Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  “What kind of boat is Sally Ann?” she said. “Would you call it a ‘barge’?”

  “No. She’s a narrowboat. Forty-five feet long, seven feet wide. A barge would be longer and about twice the width. A different sort of boat.” Mrs Giles seemed genuinely interested and was about to speak when another woman appeared from behind her and told her she was wanted on the phone. The head turned to leave.

  “Mrs Walker, perhaps we could have a chat some time when you have a moment? I’d like to ask more about Sally Ann. “

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Mrs Giles and strode off. The flock of children had now cleared from the gateway and the trip to the post office could be resumed.

  “You’re looking a bit more human now,” said Marnie glancing at Anne as they walked on.

  “Perhaps I’d been staring at the computer screen for too long.” Anne dropped the letters into the post box and they turned back. “It’s funny. I had such a clear picture in my mind of Mr Stubbs and that knife. It was horrible.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t go on about it, if I were you. It’s a long way for me to have to carry you back to Glebe Farm if you pass out.”

  “I wonder what the headmistress wants to ask you about Sally Ann.”

  “I expect I can guess. She probably wants the children to do something on the canal, local history project, wildlife on the waterways.”

  “With a boat trip to make it more fun?” said Anne. “A cruise to Stoke Bruerne with me serving refreshments on deck!”

  “That sort of thing, I suppose. We’ll see, but I can’t think what else she’d have in mind, unless she’s planning her summer holiday.” They were walking along the field track and the roof timbers of Glebe Farm were just coming into view. The sight reminded both of them of all the work that lay ahead and they quickened their pace.

  “We need a routine,” said Anne suddenly.

  “Exactly what I was thinking. We have to organise our day so that we get the most work done with the fewest interruptions. There’s a lot to do here.”

  “I can free you to do design work and deal with the clients. That would help, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes it would. You know, I must say, Anne, I’ve been very impressed with how you’ve got on and done things. It would’ve taken me days to get the computer sorted out, probably the whole weekend.” They crossed the yard and Marnie unlocked the office door. “I wonder if this is really necessary, locking everything up like this when we go into the village. It’s not as if we’re in the middle of London.”

  They pushed open the barn doors to let in as much light as possible and settled down to getting the computer system fully operational. Anne asked for a few minutes to complete what she was doing with the computer and Marnie pinned up the year planner on the wall behind her desk. Unable to settle down to any other work until Anne was ready, Marnie browsed through the church history booklet. She opened it and read to herself the part referring to the canal.

  … until in 1793 the squire of that period became a sponsor of the Grand Junction Canal Act and contributed to the building of the canal that now passes round the parish on three sides. Throughout the nineteenth century the canal enhanced the wealth of the area, helping farmers to carry produce to local markets. To this day, Glebe Farm retains its own docking area that was built for this purpose. Nowadays the canal is used almost entirely for leisure and the only indication of it is the gentle chugging of the long boats as they carry holiday makers on their journey towards the great tunnel at Blisworth and …

  “Long boats!” thought Marnie. She turned back to earlier times and found the reference to the Civil War and the incident that led to the murder of the vicar. She read the episode twice to make sure she had not missed any of the details. There was no mention of any knife and no description of how the vicar was killed.

  … rushing into the church they found the vicar lying at the foot of the steps leading up into the tower, mortally wounded, in a pool of blood. He died without speaking another word and never named his assailant. The identity of the murderer is unknown to this day.

  Marnie leaned back in her chair. Where had Anne got the idea that the vicar was killed with a knife? How had the vicar been killed? Who had killed him? Why should anyone want to kill a vicar, any vicar? Why did people in Knightly St John get so stirred up about the church and its vicars?

  “I think we need a disk for each major project. I know it seems a lot of capacity for just one job, but it will probably save time in the long run.”

  More than anything, it struck Marnie as really strange that one small village deep in the country should have had so much conflict between the church and the community. An agnostic herself, she still expected those who did believe to conduct themselves in a manner approaching the ideas of brotherly love, or at the very least, not go round killing each other because of disagreements about the order of the service.

  “… I have the impression I’m not getting through here … Marnie?” Marnie jerked forward in the chair, dropping the booklet on the floor.

  “Oh, sorry. I was thinking about something.” She bent down to retrieve the booklet. She was not anxious to open up the conversation about the murder again. “Did you see the passage about the canal? Ridiculous: ‘the gentle chugging of the long boats as they carry holiday makers …’ I mean … Long boats! I ask you. It’s bad enough being regarded as water gypsies. At least we don’t have to dress up as Vikings and wear helmets with horns on!” Anne laughed at the thought of it and Marnie was relieved.

  “Do you want me to tell you my ideas on the computer and how to use it?” said Anne, like a parent indulging her child. Marnie settled back to give Anne her full attention. For the next half hour they went through Anne’s list point by point until they had a clear policy on running the office. They had almost finished when the phone rang. Marnie took the call while Anne noted down the need to have a policy on what to say to callers. For much of the call Marnie listened, muttering agreement, until she finally thanked the caller and hung up.

