Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

“Do the authorities have to give permission?”

  “I won’t give them any choice.”

  “Toni, I can’t imagine you doing a grave-robbing job under cover of darkness!”

  “I meant morally. They won’t have any choice morally, not after I’ve told them what has to be done and why.”

  “Is that wise, do you think?”

  “Probably not, but then I don’t think I’ve ever been a particularly wise person. I’m not leaving her out there for her grave to be desecrated again. If they’ll do this, who knows what else they might do?”

  “But if you just remove the headstone pieces for now, you can deal with the grave itself when the whole matter has died down, if you see what I mean. You have to decide, Toni, but if I were you, I’d be cautious for a while.”

  “I know, I know. But this business is upsetting and I want to get it sorted now. It’s not in my nature to be cautious. In any case, what harm can it do, after all these years?”

  Marnie went back to the car full of misgivings. These vicars could be a determined lot, she thought. Toni reminded her of Randall. I’m not a soft touch. That could just as easily have been said by Toni as by him. She sighed. Their lives were dominated by principles, faith, beliefs. Take them away and what was left? Not an easy path to follow. She sat for a while looking through the windscreen at nothing.

  With a shrug, she leaned over and opened the glove compartment in the dashboard. She always kept a torch there.

  The door to the crypt was patched and peeling, dusty and neglected. The hinges were rusty, as was the clasp that once must have held a padlock. It felt rough and dirty as Marnie pushed it to open the door. The creaking echoed in the void beyond.

  *

  “Hallo, I’d like to speak to the Bishop, please. It’s Toni Petrie, Knightly St John.” She waited while the Eine kleine Nachtmusik came down the line.

  “Bishop’s secretary.”

  “Is the Bishop available, please?”

  “That’s Miss Petrie, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. I need an urgent word, if possible.”

  “I’m afraid the Bishop’s away till Friday. If it’s urgent perhaps the Archdeacon can help.” That old woman, thought Toni. Then she mentally corrected herself. It was wrong to be prejudiced against women, especially old women, even if they were men. Judging Toni’s silence to be indecision, the secretary continued. “Unless you think it might be a matter that the Rural Dean could help you with?”

  “The Rural Dean?”

  “Well, he does know the parish as well as anyone.”

  “That’s true. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll give him a ring.”

  The number was on the list she kept by the phone. She pressed the buttons, knowing it was likely to be the answerphone. The ringing stopped almost immediately.

  “Randall Hughes.”

  “It’s Toni from Knightly. Randall, I want to ask your advice about something. Have you got a minute?”

  *

  In the office Anne had a list of six phone messages waiting for Marnie. More important, she had a cheese and pickle sandwich wrapped in cling film sitting patiently on the desk with a bottle of Perrier water. Anne completed the design on her drawing board and looked at her watch. Where was she? She sighed and rang the mobile.

  “Sorry. The mobile number you are calling is unavailable at the moment. Please try again later.”

  *

  Even with a powerful torch and the door left half open, the crypt was a sad and gloomy hole. It was about half the floor area of the church, with a vaulted ceiling and a row of bays on one side that Marnie suspected had originally held tombs or coffins for the monks who had lived – or rather died – here in Norman times. Now, it seemed to hold nothing but junk, tea chests, old brooms and a cupboard with one door missing. To keep her mind from pondering the creepiness of the place, she tried to imagine what it could become, given some tasteful renovation works. Although the ceiling was low, the vaulting was impressive, with stout columns supporting arches that were well proportioned. Willards would pay a fortune for a setting like this in the cellar of one of their restaurants. With the right kind of lighting it would be much less frightening. Marnie remembered when she was a child, her mother talking about her to friends, telling them she did not frighten easily. Nothing seems to frighten her. Just keep believing it, Marnie.

