Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  “After the recess, of course. I’ll be back down in early January. We only rise for a short time over Christmas and New Year. How do I reach you?” Marnie flipped open her wallet and gave him a card. “Walker and Co.,” he read. “Northamptonshire. Would this be too far for you, perhaps?”

  “No. It’s no problem.” She saw Michael and Ralph in the doorway and nodded in their direction. “I think you’re about to be rescued.”

  Grant stood up and shook hands with Marnie. “I’ll be in touch after the recess. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Thank you again,” said Marnie. He turned and walked towards the door, pausing briefly to say something to Michael and Ralph, wishing them a Merry Christmas.

  “So, you’ve met Malcolm Grant,” said Ralph quietly, taking a seat beside her, while Michael had a word with a colleague in the next group.

  “Yes. He obviously feels a lot of pain about the death of his friend. I had to say something. I couldn’t just pretend I knew nothing about it.”

  “Quite. Did he say anything of interest?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, presumably one of you must have started the conversation and as you’d never seen him before, and don’t usually go up to men in bars and ask them to buy you a drink …”

  “As it happens he rescued me from an awkward situation. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Michael rejoined them, apologising for keeping Marnie waiting. “I’m glad Malcolm looked after you. He’s a nice chap.”

  “He said the same about you, Michael. I thought you were supposed to be on opposite sides.”

  “Oh, we are, of course, but he’s all right, is Malcolm. I expect he was in here drowning his sorrows.”

  “Why do you say that?” said Marnie.

  Michael glanced conspiratorially at Ralph and leaned over towards Marnie before replying. “I’ve heard it rumoured that Malcolm is likely to be going to the Lords.” Ralph nodded thoughtfully. Marnie frowned.

  “And that would make him unhappy?” she said.

  “Of course,” said Michael. “End of his political career, no real chance of high office after that.”

  “And that’s what he wants?” said Marnie. “High office?” Michael shrugged. It’s what they all want, she thought. “Is it always like this? All this rumour and gossip?”

  “The place has gone mad this year,” said Michael. “It seems to be even worse just now, before the recess. I blame the Prime Minister’s leadership campaign. I don’t think the place has settled down since the summer.”

  “A hotbed of intrigue,” Ralph muttered.

  Michael nodded slowly. “There’s a lot going on beneath the surface. You mark my words. There are still shockwaves in that party.”

  “Did the Prime Minister think he’d win the contest and get re-elected as leader?” said Marnie.

  “Well, it was quite a gamble. Some people – in his own party – have said they thought he was almost past caring.”

  Ralph shook his head. “I suspect he’d done his calculations and was using it to consolidate his position.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” said Michael, grinning. He turned to Marnie. “Ralph doesn’t believe any politician would willingly give up power.”

  Ralph agreed. “After all, he was virtually running a minority government. Without the Ulster Unionists he would’ve been sunk and he needed to re-establish his authority in the Tory Party. I don’t see why else he needed to do it. He was already PM. If he’d had enough, he could’ve resigned.”

  “And hand over to someone he hated?” said Michael.

  “Hated?” said Marnie. “Surely, even if he’d lost, the Conservatives would still be in power but under a new leader.”

  “Exactly,” said Michael. “An enemy.” Marnie had the feeling that it was wiser to say nothing. Anything she said was going to make her seem naive.

  “I think you’ve made my point for me,” said Ralph. “I don’t think he would’ve risked it if he thought he was going to lose.”

  “So you see it as a kind of purge. A clever tactic.”

  “Clever?” said Ralph. “It was certainly unexpected. But I’m not sure it was clever. After all, it polarised opinion inside the party and forced his opponents to declare themselves in public.”

  “All the better to purge them,” said Michael.

  “The ones at the top were safe whatever the outcome,” said Ralph. He turned to Marnie. “There was no way he could sack his main Cabinet rivals. He had to keep them on board because they lead major factions in the party.” Marnie sipped her drink.

