Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  Outside The Two Roses stood a hand-written sign in chalk advertising pub food at lunchtime. It was a handsome country inn built of the local sandstone and ironstone under a tiled roof and Marnie was surprised to find it almost empty when she pushed open the heavy oak door into the saloon bar. A young woman in sweatshirt and jeans came past carrying a tray of food. She glanced at Marnie and smiled.

  “Tim will be with you in just a minute,” she called. Marnie perched on a stool at the bar. She found the pub’s interior simple and pleasing. Admittedly, there were the almost mandatory horse brasses and the faded prints of Victorian hunting scenes, but the saloon bar was spacious and beamy and the logs burning in the inglenook fireplace were the real thing, not wonderflame imitations.

  Tim duly appeared and took her order. He was burly, shirt-sleeved, in his forties, and on the losing side in the battle to keep his weight under control. He offered to bring Marnie’s sandwich over to the table by the window looking onto the garden and poured her glass of cider. The sandwich arrived while Marnie was admiring the view of the close-cut lawn and neat flower beds. There was a patch of crocuses, blue, white and yellow under a small magnolia tree and daffodils in clusters in all the beds. It was a marked contrast to the neglect and dereliction of Glebe Farm.

  “Your handiwork?” said Marnie.

  “My wife’s really. I just mow the lawn and do the digging.” He seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “Business is rather quiet today I see,” said Marnie.

  The landlord’s reaction was unexpected. “This village is dying on its feet,” he growled.

  Marnie blinked at him in surprise. “I thought it looked quite prosperous.”

  “That’s one of the problems. It’s full of people who’ve bought up the cottages and extended them to make executive homes.” His voice was bitter. “Either that or they’ve been bought as weekend cottages. We don’t seem to have full-time people here anymore. Half the village is away commuting from Monday to Friday, the other half is only here on Saturday and Sunday.” Marnie understood the situation. Several of her friends had bought second homes in the country. Others had sold their London houses for a high price and moved out of town within reach of their jobs by rail.

  “I didn’t realise there were so many that it made a difference to a village,” she said.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “But I expect they bring children to the school?”

  “That’s a joke!” the landlord snorted. “Do you know what they do? When they arrive they tell everyone how much they like to be part of a real community, in a real village. The kiddies go to the village school, settle in nicely and make friends. Then, as soon as they’re seven or eight, their parents send them to boarding school or to a private school in town. They say it’s to widen their opportunities. I say it’s training them to be commuters!”

  “But at least you still have a school. Will it stay open, do you think?”

  “It’s been under threat for some time. You see, there are hardly any houses that young people can afford round here. Most of the children come from Hanford, always have done, plus a few from Yore. If they closed the school, well, that would be disastrous. A village needs a school.”

  “Doesn’t the church run cubs and brownies?” said Marnie, trying to recall the village activities that featured in her childhood story books.

  The landlord shrugged and sighed. “The vicar’s got his own problems.”

  “No youth club?” said Marnie. Tim shook his head. He seemed to have lapsed into a morose silence. “So the youngsters have nowhere to go and nothing to do?” she added.

  “I’m not sure kids want youth clubs. That sort of thing doesn’t appeal to them these days.” His voice had returned. “They’d rather be watching videos or playing computer games.”

  “Or burning down old barns?” suggested Marnie.

  “Who gave you that idea?” He seemed genuinely alarmed.

  “I’ve just walked up from the canal through an old farm. It looked as if part of it had had a fire, not all that long ago.”

  “There’s no proof,” said Tim. “No-one knows for sure what happened. It could have been a tramp, or an accident.”

  “It must be difficult for parents with kids growing up in the country to find things for them to do,” said Marnie, changing tack. “I used to go to the museums and all sorts of things when I was a kid. I expect parents have to drive them around out here.”

