Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

“And a big instrument,” said Bartlett. “How wide was the blade, Cathy?”

  “Er, at its widest point the wound was approximately five centimetres.” She held up her thumb and forefinger as a guide, having been educated entirely in metric.

  “That’s quite a blade,” said Bartlett.

  “Too broad to be Mrs Paxton’s SS dagger, sir.” They nodded in agreement.

  “Not too broad to be a butcher’s knife.”

  “Or a sickle or scythe,” said Marriner.

  “Or a boatman’s knife,” said Bartlett. “Or a boatwoman’s …”

  *

  It was the third time Marnie had rung that number without reply. She was not even sure why she was ringing, apart from a vague sense of anxiety, a feeling that below the surface there was a real need for understanding, an intense pain that had to be released. It worried her that she could not fathom the extent of her concern.

  “Hallo?” It was a tentative voice, unexpected, the voice of someone who gave the impression they had never seen a telephone before, let alone knew how to use one. A woman’s voice.

  “Oh hallo. I was, I was trying to get in touch with Randall Hughes.”

  “Are you from the Bishop’s office? Only I told you before when you rang that he isn’t here. He still isn’t here.”

  “No. No, I’m not,” said Marnie. “I’m not from the Bishop’s office. I’m a … well, I’m a sort of friend of Randall’s.” Now was not the time for lengthy explanations. “Are you a relative, perhaps?”

  “Relative? No. I’m Mrs Partridge. I do his cleaning, twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays.”

  “I see. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Does he normally come home for lunch, do you know?”

  “That’s just it. He’s always so regular. Always here for lunch at twelve-thirty, or he leaves me a note with my money.”

  “And there was no note today?”

  “That’s right. Nothing. And I’ll tell you something else. His bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  “You don’t think he just made it before he went out?”

  “He always makes his bed, does Mr Hughes. He’s very particular, very tidy. No. That bed has not been slept in.”

  “Can you be sure of that?”

  “Quite sure. You see, he always changes his sheets on Wednesday and does them in the machine on the cheap electricity overnight. I put them out to dry first thing and iron them when they’re ready.”

  “Is there anything missing from the house?”

  “Such as what?”

  “An overnight bag? Things from the bathroom, shaver, toothbrush, that sort of thing.” There was a silence. Mrs Partridge thinking. Marnie wondering. Such a particular man. She remembered his study. Books everywhere, but a sense of order. “What do you think, Mrs Partridge? Could he just have gone off for a few days and forgotten to tell you? A sudden change of plans?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” came the reply. “You see, he always puts things away. I never have to clear up after him, so I can’t see if anything’s missing. But I do know he hasn’t slept here. I’m quite sure of that.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “When he comes back, do you want me to give him a message?”

  “You could just say Marnie phoned, if you would. You’re not normally there at this time, are you, Mrs Partridge?” Marnie could see by the office clock that it was after five.

  “Of course not. I come in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp. I just popped back to see if he was okay.”

  “Yes, I understand. Well, between us I’m sure we’ll soon be seeing him.” Marnie tried to sound cheerful and positive.

  “But where is he? What do I tell the Bishop’s office? What should I do?”

  “I think all you can do is tell them what you’ve told me. Perhaps they’ll be able to get in touch with his relatives.” Marnie promised Mrs Partridge that she would contact her if she had any news of Randall and assured her that everything would be all right. There was some perfectly simple explanation for his absence. After putting the phone down, she realised that neither of them believed that and, if it was true, it was unlikely to be a source of comfort.

  *

  The three detectives emerged from the cool, damp-smelling church room to find a warm summer’s evening waiting for them. From the other side of the church they could hear a scraping sound, rhythmic and slow, and their instincts led them to investigate. They discovered a stocky man of about sixty in shirtsleeves and dungarees raking the gravel path. He paid no attention to the arrival of the strangers and continued his work without looking up.

  “Good evening,” said Marriner.

  “Evenin’.”

