Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  Anne poured a second cup of tea and Dolly sat washing herself on Marnie’s notepad on the chair opposite, purring gently. All that remained now was a small collection in her shoulder bag of odds and ends that she spread out on the table: leaflets from the hospital about visiting times, plans of parking areas and accommodation, a form for donations to an equipment appeal and a special offer for private medical insurance. In among the papers she came across Beth’s photographs.

  Marnie had been a pretty child from a comfortable background. Anne guessed that her father had been successful in business and knew her mother had been an art teacher. A secure home and a settled, happy childhood. Both sisters had set out to make careers for themselves and both had succeeded. Anne wanted nothing more than to do the same.

  She followed Marnie’s growing up, from bicycle to pony to sailing dingy to cars. She wondered about the racing car photo. Marnie had never mentioned this as an interest and, though she had a precise, definite style of driving, she did not race on the road or show undue aggression at the wheel. The photo showed Marnie in a dark tunic, perched on the front wheel of a single-seater, helmet in her lap. Behind her, sitting in the cockpit, but wearing normal clothes, sat Beth, smiling. Anne found the answer on the reverse: Marnie’s 21st – Brands Hatch Racing School. It had been a birthday present from her sister and although Marnie was sitting on the wheel, all the other photos in the collection from childhood onwards, showed Marnie very much in the driving seat. Anne looked at the confident, intelligent face and saw no trace of vanity, just a willingness to accept a challenge. She remembered Marnie saying when they first began working together that she believed in the Royal Marines school of management: take the high ground. It was said with humour, but Anne had learnt the importance of taking the initiative and seeing a job through to the end.

  *

  “That wasn’t too bad, was it now?” The nurse rearranged Marnie’s sheets after changing her dressings. It had been a tiring process with every movement causing a pain in some part of her anatomy. Marnie smiled weakly, too weary to speak, her head still throbbing and the feeling of nausea never far away. They had told her she would feel dizzy for some days after losing so much blood, but they would be able to keep the pain under control. She was aware enough of what was going on around her to understand that she was not bleeding internally or suffering from a fractured skull. The fact that every part of her seemed to ache constantly made her realise at least that her systems were in working order.

  The nurses had given her a good clean-up and she was sure that even Anne would approve of the result when she returned for her visit that evening. Marnie could see a window at the end of the unit. It was a fine day. She had no idea of the time and wondered what was happening at Glebe Farm, content for now to let Anne and Ralph handle things. There at least she had no worries. She began to drift down into sleep again, just as another nurse came to check her readings, one of the almost constant visits.

  The nurse looked down at her and smiled. Marnie smiled back and gave a slight cough. The pain began in her chest and travelled round the inside of her head, across her back, down her spine and came to a temporary halt around the knees. Marnie breathed out with a sigh, hoping there would be no repeat performance for a while. She opened her eyes to see the nurse entering details on a graph. When she had finished writing, the nurse turned and adjusted the needle connecting the back of Marnie’s right hand to a drip. She leaned forward to speak softly.

  “You know, Marnie, you’re a very lucky lady.”

  Marnie tried to shout ‘hooray!’, but the words would not come.

  *

  Ralph had picked up a bundle of post at the porter’s lodge and walked round at normal pace to his rooms on the first floor at All Saints. He picked up the items of clothing that had fallen from his suitcase when he had come back briefly the day before, and piled everything into the washing basket. After opening the windows, he sat at his desk and began sorting the letters. The special offers went unopened into the bin with an expert aim. The bills went into one pile and the dozen or so letters of possible interest formed another. The phone rang.

  “Ah, you’re back. Hallo.”

  “Hallo, Randall. How are things? Are you okay? I was going to ring you.”

  “Much better, thanks. Look, I really don’t know how to –”

  “There’s no need. Please. You don’t have to. Have you been contacted?”

  “They came round this afternoon. I’ve just got back.”

  “How was it?”

  “Not such an ordeal as I feared, really. I managed to tell the truth most of the time and I don’t think I actually lied, just side-stepped some of the questions. They were obviously pissed off with me for having disappeared like that, but that’s hardly a crime, is it?”

  “No, it’s not. And you’re feeling better?”

  “A new man. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you and everyone. People have been marvellous. I never thought I would owe so much to Albert Fletcher. Look, I’m sure you must be wanting your cottage back.”

  “Not at the moment. Do you want to stay on for a while? You’re very welcome. I’ll be going back to the hospital later this evening and then probably on to Knightly with Anne. I’m keeping an eye on her until things are sorted out.”

  “Well, if it was no problem, it would be nice to stay on for a day or two. I’m getting myself back together.”

  “Good. Be my guest. If there’s anything you need, just help yourself.”

  “Ralph, I wanted to tell you. I really have no idea who was responsible for what happened to Toni or to Marnie. It’s a complete mystery to me. You know if it had been anything to do with me, I would have … That wasn’t why I tried to …”

  “I didn’t think it was. The trouble is, I don’t have a clue either and I don’t think anyone else has, including the police.”

