by McNeir, Leo
“How are you feeling?”
“Better than I was.”
“You’ve had a long day already. Do you feel like eating anything? Or an early night?”
“Actually, I feel quite rested. I don’t think I could eat very much, though, not after two pieces of your Dutch apple cake.”
“Same here. Suppose I put together a tray of crudités? We could have something simple, perhaps a spritzer. We could go for a walk along the towpath, not too far, help you loosen up a bit. Have a restful day tomorrow. You’ll be good as new after the weekend.”
“Sounds great.” Anne smiled with contentment. “Just what I need. I am sorry about the holiday, sorry for mum and dad, but I’m glad to be back. I know that sounds horribly selfish, but I know they’ll enjoy their trip on Sally and that makes me feel better. They’ll really like that. It was so nice of you.”
“I hope so. At least on board Sally they’ll be in the best place if there’s another flood. “
“Marnie, over supper will you tell me what happened, what you saw, what you think? I want to hear it from you.”
Marnie sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“You really can’t talk about it?”
“Actually, of all people, you’re probably the only one I can really talk to.”
“And I’m the one you don’t want to talk to about it, aren’t I?”
The meal could not have been better chosen. Marnie had plundered Sally Ann’s store cupboards and the table was laid with small dishes brimming with good things, olives stuffed with pimientos, anchovies and almonds, fetta cheese, dates, humus, radishes and beetroots, prawns and mayonnaise, pitta bread warmed in the oven. Anne had collected a bunch of flowers from the overgrown cottage gardens, marguerites, sweet peas and roses, and stood them in a small glass vase on the table. They sipped spritzers as they picked their way across the landscape of flavours, while Marnie related the events of the past week and Anne listened in silence.
“So you can see I made rather a mess of my contacts with the police. I got off to a bad start and went downhill after that.”
“You were in a state of shock,” said Anne. “I know just how you felt. When I saw the paper it was as if I’d fallen into a black hole. I just sat there with my mouth open. It was ages before I even realised I was crying.”
“Well, Roger says I ought to make a full statement of everything I know, even if the police do think I’m crazy trying to find out who killed the vicar in the Civil War.”
“What does Ralph think?”
“He’s still in Seattle and he’s supposed to go on to Harvard, but he’s coming back early sometime next week if he can get a flight. Naturally, he’s worried about us being here with a murderer on the loose. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound alarming.”
“It’s all right. I don’t feel scared. What bothers me is the vandalism, how it might be connected with everything. You’ll have to show the police the smashed stones in the crypt. They’re evidence. Perhaps they could lead back to whoever did it.”
“Yes, and we’re the only ones who know about them.”
“Apart from the vandal,” said Anne.
Marnie frowned. “Apart from the vandal,” she repeated. “I wonder if he – assuming it is a he – knows what we did with the stones.”
“Do you think he might try to take them away?” said Anne.
Marnie shrugged. “They are evidence. If he knew where the grave was, perhaps he knows where we hid the pieces.”
“He can hardly wander in and out with them in broad daylight with the police swarming all over the churchyard,” said Anne.
“But they aren’t,” said Marnie. “Not this weekend at any rate. They’re all in Buckingham at the show. Everybody knows that.”
They pondered this in silence. It was Anne who spoke first. “Tomorrow they’re using the church for services. Mrs Appleton told us.”
“Right,” said Marnie. “So that leaves only today when the place will be left empty. Presumably someone will have been in during the afternoon doing flower arrangements ready for tomorrow.”
“That only leaves this evening,” said Anne.
*
It was nearly ten, as early as they dared, before they climbed into the Rover and began their way up the field track in the gathering dusk. Any earlier would add to the risk of being seen. Any later and the chance of meeting someone else with a similar intent would be increased. They had camouflaged themselves in jeans and dark sweaters, though Anne had suggested she should wear a balaclava helmet to conceal her pale blond hair and thought Marnie could try a few twigs in her hair to complete the picture. Both knew the humour was forced but it kept up their spirits. They each carried a torch. Anne had stuffed hers into a small black shoulder bag.
“What do you need the bag for?” said Marnie.
“I’ve got the Polaroid. I thought I’d take some photos of the stones where they are in the crypt. I know it wouldn’t be real evidence, but it would help back up your story.” Marnie nodded, spreading a sack out in the boot.
“Good idea. And you’re a witness, of course.”
“Or accomplice,” said Anne. “Depending on how you look at it.”
“Bartlett treats everything I do with the utmost suspicion, but I don’t see what he can make of this. All we’re doing is preserving the evidence of the vandalism from interference.”
“Are you really sure we shouldn’t tell him about this and let the police handle it?”
Marnie shrugged. “The police are all away tonight, and tomorrow could be too late. Anyway, I don’t think the police would take me seriously. That’s the trouble. And this is virtually all the evidence we have.”
“I suppose so,” said Anne.
Marnie squeezed Anne’s arm reassuringly. “Okay, let’s go.”
They bumped gently up the track, turned towards the high street and cruised slowly past the church. From the road they could see nothing but its outline in the darkness that was thickening by the minute. They drove on for half a mile and pulled up in the entrance to a field beyond the last cottages. Marnie switched off the engine and turned out the lights.