  “Would you be Henry Tutt, by any chance?”

  “That’s me. And you must be the police. You want to know about this vandalism. That right?”

  “So you know about it?” said Marriner.

  “I know it never ‘appened.”

  Bartlett stepped forward. “Mr Tutt, I am Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett. We know from what Mr Stubbs has told us, that you believe no vandalism has taken place.”

  “’s right.”

  “You seem quite sure of this.”

  “Look around you. Do you see any?”

  “What if I told you we had a statement from a witness that there had been such an incident recently.”

  “Vandalism means damage, don’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is it then? What damage?”

  “You’ve not tidied anything up, anything broken? Something that might have looked at the time like an accident, perhaps?”

  “There’s been nothin’.” He shook his head firmly.

  “Mr Tutt. I remind you we have a witness. Are you saying that person is lying? Has there been no sign of any disturbance of any kind in the last few weeks?”

  The gardener thought hard, staring down his rake handle at the ground. He shook his head again and when he answered it was as if he was muttering to himself. “Everything’s been just like always. Been no vandalism, no actual damage … unless … no, can’t be …”

  “What can’t be?” said Marriner.

  “Nothin’, really. It’s just that, well, there was the scrapin’ on the path. That’s not vandalism.”

  “When was this?” said Marriner.

  “Last week some time. But it were nothin’, just the path was scuffed, you know, like someone’d been draggin’ their feet along. The gravel was all scraped.”

  “This path?” said Bartlett. “Where exactly?”

  Henry pointed towards the wall. “All along this bit,” he said. “Up to the church.”

  “You didn’t mention this to anyone?”

  Henry gave him a funny look. “I can’t see Mr Stubbs bein’ that interested in me tellin’ ’im the path needed rakin’, can you?”

  “When exactly did this happen?” said Bartlett. “Can you remember what day?”

  “One day last week. This time o’ year I come in an’ out regular. There’s always summat to do, cuttin’ the grass, strimmin’ the gravestones, takin’ off the dead flowers. I can’t be sure what day.”

  “It wasn’t Sunday, was it? Or early Monday morning?”

  “’course not. No-one works in a church on a Sunday, apart from vicar, that is.” Henry grinned at his joke and stopped smiling abruptly.

  “Right. We’ll need to talk to you later and get a statement. Please try to remember what day it was that you found the path like that. In the meantime, don’t touch the path or the grounds until we tell you.”

  “If you say so,” said Henry. It all seemed a lot of fuss for a few scrapings of gravel.

  Standing by the car, Bartlett ordered another examination of the grounds to try and find the cause of the disturbance to the pathway. Cathy Lamb was to set the search in motion, while Marriner would make further enquiries in the executive estate and Bartlett himself would be headin
g back to HQ to report on progress to the head of CID.

  “I want a thorough examination of every inch of the path to find out what was dragged along it. I want no stone left unturned, and that isn’t a joke.”

  *

  Marriner’s last call of the day was to the shop. He waited discreetly while Molly served the few customers making hasty purchases before closing time and Richard checked the takings of the post office. Conversation was muted and artificial in Marriner’s presence and Molly saw the last customer to the door like a hostess saying goodnight to guests at a dinner party. She flicked the sign to Closed and turned to face the policeman.

  “I won’t keep you long,” said Marriner.

  “That’s all right. How can we help?”

  “Are you aware of any damage in the churchyard in the last week or two?”

  “Damage?” Molly and Richard exchanged puzzled glances and shook their heads. “To what?”

  “Anything at all,” said Marriner.

  “No-one’s mentioned it to me,” said Richard. “The bloke you ought to ask is Henry Tutt. He looks after the grounds. He’d know. Larks Lane. April Cottage.”

  “But you’re quite sure the vicar didn’t say anything about vandalism?”

  “No,” said Molly. “Definitely not.”

  “Have you seen Mr Fletcher lately, Mr Albert Fletcher?”

