Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  *

  Anne looked up from her work as she heard the car approach. Marnie had been gone about twenty minutes and Anne had converted her normal working space into a design area by the simple expedient of laying a large, flattened cardboard box on top of her desk to use as a drawing board. She put down a pattern book and went to the door.

  “Mornin’, Anne, my love. I need a signature for this one.” The postman held out a slip of paper for her to sign.

  “Marnie’s out this morning. Is it all right if I sign for her?”

  “‘Ms Anne Price’ it says on the envelope.” He held up a large envelope the size of a magazine, ‘Recorded Delivery’. Anne signed and took the post.

  “Settling in all right?”

  “Fine, thanks. It’s very nice here.” She wanted more than anything to open her special packet, but did not want to show her impatience.

  “Got the telephone in?” Anne smiled and nodded. “Good. That’s the main thing. Just in case you ever need anything. You never know. Oh well, see you tomorrow, me dook.”

  Anne slit open the envelope with care. It was a magazine. Residence. Hmm, very posh, she thought. The cover showed the interior of a huge flat in London’s Docklands, a living room the size of a parade ground, with arched windows onto a balcony like the deck of an ocean liner. Diaphanous white drapes were wafting in the breeze, giving views of the Thames curving away towards Tower Bridge. All was cream sofas, polished mahogany floor, vast canvases on the painted brick walls and vases bursting with sunflowers. The envelope dropped out of the magazine at the moment her eyes caught the names of the contributors. She missed it and it fell to the ground. She missed it because her attention had been taken by a heading: New Wave – Young Designers: This month – Sue Dutton meets Anne Price.

  Her mouth dropped open and she stooped down to pick up the envelope. It contained a letter from Sue Dutton hoping she liked the article (‘see page 54’) and listing the other enclosures: an invitation to a private view at one of the major fabric companies, their newest collection of curtain fabrics, at their headquarters behind Oxford Circus; free membership for one year of the Friends of the Victoria and Albert Museum; first-day tickets for a whole series of exhibitions in London and the National Exhibition Centre over the coming twelve months; an invitation to a seminar on post-modern design at the Royal College of Art. The final enclosure was a voucher for fifty pounds to spend at any branch of the House of Fraser. Wow!

  This was too much for a Monday morning. Anne sat down, overwhelmed, and turned to the article. It was her room. There was no doubt about that, but it looked quite … well, stylish. And there was a photograph of Anne herself in the top right hand corner. They had somehow even made her look like a designer, instead of a schoolgirl. The only sadness was having no-one to share it with her until Marnie got back.

  She wrote a ‘thank you’ letter to Sue Dutton and turned to her drawing board. The sight of the outsize piece of cardboard immediately brought her back to earth and she laughed out loud. “Let that be a lesson to you, my girl,” she said, mimicking the accent of Alan the postman. Still laughing, she returned to her work, but this time she felt different. She knew she would be a designer, not at once, but one day. And she knew that it had all come about as a result of a chance meeting last summer with Marnie and Sally Ann.

  *

  That same Monday morning, Rosemary Upton sat at her desk in the palace, opening the envelopes and putting the post into priority order for the Bishop. She kept apart the items marked ‘private’, leaving them unopened, and noticed that one envelope, light blue and of good quality, had an address on the reverse and she was vaguely aware of Knightly St John at the far end of the diocese. The Bishop’s meeting with the Dean and the Archdeacon of Towcester had gone on longer than anticipated and any minute she expected a journalist to arrive from local radio for an interview on the Bishop’s first impressions of his new role. It was extraordinary how media-conscious everyone in the church seemed to be these days.

  The sound of voices and the rattle of the door handle heralded the exit of the two clerics and the Bishop stood in the doorway to see them out, a warm smile on his face. Rosemary was impressed by his ability to handle even these two tough old reactionaries. What had they called the Bishop in the national press when his appointment had been announced? A fixer. Yes, that was it. A fixer. She remembered asking herself what that really meant. She had heard of him as a suffragan Bishop from the London diocese and recalled a speech he had made at a diocesan synod, reported widely in the church press for its vision in an age when very few people had it in them to make sense of the times. Now here he stood, quietly having a final, friendly word with two men who, not six months before, would have been expected to oppose his views.

  “Bishop, may I give you your mail before Mr Stoddart arrives? You have a few minutes to spare, I think, and there are some items you’ll want me to get on with.”

  “Yes, of course.” He quickly scanned the top half dozen there and then and handed them back to her. “These are routine. Usual replies, please. What’s this?” He picked up the blue envelope. “Knightly St John? Now there’s a coincidence! Who could be writing to me from there? Presumably they don’t want me to open a church fête. I’ll take these through. Could we have coffee when the BBC man arrives, please?” He went back into the vast office with its floor to ceiling bay window and perched on the corner of the huge mahogany desk.