“Just as we thought,” she said. “We’ll be sheltered from view by the trees in the churchyard. If we approach from Martyrs Close, we can reverse up to the wall by the back gate. We ought to be out of sight there in amongst the bushes. Nobody’s going to be around at this time of night. They’ll either be out for the evening or indoors watching the box.”
“Marnie, what do we do if we meet the vandal? We haven’t talked about that.”
“To be honest, I’m not sure. It depends on the circumstances. Run like hell, I suppose. I’m rather counting on the timing being on our side. If he is planning to do something, I think he’ll wait till after the pub has closed and nobody will be about to see him. If it worries you, it’s not too late to change our minds.”
“Does it worry you, Marnie?”
“Of course.”
“That’s all right, then. I thought it was only me. By the way, I’ve got the mobile in the bag with the camera, in case we need to call for help.”
“Good,” said Marnie. “You’d better make sure it’s switched off until we want it. It’d be a pity if it rang just as we were holding our breath two feet away from the vandal. Mrs Jolly might just decide to find out how the apple cake turned out.”
She started the engine, turned the car and headed back to the village, this time skirting the groups of cottages to arrive at the new executive houses in Martyrs Close. They turned quietly at the end of the cul-de-sac and reversed along the path, coming to a halt two metres from the gate in the churchyard wall among the brambles. There were lights visible in some of the houses, while others were showing a porch or hall light and one or two were in darkness. Marnie reached up and flicked a switch overhead.
“What’s that?” said Anne.
“Interior lights, so they don’t come on when we open the car doors. Have you got everything yo
u need?”
“In the bag.”
“Right,” said Marnie, fingering the padlock key in her pocket. “Let’s get going. Try not to slam the door.” They eased themselves out and waited for a moment in silence either side of the car before Marnie nodded and they turned to the gate. It opened easily with a faint grating of its hinges. They stepped inside the wall, pushed the gate shut and listened to the sounds of the evening. The glow from the pub lights cast shadows of the yew trees across the churchyard. Marnie swallowed at the sight of the ancient gravestones, some of them tilting at strange angles, reminding her of graveyard scenes in old black-and-white films. All that was missing was the hooting of an owl and the mist rolling across the ground. She leaned over to Anne and squeezed her hand.
“Okay,” she whispered. “This looks fine.” She saw Anne’s head jerk round. “Well, sort of fine. Come on. Keep to the grass. Don’t walk on the gravel.” Crouching low, they made their way quickly and silently to the door of the crypt, hidden at the near side of the church in deep shadow. Marnie groped for the padlock and inserted the key. In mid-turn she stopped. Anne leaned forward to whisper in Marnie’s ear.
“What is it?”
“Torch.” Anne pulled out the penlight, half shielding it with her hand. In the thin beam the padlock looked normal, until Marnie guided it back to the bracket on the door. The wood had been splintered in a failed attempt, or perhaps an interrupted attempt, to prise it open. It was loose but the lock still held. “Put out the light. Do you want to go on?”
“We’ve got to, haven’t we?” Anne whispered. “Now that we’re here.” Marnie turned the key and removed the padlock from its hasp, pushing its bulky shape into the pocket of her jeans. The door creaked loudly in the night air as she pushed it open. Loud enough to disturb the souls of the dead, she thought and shivered. They held their breath in the darkness and slipped inside, easing the door shut, inch by inch. The air was stuffy and cold.
“I’ll go first,” said Marnie in a low voice. “Keep close behind me. Don’t put on your torch until we’re well clear of the door.” She trod carefully, feeling her way to the top of the steps, conscious of Anne’s hand touching her shoulder, like the pictures she had seen of gas-blinded soldiers walking in line in the First World War. After three steps she put on the torch and swept its beam across the floor below them. Anne shone her light down onto the steps and they moved on. “They were over here,” said Marnie. “Be careful where you tread. Yes, look, they’re still here. That was the last one. Toni brought it here by herself.” There was a moment of silence.
“I’ll photograph them before we disturb them, shall I?” said Anne.
“Right.” Marnie stood back lighting the stones with both torches.
“I’m not sure if this’ll really work,” said Anne. “But the flash ought to do the trick if I get close in.” She took several exposures with the Polaroid camera, waiting for each one to develop itself and roll out of the machine. They glanced at the pictures before setting them on the ground to dry. It was too dark to tell how successful they were. Anne shook her head. “The shadows are tricky, but they’ll have to do.”
“Can you get one or two of these tools?” Marnie showed her the hammers.
Anne took two more shots. “That’s it. Anything else?”
