Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  The air was warm even at the top of the tower and Marnie thought how peaceful it all seemed. She strained to see through the top branches of the spinney for a glimpse of Sally Ann or the canal. The voice of old Albert Fletcher came into her mind. The place is cursed! Did he mean the village or just Glebe Farm? She became aware of Ralph close beside her. She felt him reach for her hand, as if he had been reading her thoughts again. She squeezed gently.

  Gradually the clouds were clearing, but there was still a haze hanging over the countryside. Far off, at the edge of their vision, they could make out the traces of a rainbow. Toni took a deep breath and turned to face them.

  “Why not come back and have tea at the vicarage?”

  “That’s kind of you,” said Marnie.

  “Not at all.” Toni grinned broadly and shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been dying to say that to someone ever since I knew I’d got the job.”

  *

  The sun was much lower in the sky by the time Marnie and Ralph walked hand in hand through the spinney back to Sally Ann. Under the trees the ground was still wet and the air smelled of vegetation.

  “What would you like to do this evening?” said Ralph.

  “After the pub lunch and tea at the vicarage, I don’t need much. What about you?”

  “The same.”

  “Suppose I prepare something light, open a bottle of wine, put a baroque tape on the machine? We could sit out and eat on deck, drier than the ground.”

  “Marnie, I think you’ve just described my idea of paradise.”

  “Ralph, there’s something on my mind, about Sarah Anne. In Fellheimer’s papers, that bit about her sorrow at her family’s part in the death of the vicar. What do you make of that?”

  “It implies that she knew who’d committed the murder,” said Ralph. “I can’t think of any other explanation. Can you?”

  “It took her a while to make up her mind,” said Marnie.

  “Months of torment that she couldn’t bear any longer, perhaps?”

  “It’s possible. Ralph, do you think it could have been her own father?”

  “If it was, presumably some of the other villagers would’ve known.”

  “Unless they were hiding the fact,” said Marnie.

  “I have two comments on that. Oh god, I’m sounding like an academic again, sorry. Anyway, the first is: why did they go through the charade of searching the church on the night of the killing if they knew all along who’d done it?”

  “They were lying, perhaps?”

  “Well, the story has the ring of truth about it. They were in shock. For all their anger, I don’t believe they wanted to kill the vicar, just capture him and turn him over to the authorities. These weren’t evil people. They wanted to get back to normal life. They’d had enough of war.”

  “Yes. Simple people like that would hardly dream up such a story. What’s your second point?”

  “That officer, Flaxman, he was convinced no-one knew what had happened. From reading his reports I get the impression he was nobody’s fool. He patrolled the area for months and eventually flushed out all the Royalists. He was respected in these parts for his judgment and his fairness.”

  “Where does that get us?” said Marnie.

  Ralph breathed out with a sigh. “I’m no detective, but I would’ve thought something must have happened between the murder and her suicide, something that revealed who had done it. That was the anguish she couldn’t bear.” They walked on in silence and Marnie unlocked Sally Ann. Dolly, who had been dozing on the hatch, jumped down and wound herself round Ralph’s ankles. He stooped to stroke her.

  “It does all make sense,” said Marnie, “but only up to a point.”

  “You’ve found a weakness in the argument?” said Ralph. Marnie remembered what it was like to be a student again.

  “Not so much a weakness, as a gap. Look. The vicar is killed. Everyone is shocked, Weeks later a villager discovers somehow that a member of her family was the murderer. A dreadful discovery, okay, but why did she commit suicide?”

  “Go on,” said Ralph.

  “The will mentions her sorrow,” said Marnie. “You don’t go and hang yourself in a barn out of sorrow. Even allowing for her father using the wrong word, this is a major understatement.”

  “I’m not quite sure what point you’re making.”

  “It would all make sense to me only if Sarah Anne was in love with the vicar. She would’ve been distraught at his death, but to find out one of her own family was responsible would make her life unbearable.”

  “Ye-e-s,” said Ralph slowly. “I can see the logic there.”