  Systematically, she made her way round the walls, searching for the outline of a staircase that might once have existed there. It was not easy to make out the surface of the stone under the accumulated dust and cobwebs. Why had they let it get into this state? Generations of vicars had their minds on higher things, obviously. Don’t think about tombs, Marnie, just concentrate on the task in hand. Don’t think about skeletons. They’re only bones anyway. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones! Now what’s this in the corner? The wall was straight, clear of all the vaulting and seemed to be marked as if something structural had been removed. She tracked the line of the marking in the torch-beam, but it was straight and horizontal with the ground. No stepping, just a line in the wall. About six feet long. Above it she found another mark and above that another. Could this have been a staircase? Surely it was too wide and the distance between the ‘steps’ too great. Nearly two feet. If not a staircase, then what? The answer presented itself without difficulty: a stacking place for coffins. Marnie shivered. Well, at least they were long gone. There was no mark in the ceiling to show where a trap door might have been. The trail had gone cold … cold as the grave wherein my love was laid.

  She tried to recall where the quote came from and just then struck something with her foot. It clinked. In the torch-beam she saw a cluster of old tools. She squatted down. Two cold chisels, old and rusty. What surprised her most was that they were not covered in dust like everything else down there. Three clout hammers with short stubby handles no longer than their heads. Beside them, a fourth wooden handle, extending off into the darkness. She shone the torch along it, but already knew what she would see. It was a sledge hammer, old but serviceable, the handle smooth from years of use, some of it possibly recent.

  The light from the torch faltered briefly as if someone had turned a dimmer switch. Damn and blast! Marnie always used rechargeable batteries. They lasted for years and were lighter in weight than conventional ones. The only drawback was that when they lost their power the decline was sudden and swift. In a matter of seconds the light was weaker than a single candle. Marnie stood up, prepared to grope her way out if necessary. She turned towards the steps at the far end of the crypt, grateful for the daylight seeping through the half-open door. Blinking in the unaccustomed dimness, she could almost persuade herself that the daylight too was fading. She opened her eyes wide and blinked again. There was no mistake. The light was vanishing as quickly as her torch had done. Someone was closing the door! Marnie dashed forward, opening her mouth to call out, stumbling over something solid on the ground and sprawling in the dust. Before she could regain her control, the door had shut and she was in total darkness.

  It took some minutes to feel her way to the foot of the steps. Perhaps it had been just as well that the pieces of headstone had tripped her. Otherwise she might have come face to face with the person who had smashed the headstone. Thank you, Sarah Anne, for intervening. Marnie pulled the door gently to open it without making a noise. It would not move. She tugged firmly. No change. She heaved on it with all her weight. Locked.

  This is the point where I’m supposed to work out a strategy for survival, she thought, make a plan for fighting my way out of this corner. There were weapons enough. The stonemasons’ hammers and cold chisels. The sledgehammer. Visions of the god Thor crossed her mind. Now, someone like Pete Malan, he could handle a sledgehammer. I could barely lift it. Be practical, Marnie. She felt the weight of the torch in her hand. It was better than nothing. Just about. She squeezed it for re-assurance. The casing was made of rubber. I hope he bruises easily, she thought.

  *

  �
��Toni, hallo, it’s Anne here. Glebe Farm.”

  “Hi! What can I do for you?”

  “Is Marnie with you?”

  “Marnie? ‘Fraid not. Haven’t seen her for ages.”

  “That’s very odd. She hasn’t come back yet. She did come to see you?”

  “Yes, but it’s over an hour since she left.”

  “I wonder where she could’ve gone,” said Anne. “I don’t suppose she mentioned where she was going?”

  “No. She just got in her car and drove off. No, wait a minute. That’s not right. I saw her go towards the car and I’m sure I heard the door shut after she got in. I don’t think I can actually remember hearing it start and drive away.”

  “And you just met at the vicarage and talked over this problem you had.”

  “Not quite. We met by the church and then went to the crypt.”

  “The crypt? What for?”