  “Well, whatever his motives, he’s still there,” said Michael, “as he’s fond of reminding us. He’s quite a decent chap, actually. And I expect he’ll try to hang on till the very end before calling the General Election.”

  “I agree with you there. And the open divisions in their ranks will weaken them when they go the country.”

  “But they think people will have forgotten all this by then. The public has a short memory, Ralph. Mind you, I think this time they may have gone too far to get away with it. From what I hear, there are some very nasty things going on behind the scenes. You mark my words. It’s not over yet, either.”

  When it was time for the two men to go to lunch, Marnie excused herself, and Ralph walked with her to Central Lobby while Michael chatted to the people at the next table in the Pugin Room.

  “So it looks as if you’re on the way to sorting out the business card. That should put an end to the matter.”

  “I hope the police will think so,” said Marnie. She stopped and turned towards Ralph. “You know when you came in back there?”

  “Oh yes, the awkward situation. What was that?”

  “Apparently I had no right to be there unescorted, and I was about to be thrown out by the waiter when Malcolm Grant said I was his guest.”

  “Oh dear, I’m sorry you were put in that position.”

  “Yes, well, I was annoyed at first. It could’ve been very embarrassing. Michael should’ve realised. But it was interesting to see Malcolm Grant. You remember when we went to the carol service in St Margaret’s. At the end when we were filing out, I saw a man in the back row in real distress. I’m sure he was in tears.”

  “You didn’t mention it at the time,” said Ralph.

  “No, because you were ahead of me in the crowd and then someone wanted to talk to you outside. There seemed little point after we’d come out. Well, that man in the church, it was Malcolm Grant. I’m sure of it.”

  *

  Emerging from the tube station in Little Venice, Marnie bought an Evening Standard from the newsvendor on the corner. She was glad to clear her head, breathing in the cold winter air. The world around her seemed so simple and mundane compared with the plotting and jockeying in the Houses of Parliament. She was relieved to be returning to the boat, with the prospect of the journey back up the Grand Union Canal to Knightly St John. But first, she had a call to make. It would be a quick visit, just long enough to say goodbye, hand over a small Christmas present and leave. She rang the doorbell at the house opposite Sally Ann’s mooring and was welcomed in by Mrs Jolly.

  “A cup of tea before you go, Marnie?”

  “Well, I really ought to be …”

  “I’ll just boil the kettle. The fire’s lit in the sitting room. I’ll be with you in a moment. Oh, and I’ve made us a sandwich. You can’t begin your journey on an empty stomach.” Marnie surrendered and flopped into a comfortable armchair. Mrs Jolly came in a minute later carrying a tray.

  “Are you feeling all right, my dear?”

  “Yes, fine thanks. I’m well on the mend.”

  “Good, only I saw Gary this morning, and he thought you might be unwell.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Apparently you’d given him a blank cheque.” Marnie laughed. “He said as soon as he’d filled your tank, he was going round to St Mary’s Hospital to book you in for a brain transplant.”

 
; *

  The next time Marnie was able to sink into a comfortable chair, she was several miles out of the centre of town. Dusk had fallen quickly as Sally Ann approached the boatyard at Uxbridge and Marnie was glad that she was well on her way and ready to go through the lock at first light. Supper was a bowl of hot soup – parsnip with a hint of curry spice – and a warmed roll, followed by a hunk of Wensleydale and a glass of Rioja. She felt a wave of contentment as she returned from checking the mooring ropes and pulled the steel doors shut to keep out the night cold. The aroma from the cooking was almost intoxicating after the hours spent on the chilly stern deck travelling through London’s western suburbs. She lit the oil lamps in the galley and saloon and turned off the electric lights. Rather than listen to the early evening news programmes on the radio – she had had enough of politics for one day – she pushed a cassette into the tape machine and began supper to the accompaniment of Bach’s fourth Brandenburg Concerto.