  “Of course, I’ve no evidence,” said Marnie, getting the point in first. “And I don’t see how we can check the facts.”

  “We can look at the accounts of the raid on the church that night,” said Ralph. They spread the documents over the table in the saloon and he began making notes as he sifted from one paper to another. “That’s interesting,” he said eventually. “I’ve checked the names of all the men who were present that night. There was no-one called Day or Wise in the party at all. Her mother’s maiden name was Wise.”

  Marnie tut-tutted. “Please, sir, does that knock my theory on the head?”

  “It doesn’t support it. But it doesn’t invalidate it, either. Something else might have intervened. Perhaps we should sleep on it.”

  “Good idea. That’s enough theorising for one day. Shall we have a drink before supper?”

  “Excellent. What shall I do with my bag?”

  “Oh, put it on the bed for now,” said Marnie. “You can unpack later, unless you’d prefer to sleep in Anne’s bed in the barn?”

  “Of course not,” said Ralph. “I’m sure she’d be outraged at the very idea.”

  “Well, it’s an academic question,” said Marnie. “She’s not likely to find out, is she?”

  *

  Marnie was convinced she was becoming obsessive about the whole thing. It did not bother her that she had nearly an hour to wait after seeing Ralph off before Anne was due at the bus station on Sunday evening. She simply installed herself in the café and reread the notes Ralph had left with her. The more she read, the more convinced she became that he was right. The men who entered the church on the fateful night did not know who had committed the murder either then or later. They were simple country folk. They had no skill at acting, at least not to the extent that they could fool a hard-bitten army officer like Captain Flaxman, whose life depended on his judgment. Sooner or later someone would have made a deathbed confession to receive absolution. But there was no record of this ever happening. Fellheimer had checked all the possibilities.

  Only the will of Jonathan Day gave a clue to the identity of the murderer. But who could it have been? There was no-one hiding in the church. No-one from the family was present. What did Sarah Anne find out that made her want to kill herself? Strangest of all, how was the deed committed when there was no weapon and no-one to wield it? Always the same old story going round and round inside her head. Marnie was impatient and frustrated. She had the feeling the answer was staring her in the face. She let out a long sigh and looked at her watch.

  “Don’t worry, love. It may never happen.” She had not noticed the man sitting diagonally across the table. His voice was deep with a faint burr that could have been west country. Marnie half smiled and glanced at him. It was the T-shirt that held her attention and she must have looked at it long enough for him to be encouraged to speak again. “I don’t suppose you’ve been stood up.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m just bored with waiting.” She excused the lie because the truth was too complicated. “You have a boat?”

  The man seemed surprised by the question. “A boat? Yes, I do.”

  Marnie nodded at his T-shirt. It was a faded red, well-worn and past its best, but bearing an unmistakable coat-of-arms. “Grand Union Canal, isn’t it?”

  “Not many people would know that,” he said.
/>   “I have a narrowboat,” said Marnie. “Where do you keep yours?”

  “Just up from the Iron Trunk. Thor. Pete Malan.” He held his hand out over the table and Marnie wondered fleetingly which name applied to him. His grip was firm, of course, but not uncomfortable. The skin was horny, no stranger to the engine compartment, rope or the lock key. Not young, he had a young man’s body, lean with powerful shoulders, his forearms muscular and tattooed. He had the face of an Old Testament prophet, though his beard was shorter and his hair, surrounding a balding top, was long, grey and wispy. Even seated, he looked tall.

  “Marnie Walker. Sally Ann. I’m Marnie,” she added, for the sake of clarity.

  Pete thought for a few seconds. “Up Knightly way? By Fletcher’s farm?”

  “Yes, that’s us. Glebe Farm.”

  “Nice spot. Cryin’ shame about the farm.” Marnie found it hard to imagine Pete Malan crying about anything. “Builders there, I think. That right?”

  “Yes. We’re aiming to restore it. It’s a long job.”