  “My Lord Bishop … (probably correct, but very outmoded, he thought) … I am writing to you on a matter of great importance to our whole community … we regard it as scandalous … (oh no, not choirboys, not so soon after my arrival) … repeated and unnecessary changes to almost everything we hold dear in our church … (a schism?) … pews removed, prayer books replaced, refusal to baptise infants of people whose families have lived in the village for generations on the grounds that they are not churchgoers … (always a tricky one, especially when half the graveyard is filled with their ancestors) … I could go on for pages … (spare me that, please) … but now, the latest in a long line of disputes … the vicar is refusing to spend church funds on the village school – a Church of England School in fact – saying he wants to spend the money on works to the porch. Vicar regards the needs of the schoolchildren as less important than the maintenance of the church building. We regard this as a blatant waste of money … difficult enough to get young people with families to come here and those that do, send them to private schools in the town …”

  The Bishop finished the letter and frowned. He knew the problem well enough and knew that it was a matter for the education authority and the school governors to finance school building works. Why were the good citizens of Knightly St John up in arms like this? Every instinct told him that there was more to this than just bricks and mortar, the latest in a long line of disputes. He walked to the door.

  “Rosemary, can you arrange for Randall Hughes to come in and see me in the next few days, as soon as he can manage, please. He’s the incumbent at Knightly St John. No sign of our reporter yet?”

  “He’s due in two minutes. No-one has rung to say he’d be late.” The Bishop withdrew and shut the great door silently behind him.

  Standing by the window, he looked down at the garden. The herbaceous border was just beginning to come into its own and the arbour leading into the space beyond was covered with bright yellow roses. Through the beech hedge he could glimpse the familiar outline of his wife’s gardening smock as she knelt beside a flower bed. Behind him there was a soft tap on the door and Rosemary put her head round.

  “A car has just driven in, Bishop. I think it’s him. Would you like me to remind you when it’s time for your next appointment?”

  “Five minutes beforehand, please, Rosemary. It’s always an effort to get these fellows to wind up.” He smiled pleasantly.

  “Certainly. I’ve spoken to Mr Hughes. He’s giving a paper at a seminar at the university tomorrow, but he can come on Wednesday. I’ve put h
im in the diary for ten-thirty. That should give you a good half-hour before you have to leave to catch your train to London.”

  *

  “Hallo, Marnie? Sorry to interrupt your meeting, but Mr Hughes has arrived to see you.” In a hushed tone, turning slightly away, she added: “The vicar.” As Anne spoke, the vicar stood tall and immobile in the middle of the office, like a long black statue. “Okay, I’ll tell him … yes, yes … right …About what time? … Where? … all right … yes, okay. Oh, Marnie? You won’t forget you’ve got to call in at the school? Or shall I ring them and explain? … Fine. See you later.” She turned back and found the visitor glancing down at the magazine on her desk. She wondered if he might recognise her name. He looked up.

  “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Marnie apologises. They’ve kept her much longer than she expected.”

  “That’s quite all right. I realise I’m intruding on her working day. It’s only vicars who are supposed to work one day a week.” He spoke amicably with an ironic half-smile and Anne very much wanted him to notice her name on the cover of the magazine.

  “Marnie says if it’s convenient she’ll call round and see you on her way back. She’ll ring me when she’s on her way and I can let you know what time she should get to you. Would that be all right?”

  “That’s fine. Let me write down my phone number.”

  Anne gave him a notepad. “You can use that magazine to rest on,” she said. He leaned forward and quickly wrote the number. Elegant black figures on the white paper. Visible below the pad was the heading that clearly showed the name: Anne Price.

  “It’s Anne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Yes it is. Anne Price.” She smiled eagerly, waiting for him to go on.

  “Well, thank you, Anne. You’ve been very helpful.” He looked down at the magazine and reached towards it. Anne was agog with anticipation. The vicar picked up the pad and handed it back to her with the pen. “I’d better leave you to get on. I’m sure you have a great deal to do.”

  As he walked across the farmyard towards the field track, Anne could hear half snatches of conversation in her mind. Anne Price? Not the Anne Price, the interior designer? Well yes, actually, as a matter of fact I am. A faint sound brought her back to reality and she looked down to see Dolly rubbing her flank against the door jamb. She bent down and picked up the cat, walking back into the office.

  “Right. I’ve got to tell someone, so it might as well be you, Dolly.” She carried the cat in with her and went over to her desk. “You see this magazine, well that’s my name on the front. Yes, I’m famous.” Dolly wriggled free and sat on the desk, licking a front paw. “I knew you’d be impressed.” Anne put the notepad back in its place and pinned the page with the vicar’s number onto the office notice board. She turned back to find Dolly curled up on the magazine.

  *

  “Anne, hi, it’s me. How are things?”

  “All under control.”

  “Good. I’ve just turned off the main road and I’m coming into the village. I hope I’ll be in time to catch Mrs Giles at the school.”

  “What about the vicar?”

  “That’s why I’m ‘phoning. Could you let him know I’m back and ring me on the mobile if there’s any problem.”

  “Will do. I’m sure it’ll be okay. He’s expecting you.”

  “Good. See you soon.” Marnie pulled the Rover into the lay-by outside the school and got out just as the head and secretary were appearing in the doorway across the small playground. They paused as they saw her coming.

  “I’m sorry to be late.”

  “Don’t apologise,” said Mrs Giles. “I feel guilty at imposing on you.”

