by Leo McNeir
“Really?”
“Are you working?” Anne inclined her head towards the diary on her desk. Ronny protested: “But it’s Sunday.”
“Marnie says that because she’s self-employed, she has total freedom to work seven days a week. She allows me that freedom, too.”
“Is she back, then?”
Anne nodded. “She’s in the garage barn with her pride and joy. Do you want to see?” She led him outside to the next barn where Marnie’s rear end, clad in tight-fitting overalls, was protruding from under the bonnet of the MG.
“Nice!” Ronny exclaimed. Anne gave him a sharp sideways glance. “Er, nice … car,” he added. “Very nice.”
Marnie turned to greet Ronny. She looked purposeful in her boat overalls, a rag hanging out of a side pocket.
“You lucky devil!”
“Good morning, Ronny.” She looked at Anne. “Men are programmed to say that when they see an old car. It’s built into their psyche at birth.”
“I’ll make a note of it. What are you doing?”
“Checking everything, oil and fluid levels, tyre pressures, wiring, leaks, connections, just a general going over.” To Ronny she said: “I brought it up from London yesterday to give it a run. It hasn’t been used for a few years.”
“And is everything all right?” he asked.
“Seems fine. One or two things needed tightening, that’s all. The spark plugs are clean, a good sign.”
Ronny walked round the car. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen one this close up before.”
Marnie said to Anne: “All males are also programmed to wear that sort of smile on their faces and nod their heads up and down when looking at old cars. Experience will teach you these things.”
“Thank you,” Anne said.
“But it is beautiful,” Ronny protested. “Anyone can see that, not just males. It is your car, Marnie. You’re not male.”
Marnie wiped her hands on the rag, closed the bonnet and turned both handles to lock it. “Sure. How about a hot drink? I’m starting to freeze up.”
They began to make their way to the office barn, but Ronny held back to look in the cockpit. After a few moments he ran up to join them. Suddenly, from behind, there was a hissing sound that made them stop in their tracks. As they turned, a series of bangs rang out like muffled gunfire. Anne screamed and jumped, running into Ronny who caught her in his arms. Marnie muttered, “What the hell!” She quickly pulled an adjustable spanner from her pocket but lowered her arm as she watched the jumping cracker springing about on the ground. “Ronny, this is your doing, I take it?”
Open-mouthed, Anne gaped at the firework as it completed its antics and fizzled out. “Ronny! I nearly had heart failure!”
Ronny began to laugh. “It was only a joke.” He smiled at Marnie.
Anne gave an exasperated sigh. “You can let go of me now.”
“Oh, right.”
Marnie shook her head, smiling. “Coffee,” she said.
They were all glad of the warmth in the office barn, and Anne switched on the kettle while Marnie washed her hands. She kicked off her boots. “Ronny, can you help me to get out of my overalls?” He hesitated. “They’re rather a snug fit. I’ll undo the buttons. If you can help me get my arms out, I can manage the rest.”
“Oh, er, sure.”
They struggled with the overalls, and Marnie stepped out of them, leaving her wearing sweater and jeans. She slipped on a pair of shoes. “That’s better. Thanks. So what brings you down to this end of the village on a frosty morning?”
“Just a social call. Is that all right?”
“Sure. And you’ve come all the way down from Martyrs Close?”
“Yes.”
Marnie checked her hair in the mirror. Casually she said, “Have you lived there long?”
Ronny said quietly: “A while.”
Marnie went on. “I’m trying to think who we know in Martyrs Close. Which is your house?” There was a pause. “You did say Martyrs Close, didn’t you?”
“Number twelve.”
“That must be at the top, backing onto the church.”
“Yes.” He was much more subdued compared with the boy who had let off the firework a few minutes before.
Anne muttered something about milk and went out. Marnie brought the tray over and put it on her desk, returning to the kitchen area to fetch the coffee pot. “How do you have your coffee, Ronny?”