  Making coffee, she spotted the newspaper and settled down for a lazy evening. Turning over the first page, there he was: Tim Edmonds stared out at her. The photo showed the MP looking drawn and troubled at the time of the scandal that had changed his life, but there was no disguising his good looks. The heading was A Life Full of Promise. It was a quote from Malcolm Grant, “his staunchest friend and ally”. The article revealed a privileged upbringing, the silver spoon, public school, Oxford. One page was organised like a scrap book of family photographs, with the big house in the country set in its own grounds, young Tim in Eton collar, in officer-cadet uniform, in bow-tie and DJ at a hunt ball with a society girl clinging to his arm; all the trappings of the upper classes.

  Tim Edmonds had never known what it meant to lack anything. From university he had joined a City merchant bank owned by friends of the family. It was only a short step to nomination as a Conservative Party candidate and an eventual seat in the Commons. But then, after a flying start as PPS and junior whip, came the slide down the greasy pole for the young man who had so much. There was a blow-by-blow account of the divorce proceedings in which Edmonds had been cited and his subsequent disappearance from public view. For several weeks there had been no trace of him and it was widely assumed that he had gone abroad to escape media attention. Only afterwards was it revealed that he had been staying at the home of Malcolm Grant in one of the more remote areas of the Lake District. There was a photo of a house nestling among trees on a hillside overlooking one of the smaller northern lakes. It had been taken with a long lens and the caption explained that it stood about half a mile off the road along a private track.

  Two whole pages were devoted to the story, with an account of the gradual climb-back to favour of the disgraced MP. His wife had stood by him for a while despite everything, and Marnie found herself wondering what she would have done in her place. This scandal and Edmonds’s disappearance had occurred shortly before the long summer recess, which had taken him out of the spotlight. Edmonds had not attended the party conference that autumn and there was the inevitable speculation that he would resign or be “encouraged” by the Tory hierarchy to quit.

  The press had reported the “moral outrage” of leading members of the party, but this had stopped short of demanding his resignation. Some took the view that there was so much sleaze in the air that one mere divorce case seemed to make little difference, even if the wronged wife was the daughter of a Tory peer, and the wronged husband was a leading QC. Others were more pragmatic. The Conservatives had lost every by-election since 1983, they had ousted the redoubtable Margaret Thatcher in an internal coup and the new Prime Minister was trying to put the best face on the party in the run-up to a general election that most commentators thought they would lose. Nobody wanted a by-election that would probably depress the government’s standing even further. Tim Edmonds was allowed to fade from view for the highest of motives … expediency.

  Marnie poured herself a second cup of coffee and read on. The story outlined the MP’s gradual return to public life. It was an extraordinary comeback that started in the most unpromising of settings. A by-election had been called following the death from a heart-attack of a popular Labour MP in a Yorkshire mining constituency. A young Tory hopeful had been selected to fight his first campaign without the slightest hope of winning or even keeping his deposit. Because of the popularity of the deceased MP and the shock of his sudden death, the government decided to mount only a token resistance and no major cabinet figures were going to take part. All the signs were that no-one was willing to make a fight of it and, despite the reasons given by the leadership, there were murmurings that it looked as if they had no stomach for a confrontation and were throwing in the towel. Letters in the Times were asking what were the real reasons for not standing up to be counted, even if a victory was out of the question.

  Then, without warning, Tim Edmonds had shown up at the local party offices as the campaign got underway and had begun simply by putting leaflets through doors along with the other party workers. He went out with the candidate offering him advice on tactics and briefing him on key issues, so that he was able to hold his own when faced with the most determined of hecklers. The “lad” spoke with respect of the deceased MP but asked for the right for another point of view to be heard. He even managed a few jokes at his own expense that raised a laugh at public meetings and he expressed the hope that the tellers would not merely have to weigh the Labour vote rather than count it on the day of the poll. When the word got round that Tim Edmonds was helping the “lad”, people would turn up at meetings just to have a look at the man who had been front page news in the tabloids. The extra publicity raised interest in the election, raised the morale of the young Tory candidate and brought the full attention of the national media to the by-election that the Tories wanted to keep quiet. It was said that the leadership was furious and blamed Tim Edmonds for raising his head above the parapet and dragging them with him.

