by Leo McNeir
Donovan lapsed into silence and said nothing more about the King John treasure. Anne told Zoë about the steps being taken to protect her ships in the hope of cheering her up. When it was time to leave, Donovan promised to make Zoë a copy of his film. Zoë managed a smile but seemed already asleep before Donovan closed the door.
On their way to the bus stop, Donovan remained silent. Anne knew the signs and did not interrupt his thoughts. He said nothing until they saw their bus approaching. As it pulled into the kerb, he spoke as if talking to himself.
“It doesn’t add up.”
*
Marnie had never seen the Willards executives looking so anxious. Three of them attended the meeting with the contractors that morning: the head of planning, the deputy head of finance and Malcolm Cawdrey, deputy chairman of the board. Almost equally uncomfortable were the contractors and the structural and electrical engineering consultants. The only person who seemed unfazed was Philip, who greeted Marnie warmly and offered her a seat beside him. On the other side, Nigel Beardsley opened his notepad.
Marnie herself presented a calm exterior, nodding and smiling at the suits round the table in the hotel conference room. She knew she had only a minor role to play, if any. The main topics were the fundamentals of the design, the overall timetable and financial implications.
Cawdrey asked Philip to chair the proceedings. This at first surprised Marnie, as they were the main players. It was their hotel, with their name stamped all over it. But as soon as the discussions began, she understood the decision. All the issues were technical and complex. It made sense to have the talks conducted by someone who mastered every aspect of the project.
Willards’ concerns were twofold. First, they were anxious about delays apparently caused by inadequate safety measures, which had resulted in two serious accidents. Second, they had misgivings about so much depending on the archaeologists, who had proved to be at least unreliable and at worst a complete liability.
As the consultants debated the merits and costs of revising the project, Marnie found her thoughts wandering. She realised that the absence of any archaeologists was no oversight. It saddened her to think that they had lost the trust of the clients and their contractors. What had once been the core feature of the scheme had now virtually become an irrelevance. Decisions would be taken on hard-nosed business principles, and the archaeologists would have to deal with the consequences. Zoë’s strident opinions would not be heard in that gathering. And as for Dick, where was he and, more to the point, what was he up to?
*
Marnie arrived back at the flat to find Donovan’s bags stacked near the front door and Anne mixing tuna and mayonnaise in the kitchen area. The fresh tang of cucumber in the air was a reminder of summer picnics and immediately lifted Marnie’s spirits.
“Lunch will be ready in five,” Anne called out.
“Music to my ears,” said Marnie, “What’s cooking?”
Anne looked up. “Strictly speaking, nothing. But I’m making pittas stuffed with tuna, lettuce and cucumber. To follow, we’ve got fresh figs and Greek yogurt with honey.”
Marnie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me they’ve discovered a temple to Athena in the dig site!”
“It’s to Apollo, actually,” Donovan chipped in. “A surprise for everybody.”
“I just thought it would cheer us up, that’s all,” said Anne.
“You think we need cheering up?” Marnie said.
“You tell us. You were at the meeting. Has the archaeology gone down the drain?”
“Too soon to tell. That was the verdict this morning.”
Anne walked to the table carrying a large plate on which she had arranged the stuffed pittas, with a sprig of parsley in the centre.
“Ah, the pitta platter of tiny feet,” Donovan said.
Anne stuck out her tongue. “My feet aren’t that tiny. For your cheek, Donovan, you can fetch the tray.”
With the meal set out on the table with a jug of sparkling water and lemon juice, Marnie returned to her explanation.
“Willards want a plan B. Philip is to explore the possibility of a more conventional building with the archaeology preserved and displayed in a dry basement, with a galleried walkway for viewing the remains.”
Marnie reached for a pitta while Anne poured water into glasses.
“Presumably the decision will depend on costs?” Donovan said.
“To a large extent, yes. Anne, this is delicious. A great idea.”
“Glad you like it. Won’t there have to be some special treatment to keep the remains in good condition?”
“We’re planning a fine water spray anyway. It’ll just have to be modified.”
“How does Philip feel about this plan B?” Donovan asked.
“Naturally, he wants them to keep to the original design. I think he believes the cost of changing things will scare them off. They’ll lose most of their heritage grants.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Anne.
All three raised their glasses and drank.
“What about Zoë?” said Marnie. “How was she this morning?”
“Not brilliant. She’s still confused about the accident.”
“Post-traumatic shock,” Donovan added. “I doubt she’ll be able to give the police much help, not for a while at any rate.”
“Any news of Dick?”
“Not a peep.”
“Talking of plans. said Anne, ‘… do we have any?”
“Back to Knightly St John. I expect Ralph will be home by now.”
“When are we leaving?”
“I think this afternoon before the rush hour. I see you’ve already got the flat tidied up.”
“We gave everything a good going over,” Anne said. “The beds are made. We’ve hoovered. The kitchen just has to be finished off. You’ll have to pack, Marnie.”
“What about you, Donovan?” Marnie asked. “Will you come with us?”
“Sorry but I’ve got things to do … the final touches from both lots of filming. It won’t take long. But there’s the house to see to.”