“Milk and one sugar, please.”
Outside, standing beside the garage barn out of earshot of the office, Anne pressed buttons on the mobile phone. After three rings she heard a familiar voice. “Hallo?”
“Mrs Appleton, it’s Anne. Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother, my dear. We’re just back from church. What can I do for you?”
“Do you deliver papers to Martyrs Close?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the people at number twelve? We can’t remember their name.”
“Let me think now, number twelve, number twelve. Oh yes, that’ll be the Wolstenholmes.”
“Wolstenholme.”
“Yes. They’re at number twelve.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Oh, is that it?”
“Yes, thank you. We just wanted to check. Thank you. Bye.”
Anne went back to the office and hurried over to the fridge. She joined Marnie and Ronny, put the milk jug on the tray and poured herself a cup of coffee. Ronny did not look up. Anne added a note to Marnie’s jobs list and sat down. Marnie glanced briefly at the list and leaned over her desk to alter the calendar. “Coffee all right?” she said to Ronny.
“Yes, thanks.”
“You know, it’s funny, but I’ve been thinking.” She took a sip of coffee. “I had it in my mind that the people at number twelve Martyrs Close were called Wolstenholme. Odd, isn’t it?” Ronny looked up, his face solemn. Marnie continued. “Have I got that right?”
“Yes.”
“Wolstenholme … not Cope.”
“No.”
Marnie’s voice was calm and reasonable. “I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. I’d be interested to hear it.”
Ronny cleared his throat. “My step-father. My parents got divorced. I kept my own name.” He put his cup down. “Thanks for the coffee. I’d better be getting back now.”
*
The atmosphere at Sunday lunch on Sally Ann was sombre. The cheerful Greek-inspired starter of houmous and tsatsiki with warm pitta bread had been intended to brighten a winter’s day with thoughts of warmer climes, but it was eaten in near silence. It was Marnie who eventually spoke. “This paranoia thing is a real drag, suspecting everybody all the time.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” Anne agreed. “I felt sorry about Ronny.”
“Yes. I felt sorry for Ronny, how he must have felt.”
“What he must’ve thought of us,” said Anne. They sighed in unison.
“He must’ve planned that firework stunt to make you react like that.” Marnie smiled ruefully.
“Like what?”
“Jumping into his arms, of course.” She smiled at the memory.
Anne said: “And while he was planning that, we were planning how to catch him out.”
“Yes. Well, I’m sorry to spoil your friendship. A real shame.”
Anne looked up. “Oh, it wasn’t me. It was you he admired, as you say.”
“Nonsense! To a boy like Ronny, I’m an old lady. Next stop zimmer frame, pension book and false choppers.”
“No, I mean it, Marnie. I saw how he looked at you. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“It’s true. And when you asked him to help you out of your overalls … I mean, well, actually help you undress. I thought he was going to pass out.”
Marnie laughed. “Good god! Really? Oh dear.” She shook her head. “No. Trust me, Anne. I know about these things. Over thirty is definitely over the hill. You’re the one.�
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“Ralph’s over forty,” Anne said, “and I don’t think he’s over the hill. I think he’s great.”
“Yes, well, hands off. I saw him first.” Marnie smiled. “Come on, cheer up. We’ll get in touch with Ronny and invite him down for tea or something. We’ll do it soon and apologise. He’ll understand if we explain the situation we’re in.”
“Okay. Talking of Ralph, when will we be seeing him?”
“When he’s slept off his jetlag. He’ll probably ring this evening.”
“Good.”
When they moved on to baked sea bass with roast peppers and glazed carrots, they were in better spirits, chatting about the week ahead and their plans to complete cottage number two. There were meetings in the diary with new clients, and Marnie had to decide when to see Malcolm Grant again to discuss his project.
“Are you definitely going to do his flat?”
“Yes. I don’t see why not. I want to try to get everything back to normal with Malcolm.” The phone rang and Marnie picked it up. “Hallo?” There was no reply. “Hallo?”
