Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  “What is?” said Marnie.

  Ralph spoke first, a surprised frown on his face. “I don’t think the police know what happened. They don’t know if it’s murder or not.”

  “Is that what you were thinking?” Marnie said to Anne.

  “No. I was going to say that the MP sitting next to Sir Gerald wotsit – the one he was talking to – that looked like your Malcolm Grant to me.”

  “You’re right,” said Ralph. “It was.”

  *

  By late afternoon normality had returned to Glebe Farm. Marnie was finalising the design for a client who would be back from a holiday in the West Indies and no doubt itching to have her drawing room and conservatory transformed. Anne had spent a happy hour or two bringing the financial records up-to-date ready for the accountant, preparing the regular invoice for Willards Brewery and was now writing a shopping list. At four-thirty she stood up and pulled on her jacket. “I’m off to the shop!”

  Marnie looked up from her concentration. “Good. We ought to get the next invoice off to Willards soon.”

  Anne placed a document on the desk. “Sign here, please. Same as usual. No change from last month.” It was a familiar chant, and Marnie shook her head smiling as she scribbled her signature.

  Anne inserted the invoice into an envelope and sealed it down. “Marnie? Why was Malcolm Grant in the House of Commons today?”

  “It’s part of his job.”

  “But I thought he was supposed to be a Lord.”

  “It can’t have happened yet. There must be procedures, I imagine, the Chiltern Hundreds, or something. Ask Ralph, he’ll know.” As an afterthought she added, “But ask gently. The ‘know-all’ joke may be wearing a bit thin.”

  Anne laughed. “Yes. Perhaps I’ll just look it up in a book somewhere. It was Malcolm Grant who called him that, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Do you like him, Marnie?”

  “Malcolm?” She hesitated. “In many ways I suppose I do.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “He’s a Tory MP. Not my usual circle of friends, despite what Bruere thinks.”

  “But he treats you nicely, you said.”

  “Did I? Well, he is quite gentlemanly, if you see what I mean, opens doors, helps me on with my coat, things like that. It’s pleasant if it’s not overdone. Why are you asking this? Is there a special reason?”

  “I wondered if he was the one getting Sir Gerald thingy to ask those questions to get the police to stop putting pressure on you.”

  Marnie chewed her pen for a few seconds. “Or on him as well. We’re both in the same boat.” She looked up at the clock. “Talking of boats, you’d better get to the shop. We’ve got Ralph coming on Sally Ann for supper tonight, don’t forget.”

  Anne turned and accelerated for the door. “I’m as good as there.”

  *

  The mobile rang in the saloon early that evening while Marnie was in the galley slicing red peppers. “Anne, can you get that? My fingers are messy.” It was Roger Broadbent. Marnie wiped her hands and took the phone.

  “Marnie, did you know questions about Tim Edmonds and the police were asked in the Commons this afternoon? I’ve just heard it on the news.”

  “We watched it live on satellite. It was the local MP.”

  “And you’re still planning to come back to London?”

  “I have a life to lead and a living to earn, Roger.”

  “I knew you’d say that. Then for goodness’ sake keep a low profile. Use Rumpole and if you’re approached by the media, say nothing.”

  “I know, trust you … you’re a lawyer.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Should I be expecting media attention? It’s hardly hot news.”

  “Are you kidding, Marnie? You’ve got off lightly so far. Every news editor in the country will be looking for an angle on this. You are highly newsworthy for all sorts of reasons. Getting out of London when you did may have been a wise move.”

  “And now I’m planning to move back.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Marnie.”

  “So do I.”

  After the call ended, Anne asked: “What was all that about?”

  “Roger thinks I should stay away from London.”

  “But what about our meetings?”

  “I know. He says I have to lie low.”

  “Wouldn’t that be easier in London? I mean, you’re easy to find out here. There’s nowhere to hide, is there?”

  The phone rang again. Two pairs of eyes watched it. Nobody moved. “It can’t be the press,” Marnie said. “Nobody knows that number apart from a few close friends.”

  “One way to find out,” Anne said and picked it up.

  “Randall here, Anne. Have you seen the news?”

  “Yes we got live action this afternoon. Let me hand you over to Marnie.”

  “I was going to ring you anyway, Marnie, to say that Angela would like to meet you and will be in touch.”

  “Fine. I’ll look forward to seeing her. I’ll be going to London on Wednesday for a few days.”

  “Do the press know that you’re the constituent they were talking about on the news?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There’ll be quite a bit of interest, won’t there, when they find out, after what happened to you last year? You’ve managed to keep out of the limelight so far, but things are bound to change now. I think you’ve got to protect yourself as much as possible.”

  “I’ve made plans, Randall. I’ll just have to hope for the best and see how things turn out.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “How about letting me claim sanctuary in the church?”