  In the end, everyone praised the courage and dignity of the “lad”, even though the result was the expected huge Labour majority. In his speech on the night of the declaration, the winner thanked his opponents for a fair fight and congratulated the young Tory on keeping his deposit. The next day, the serious press coverage centred on the role of Edmonds as the man willing to stand up for his party despite all the odds against them, while the tabloids called him “the only Tory with the guts to fight”. A statement from Conservative Central Office described the result as “a moral victory of sorts” but made no mention of Tim Edmonds.

  Marnie was surprised how interesting she found the story and read on to the end. From that day onwards Tim Edmonds became a stalwart of by-election campaigns, boosting the morale of the party even though they kept losing. By remaining in the background, he was able to put his experience at the disposal of the candidates. Simply by being there, he guaranteed media coverage and drew large audiences to meetings that would normally have attracted only a few of the party faithful. At the General Election he retained his own seat with an undiminished majority and was credited with influencing results in a number of key marginals.

  When John Major surprised everyone by calling an election for the leadership of the party three years later while still in office as Prime Minister, Edmonds was one of the first to write a private letter offering to support him, “if it would not cause you embarrassment”. The offer was accepted and Edmonds became a principal speech writer, working behind the scenes as part of the campaign team. His rehabilitation was complete with the announcement of the PM’s victory over his rivals, and he was openly tipped in the press for a junior ministerial post at the next reshuffle.

  Marnie finished her coffee and decided to have an early night. The occasional twinge reminded her that she was still not fully back to normal after the near-fatal injuries she had suffered not many months before. While she washed up, her thoughts were on the man she had found in the canal, on a life that had once again seemed full of promise. Malcolm Grant had made her wonder whether the death
had been an accident after all; the smell of whisky, the evidence that it had not been a robbery. The more she thought about it, the more uncertain she felt. But one thing was certain. In his career, in his private life and in his comeback, Tim Edmonds had made more than his share of enemies.

  *

  The next morning was heavily overcast with enough cloud cover to keep the canal from freezing, but there was a light wind with a cutting edge and Marnie was glad to pull on her ski clothes and get underway. In the silver and blue one-piece costume she knew she was a strange sight, but it enabled her to keep going all day without discomfort and at that time of the year there were few to see her passing.

  By the time she reached Rickmansworth, the supermarket was open and she tied up for a few minutes to take on fresh supplies. She used the mobile to call Faye Summers at Everett Parker Associates.

  “Dish?” said Faye. “As in crockery?”

  “More like dish as in short skirt,” said Marnie.

  “Not likely, not with Tim Edmonds around. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but even so.”

  “Was he a problem? I thought he was a reformed character.”

  “To be fair, Marnie, he didn’t actually try anything, but I always made sure I went with Hannah. He was one of those men who somehow makes you think twice before closing the door behind you. Mid-life crisis? You know what I mean?”

  “Sure. We’ve all met them. But if he never tried anything …”

  “Well, he …”

  “What?”

  “He did ask if I could go round one evening with the design and have a drink with him.”

  “And you went?”

  “He said he was going on holiday and wanted to finalise everything before leaving. I didn’t have much choice and, as it was in the evening, I couldn’t take Hannah. So I agreed to a quick meeting and said I couldn’t stay long because I was seeing someone afterwards. That was true, actually.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, it could’ve got awkward. He asked me to stay for another drink and when I said I had to be going, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Anyway, I was just wondering how to leave without causing a fuss, when the door-bell rang. It was this other MP, all unexpected. I chatted politely for a minute or two and then got out.”