  “He was in this morning, soon as we opened, first customer.”

  “You don’t suspect him of vandalism, do you?” said Richard smiling.

  “We don’t suspect him of anything,” said Marriner. “I’d just like a word. You could mention it next time you see him, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Actually, we don’t see much of him these days,” said Molly. “He’s been keeping to himself lately.”

  “Oh? Why’s that? Not been well?”

  Molly wondered if she’d said something she should have kept to herself. “No, it’s just that, well, he wasn’t too happy about having a woman vicar. He’s a bit old-fashioned about that sort of thing. There’s plenty of people who feel like that, women as well as men.”

  “Interesting,” said Marriner. “So Mr Fletcher was a supporter of Mr Hughes?”

  “Well, no, not really.” Molly looked at her husband for help.

  “Go on, Mrs Appleton. You were explaining about Mr Fletcher’s views on the vicars.”

  “He didn’t like some of the things Mr Hughes was doing, that’s all. He’s a traditionalist. He likes things to stay as they are.”

  “Was he involved in having Mr Hughes replaced as vicar?”

  “He sent the letter,” said Richard. “He and Mr Stubbs. They wrote it and sent it on behalf of the PCC.”

  “Some members of the PCC,” added Molly. “But it was nothing personal. He only wanted things to be nice and stay the same as they’ve always been. He likes old ways and old things.”

  “Like his collection of blades,” said Marriner conversationally, turning towards the door.

  “Blades?” said Richard. Molly looked doubtful.

  “Yes, you know, his collection of old farm implements, sickles and scythes.”

  “I didn’t know he had any,” said Richard.

  “You do surprise me. I would’ve thought everyone would know about them. Very proud of them, he must be. Some of those tools must be a hundred years old and he keeps them cleaned and sharpened like new. I’ll see myself out. Thanks for your time.”

  *

  Marnie was on the point of leaving the office that evening when she noticed how untidy it was. In these past few days the lack of Anne’s influence was showing. She put down her bag and began to tidy up, tut-tutting to herself. Anne’s desk was a model of neatness, while her own lay hidden under a mass of papers, notes, lists and files. She began picking up scraps of paper from the floor and imagined Anne spending part of each day cleaning up. Conflicting thoughts welled up in her as she moved about the office. Part of her wished that Anne could be there, helping to cope with the police enquiries, while part of her was glad that Anne was away from it all, away from the horror that lay below the surface, away from the strained tense atmosphere in the community. She gave a start as the phone rang.

  “Hallo, Marnie Walker.”

  “Marnie, it’s Ralph. How are you?”

  “Fine.” She was confused for a few seconds. The line was as clear as if Ralph was in the next room. “Are you back? I thought it was some time next week.”

  “It is … it was. I’m in Seattle. Marnie, I’ve heard about Toni. I found out yesterday. I’ve been trying to ring you on and off, but your answerphone doesn’t seem to be working. Are you okay?” Even at that distance, the anxiety in his voice was clear.

  “I’m all right, apart from the fact that the police have me down as a suspect.”

  “What? Good god! Look, I’m trying to get my return flight brought forward to the weekend. I hope to be back by Monday.”

  “What about your visit to Harvard?”

  “I’ll go some other time. Marnie, you’re not alone at Glebe Farm, are you?”

  “It’s okay here, really it is.”

  “I don’t want to be alarming, but you ought to think of having a break at the moment.”

  “If I skipped town, the police would put out the dragnet.”

  “They can’t seriously suspect you of anything, surely?”

  “It’s partly my own fault, Ralph. I seem to say the wrong thing when they’re here. They sort of antagonise me and I haven’t always been frank with them about Toni. It would all seem silly, so I’ve just told them part of the truth. Now, it would seem sillier than ever.”

  “You must judge what’s best, Marnie. But please don’t take any risks.”

  “No. Honestly, everything’s fine. Thanks for ringing. I’ll make sure the answerphone’s working. I hope the conference is going well.”