  “The best news we could have had! Guess what?” Anne looked baffled. Marnie smiled triumphantly. “The plumbers are coming on Monday morning first thing to install the loo!” Great was the rejoicing. Marnie looked up at the clock. It was just after five-thirty. “You know, I think I’ve had enough for one day. Why don’t we have a drink and go for a trip on Sally Ann? Then I can make supper and we can have a pleasant, quiet evening to the accompaniment of a little Mozart or Bach. How does that sound?”

  “Wonderful,” said Anne, and really meant it. She had never imagined her life could be like this.

  *

  At the moment when Marnie and Anne sat down to supper on board Sally Ann, the members of the Parochial Church Council were filing into the village hall for the special meeting to discuss the vicar’s latest plans. It was a subdued group that evening. There were eight members present, but everyone knew that the main protagonists would be Albert Fletcher and George Stubbs who had organised the meeting. The vicar had been first to arrive and had set out the chairs round the heavy, Victorian mahogany table that had in its heyday graced the dining room of the old vicarage.

  As the members of the PCC arrived, the vicar greeted them with formal courtesy, under no illusion that while some were plainly embarrassed at the circumstances, a few were openly hostile to his views on nearly every subject. Only Valerie Paxton, churchwarden and secretary of the village school, fully supported his ideas and she lacked the strength of character to stand up to any serious attack from the older members of the group.

  The vicar took his usual place at the head of the table and opened the meeting. At once, George Stubbs leapt in, speaking in a rush.

  “Thank you, vicar. I’ve called this meeting because –”

  “Mr Stubbs.” The voice of the vicar, powerful and strident, stopped him in mid-flow. “Although this is an extraordinary meeting, that does not mean we should conduct ourselves any differently fro
m our normal practice.” George Stubbs opened his mouth to protest, but found himself confronted by the bowed heads of the other members. “Let us pray,” said the vicar. “Our heavenly Father, we ask you to bring wisdom to our deliberations, balance to our judgment and the spirit of love and companionship to our assembly.” Mr Stubbs drew breath to utter ‘amen’. “Help us to find the path of reason, remembering that our only duty is the service of Your will. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “My friends, this meeting is being held at the request of Mr Stubbs, who wishes to discuss the use of Church funds. Before I invite Mr Stubbs to address the meeting, I would remind you that the duty laid on us is to devote all our resources to the upkeep of the church in the community. That includes the building itself and its related activities. George, please go ahead.”

  Mr Stubbs cleared his throat. “As I see it, we are losing sight of what ‘the community’ really means. In the last three years we’ve spent large sums of money messing about with building works and paying travel costs for speakers to come here and talk about being ‘born again’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.” Mr Stubbs looked from one to another and was disappointed to find that all except Albert Fletcher were staring down at the table before them. “The real community is people. What we ought to be doing is spending our resources on them, especially the children. They are the lifeblood of our community.”

  “I have to remind the meeting,” said the vicar, “that our responsibility is to preserve the church and its needs, not to provide a social service. We have a thriving Sunday school, a Mothers Union, a Brownie pack and a Cub pack. We have a playgroup in the church hall two mornings a week.”

  “But that doesn’t compare with what people get in the town,” said Mr Stubbs. “People expect more these days and if we can’t provide it, they’ll drift away. Look at the conditions in the school. They’ve got outside toilets, small classrooms, a tiny hall.”

  “But Mr Stubbs, George, these are the responsibility of the governors and the local education authority, not the PCC.”

  “But it’s a church school, vicar.”

  “It’s a voluntary controlled school. There is a difference.”

  *

  On board Sally Ann, Marnie looked up from her magazine and moved closer to the lamp.

  “Can you see all right, Anne?”

  “Just about. Can you?”

  “More or less. We should have the mains extended down here sometime next week. Then we’ll be able to see what we’re doing. There’s such a lot to be done.”

  “Yes, but it’s a nice place to be doing it,” said Anne.

  “Good. I think so too.” She set the magazine down in her lap. “I can’t help thinking about the children this afternoon. I was really surprised to see so many from such a small school.”

  “Didn’t the head say they came from other villages as well?”

  “They don’t have schools in Yore and Hanford, even though they’re bigger villages. But that’s another story. I wonder what she meant by that?”

  “You can ask her when you go to see her,” said Anne. “I still think it must be nice to go to a little village school. It’s small and friendly in a village.”

  *

  At the PCC meeting Albert Fletcher raised a finger and the vicar nodded at him to speak.

  “George is right.” He spoke slowly and with deliberation. “If the school was closed, no-one with small children would want to come here. No young families. No future. It’s bad enough as it is. Young folk can’t afford to buy property in the village and there’s nowhere to rent. The whole place would end up like Glebe Farm.”

  “I think that’s rather an exaggeration, Mr Fletcher,” said the vicar. “In any case, as I’ve already explained, the County Council is responsible.”

  “No!” George Stubbs banged his hand down on the table. Valerie Paxton jumped in her seat, but the vicar remained unmoved. Mr Stubbs continued. “My family have lived in this place for generations past remembering. We cannot let it be run by newcomers who haven’t been here five minutes. We don’t want change for its own sake when it’s not needed, or wanted.”