“Oh, Marnie.”
“Ronny? Hallo.”
“I don’t know how to say this. I’m sorry about how I left this morning.”
“No. I’m the one who should apologise. I was going to ring you. We owe you an explanation.”
“No, you don’t. The firework thing was silly and then I got embarrassed about my parents. It’s just, I didn’t want to have a different name. I wanted to keep my own name.”
“Ronny, that’s a private matter for you and none of our business, but there are things you don’t know that I’d like to tell you about. Then you’d understand about this morning. But I can’t do it on the phone.”
“I was going to come down, but I saw you had a visitor and thought I’d phone instead.”
“No, that’ll be someone for the Burtons. Anyway, we’ll check the diary and ring to invite you down again. We’ll do it soon.”
“I’d really like that.”
“Good. We need to sort out some arrangements. We’ll probably be going to London for meetings, but we’ll be in touch.”
“You’re always doing interesting things, Marnie. You’re not boring like other people.”
Being a murder victim, finding a murder victim, having your car blown up, being a murder suspect … again … certainly makes for a full and eventful life, Marnie thought as she put the phone down. She reached for the bottle of wine.
“What was that about the Burtons?” Anne asked.
“The Burtons?”
“You said something about the Burtons. Only, they’re not in. They’ve gone to friends for the day.”
Marnie pondered this. “Then we’ve got a visitor, it seems.” She stood up to look out of the window.
*
They stepped quietly out of Sally Ann and took the path through the spinney that led to the back of the office barn, to the place where they had first seen Ronny. Neither of them spoke. Their breath clouded in front of them as they stepped carefully over fallen twigs and patches of dry leaves, trying not to make a noise. They circled the whole property but found no-one. Glebe Farm and all its outbuildings were deserted. They paid special attention to the MG and the garage, but it looked undisturbed, and a thorough examination revealed no interference.
“I wonder what he saw,” Marnie muttered.
Anne shrugged. “Perhaps he was mistaken.”
“Well, he must have seen something to make him definite enough to change his mind and turn back. Was it a person or a car, I wonder? I wish I’d asked him. Come on, let’s check out the office.”
Marnie unlocked the door. It looked no different from usual. They stepped inside, and while Marnie looked in all the spaces on the ground floor, Anne climbed up to her attic room. “Nothing up here.” She came down the wall ladder and as she turned at the bottom, something caught her eye. “What’s that? Is that a piece of paper behind the door?” They found a small note that had been pushed aside by the door as they had come in. Anne bent down to pick it up and gave it to Marnie.
“Ah, end of mystery, I think.” She read, “I expect you are having lunch. Will look in later in the hope of seeing you. Regards, Randall.”
Anne laughed with relief, and after a few seconds, Marnie smiled.
*
They strode out across the fields that afternoon, both of them needing the fresh cold air to blow away the cobwebs. In jackets and boots, with woolly hats pulled down over their ears, they walked briskly, chatting happily together about the countless details that made up their life at Knightly St John, projects on the drawing board, new schemes to launch, the grand design to renovate the whole of Glebe Farm. For an hour they marched on, and life seemed all it used to be before finding the body of Tim Edmonds. Marnie intended to keep thoughts of that event and its after-shocks at the back of her mind, trying for Anne’s sake as well as her own to restore some version of normality to their world.
They took a route they had not trodden before, a well-signposted public footpath that carried them through fields on gentle slopes, with occasional views down to the canal and distant sightings of villages miles away, the spires and towers of their churches standing out like markers in the landscape. It was the setting in which they had come to build their life, full of expectation and fulfilment.
They had taken a circular pathway that brought them back towards Glebe Farm from the opposite side to the way they had set off. The afternoon light was just beginning to fade, with cloud cover hastening the onset of dusk. Approaching the complex from an unfamiliar angle, they looked down on their base from a few hundred metres away, saw the Burton’s car parked to one side and lights in the windows of cottage number one. The buildings were obviously still being renovated, but especially in this failing light, the whole development, nestling among its trees, had a reassuring homeliness about it, and Marnie and Anne felt their spirits lift.
