by McNeir, Leo
As it happened, Mike’s idea was precisely what the vicar suggested. Sitting round a table in the pub garden, they pored over the plans of the church while Mike outlined his views. The most important task was to find a reliable stone mason who had a sympathy for old structures.
“Any bloody fool – oh, sorry, vicar – anyone can chop out the stone, shove in another bit and slap mortar over the join.”
“I could do it,” said the vicar.
“Quite,” said Mike. “Oh sorry, no. I mean, well …”
“I know what you mean. By the way, please call me Toni. So, how do we find our builder? What about your chaps, Marnie?”
“They seem to be okay. You’ve seen their work, Mike. What do you think?”
“They’re fine.”
“And Anne keeps them well lubricated,” said Marnie.
“I’ll have to get a bike if I’ve got to come up here as well,” said Anne. “I’ll be like meals on wheels.”
“That’s a snag, of course. They’re not a big firm and they’re going to be down with us for some months to come.”
“Well, the porch isn’t dangerous,” said Mike. “But you’re still under pressure to get the work done.”
Toni looked at her watch and drained her glass. “So we may have to find another firm,” she said.
“The council will probably help,” said Mike.
“Good idea, “ said Toni. “We’ll find the best we can. After all, we don’t want it to be a bloody mess, do we?”
It turned out to be one of those golden days that people remember years later. The sun shone, children behaved themselves, dogs lay in the shade under yew trees in the churchyard and not one discordant note was sounded all afternoon. The whole scene looked like the setting for a television commercial depicting village England. It was to be the only golden day that summer.
Marnie could not fully disengage her thoughts from the tower. But she was determined not to unsettle Anne and did not mention the murder of the vicar again. One of the displays was called All Our Yesterdays and Marnie wandered across to see if it contained anything about the Civil War. There were boards covered in photographs and a large table of memorabilia dedicated to the two world wars. Marnie was drawn to a collection of pictures showing the canal, one of which had Glebe Farm faint and shadowy in the background. She strained to pick out some details. The roofline was clear, but most of the buildings were hidden behind one of the crew of the boat in the foreground. As she squinted with her nose only inches from the photo, Marnie felt sure the crew member was a woman in trousers. She was putting all her weight on a pole, pushing the boat away from the bank.
“You’ll strain your eyes doing that,” said a voice from behind her. Marnie turned to find a man in the dark blue uniform of a fire warden, with a tin helmet bearing the letter ‘W’. He was about sixty with a pleasant, unremarkable face and not much taller than Marnie.
“I’m interested in the canals,” she said pointing at the photo. “And I think that’s where I live in the background.” The man peered at the picture.
“That’s Glebe Farm all right. I was born on it. Ron Fletcher’s my name.” He stuck out a hand. “And you’re Mrs Walker.”
“Marnie.”
“Marnie,” he repeated. “That’s nice. I’ve never met a Marnie before.”
“And you’re a relative of Albert Fletcher, of course.”
“Younger brother. I’m the youngest of seven. Lived here all my life, well, so far, anyway.” He grinned at her.
“Do you have any other pictures showing the farm? I’d love to see what it used to look like.”
“Bound to have some somewhere. Boxes of them in the loft, I think.”
“And the canal?” said Marnie.
“I’m not so sure about that. Maybe in the background. We used to take photos of outings and parties, family snaps, you know the sort of thing. The canal was just everyday work. We took it for granted.”
“But someone took these pictures,” said Marnie.
“That’s because they were women and got stuck in the mud. Trainees, they were. Took them ages to get off.”
“Did you see them yourself, or were you too little, perhaps?”
“I was there. I was about ten at the time. One of the women was on the bank. She had this rickety old bike and wanted to push from the edge of the water, but couldn’t get near enough. My granddad came down to have a look and sent me back to get a pitchfork handle.”
“Did it work?”
“Oh yes. But I felt sorry for the woman with the bike.”
“She fell in?”
“No. She left her beret behind. I found it later in the grass long after they’d gone.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“No. They didn’t do regular runs.” He looked thoughtful. “Just a minute.” He bent down and rummaged under the table, producing an old biscuit tin. “Do you know what people used to call them, those women trainees?”
“Idle women,” said Marnie.
“That’s right. And this is why.” He picked a small round badge out of the box. It was made of plastic and bore the letters ‘IW’, standing on two wavy lines. Around the top edge was the inscription ‘National Service’.
“Did they tell you that?” said Marnie. “The letters really stood for Inland Waterways. ‘Idle Women’ was just their joke.”
“They never spoke to me,” he said. “I saw a television programme about them a few years ago. That’s when I remembered the badge. It was on the beret, just lying in the tin all those years. I used to wear it to play soldiers for a while.” Marnie handed it back.
“I met one of them myself last year,” she said. “Tough as old boots. They had to be, I suppose.”
“It’s no use to me,” Ron Fletcher said. “Why don’t you have it? Take it back to Glebe Farm. Better than lying in that tin.”
Marnie shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Go on. You were meant to have it.”
“I don’t really believe in fate,” said Marnie. “But thank you, if you’re sure. I’d love to have it.”