  “Mr Stubbs,” said the vicar in a calm voice. “The church and its means do not belong to you or anyone else. It is God’s house. That has nothing to do with where it’s located or who is the vicar at any given time. It is in our temporary stewardship and I must care for it as I think best, naturally taking account of this council’s advice.”

  “Other vicars have been opposed,” said Mr Stubbs.

  “Of course. But they were weak. I’m not such an easy target.”

  *

  On Sally Ann, Marnie stood up and put the kettle on. “My eyes are going funny in this light. I think I’d better stop reading before I go blind.”

  “That could be a disadvantage for an interior designer,” said Anne.

  Marnie smiled back at her with exaggerated sweetness. “What would you like to drink? The choice is coffee, tea or some indeterminate stuff in a packet left on board by Beth and Paul, probably about five years past its ‘sell by’ date. It purports to be a malted milk drink based on skimmed milk and guaranteed to be almost entirely fat-free. The same goes for the taste, I expect.”

  “Sounds tempting,” said Anne.

  “This is probably the best place to drink it,” said Marnie. “In this light we wouldn’t be able to see it properly.”

  “That’s certainly something to bear in mind,” said Anne.

  “So that decides it, then. Agreed?”

  “Definitely. Tea, please.”

  *

  The vicar raised both hands, but not in surrender. Valerie Paxton was passing round cups of coffee, that the members of the council took without a word. She finally set down a plate of biscuits in the middle of the table where they remained untouched.

  “I think we’ve got as far as we can this evening,” said the vicar. Albert Fletcher was watching him steadily. George Stubbs looked from side to side at the others. “I’ve noted your views, Mr Stubbs, and will bear them in mind, but I have to say that in my judgment the church funds must be used to carry out essential works to the fabric of the building in the interests of safety. That is my responsibility.”

  “You could get a diocesan grant for that, if it’s so unsafe,” said Mr Stubbs in a low growl.

  “Highly unlikely,” said the vicar, shaking his head. “In any case, the money was donated specifically for that purpose and it would be quite wrong to spend it on school maintenance when the local education authority is responsible for such matters. In my opinion there’s nothing more to be said on the subject.” George Stubbs grimaced, angry that no-one else had taken up the fight, though he knew privately that they nearly all supported his views. Albert Fletcher was staring down at the table in front of him and the vicar began to gather up his papers as a signal that the meeting had come to an end.

  “Not quite,” said the old farmer. He spoke without looking up and so softly that at first it was not certain whose voice had been heard. “I move that we put it to the vote.”

  “This is not a matter to be decided by ballot,” said the vicar firmly. “It’s an issue delegated to my judgment. I have taken note of the views expressed, as I am required to do.”

  “We can still vote on it,” said Mr Fletcher. “That way, you’ll know the strength of feeling on the PCC. It’ll be in the minutes, recorded, for future reference.” Molly Appleton shifted uncomfortably in her seat. George Stubbs narrowed his eyes as he looked across the table at the old man. The vicar acquiesced. The resolution took some minutes to agree. Finally the vicar put it to the group.

  “The proposition is as follows: ‘The advice of the council is that church funds be allocated by the vicar as required for the upkeep of the fabric of the church building in accordance with his judgment and discretion.’ Will all in favour please raise their hands unless, of course, you would like it to be a secret ba
llot, Mr Fletcher?”

  “No, vicar, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Very well. Those for the proposition? … Thank you. Against? … Thank you. That is all. I declare the meeting closed.” He picked up his papers and left the room.

  *

  As Molly Appleton turned out the lights in the village hall and locked the door, Marnie and Anne were making up an inflatable bed on the floor of Sally Ann’s saloon.

  “Of course, we’ll have to work out a better arrangement than this,” said Marnie. “I hadn’t expected to have anyone staying here with me when I planned the move.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Anne. “I was meaning to talk to you about it earlier, but other things got in the way.” The rest of the truth was that Anne very much wanted to spend another night on Sally Ann. She had not wanted to mention it because it might seem childish to Marnie, but she felt thrilled at the thought of sleeping on a narrowboat. It was something she had not done since her family hired a boat for a holiday when she was about nine years old. At Marnie’s request, she took the first turn in the tiny shower-room, while Marnie put the dishes away and walked round the boat to check all was in order and get a breath of fresh air before turning in.

  “So what’s your idea?” said Marnie, stepping down into the cabin. From the floor of the saloon, Anne’s voice drifted up from under the duvet.

  “I thought I could maybe use the upstairs room in the barn, turn it into a little bed-sitter. Unless you have other plans for it.”

  Marnie considered the idea while brushing her teeth. She emerged from the shower-room, drying her face on a towel. “It doesn’t have a proper window. Only a vent. But there’s a power-point, so you could have a lamp.”

  “Perhaps I could get some plastic and cover the vent to keep out any rain. I don’t think that’s a big problem at this time of year. The main snag is furniture, but I could use this mattress, if that’s all right.”

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’ve got rugs and lamps, a small coffee table. It all sounds feasible.” She turned out the lights and got into bed. “Good night, Anne with an ‘e’. Sleep well.”