  “You’ll do it, my love. That’s just what the place needs. A nice family to bring it back to life.” His voice was friendly and somehow re-assuring. He made it all seem possible. He looked over her head and unfolded himself from the chair. “Talking of families, here’s my youngest.”

  Marnie turned to see a young man approaching. He had the same sharp features as his father. They were both enormously tall, perhaps six foot five or six and Pete put an affectionate arm round his son’s shoulder. “This is my Raymond and this is Marnie, from Sally Ann.” Marnie stood up, partly out of politeness and partly so that she could see faces that were so far from the ground. Raymond grinned and said hallo in a similarly deep voice, but Marnie’s attention was most drawn by the hat that he held at his side. It was wide-brimmed, made of light brown felt, with black braiding and a long feather. She failed to hide her curiosity.

  “Good job the bus wasn’t full,” said Raymond. “Or I’d have had to pay for a seat for the hat.” The two giants chuckled.

  “It’s quite unusual,” said Marnie. “They’re not very fashionable round here these days, probably for that reason.” The men swayed with laughter. “What is it, actually, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Part of my uniform. I’m a captain in one of the local regiments of the Sealed Knot. We do re-enactments.”

  “The Sealed Knot,” Marnie repeated. “Ah, yes. Are you re-enacting a battle?”

  “We don’t do many actual battles,” said Raymond. “We’re doing what we call a muster, followed by a skirmish. It’s for a charity appeal for the local hospital. Should be quite a big event.”

  “In Northampton?”

  “Over by Hanford, next weekend. Worth a visit if you’ve got time. Should be fun. I like it, anyway. Gets me out in the fresh air.”

  “Raymond’s studying to be an accountant,” said Pete. Marnie could imagine Raymond wrestling with figures. She had little doubt who would win. With expressions of good will and the hope that they would meet again on the canal some time, father and son took their leave and Marnie wandered over to the newspaper kiosk.

  She still had half an hour to wait and she sat down to immerse herself in a boating magazine. Nothing had changed. There were restoration works to bring remote, forgotten waterways back to life; comparative trials of three new boat designs; a photographic section featuring a boat in London that was famous for its flowers and towpath garden. The owner, resplendent in shorts and Panama hat, stood smiling at the camera, surrounded by his handiwork. Time for another sigh from Marnie, a sigh of anticipation. She wondered when she would be able to stand in gardens packed with flowers and shrubs at Glebe Farm. Or was it Beech Farm? Or Fletcher’s Farm?

  *

  “Oh, it’s nice to be back!” Anne dropped her bag in the office barn and they made their way through the spinney to Sally Ann for supper.

  “You’ve only been away since yesterday morning,” said Marnie.

  “I know, but this feels like home to me now. You know what I mean. My place. It was lovely to see my room and think I lived there.”

  Marnie felt her stomach tighten. “Good. It’s nice to have you back. But I’m sure you had a good weekend, nice to see your parents and your brother.”

  “It was, yes. How about you, not too lonely?”

  “Too busy to be lonely,” said Marnie, unlocking the doors. “After one of your mum’s Sunday lunches, I don’t suppose you’re very hungry. I’ve prepared some tapas. Is that okay?”

  “Terrific,” said Anne. “I’ll put the table out, shall I? I must just wash my hands. I always feel sticky after a journey.”

  They ate out in the warm evening air. High, thin clouds shielded the sun making a pleasant opaque light. Marnie said nothing of Ralph’s visit, partly because she did not want the conversation to turn again to the subject of the vicar’s death. More than anything, she never wanted Anne to find out about Sarah Anne Day’s suicide in the office barn. Also, Marnie wanted to keep her relationship with Ralph private. She was unsure where it would lead or how long it would last. They were like two working boats, plying the same canal, meeting at intervals, but essentially going their own ways.

  Anne chattered on about her family, the plans for the holiday in Scotland … camping! I mean, camping, Marnie! Can you imagine it? We’ll probably die of hypothermia! … simple domestic routines of everyday life, Oh, mum washed those sheets I took back. They should be aired enough to use, and I’ve got two big jars of home-made jam for you as a present … nearly broke my back carrying them! She told Marnie about some ideas she had had for a colour scheme and something she had seen in the new Laura Ashley catalogue.