“Would you like to join us at the weekend?”
“That’d be great.”
Marnie smiled. “Let’s hope for a nice quiet summer’s day or two.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Anne said.
This time, as they raised their glasses, all three of them looked thoughtful.
21
Quiet Summer Days
Wednesday 18 July, 1997
It must have been the season for the granting of wishes. The next few days brought sunshine interspersed with dappled shade from passing clouds drifting lazily through blue skies. Life back in Knightly St John settled into its habitual routine with Marnie steaming ahead on designs for various clients, Ralph engrossed in analysing statistics for a new book, Anne running the office and fitting in periods of reading for her future course at art school.
Exceptionally, the three residents of Glebe Farm took a lunch break each day to make the most of the fine weather. They ate out on the bank beside Sally Ann and Thyrsis, sometimes sitting at the table under the parasol, at other times picnicking in deck chairs, nibbling snack lunches in desultory fashion while sunbathing. They strove to put behind them all thoughts of horrible accidents, rivalries between archaeologists and the anxieties of clients with high-risk projects.
But however much the three of them relaxed, at the back of their minds they knew they would shortly be confronted by the tribulations of Horselydown. The one bright element was the steady recovery of Zoë Tipton. Donovan rang to say that she had kept in touch with him – she seemed to regard him as a guardian angel – and that she was now out of hospital, convalescing at home in Cambridge.
On the other hand, everyone was concerned that there had been no news of Dick Blackwood. As the days passed, Marnie and co began to grow increasingly worried about what might have happened to him.
They were soon to discover that their fears were well-founded
.
22
A Restless Weekend
Friday-Saturday 20-21 July, 1997
Donovan arrived on Friday evening. Marnie was tidying her desk after work when he knocked on the door of the office barn and entered. He was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, dark grey jeans and black trainers. Simple but dramatic.
Marnie rose from her seat and greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks.
“How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“I didn’t hear your car.”
“I parked by the garage barn.”
Marnie locked the office and they walked through the spinney arm-in-arm
Anne and Ralph had prepared a salade niçoise with French bread and a sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. It was warm enough to sit out at the table on the bank, with the fresh smell of the water and the sound of birdsong to accompany the meal. A pair of dragonflies buzzed around them briefly, swooping over the table, then rising up to hover beneath the parasol before darting off.
Donovan asked if they had heard anything from Dick, or about Dick, but there had been no word. No-one seemed to have any idea of his whereabouts. Donovan announced that Zoë had been discharged from hospital on Thursday. He had rung her number in Cambridge with no result. When he tried the Institute of Archaeology, the secretary informed him that Zoë had gone to stay with her parents, but regretted she was unable to ‘divulge her phone number’.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Ralph observed. “The way we use certain words only in specific contexts.”
Everyone at the table was used to Ralph speaking like a text book.
“You mean like divulge?” Marnie said.
“Yes. If we want to let someone have a phone number, we don’t say we can divulge it. We just say we can give it. Divulge has a sinister, negative quality. It’s the same with a word like withhold. We withhold information. Then there are words like –”
“Yes, darling,” Marnie interrupted the flow before it became a lecture. “I think we get your drift.”
Ralph chuckled. “Quite.”
“So back to the vanishing archaeologists,” Marnie said. “Zoë’s gone to stay with mum and dad. Dick’s gone …” she shrugged, ‘… who knows where?”
“Where does that leave us now?” Anne asked of no-one in particular.
Donovan began, “At the risk of sounding like a cliché …”
The refrain of I’d have thought that was rather obvious was voiced by Anne and Marnie in unison. Donovan laughed, unable to join in the chorus.
“Speak words of wisdom and enlighten us, O Sage,” said Marnie.
Donovan’s turn to shrug. “Someone has to go to East Anglia to try and trace Dick. He has questions to answer.”
Marnie thought of her workload, meetings with clients, the need to keep Walker and Co on track.
“That might be difficult,” she said.
Ralph, who was immersed in several projects simultaneously as usual, agreed.
Anne looked in Marnie’s direction. “We’ve got a lot on right now,” she said.
After a long moment, Donovan spoke. “My film editing is completed, so I’m free and flexible. I’ve promised my aunt in Göttingen that I’ll go and spend a week or two there, but that can be any time before term starts in October.”
“You could go to East Anglia?” Marnie said.
“Sure.”
“How would you organise the trip?”
“I’ve brought my camping gear with me in the car.”
Marnie looked at Anne. “Everything’s ticking over quite nicely here. I can manage things. There’s nothing to prevent you going.”
Anne frowned. “There’s always plenty to keep us busy in the office, Marnie.”
“But there’s no better time to take a few days off than mid-July.” Marnie smiled. “And we know how keen you are on camping …”
Donovan glanced quizzically at Anne. She returned his gaze.
*
They loaded the VW after breakfast on Saturday. One overnight bag each fitted snugly in the cramped front luggage compartment. The rear seats were already occupied by the camping equipment. Marnie and Ralph waved them off at eight, with Donovan at the wheel and Anne riding shotgun, the road atlas resting in her lap.