“No. We can go now.” Anne put the photos into her bag, slung the strap over her head and stooped to pick up the nearest stone. Breathing heavily from their exertion, they reached the door, struggling to pull it open. It took them three trips to fetch all the pieces and load them into the boot, the last trip sharing the weight of the largest piece between them. By now more accustomed to the dark and the gravestones, Marnie went back alone to replace the lock, feeling like a Victorian grave-robber. It occurred to her the police might have the church under constant surveillance, a thought that bothered her more than the gloominess of the surroundings. Treading through the darkness, she kept to open ground, clear of trees or the larger tombs that might be places of ambush and held her torch in a firm grip. She closed the padlock and waited in the silence before heading back towards the gate. No longer so intimidated, she set off at an easy pace. Somewhere not too far away a dog howled and the words from a book she had read at school and all but forgotten came into her mind: … The hounds of Hell are loosed this night … She could no longer recall the name of the book or the author, but she gave him the benefit of the doubt and quickened her pace to a steady jog.
“Did you find another stone?” said Anne, when Marnie was in the car beside her.
“No. Why?”
“You’re breathing heavily.”
“I think I’m too old for this kind of thing.”
“Well, I’m definitely too young.”
*
Back at Glebe Farm they decided to leave the stones in the car until the next morning.
“Where do you want to sleep, Anne?”
“I don’t mind. Anywhere will be an improvement on last night. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble dropping off.”
“Let’s check your room, see if it’s aired.” They opened the office barn and Anne climbed the ladder to her loft. She called down to Marnie, waiting in the office.
“Seems okay. You’ve changed my sheets, Marnie.” There was no reply. “Marnie?”
“Yes, when I knew you were coming back early.” Anne poked her head through the trap at the top of the loft ladder and looked down.
“What are you doing?” Marnie was standing looking down at her desk, frowning.
“The answering machine says I’ve got a message, but whoever it is just hung up. I could tell there was somebody there. They just didn’t speak.” Anne scrambled down the ladder.
“Perhaps they knew you had a mobile and tried to ring you on that number. Ralph would know. Do you think it might have been him?”
Marnie shook her head. “He’d have left a word to say he’d tried to get through.”
“I know!” said Anne. “Your mobile stores messages while it’s switched off.” She pulled it out of her bag and passed it to Marnie, who pressed the appropriate buttons.
“No. There’s nothing there. Strange. I wonder who it could be at this time on a Saturday evening.”
“Try one-four-seven-one,” said Anne. “That’ll give you the number of the last caller. It’s a new system. Try it.” Marnie picked up the phone and pressed the four buttons. She heard a woman’s voice, like the talking clock.
“You were called by …” She fumbled quickly for a pen and scribbled the number on the pad.
“Same STD code as here, just somebody local.” She put down the phone as Anne read the number.
“Do you recognise it, Marnie?”
“I’m not sure.” She looked at her watch. “Nearly eleven, probably too late to ring back at this time.”
“Did the message say when the call was made?”
“Ten forty-two. I suppose I could try.” She dialled the number, leaving the handset on the machine so they could both listen. It rang three times before replying.
“Hallo. This is Toni Petrie at the vicarage. Sorry to miss you, but please keep in touch by leaving a message after the tone. God bless.”
Marnie pressed the button to end the call, staring down at the telephone. She heard Anne clear her throat.
“Why don’t you get your things and come and sleep on Sally tonight? The camp bed’s not too bad, is it?” Anne climbed back into the loft in silence and returned moments later with a bundle under her arm. They locked up and walked through the spinney.
“It isn’t a game, is it?” said Anne quietly.
“No.” Marnie half regretted that she had allowed Anne to stay, but wondered now how she would cope without her. “No. It isn’t a game. And it’s not too late for me to ring your folks and say I’m bringing you home. What do you think?”
“We may as well sleep on it,” said Anne. “I could do with a cup of tea.”
“Good idea. I’ll make mine a brandy.”
&
nbsp; On board, Anne dumped her things on the bed and sat in the saloon while the kettle boiled and Marnie lit the two oil lamps to save Sally’s batteries. They gave a warm, homely light. Dolly followed them in and curled up on one of the safari chairs. Anne fumbled in her shoulder bag and pulled out the photos.
“Well, at least they show the stones were there. You don’t think the police will be angry because we’ve moved them, do you Marnie? On TV they’re always yelling at people for tampering with the evidence.”
“I thought of that,” said Marnie. “No. I don’t think that matters in this case. They’ll find traces of stone by the grave outside the walls if they’re interested. Earl Grey or Darjeeling?”
“I don’t mind. Darjeeling.”
“Are they clear enough?” Marnie busied herself with the teapot. Anne took milk from the fridge and the bottle of Cognac from the cupboard. She sat down and studied the photos more closely.
“There’s not a lot of doubt what they are, but they could be anywhere, I suppose. The lighting was hopeless.” She turned the photos to see them better in the glow of the lamps. “Actually, you can read the inscription – what’s left of it – in this one. The flash must have caught it at just the right …” Her voice petered out and Marnie glanced over her shoulder from the galley.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s more writing on this one, near the bottom.” Marnie stirred the pot and brought it to the table.
“Can you make it out?”
“It’s another name, I think.” She slid the photo across the table to Marnie.
“John,” said Marnie, squinting at the image. “It says John. That’s odd, and this looks like a number. I know! It’s a Bible reference. St John’s gospel. It’s a quotation …” Before she could finish, Anne raised a hand, turning her head towards the curtains.