  *

  Monday 9 January – evening

  “Ralph, can I ask you a question?” Anne was mopping up the sauce from the roasted peppers on her dinner plate with a piece of bread.

  Ralph was reaching for his glass of wine. “Ye-e-s.”

  “It’s all right. I’m not going to ask about any state secrets.”

  “Good. I don’t know any. I just have this strange feeling that I’m about to have another lesson in economics.”

  “Anne did get an ‘A’ in GCSE Business Studies,” Marnie said. Anne gave her the death stare.

  “How could I forget?” said Ralph. “Okay, ask your question.”

  “I just wondered what you went to tell them in Japan. Why did you have something that they wanted to know about? I know you’re brilliant and all that, but what was it that actually made your advice more important than the opinions they get from other economists?”

  “Nice easy question,” said Marnie.

  “Er, yes, well they know about my theory because of some articles I wrote. They attracted interest from economists around the world, including some who know me in the Far East. In particular, there are two people I know in the Japanese Ministry of Trade and Industry, and an old friend in Washington DC.”

  “And this isn’t a whole new theory?” Marnie asked.

  “It’s more a reflection on existing methods of analysis and forecasting.”

  “A mathematical model?” Anne suggested.

  “In a way, that comes into it.” Ralph hesitated as if reluctant to continue.

  “You don’t have to give away your secrets if it’s all confidential. I was just interested because it must be important if you get invited to talk to the President of America about it. I expect I wouldn’t be able to understand it, anyway.”

  “It’s not that it’s secret, Anne, as you put it. It’s just that I could bore for Britain on this subject. It’s one of my hobby horses.”

  “Okay. But I’m sure it wouldn’t bore me.”

  “Is there some way you could give us an inkling of what it involves?” Marnie said. “A potted version?”

  “Well, if you’re sure you won’t be bored stiff, I’ll just give you the concise three hour lecture.” He smiled at them acro
ss the table. “It’s called ‘hindsight theory’.”

  *

  Marnie took a bottle of Courvoisier out of the ‘cellar’, otherwise known as the cupboard under the workbench in the galley, and put two brandy goblets on the table while the coffee was brewing. Ralph poured the cognac.

  “I didn’t think that was boring,” Anne said, as she cleared the dishes from the table. “And you worked on that theory while you were travelling around on Thyrsis?”

  “It was the perfect place to work: no interruptions, phone switched off when I wanted to be left alone, maximum privacy. No-one at college even knew where I was with any certainty.”

  “So you worked out a system for analysing past events and situations and built a – what did you call it? – a conceptual model that you could apply to current circumstances.”

  “That’s the basic principle behind it, yes.”

  Anne spoke slowly. “That means you take the situations leading up to an event in history and examine them in relation to each other. You then work backwards to identify the key events and analyse why they were more influential than others in shaping the outcome.”

  “Correct.”

  “And that’s really new, is it?” Marnie said. “I thought we were all wise after the event.”

  “It was that kind of consideration that set me thinking. I tried it out in relation to a number of events in recent years to see if it was possible to achieve a scientific analysis, what you called a ‘mathematical model’, Anne”

  “And you found it worked,” said Marnie.

  “I tinkered about with it, of course. Eventually, I found that you could attach a mathematical value to events in proportion to their influence on the circumstance being examined. Each aspect of a situation is given a co-efficient of influence. If you apply that to the circumstances, you can see how the systems work to shape events.”

  “That’s the part I find difficult,” Anne said.

  “Not difficult. Look at it like this. At the heart of every complex idea is a simple proposition. At the heart of hindsight theory is the understanding that some factor is the main cause of what happens. Opinions might differ on what that factor is, and factors will change as a situation develops, so I wanted to try to devise a scientific way of working things out. My model helps me to do that in economics. That’s why it has to be mathematical.”

  “But if it wasn’t used for economics, it could be different?”

  “Of course. It’s just a way of working out what is important, focusing on the key factor.”

  “So you could apply the idea to anything,” Marnie said.

  “Within reason, yes. Remember the purpose is to analyse data and determine what has happened. That’s all there is to it, really.”

  “So history isn’t bunk,” Anne said. “We did that at school, George Bernard Shaw.”

  “He meant it in a particular way. Perhaps you shouldn’t take it out of context.”

  “No, but you’d say it isn’t bunk if you can put it in a framework of some sort.”

  “Exactly.”

  Anne stood up and poured more coffee. In unison, Marnie and Ralph took a sip of cognac. “Would you say it was a sort of ‘chaos theory’ for economics, Ralph?”

  “That’s not a bad way of looking at it. Are you sure you want to stay as an interior designer, Anne?”

  “And you’re in great demand for information on this from banks, financial institutions, even governments,” said Marnie.

  “They seem to find it helpful.”