Marnie linked her arm through Ralph’s as they watched the Beetle burble off up the field track. “I wonder how long it will take them to get there.”
“Best part of three hours, I expect,” Ralph said. “You can reach the coast in almost any direction in three hours from here.”
Marnie tilted her head on one side. “The Beetle sounds different somehow, more growly. D’you think it’s all right?”
“I wouldn’t mind betting Donovan’s been working on it. Just look at that bodywork. A quarter of a century old and it looks like new.”
When they left the village and joined the dual carriageway Anne gave her first directions.
“We’ll be taking the by-pass round Northampton, the Nene Valley Way, following signs to Wellingborough then Peterborough. Okay with you?”
“Sounds fine.”
Anne relaxed and began taking stock of her surroundings. “The car seems somehow different. The seats sort of grip you … very comfortable.”
“Ergonomics.”
“Really?” The name meant nothing to Anne, but it sounded impressive. “So you’ve been doing things to it.”
Donovan tapped the steering wheel. Anne noticed for the first time that it had a polished wooden rim in a rich, attractive colour like cherry wood. He tapped the gear lever. It too had a cherry wood knob, and the stick itself was chrome, protruding from a leather cuff.
“Did you fit these?”
“Yep.”
“It seems different in other ways.”
“Alloy wheels?”
“Oh yes. I did notice them.”
“New mats on the floor,” Donovan suggested.
“No, I mean the sound of the engine. It seems quieter but its note is sort of … deeper … more like Thyrsis than Sally Ann.”
Donovan laughed. “That sound you hear …”
“Yes?”
“It’s Dr Ferdinand Porsche turning in his grave.” He pronounced the name like Portia.
“What? I mean, who?”
“The man who designed the original Volkswagen.” He pronounced the name the German way, like Folx-vargen. “I’m not sure he’d be pleased at the comparison with a narrowboat engine.”
“Sorry, Ferdy,” Anne said. “But am I right? Has something changed?”
“I’m glad you noticed. New parts on the engine, a new exhaust system. And I’ve fitted insulation inside the car.”
Anne fell silent for the next mile or so. When she spoke again, there was a hesitancy in her voice.
“Donovan … hope you won’t mind me saying this …”
“You’re wondering how I can afford to do things like that.”
“Well, yes, really. Of course, it’s none of my business. Sorry. Forget I said anything.”
“It’s no great mystery, Anne. When my parents died, my father had life insurance. It paid off the mortgage on the house in London and left quite a large lump sum. On my mother’s side there was a legacy from her parents in Germany. And when my uncle died two years ago, he had no children, so Uschi and I were his sole beneficiaries.”
“I see.”
“You’re wondering if I’m rich.”
“For once, Donovan, your assumption is wrong.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinking that … No. I don’t think I should say any more.”
“Say what you want, Anne. You know you can be frank with me.”
“Well, I was sort of thinking a sad thought.”
“Ah, yes. And you’d be right. I would rather have my parents and my uncle alive than all the inheritances in the world.”
*
After making love with Ralph that night, Marnie felt restless. Listening to Ralph’s steady breathing as he drift
ed off to sleep, she quietly slid her legs out from under the duvet, walked to the stern doors and pushed them open. The cool air wafted over her as she stood looking out across the water. It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was no illumination except starlight over Glebe Farm, but gradually she became able to make out the form of the trees and hedges on the opposite bank. Somewhere nearby a fish jumped, and she saw the ripples spreading on the surface of the water.
She began thinking of Anne and Donovan, of the strange events at Horselydown. It seemed to be a place marked for death and tragedy, a place of grisly executions over hundreds of years. And now it had claimed the life of Miles Fennimore and almost killed Zoë Tipton. If she had been a believer in omens and portents, she would be having serious doubts about building a hotel in a place like that. Instead, she believed – or rather hoped – that the hotel project would bring new life and a fresh start to that corner of London.
In a way, that was precisely what she was trying to do at Glebe Farm. It too had known its share of tragedy, with a suicide and bodies in shallow graves.
It was the way of the world, Marnie thought. Everywhere could probably testify to tragic events in the past. And then she realised what was keeping her awake. She was wondering what Anne and Donovan would discover on their journey to East Anglia. Was the disappearance of Dick Blackwood going to be the next tragedy?
Everything about Dick was exaggerated, his discovery – or otherwise – of the lost treasure of King John, his disappearance, his strained relationship with Zoë. They would know his fate soon enough.
Marnie tried to focus on positive things. Somewhere in the dark fields beyond the waterway a fox barked. Before she moved to the country she would not have recognised that sound. Now it was as familiar as traffic noise in London. It was pleasant sleeping on the boat, but she could feel that phase of her life coming to an end. Soon she and Ralph would be moving into the farmhouse, and their life would settle into a new pattern. The question was, would their life be any more settled than it was now?
*
“This is like playing house,” Anne said, rolling out a sleeping bag on an inflatable mattress. “I didn’t realise you had a proper frame tent, Donovan, with two rooms. Do you call them rooms?”