  “Everything’s a rush today.” Marnie reached into her bag and pulled out a folder. “We’ve prepared an outline programme of what we think we could do.” Mrs Giles scanned the paper.

  “This looks very thorough. Could we discuss it in more detail?”

  “Of course. Tomorrow will be tricky. What about Wednesday?”

  “Over a cup of coffee at about ten-thirty?”

  “Good. I’ll be there. Bye!” She smiled at them both and strode off to the car. As she went, the sound of her mobile phone rang out and she reached into her bag without changing pace.

  “We’ll have to remember to put that in the diary,” said Mrs Giles.

  “I’ll go and do it now,” said Valerie. “We’re busy too and I wouldn’t want to forget.” She turned the door knob.

  “Well, you know what they say,” said the head, clutching her file of papers to her chest. “If you want something done, ask a busy woman.”

  *

  “Won’t you come in?” The tall black shape moved aside to let Marnie enter the elegantly proportioned hall. As the door closed behind her, Marnie stood admiring the curve of the staircase sweeping up to the first floor. “It’s wasted on one person living here alone, of course.”

  “It’s beautiful. Were you responsible for the decor?”

  “Actually, yes, I was.”

  “Very daring,” said Marnie. “The broad yellow and white stripes.”

  “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

  “I don’t want to take up all your time.”

  “Is that a London way of saying you have better things to do?”

  “Not at all. I meant what I said. I always do.”

  “So do I and it’s amazing how often it gets me into trouble. Come and see my bedroom.”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day.” Marnie laughed. “Sorry. I’m sure that’s not the sort of thing one’s supposed to say to vicars. I’ve had a long day.”

  “Then why don’t I show you my bedroom and the rest of the house and then give you a gin and tonic? That way round, you can’t mistake my motives.”

  “It’s a deal.” They went up to the first floor. The bedroom and its en-suite bathroom were in dove grey, burgundy and white, cool and masculine. The other bedrooms were co-ordinated in blues and greens.

  “Did you have a designer or do it yourself?” Marnie did not disguise her admiration.

  “Have you any idea what a priest earns in a month?” He spoke unlike Marnie’s idea of how vicars ought to speak, his cultured voice laced with irony, his expression almost self-mocking.

  “This is the dining room,” he said, pushing open the door and deliberately waiting a moment before switching on the light. The effect was dramatic. The room was decorated in rich vermilion with gilt wall lights, mahogany antiques and velvet pile carpet in royal blue. Georgian silver candlesticks gleamed on the shining table top. The drawn curtains added to the effect of intimacy. The atmosphere was sensual and intense.

  “Do you often entertain?” said Marnie.

  “Not often enough to justify this, really. But I thought the room deserved special treatment. Do you think it over the top?”

  “It depends on what you wanted to achieve. It’s certainly powerful.”

  He steepled his hands together, touching his lips with the tips of his long fingers. “How about that gin and tonic?” he said, leading the way into another room at the front of the house. “This is my study. Very workaday. Have a seat. I’ll fetch some ice.” He gestured towards a comfortable leather armchair beside a low table opposite an Adam fireplace. This room was lined from ceiling to floor with bookshelves. In the broad bay window stood a Victorian desk on which sat a computer, two piles of books, a vase of roses of various colours and a collection of photographs in silver frames. Among them, Marnie noticed a strikingly beautiful woman, a fine-looking man, some group photos of students, a smiling black boy and an attractive young woman sitting on a rock by the sea, her arms folded round her knees. Within a few moments he returned and went over to a drinks cabinet.

  “If everyone had your imagination I’d be out of a job,” said Marnie. The vicar dropped ice cubes and chunks of lemon into two cut crystal glasses, poured in a good measure of gin and topped up the glasses with tonic.

  “The troub
le with this place is that everyone, or nearly everyone, thinks they could do my job better than me.” He handed Marnie a glass and sat opposite her in a dark green Victorian button-back armchair. “I wish they could just leave me to get on with it. It’s not as if most of them have any real belief in the church or religion at all. It’s just part of their social fabric.”

  “Are you always this frank?”

  “Sorry. It’s my latest preoccupation. The trouble is people in the village think I’d like to be known as Father Randall, waving incense, and saying mass. Actually, I try to steer a middle course. People are entitled to their own views. I don’t push mine down everybody’s throat with the communion wafer. “

  “There’s certainly no shortage of views in these parts,” said Marnie.

  “I’m as bad as anyone at letting off steam. You’re a good listener, Mrs Walker.”

  “It’s Marnie.”

  “Okay, Marnie. Well, let’s get down to business. You said you’re not actually an architect.”

  “I’m an interior designer.”

  “Right. The problem I have is that part of the church is in danger of falling down.”

  “You need an architect.” They raised their glasses to each other and drank.

  “Yes. The other problem is, I don’t know any architects and I was about to make the necessary enquiries when you arrived on the scene. Presumably you work with architects. Perhaps you could advise me on who might be suitable?”

  “I’ll need to give it some thought. All my contacts are in London.”

  “Does that matter? I mean, the church’s appointed architects are a London firm.”

  “Why not use them?”

  “I want someone I can choose for myself. Do you think that’s wrong?”