They stopped for a few moments to take in the view, and Marnie reached across to give Anne’s hand a quick squeeze. Without a word being spoken, they were resuming their walk when another light flickered into view. They stopped again, this time less certain that all was as it should be. The headlights of a car had appeared on the other side of the farm, making its way slowly down the field track. Anne suddenly felt the need for another squeeze of her hand, while Marnie felt in her jacket pocket for the solid steel casing of the torch she carried.
“Isn’t it a Beetle?” Anne said.
“Could be.”
“Oh, good.”
They set off with renewed speed to meet Randall.
*
The three converged on the front door of the office barn at the same time, Randall wearing a sheepskin jacket over his cassock.
“Hi Randall! We got your note. Is this a flying visit or can you stay a while?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to impose on you, Marnie, arriving uninvited like this.”
“What I mean is, do we put the kettle on for coffee?”
Anne said, “Is the Pope a Catholic?”
“Actually, Anne, that’s a very interesting question. It might take me some time to answer it.”
“Fine,” said Marnie. “We put the kettle on. Come on, we’ll go on board Sally.”
Anne took the coats and hung them on hooks behind the door of the heads, except for Randall’s bulky jacket that she lay on Marnie’s bed near the door from the stern deck. They trooped through to the galley and saloon, Randall stooping to avoid bumping his head. At six foot two he was an incongruous sight in the cabin of a narrowboat, a tall slim figure austere in his long black robe with dog collar and black wavy hair, sharp features and intense dark eyes. But Randall was an incongruous sight anywhere in the cassock, buttoned all the way down the front, that harked back to an earlier age. He exuded the air of a man who knew where he belonged in the scheme of things and had the strength of character to defend his point of view against all comers. In his chosen career he had not infrequently
had occasion to do just that. Now, in his late thirties and Rural Dean of Brackley, he was regarded by many as the future candidate for a bishop’s chair. Not all his fellow churchmen liked that idea. But despite his ultra conservative appearance, Randall had no problem with the ordination of women priests, just one example of an independent mind. He lowered himself into a chair while Marnie lit two oil lamps on the galley workbench.
“So, what’s it to be, Randall? Tea, coffee or something stronger?”
“It had better be tea, I think. After the communion wine this morning, anything stronger might take me over the limit.”
Marnie laughed. “Surely the police wouldn’t pull you up on suspicion, not in your clerical gear?”
“Acting on a tip-off from the Archdeacon they might.”
“You haven’t fallen out with someone have you, Randall?” Anne asked primly.
“Me? What an extraordinary thought!”
When the oil lamps had reached their full strength, Marnie switched off the electric lights and Anne put a candle on the table in the saloon. The effect transformed the cabin, with a softer light no less bright than before, but much warmer. Randall sat back in his chair enjoying the ambience of the boat as much as the company of his hosts.
“This is very pleasant, Marnie. I’ve never been on your boat before. It’s really quite charming.”
“And what brings you back to Knightly? Not just a social call?”
“This part of my visit is entirely social, but I came over to see Jim Fowey to talk about handing over to the new vicar. He said he’d been down to see you.”
“He told us it would be another woman vicar and he thought it would be no problem this time.”
They all three fell silent for some seconds at this reminder of the death of the previous vicar, Toni Petrie, back in the summer. In her short time in Knightly she had become a friend, and the memory was still painful.
Randall broke the silence. “Angela Hemingway is her name. Nice name, nice young woman. A curate in Northampton. She’ll be starting in a week or two. I know you’re not churchgoers, but I’ve no doubt she’ll come to see you. You’ll like her, I’m sure.”
“And you like her too,” Marnie said looking steadily at Randall.
“Yes.”
