumably Hugh is the last one to bear the family name?”
A cloud passed over Celia’s face. “Not exactly. There are the boys.”
“I didn’t know. Are they at boarding school?”
“No. Hugh has two sons. They live with their mother in Canada.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realise.”
“I’m Hugh’s second wife.”
“I see.” Marnie really didn’t want this conversation, especially not in the high street. “Anyway, your father-in-law was very courteous. It w
as nice to meet him. I hope he’ll like my scheme when he sees it.”
“He only inherited the Court because his older brother was killed in the war, you know.”
“Really?”
Celia nodded. “He was quite the hero, apparently, on special missions or something. Intelligence service, behind enemy lines, all that sort of thing. He was the family’s blue-eyed boy. They doted on him. Come and see.”
Celia began walking towards the church. Marnie looked at her watch.
“Just for a minute then. I really must get –”
“It won’t take more than a second.”
The war memorial stood inside the churchyard close to the gate, on the right of the footpath. Marnie must have walked past it many times, but she had never paid it much attention before. Under a tall stone cross, the names of the fallen from both world wars were listed on separate panels, some of the families familiar to Marnie: Fletcher, Stubbs, Tarry, Tutt. Celia pointed at a separate block of granite on which a longer inscription was carved:
Sacred to the memory of Roland Devere, Major, MC, DSO
Special Operations Executive
1909 – 1944
*
“That smells good!” Anne walked awkwardly across the office to the kitchen area, two carrier bags in her right hand, the bumper pack of toilet rolls under her left arm. “Is that some left in the pan?”
“Executive power lunch.” Marnie got up and relieved Anne of the bumper pack. “Tinned tomato soup and a slice of toast.”
“Bliss! Put it on my expense account.”
Marnie eyed the toilet rolls. “Upset tummy?”
Anne grinned. “They’re for the archaeologists. “I’ve shown them the outside loo behind the farmhouse. They won’t be in the way, going there.”
Marnie dropped a slice of bread in the toaster and relit the burner under the saucepan. “You were longer than I expected.”
“Did you hear my message?”
“Yes. What was the extra call you had to make?”
“Let me sort out executive power lunch – I think I’ll have mine in a mug – and I’ll tell you all about it.”
After a mouthful of soup and a bite of toast, Anne began her story …
*
For several seconds Anne had stood gazing across the canal at the dark grey boat. The face at the window stared back momentarily and disappeared. Noiselessly the stern doors swung outwards and a young man came up on deck, standing half-hidden among the bushes. In black T-shirt and jeans, he was slightly built with short blonde hair. He turned abruptly towards the stern, checked himself, glanced back at Anne, smiled briefly and resumed the task of untying the stern mooring rope. While Anne looked on, he started the engine and slipped along the gunwale to unfasten the bow rope. Pushing off with the pole, Donovan reversed out of his hiding place and brought Exodos to the near bank where Anne took a rope and helped make her fast.