  “Oh yes. I’m always having to run my two boys into town. I’m a regular taxi service. And they usually want to take a friend along as well.” Marnie had a sudden glimpse of three boys standing in a barn passing cigarettes around, huddling in the far corner so as not to be seen. Two of them wearing the same make of trainer, like brothers.

  “Those farm buildings by the canal. Have they been deserted for long?”

  “A good few years now, since old Mr Fletcher retired. He and his wife moved up to their other place, top end of the village, Rooks Farm. And the old farm, what’s left of it, is up for sale. Unless they’ve taken it off the market again. Some sort of dispute over insurance after the fire.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’ve got a customer and you’ve got a sandwich. Excuse me.”

  After lunch, Marnie crossed the road and tried the door of the church. It was locked. Although she recognised herself as a “townie”, Marnie felt sad at this.

  On the wall of the porch were notices about the work of the church in the Third World, a message from the Bishop and the flower rota. Marnie noticed the name Fletcher on the list. The photograph of the Bishop was informal. He was standing in short sleeves surrounded by African children, his arms round the shoulders of a boy and girl. He looked more like a tourist than a senior churchman and could not have been much more than fifty. The heading on the notice referred to a first greeting from Tom Cavendish, installed the previous month after four years as a suffragan in London. His name seemed familiar and Marnie thought she had heard him on the radio. The message was signed “Your sincere friend Thomas”, and the small print at the bottom referred to him as The Right Rev. Dr Thomas Cavendish MA DD.

  “Were you wanting to see inside?” Marnie had not noticed a woman approaching up the path behind her. “I was just going in, if you’d like to visit the church.” She was carrying a large shopping bag and wearing a long brown cardigan over a fawn blouse and a tweed skirt, every inch the countrywoman.

  “I was just hoping to pop in for a few minutes,” said Marnie, standing aside to let the woman pass and open the door with a large iron key.

  “It’s so sad that we have to keep it locked up like this. Orders from the diocesan office, I’m afraid.” She struggled with the lock until it yielded. “You wouldn’t believe the vandalism and theft that have happened in some of our churches. If you want to be quiet, I’ll not disturb you. I’m just taking away the old flowers. Pretend I’m not there.” Marnie realised the woman had assumed she might want to pray. For her this was not medieval architecture, but part of everyday life.

  The church was broad with clerestory windows high up under oak beams in the nave and two side aisles. There was a faint spicy smell of incense, and the stained glass windows were mainly Victorian with one or two earlier examples. The list of vicars went back to 1100. An ancient place. There were a few gaps and question marks but a good sprinkling of Norman names, Hugh de Baal, Martin de Chichester, Roland de Chartres. The church had been part of a priory based in Normandy near Le Havre and several of the heads of the order were listed under the title abbé. The font was reputedly the oldest in this part of England, depicting Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, still recognisable after nearly a thousand years. She walked up to the altar past the lists of young men from the village killed in long-forgotten campaigns in places she had never heard of, as well as those who had fallen in the two world wars.

  The apse contained tombs of the local gentry and a plaque commemorating one vicar from the fifteenth century who had gone on to become Archbishop o
f York. The biggest surprise was the window on the South side, depicting a group of women standing round Mary and the child Jesus. The folds of their dresses were so realistic that Marnie felt she could reach up and touch the cloth. It looked like the work of Edwin Burne-Jones the Pre-Raphaelite and friend of William Morris, and she walked back to the table by the entrance to check the facts. She looked at every postcard and pamphlet, but there was no booklet telling the history of the church.

  “Are you looking for something?” The woman’s bag was now stuffed with dead flowers.

  “I wanted a history of the church. I’ve been in a lot of churches not nearly as interesting as this one and they always have a leaflet.” The woman looked to one side, as if checking whether there were any on the table, but Marnie had the impression the subject was distasteful to her.

  “Is there something in particular that you want to look up?” There was a sense of unease about the woman. Marnie shrugged.

  “The church has such a long history, I’d be interested to read about it.”