  “Oh, it’s fine, but if I could get a flight today, I’d come back immediately. Easier said than done, I’m afraid. I’ll get back as quickly as I can. See you soon, darling. Take care.”

  “Thanks, Ralph. But I’m all right, honestly. Don’t worry.”

  Satisfied that Anne, if not entirely proud of the office after its tidy-up, would at least find it acceptable, Marnie locked the door and walked back to Sally Ann. A breeze was riffling through the branches and it was cooler than of late. Strangely, she did not feel threatened or in danger, even though she was walking alone through the trees, well out of ear-shot of any part of the village. Her mind was still coming to terms with the depression she had felt constantly since Toni’s death, like the aftermath of a migraine. A shadow moved in the undergrowth and Dolly appeared, calling out for supper, falling into step with Marnie as they strolled on together. It was warm and close in the cabin, and Marnie opened the hatch and all the windows to air the boat. She switched on the radio to catch the seven o’clock news bulletin while pouring herself a spritzer.

  “… giving way to more prolonged outbreaks of rain, some of it heavy in places throughout the night. And finally, the outlook for the next few days and into the weekend. We’re going to see the country divided into three bands, with warmer, drier weather returning to the south and west including Wales, a less settled pattern in the north of England and the borders, and heavy cloud over the rest of Scotland and much of Northern Ireland, bringing more rain. That’s all from me, now back to the studio.”

  “I wonder how Anne’s getting on, Dolly.” Marnie put down a bowl of cat food. Dolly gave her full attention to salmon and tuna in jelly. As it happened, Marnie would receive an answer to her question from Anne herself later that same evening.

  It was soon after nine when the phone rang. “Oh Marnie! I saw a newspaper. It was Tuesday’s. I read about Toni. I’ve been crying all afternoon. It’s dreadful. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Yes. Everything’s okay here. It’s a terrible business. What can I say?”

  “Have they found out who did it?”

  “Not yet. The police are
questioning everybody in the village.”

  “Do they think it has something to do with the smashed gravestone?”

  “Er no. I haven’t spoken to them much about that.”

  “I expect they haven’t got down to Glebe Farm yet.”

  “Oh yes. They’re practically tenants. Actually, I’ll tell them when I next see them. What about you? How’s the holiday?”

  “It’s fine, fine. Lovely place. Weather’s been nice so far. Only today, it’s got colder and looks like rain.”

  Marnie made herself eat supper and afterwards thought of taking her coffee outside, but the first drops of rain changed her plans and she sat in the saloon going over in her mind the sequence of events that had brought tragedy to this most tranquil corner of the country. Too indolent to turn on the cassette player or even put on a light, she sat in silence, looking out across the rippling water as the shower fell. If there had been a cigarette on board she would smoke it. She recalled some words from a poem she had read at school, something about “… the lachrymose pane …” and thought of Anne far away up in Scotland, weeping all afternoon at the loss of their friend, suffering her own lachrymose pain. She stood up to draw the curtains and caught sight of her reflection in the window, her face streaked with the rain.

  *

  Friday morning and a drive to Northampton to see her accountant again. A grey, damp road under a grey sky. Would it make it any better if the sun was out? Probably. But today the poppies lining the road were drooping and the fields awash all around.

  Passing her in the opposite direction, she did not notice the grey Vauxhall Cavalier, but Detective Sergeant Marriner recognised the dark blue Rover as it swept past. What was it about that woman, he wondered? Dashing. That seemed to sum her up, in many ways. There was a time when only men could be thought of as dashing. Things had changed. Marnie Walker always looked as if she knew where she was going. She had a purpose. One of these new women, the professionals, always in a hurry. He wondered if she had ever been caught speeding. He wondered why she did not tell them what she knew.

  *

  Too early for lunch after her meeting ended, Marnie decided to check out a shoe shop before returning home. Absorbed by the display, she did not see the person standing beside her at the window until she spoke.