She found Anne and Mike engrossed in conversation with Frank Day. As she approached, Frank half turned towards her.
“Ah, Marnie. Hallo. Have you met Janet?” Frank’s wife was not what Marnie had expected. She seemed older, matronly and comfortable, with a ruddy countrywoman’s complexion and grey hair swept back in a bun.
“I feel as if I know you already,” she said. “Frank has told me all about your plans for Glebe Farm. I gather work is really coming on.”
“So far so good,” said Marnie. “Still a long way to go.”
“It’s all change in Knightly at the moment,” said Janet. “Have you met the new vicar?”
“Yes. We’ve just been talking to her. Mike’s going to sort out the problems with the porch.”
“Is that her over there talking to Molly Appleton?” Janet pointed to the far side of the churchyard. There was an open area where stalls were set out in a semi-circle.
“Yes. Brown hair, grey dress, only it’s a cassock.”
“Very tasteful,” said Janet thoughtfully. She nudged Frank. “It’ll be hard to keep Frank away from the village now there’s an attractive lady vicar.” Frank put on a mock pained expression. “I advise you to keep a tight rein on Marnie,” she said lightly to Mike. “I’m sure Frank is due for a mid-life crisis any time now.”
Marnie was wondering how they had fallen into this kind of conversation, and especially how they could extricate themselves from it, when Anne leaned forward to examine the IW badge that Marnie had attached to the lapel of her jacket.
“I’ll tell you about it later,” she said to Anne. “I’d rather like to see a few more stalls. Perhaps the WI will provide us with a cake for tea. Shall we see?”
For the rest of the afternoon they wandered round the stalls, bumping into acquaintances and having brief impromptu conversations about nothing in particular. Mike insisted on buying a c
ake, as well as some scones and home-made raspberry jam. The doyennes of the WI stall told Marnie that she could bring her friend back any time.
Marnie’s thoughts kept returning to the tower and the unsolved murder. She made up her mind to talk it over with Ralph, but not mention it to Anne.
“Come on, Marnie.” Mike was standing beside her. She had not noticed him approach. “Time to switch off. Relax.” She gave him a puzzled look. “You’re staring up at the tower. You can think about work tomorrow. This is fun time.”
“Is it fun for you, Mike?”
“Oh yes. But then I’m not a workaholic like you.”
“Can I just ask you something, while we’re alone?”
“Good god, you’re not going to propose are you? I don’t know how I’ll tell Stephie. She’ll definitely want custody of the parrot.”
“Mike, be serious! Listen.” Marnie glanced over her shoulder and saw Anne studying the old photos. “This morning in the tower, you were starting to say there was something odd about it.”
“Was I?”
“Just before Anne slipped off the step. Can you remember what it was?”
He concentrated. “Something about the partition, I think. It just flashed into my mind suddenly.”
“What was it? And why did you bang on it?”
He shrugged. “To see how solid it was. Did you think there was something strange, Marnie?”
“Yes I did, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Nor me. Anyway, it’s the porch we’re supposed to be worrying about, which reminds me. If I do the specification and the working drawings, will you keep an eye on the builders? It’s a straightforward job.”
“Yes, of course. Mike, I really want you to think what was odd about the tower.”
“Okay. I’ll try to remember.”
“Good, but let’s change the subject now. Anne’s coming over. She gets nervous.”
“Right. You’re determined about this, aren’t you?”
“Definitely. I’m going to get to the bottom of this business if it kills me.” She smiled as Anne came up. “Do I take it you’ve worked out where I got the badge?”
“Yes.” Anne looked rueful. “Some people can’t take a hint.”
“I hope you didn’t try to suggest that he gave you something from his collection,” said Marnie.
“Not so he noticed apparently,” said Anne. She reached forward and touched the badge. “Is it a genuine ‘Idle Women’ badge?”
“The real thing.”
*
That evening Marnie rang Beth, Mrs Jolly and Jane to tell them about the day, the new vicar and latest progress at Glebe Farm. She told Jane about the ‘Idle Women’ badge and how it came to be left near the farm during the war.
“That’s a little piece of history,” said Jane. “Did you know they received the badge after completing their training?”
“I wonder how many there were,” said Marnie.
“Can’t have been many, a few dozen, I think. It’s a rare item, something to treasure. Not the first time you’ve been given that sort of thing. Not quite in the same league as Old Peter’s drawings, though.”
“I suspect the old chap didn’t know how rare it was. Perhaps I should give it back.”
“And have it hidden away in a biscuit tin?” said Jane. “Don’t you think you’ll be giving it a good home, where it belongs? Aren’t you a kind of successor to the Idle Women?”
“Perhaps I should wear it, let people see it again after all these years.”
“I think you should, Marnie.”
“Yes, perhaps. I’ll wear it as a talisman. It might bring me luck.”
22
Sarah Anne sat alone on a bale of straw under a beam in the cool of her uncle’s barn in the heat of the day. Her eyes staring, her mind was filled with words and images. The words were war and guilt, bigotry and hatred.
“… forgive us our trespasses … lead us not into temptation … forgive … forgive …”
She recited her prayers over and over, her lips moving but no sound coming from them.
“… pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death …”
Words flooded into her mind, sin and shame, dishonour and sacrifice.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth …”
The images were flames and smoke.
“… the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting … the forgiveness of sins …”
The images were blood and death.
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
In her hands, hands that had known hard work all her young life, hands that tended her father and had laid out the body of the vicar, she held a length of rope. It was good strong hemp, twelve feet of it, the kind they used on the farm for binding hay and tethering animals. As she murmured her prayers, Sarah Anne twisted the rope, round and round in her fingers. She twisted it like a rosary.
*
Monday 10 July
Fact: the vicar was killed in the tower one night in 1645, thought Marnie. She was walking more slowly than usual up the field track towards the village.
Question: how was he killed? She had re-read the church history booklet the evening before, after Anne had gone back to her loft. There was no mention of any murder weapon, only that the vicar was found dead at the foot of the tower steps.
Fact: the murderer, or possibly murderers, had never been found.
Question: was someone covering up for the murderer? If so, who? Why?
Question: what wounds did the vicar have? Could he have died from falling, or being thrown, down the steps? This detecting business was more complicated than it seemed, thought Marnie. In the books she had read, a brilliant sleuth would be presented with a whole array of clues, all of them baffling and after much thought, plus a few helpful coincidences thrown in, would arrive at a dazzlingly clever solution to the whole thing. What did she have? An incomplete description of the event in a booklet costing twenty pence! It was hardly evidence on which to build any kind of approach to the problem. All she had was a string of questions and no way of answering them.
She reached the top of the field and hesitated before turning right towards the school and the main street. She had a few minutes in hand before her meeting with Margaret Giles. The road was deserted. People were at work. The week was just beginning. All over the village it was a normal day. Marnie looked back to where Glebe Farm was nestling below her, where Anne was happily engrossed with the computer. Anne had been thrilled when a cheque for over three thousand pounds had come from Willards the previous week, with a similar amount due in about a fortnight. Being paid so well for doing something you enjoyed was her idea of heaven.
Some movement away to her right caught Marnie’s eye. Coming across the field on the top path was Albert Fletcher. Marnie fingered the IW badge on her lapel and waited as he drew near. At first she thought he had not seen her by the gate and might even walk by without a word, but at the last moment he looked up and stopped. His face seemed more drawn than she remembered and he gave her an almost grudging smile, just this side of courtesy. Marnie showed him the badge his brother had given her. He glanced at it with little interest. It occurred to Marnie that farmers are interested in the larger things in life, harvests, seasons, herds, the land passing from generation to generation. It was scholars like Ralph who interpreted the world through detail. Mr Fletcher asked how the works were going and seemed pleased at their progress. At that there was little more to be said between them and they went their separate ways.
Albert Fletcher had gone barely ten metres when a Range Rover came by and stopped beside him. The driver’s window slid noiselessly down.
“Well, Albert,” said George Stubbs. “Was that the delightful Mrs Walker you were talking to?”
“It was.”
“I see you’re not yet opposed to all women, then.” George had a twinkle in his eye.
“I
would like to think she’ll restore the farm so that it has a useful purpose again,” Albert said slowly. “I can’t make out what she’s going to do with it, but I expect she has her own ideas.”
“We’re not seeing much of you just now,” said George. Albert remained silent. “We’re coming for lunch on Sunday. Will we see you in church?”
“I’m giving church a miss for a while.”
“In protest at the new vicar?”
“I’m not protesting. No use in that. I don’t believe the village will be happy with a woman priest, that’s all. I’m just giving her enough rope to hang herself.”
*
“I think this is a very good programme, Mrs Walker, Marnie. Would you like another cup of coffee?” She was surprised when Marnie did not decline the offer and dash back to her busy life, surprised and pleased. Margaret Giles found Marnie’s company highly agreeable. It made a pleasant change to meet someone so full of creative ideas, so full of energy.
“Mrs Giles, Margaret, there’s something I’d like to ask you about the church. It may seem an odd question, but do you know how the vicar was murdered in 1645?”
The head looked surprised. “That’s rather a strange question. You’ll appreciate it’s not the kind of subject that we’d choose for a school project on local history.” She chuckled. “I think the honest answer is that I don’t really know.”
“What do you know?” said Marnie. The Head shrugged. In her position it was unusual to find herself admitting to ignorance, quite a novel experience.
“Only what’s written in the church booklet. I don’t think it says how he was murdered, does it?” She looked over the top of her spectacles at Marnie and smiled. “Most of my thoughts about murder concern some of the more difficult parents.” It was Marnie’s turn to shrug.
“Of course,” she said. “It was just a thought. I can’t imagine the Civil War impinges much on your daily life.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” said Margaret. “In fact, I’m in correspondence with the education office about it at the moment.”
“Really?”
Before replying, Margaret reached down to the bottom drawer of her desk and brought out a small, well-thumbed booklet. “This is the County Education Plan of 1947. Every authority had to produce one as part of the implementation of the 1944 Education Act. Sorry, I’m starting to sound like a teacher. Force of habit. Anyway, in here you’ll find a proposal to close the school in Knightly St John and send the children to Saint Luke’s Primary School, Hanford, along with the children from Yore.”