  “We needed to put something there. Actually, Marnie seemed quite interested in it. You know how keen she is on history … oh, my God …”

  *

  “You are very lucky not to be suffering severe rubber battering right now,” said Marnie. “If you hadn’t called my name, I was going to unleash an attack the like of which has not been seen in these parts since ...”

  “1645?” suggested Anne.

  “Something like that.”

  “Marnie,” said Toni. “I am just so sorry. I had no idea you were down there when I found the padlock in the cupboard and came back to lock the door. Why didn’t you call out?” She attempted to brush some of the dust from Marnie’s clothes.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “In the circumstances, there’s only one thing for it,” said Toni. “We go back to the vicarage. It’s got to be a bath for you while I make tea.”

  “And I’ll fetch some clean clothes,” said Anne.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Marnie. Toni replaced the padlock on the door and snapped it shut. She fumbled with the key-ring and held out her hand to Marnie.

  “Why don’t you keep this spare padlock key?” she said. “Then you’ll be able to get in if you need to and I’ll know where I can get a key if I lose this one. And take a church key as well for the porch works. I’ve got another at home.” They set off across the churchyard.

  “Can someone please tell me what all this is about?” said Anne. “I mean, what were you doing in the crypt anyway?”

  Marnie explained more or less what had happened, leaving out some of the details. “So that’s it, really. We found an old broken headstone and Toni wanted to bring it into the church for safekeeping.”

  “For sanctuary,” said Toni.

  “Yes. I helped her carry the pieces, thought the crypt looked interesting – the vaulting’s very good – and accidentally got locked in while I was down at the far end.” That should do the trick, thought Marnie. She was confident that Anne would accept that and be satisfied.

  “Fair enough,” said Anne. “I understand now.” Marnie nodded. Anne went on: “I can quite see why moving some old bits of stone was so important you had to drop everything and rush over before you even had time to eat anything.”

  *

  “And you thought you’d been trapped by the same person who destroyed the headstone?” Ralph sounded worried.

  “Of course. What else should I have thought?”

  “Marnie, I’m not sure it was wise in the circumstances to go down there alone without telling anyone.”

  “That’s just what Beth said. I phoned her a few minutes ago. Actually, that’s not quite true. Her actual words were: was I an utter bloody cretin.”

  “Sister’s privilege. She’s known you longer than I have.” He still sounded worried. “You must be careful, Marnie. I have misgivings about this whole business.”

  “So have I, but Toni won’t be put off. She’s determined to get the grave relocated straight away. She’s even thinking of having a special service to consecrate the burial.”

  “Frankly, I think that’s asking for trouble after the vandalism. Try to dissuade her if you can. She might listen to you. You don’t know what you’re stirring up.”

  “I do know. You should’ve seen the headstone and the flowers, totally destroyed.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t be going on like this. You don’t need me to tell you what to do. I ought to be making encouraging noises, re-assuring you.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s a comfort just talking to you.”

  “Good. What about Anne, is she aware of all this?”

  “Not really, but she’s no fool and may be working it out for herself. I’m doing my best to keep things from her so as not to worry her too much.”

  “I take it she’s not with you just now.”

  “No. She’s in her room in the office barn. I’m ringing you from Sally Ann. Actually, I’m in bed now.”

  “Marnie, you shouldn’t say things like that to me on the phone. It’ll bring on my palpitations.”

  *

  Tuesday 25 July

  “Just some of the truth will do,” said Anne next morning over breakfast. They were sitting in the saloon on board Sally Ann. It had rained in the night and the ground was still wet.

  “I have told you some of … I have told you the truth,” Marnie insisted. Anne gave her a pointed stare. “All right, all right. I came across an old headstone outside the church wall, over by the executive housing estate. It marked the grave of Sarah Anne Day and we know she committed suicide in 1645. That’s why she wasn’t allowed to be buried in the churchyard.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “Ralph did some research and found out.”