  “There was a history leaflet,” said the woman. She felt in her cardigan pocket for the church key. “I think it must be out of print. I’m sure the vicar will be seeing to it, if you’re ever here again.” The air outside was warmer than in the building as they walked down the path together.

  “There was a window in the South transept near the altar,” said Marnie. “It looked like the work of Burne-Jones. I didn’t know he had done anything in these parts.”

  “Oh yes. He designed a number of stained glass windows in the county. I think he had relatives in the area and they got him some commissions.”

  “It would be good to find out more about his work in this part of the country,” said Marnie. “That’s why I wanted the history leaflet.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Well, perhaps you might find one some other time. If ever you’re passing this way.”

  “Yes, perhaps I will. Thanks for letting me in. Good-bye.” Marnie set off down the road towards the field track, while the woman closed the lych-gate behind her.

  4

  There were fourteen men in total, six mounted, eight on foot. They assembled at the church gate, but there was no-one to say a blessing. A small crowd of relatives gathered round them, attempting gaiety, as if this was no more than a hunting party. The biggest man on the biggest horse was Jonathan Day, the blacksmith, full bearded, barrel chested. He was an able craftsman, a kindly husband and father, a patriarch in the village. His aim now was to be a redoubtable warrior in the service of Parliament.

  “So many of you leaving,” said his wife. “The village will be half empty until you come back.”

  “But we will come back,” he said. “The village will still have enough men to carry on the work, at least until harvest. And there are those who will not join us.” He looked around ominously. “There are some who would prefer to hide in their houses, taking sides with the King.”

  “It is their right to do as they believe they should,” said his wife. “We cannot deny them that. They have been good neighbours and will be still, when this is all over and forgotten.”

  The men embraced their loved ones and set off slowly down the road. As they rode and walked they glared at the houses of those who had chosen not to march with them. With a troubled face, Jonathan’s eldest daughter, Sarah Anne, came forward and handed up to her father a canvas bag.

  “This is for you, father. There is pork, ale, cheese and bread, and the last of the apples. Enough for your journey. Go safely.” She touched his hand briefly and turned away.

  *

  Sally Ann cruised slowly back to her mooring in Little Venice in the afternoon of the following Saturday and Marnie went about the complicated business of ferrying various of her possessions back to the flat in two stages. She took the tube home and was glad to find the car still parked in the street where she had left it. The flat too was all in order and she put the pile of mail on the kitchen table before going down to set off for the boat.

  She arrived home just as Beth and Paul reached her doorstep.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” said Marnie. “You could have had a wasted journey.”

  “Radar,” said Beth.

  “Bush telegraph,” said Paul. Marnie raised an eyebrow.

  “Actually,” said Beth, “I rang Mrs Jolly when we got no reply here and she just happened to have noticed you setting off.”

  “So it really was radar,” said Marnie. The three of them carried Marnie’s load up to the first floor flat and Beth placed a bulky carrier bag on the kitchen table.

  “I don’t recognise that,” said Marnie, filling the kettle.

  “It’s why we came,” said Beth. “We only got back yesterday. Love from Mum and Dad.” Marnie peered inside and began pulling out a variety of jars, bottles and tins. There were olives of various colours and fillings, anchovies, pâtés, snails in paprika sauce, king prawns, goat’s cheese, spicy chorizo sausages and so on and so on. The last items to come out were two bottles of red wine from Penedés.

  “You lugged all these back from Spain for me?”

  “All part of the service,” said Beth.

  Marnie looked dubious. “You must have had an ulterior motive.”

  Beth and Paul shrugged and glanced down at the feast laid out before them. Marnie at once switched off the kettle and rummaged in a drawer, producing a corkscrew. It took less than two minutes to clear the mail from the table and lay out plates, glasses and cutlery. Marnie tipped the food into small serving dishes while Paul opened a bottle and Beth popped two baguettes from the freezer into the oven.