  Once or twice, she asked Marnie again if she had not been lonely. Marnie re-assured her and Anne seemed glad. They sat out talking until the light faded and Anne said she would like to have an early night so as to be fresh for the week ahead. They strolled back through the spinney together and said goodnight at the door to the barn. Marnie had just reached the edge of the trees when Anne called after her.

  “Oh, by the way, Marnie, you ought to give Ralph a ring and tell him he left his toothpaste in the shower-room on Sally. I hope he’s got a spare. Good night!” The door closed quickly behind her and Marnie thought she heard laughter.

  *

  “What a coincidence,” said Beth. “I was just going to ring you. So, how are things?”

  “Okay. Busy. Lots to do.” Marnie wanted to talk about the murder and Fellheimer’s research. With Anne settled in the barn, she could speak freely.

  “What sort of weekend have you had?” said Beth.

  “Fine. Anne’s been home for the weekend and I’ve been thinking over one or two things. In fact, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I thought so. Tell me, how are things going with Ralph?” Oh god, thought Marnie, she’s doing it again. Why is my one and only sister a mind-reader?

  “He’s okay. Anyway, I wanted to ask your opinion about something.”

  “Just okay? Is that all? Have you seen him lately?”

  “Yes, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk about, Beth.”

  “How recently? I mean, very recently? Or just some time ago recently?”

  “Recently. I’ve seen him recently, as in … recently.”

  “So you know about his news?”

  “News? I don’t think he mentioned any news.” Marnie searched her memory.

  “He didn’t tell you about his decision, that he’s turned down the chair at Yale?”

  “No. He didn’t tell me that,” said Marnie. I didn’t give him a chance to, she thought. I was too busy going on about people who have been dead for three hundred and fifty years.

  “Apart from that, the relationship is developing well?” I wonder how Ralph would answer that, thought Marnie.

  “Relationship?” Marnie was definitely not going to let Beth push her into talking about that. She knew that as long as she kept clear of any detail
s, there was nothing Beth could do to illicit anything from her. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

  “I guessed as much,” said Beth. “How do you see it shaping up from this point on?”

  “From what point on?”

  “You tell me,” said Beth. “How can I tell, stuck down here in London?”

  “I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about,” said Marnie.

  “So there is a relationship.”

  “Beth, I think you’re rather exaggerating things.”

  “Goodness, I didn’t realise it had gone that far already. So it’s serious, then? You’ve seen him this weekend?”

  “Beth, you are impossible. Having you for a sister is like being related to the Spanish Inquisition.”

  After they had hung up, Marnie decided to shower and go to bed. In the tiny cubicle, she let the warm water splash over her as she revolved slowly under the nozzle. It was the only movement possible in that space. Ralph’s toothpaste stood on the shelf over the minute washbasin, looking as if it belonged there. She put the research papers firmly away for the night and changed the sheets on the bed. Lying in the fresh smelling cotton, she put out the light and listened to the darkness. There were the usual sounds of the waterway. Leaves rustled. There was a plop as a fish jumped nearby. She heard the owl in the trees on the opposite side of the canal. Last of all, she heard Anne’s voice drifting towards her from the barn … this feels like home to me now … my place. It was lovely to see my room and think I lived there.

  23

  Monday 17 July

  Marnie put down the phone after a long discussion with one of her suppliers in London.

  “Why does everyone in London always ask me how I’m finding it in the country with nothing going on and no-one around to talk to?”

  “Townies!” said Alan, the postman good-humouredly. He stood up and smiled at Anne. “Thanks for the tea, my love. Time to be off.” In the yard outside, the builders were extending the scaffolding on the row of cottages. They had surprised even themselves with their rate of progress. A combination of Marnie, the guv’nor, working on site, plus the ministrations of Anne, who just popped out at intervals to see if there was anything they wanted, especially tea, encouraged a healthy level of activity.