  After they had hung up, Ralph turned to his pile of letters and opened the first. It looked like a routine matter from the Senate of the university. He read the first sentence and his eyes widened.

  *

  Anne emptied the rubbish into a black plastic sack and dumped it on the aft deck of Sally Ann ready for the skip. With her main tasks completed, she felt restless. For a few moments she perched on the rail, letting her thoughts take shape, watching the water, looking at the trees and brambles lining the canal. Everything was still, everything except her mind.

  She wandered down into the cabin and through to the galley, opening the photo album on the bench. Here was Marnie in action. There, in the hospital, was Marnie the casualty. One often led to the other, Anne thought. Warriors were wounded; drivers crashed; sailors were shipwrecked. The difference between them and ordinary mortals was that they took action, took the high ground. So why had Marnie gone off like that without a word? The answer came to Anne in a calm, clear voice speaking in her head. Marnie had found the answer. She wanted to resolve matters without waiting for anyone else to help her, or face danger with her, perhaps. She had gone for the high ground and it had nearly killed her. But who had tried to kill her?

  Anne at once sat down with Marnie’s pad and the file of papers. She had read through all the notes that told her nothing new and was just starting on those she had not studied before, when she heard footsteps. Too early for Ralph. She froze, eyeing the meat tenderiser mallet on the workbench. A shape passed the window. She heard a footfall on the deck and felt the boat move gently at her mooring. Anne stood up.

  “Anyone on board?” A man’s voice, raised, strained, familiar.

  “In the cabin,” Anne called out. “Who is it?”

  “It’s only me. It’s Frank. I said I’d come and talk to you and Ralph. Is he here?” Frank came down the steps and stopped at the end by the bed.

  “No, not at the moment.” She hoped the anxiety would not show in her voice.

  “Will he be long?”

  Anne was not sure how to handle this. Either way could be the wrong answer. “I’m not s
ure, really. Can I give him a message? Get him to call you, perhaps?”

  Frank stood still. He looked dejected, as if he had made an effort to get there. “I should’ve phoned first. I thought he’d be here. Silly of me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “No. That’s all right. Ralph said you’d be in touch. He wanted to speak to you.”

  “Do you think I should wait? Would that be okay? I’ll come another time if you’d prefer me to.”

  “Er, no. It’s just that I’m not sure how long he’ll be.” This is getting ridiculous, she thought. Either tell him to come back later or ask him to stay. One thing or the other. Stop dithering. Take the high ground. “Would you like to wait for a while? I’ll put on the kettle. Have a seat.” She went to the sink and began the mundane task of preparing tea. I’m out of my depth again, she thought. What had Marnie said? Not there, or there? Behind her Frank sat down, his usual movements slowed, as if he had become an old man since she last saw him.

  “I’ve disturbed your work,” he said, looking at the papers on the table. “Sorry about that. Are you sure I’m not in the way?”

  “It’ll keep,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  “It’s funny,” he began. “I’ve got loads of notes just like this, all about this dreadful business.”

  “I’ll tidy them away in a minute,” said Anne fiddling with a match at the cooker. The smell of bottled gas hovered for a second before the rushing sound of the flame.

  “This is very thorough,” said Frank turning some of the papers round to read them. “I didn’t realise anyone could find the will and all these other things. How did Marnie do that?”

  “She didn’t. It was Dr Fellheimer at Oxford, at the university. He showed it to Ralph.”

  “There are loads of things I’d not seen before, all this Civil War stuff.”

  “Yes. I don’t think I’d be very good at that kind of research.” Anne brought the tea-pot to the table. “It’s all very complicated.” She reached into the cupboard and produced cups and saucers.

  “I don’t know,” said Frank. “You’re very organised. You could probably work it all out for yourself, if you had the time.” There was something odd in his tone.

  “Have you worked it all out?” Anne wished she had not spoken, as soon as she opened her mouth. She also wished Ralph would suddenly come back earlier than planned. To hide her anxiety she rummaged in the cupboard for the sugar bowl.

  “Only so far,” he said. “I know the name of the person who did it. It was Day, of course.”

  Anne jumped and dropped the sugar bowl. It smashed at her feet, spilling the white granules all over the floor. “Sorry, sorry, Frank. That was clumsy of me. I haven’t had enough sleep, I expect.” She pulled out the dustpan and brush and knelt down to clear up the mess. Frank moved his chair to make space for her.

  “I don’t take sugar, actually,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay? Oh look. You must have bumped into the table. There’s tea on some of the papers.” He took the tea towel from the front of the cooker and began mopping up. They finished and sat down, Anne wondering if her dizziness was caused by standing up too quickly. “I think we could both use some of that tea,” said Frank. Anne poured two cups while he continued looking at Marnie’s papers. “Are these your notes?”

  “No. They’re Marnie’s.”

  “And these are her questions. Let’s see if we can answer them, shall we?”

  “I’m not sure I’m up to it at the moment,” said Anne.