  “I see. This headstone, it was in pieces?”

  “Not when we first found it last week.”

  “How did it get broken?”

  “Vandals, I expect.”

  “Why did Toni want to move it into the crypt if it was already broken?”

  “She said she wanted to give it sanctuary in the church.”

  “Sanctuary? If this Sarah Anne committed suicide, surely Toni’s not allowed to do that, is she? I mean, without official permission?”

  “I do enjoy entertaining the Spanish Inquisition for breakfast,” said Marnie. “Such a nice change from the Today programme on Radio Four. Although, on second thoughts …”

  “It’s the only way I can find out what’s going on round here,” said Anne in a reasonable tone.

  Marnie sighed. “I seem to be sighing a lot these days,” she said. “Look. I know you find the church creepy. I do, too, sometimes. If you aren’t keen on the tower, you should try poking around in the crypt and getting locked in when your torch batteries are running out.”

  “I’ll put ‘recharge batteries’ on your list,” Anne interjected quickly. Marnie could not repress a smile.

  “Thanks. As I was saying, something made me want to find out who killed the vicar. I’m not sure why … curiosity … intrigue … I don’t really know, but I had the strangest feeling there was something obvious staring me in the face.”

  “But we’ve already talked about this,” said Anne. “You don’t have to keep it secret from me, unless there’s something I don’t know about, something really awful.”

  “I didn’t want to keep going on about it,” said Marnie, hoping Anne would not detect the evasion. “It is rather morbid, after all. In fact, I decided to drop the whole thing. Then this business with the headstone came along and I gave Toni a hand.” Marnie shrugged and Anne looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Right,” said Anne. “I suppose that’ll do for now.” She dunked her croissant in her bowl of coffee. “I think you’re right about it staring you in the face. I’ve said it before. The murderer was there in the tower that night. He had to be to commit the murder. How else could it have happened? And he couldn’t have run out.” She dunked the remaining part of her croissant. Marnie could not fault Anne’s logic. “Ah, that’s why you went back to the crypt, Marnie. You were looking for a way in from
the church, some steps or something Is that right? Did you find any?” She struggled to prevent her over-dunked croissant from disintegrating.

  “No,” said Marnie. Another sigh. “Definitely no way down there from inside the church.”

  “Then you do agree with me.”

  “Logically, yes,” said Marnie. “But where was he hiding?”

  Anne picked up her bowl in both hands and drank some coffee. “The panel,” she said. “He was hiding behind the wooden panel on the landing.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Marnie. “But it’s solid. You saw how Mike banged on it.”

  “I suppose so,” said Anne. She pulled out a pad and a pen, scribbled ‘batteries’ at the top and wrote a few notes. “There’s the roof of the tower.”

  “They went up and searched it,” said Marnie.

  Anne put a line through one of the items. “In the belfry?”

  “There’s no room, only bells, and no floor,” said Marnie. Another line through.

  “Could he have hung on the bells?”

  “You can put Quasimodo down as a suspect if you want. You know who he was, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Anne.

  “I know,” said Marnie. “You did a project on Victor Hugo, got an ‘A’ in the coursework.”

  “No. I saw the film on TV. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Charles Laughton and Maureen O’Hara. The bells! The bells!”

  “Anyway,” said Marnie, “they would’ve made a noise.”

  “I give up,” said Anne. “Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s all in the past.”

  Is it? thought Marnie.

  *

  Wednesday 26 July

  It was late morning the following day when Anne suddenly looked up from her computer. She was going through the self-tuition package on the latest software.

  “You know, we ought to be on the Internet,” she said.

  Marnie only managed to climb halfway out of the depths of concentration. “Right,” she muttered. “We can use the fax machine as an ornament.” She immersed herself again in planning atmospheric lighting for the reception area of Willards’ largest hotel.

  “This Sarah Anne Day,” Anne continued. “You’re assuming she was a relative of Frank Day.”