  While the bread cooked, Marnie fed Dolly and put the dirty washing from the boat into the bath. She returned to the kitchen to the smell of warm bread and the sound of wine pouring into glasses.

  “Instant tapas!” she said.

  “Olè!” said Beth.

  While they worked their way steadily through the feast of morsels from Almeria, Beth brought Marnie up-to-date on the latest news from their parents. Marnie soon found herself opening the second bottle of wine. The bottle was standing on the workbench beside the accumulated mail and Marnie noticed that the letter on top of the pile was franked with a familiar logo, the National Canal Museum.

  “Come on!” said Paul. “We’re suffering from grape juice vitamin deficiency over here.” Marnie handed him the bottle and corkscrew so that she could open the letter.

  “Sorry. I’m intrigued by this.” She sat at the table and glanced quickly through the letter from the curator.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Beth. “They’ve discovered the drawings are forgeries. They’ve found a little label on the back saying Printed in Hong Kong.”

  “Not quite,” said Marnie and put the letter back in the envelope.

  “Well?” said Beth. “Is everything all right?”

  “They want me to perform the official opening of the new gallery for the drawing collection next month.”

  Beth and Paul hooted. “Marnie, you’ve become a canal celebrity,” said Paul.

  “And you don’t even have a boat,” said Beth pointedly.

  “Quite. All I wanted was a little time to myself to work out what I wanted from life.”

  “So your journey was not in vain. At least you’ve sorted that out, haven’t you?” Marnie picked up an olive, studied it and put it in her mouth. “Haven’t you?” Beth repeated. “Marnie?”

  “Well, maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. Not completely anyway.” She took a sip of wine. “This red is really good. Did you say it was Penedés?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” said Beth.

  Marnie said: “Before you remind me about the good job, good salary, smart flat, nice car etc., etc., it isn’t as easy as that.”

  “But you can’t expect to go wandering off in a boat all the time. That isn’t a solution to anything.”

  Marnie examined a prawn on the end of her fork. “It’s as if something isn’t quite right,” she said hesitantly.
“As if something is missing.”

  “We all know what that is,” said Beth.

  “It’s hard to explain.” said Marnie, ignoring Beth’s comment. “Take Paul, for example.” Paul was sipping his wine, swallowed it the wrong way and coughed, trying not to splutter. Marnie continued. “He has his job and he’s done a doctorate. That doesn’t mean he’s finished with research for the rest of his life. He wants to go on into new areas of discovery and growth. And why?”

  “Because his professor will nag him if he doesn’t,” said Beth.

  “Or you will,” said Marnie.

  “Me?!” said Beth. Marnie ignored her.

  “The reason is because he feels he has to,” she said. “It’s all a matter of personal and professional development.”

  “How does wandering around on Sally Ann contribute to your personal and professional development?” said Beth. “I don’t see it.”

  “It helped me to come to that conclusion.” There was a pause in the conversation. Marnie took a piece of bread and mopped the paprika sauce on her plate. Beth pronged an olive, turning it on her fork as if inspecting it for blemishes. Paul topped up their wine glasses.

  “So what do you want to do?” said Beth. “And where does Sally Ann figure in your plans?”

  “What did you mean: we all know what that is? said Marnie.

  Paul looked up in bewilderment. “She didn’t say that.”

  “Yes I did, actually. A few minutes ago.”

  “What did you mean?” Marnie repeated.

  Beth shrugged and sighed. “Things must have been difficult for you since, well, you know, since you and Simon split up.”

  “You think that’s what this is all about?” said Marnie. Beth frowned and glanced across the table at Paul. She chewed her lower lip.

  “I think it would be odd if it had no impact on your life.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I suppose I’m saying that if there’s any way we can help you to find whatever it is you’re looking for, you’ve only to ask.” It occurred to Marnie that they had been discussing her problems and that this was a joint decision. “Whatever you need, you have our full support.”