  Frank read the list in silence, as if he had not heard her. “This is good. Marnie would have been good at research. She’s covered everything.” He read on. “You see, the logical person to have done it was Jonathan Day, Sarah Anne’s father. The trouble with that theory is that he was miles away in Huntingdon, badly wounded. It’s in his papers. He didn’t have much to leave in his will because he was so badly injured he could no longer work at his craft.”

  “Was he a stone mason?” Anne was taking interest despite herself.

  “No. He was a blacksmith. The Days were the village blacksmiths for generations.”

  “Blacksmiths?” said Anne. “I don’t understand. Why was he working on the tower?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we don’t have anyone like that working on our building. That explains the bill from Jonathan Day: sundry ironwork. And the notes about his father working in the tower years before.”

  “Where did you get that from?”

  “It’s in Dr Fellheimer’s papers. I’ve just read it.” She shuffled through the documents and pushed one across the table. “There it is, you see. Marnie’s put a question mark next to it. I couldn’t understand about ironwork in the tower.”

  Frank studied the paper with intense concentration. “Why do you think it’s odd?” he said.

  “Well, what was there for a blacksmith to do? I can’t make out why a blacksmith should be working in the tower at all.”

  “Because they were taking out the old clock and putting in the new one,” said Frank with a shrug.

  “Yes,” said Anne, “but that was about a hundred years before. What was Sarah Anne’s father doing in the tower? That’s what I don’t get.”

  Frank stared into space. “Yes,” he muttered quietly. “I see what you mean.” He pulled the other papers towards him. “What does this mean, this here?” He pointed to a note in Marnie’s handwriting: Bob – pride in work, esp. for the Church. “And what about this: wooden partition – why not done properly? Who’s Bob?”

  “He’s our foreman.”

  “Is this about your building work, then?”

  “I hadn’t seen that before,” said Anne. “Or any of these notes.”

  “She’s put a circle round it and there are doodles in the margin,” said Frank. “She must have been thinking about it. And this sundry ironwork. Marnie was asking herself the same question as you.”

  “Did Marnie know he was a blacksmith?” said Anne.

  “I think I mentioned it to her at some point, yes.” Frank was leafing through the papers and stopped at the will. “She’s made a note here as well. She’s circled something after the signature. It’s very faint. I can’t make it out. Your eyes are probably better than mine. Can you read it?”

  Anne screwed up her eyes and squinted at the paper. “Try this,” she said, reaching round to the shelf for the magnifying glass.

  Frank took it and held it over the document. “Ps 10.8. Can’t be the date.”

  “Another Bible quotation?” said Anne.

  “Of course!” said Frank. “Psalm ten, verse eight. It must be. We need a Bible.” Anne reached over to the bookcase and produced the old paperback. Frank took it quickly from her hand and hunted through.

  “Have you got it?” said Anne.

  Frank looked astonished. He sat there with his mouth open, his eyes working from side to side. He began breathing faster, blinking and biting his lip. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, oh yes.” His voice had taken on a strange tone, bizarre, almost manic.

  “What is it?” said Anne with another quick glance towards the meat tenderiser mallet. Frank lurched to his feet, dropping the Bible under the table.

  “Oh God! Yes! I see it. I’ve got to stop him!” He pushed the chair aside and rushed to the doors.

  Anne called after him. “Who? Frank! Who have you got to stop?” He ignored her and crashed up the steps. From the window she saw him running through the spinney, demented. She saw again in her mind the terrified face at the church, the night Marnie was attacked and almost killed. What do I do? What do I do? She reached down for the Bible, wondering how it could possibly have made him react like that. She searched for the Psalms and thumbed her way through the thick book to Psalm ten, running her finger down to verse eight. Blimey, she thought, how strange.

  “8. He sitteth in the lurking places of the villages: in the secret places doth he murder the innocent.”

  She read no further. A cold hand seemed to have g
ripped her throat and her cheeks tingled. All the thoughts in her mind jumbled together, screaming at each other, yelling at her to understand. The Bible text seemed to fly off the page into her face … the lurking places … the secret places … the shoddy partition … Bob not happy with substandard work … especially for the church … sundry ironwork …a blacksmith in the tower … hateth my father also … who hated her father? … why? … was it guilt at something he’d done? … They hated me without a cause … why? … Of course … because it was my father who had done it … he was the murderer! But how did he do it? Anne steadied herself at the table. Marnie must have worked it out, she thought. That was why she went to the church, to find the secret place. Then who hid there and tried to kill her? Yes. Yes. The truth became clear. It was obvious.

  “I was right all along,” she whispered. But if the murderer could attack Marnie, he could kill Frank as well. Anne raced out and sprinted through the spinney, all thoughts of her own safety left behind in the dust from her heels. There was no car in the yard and Frank had more than a head start. She came to a halt, gasping, at the top of the field track and willed herself to press on. She ran as fast as she could, ignoring her fatigue. Up ahead she could see Frank’s car parked by the church gate, one door wide open, an indicator light still flashing. Wishing someone would come into the deserted street to help her, wishing she had a weapon, something solid to hold, she felt the mobile phone bumping in her pocket and realized that she was racing unprotected into a situation that had already killed two people, nearly three.