  “Good old Thyrsis for giving you the seclusion to work it all out.”

  “Absolutely. Which is why I’m keen to go on working on the boat. Marvellous environment, total privacy and I can just publish my material when I’m ready. No leaks.” Anne laughed. Ralph looked blank. “Did I say something funny?”

  Anne rocked with laughter. “You wouldn’t want leaks on a boat would you?”

  *

  Monday 9 January – night

  That night, Marnie came back on board Thyrsis and bolted the centre door behind her. Ralph emerged from the sleeping cabin in pyjamas and dressing gown, stifling a yawn.

  “Anne did a good job getting the boat aired. She’s made up the bed with fresh sheets, too. Did you know?”

  “I guessed. She was here long enough to do an overhaul on the engine this morning.”

  “Is she okay on Sally Ann? She wouldn’t rather be on Thyrsis or in her room in the barn?”

  “I offered her both, actually, but she said she was happy down here on Sally. She’s got the mobile if she gets worried about anything.”

  “Good. I’ll keep my phone on the shelf by the bed. The bathroom’s all yours. Oh, by the way, what’s that big cardboard box in the saloon? I asked Anne but she just said to ask you.”

  “That,” said Marnie, “is my disguise.” She tried to look enigmatic.

  “Why are you looking enigmatic like that?”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Tell me more. I’m very curious. Can I see it?”

  “Now?”

  “Why not? No time like the present.”

  “Well, it is quite a business getting it on and off.”

  Ralph laughed. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Why do all men react to it in the same way?”

  “How many men have had this conversation with you?”

  “To be honest only one, Randall. And I suppose strictly speaking, he doesn’t count, because he’s a man of the cloth.”

  “You obviously read the wrong Sunday papers,” Ralph said. “Well, do I get the show or are you going to keep me in suspense?”

  “Okay. I’ll go and change.” She smiled seductively.

  While Marnie turned towards the saloon at the front of the boat, Ralph picked up his mobile from the eating area and headed for the sleeping cabin. Marnie unpacked the box and laid the flying gear out on the sofa, slipping off her sweater and skirt and pulling on the jeans, shirt and bomber jacket. She wound the silk scarf round her neck, carefully zipped herself in and fastened the press studs down the front of the jacket and at the wrists. Finally she put on the fur-lined leather flying helmet and pulled the goggles into place, settling them on the front of the helmet above her eyes. She pulled the jacket down at the sides and raised the back of the collar, wriggling herself in the close-fitting uniform until she was comfortable. There was no mirror in the saloon, so she pulled apart the curtains and looked at her reflection in the window.

  Muttering, “Phew, what a palaver!” she made her way through to the rear of the boat. The door to the sleeping cabin was ajar, with only the dim bedside light burning. In a soft voice, she called, here I am, coming ready or not.”

  She pushed the door gently open to find Ralph, still in his dressing gown, sprawled out on the bed, breathing steadily, fast asleep. She looked down on him. “Hallo, Jetlag Lombard,” she said quietly. With a tug she unfastened the press stud under her chin and loosened the helmet. She sighed. I might just as well stay in this gear all night.

  18

  Tuesday 10 January – morning

  At around seven the next morning, Marnie was in the galley on Thyrsis when there came a tap at the window. She went to the centre doors in the saloon to open up for Anne. As she passed the sleeping cabin she glanced in at Ralph. He was still sleeping as peacefully as she had left him half an hour earlier when she had slipped soundlessly from the bed to take her shower. She put a finger to her lips when Anne climbed down into the boat, and they made their way in silence to the galley, pulling the door closed behind them. Anne had a bundle of newspapers under her arm and she put them on the table. Marnie could feel the cold radiating from Anne’s jacket.

  “Where have you been to get this cold?”

  “Oh, I walked up the field track with Ronny. I didn’t want to come over too early in case Ralph was still asleep.”

  “Ronny? Ronny’s been on Sally Ann?”

  Anne smiled. “Marnie, you sound like a Victorian governess. Of c
ourse Ronny hasn’t been on Sally. He came down to Sally. He brought these papers to show us. Then we went to the office barn to collect our Guardian and I walked up to the road with him. Actually, you’re not going to like this.” She pointed at the newspapers on the table and turned to take off her jacket.

  Marnie picked up the top paper and read. It was The Times. The next one was The Daily Mail, followed by The Mirror and The Sun. At the bottom of the pile was The Guardian. As she read the headlines and front page articles her face clouded. “Where did Ronny get all these?”

  “His brother does a paper round for Richard Appleton, and when he saw the headlines he went straight home and told Ronny. So he went to the shop and got these for us.” Anne looked sheepish. “Er, I think he told Mr Appleton to put them on our bill. Hope that was all right.”

  Marnie’s voice was distant as if she was somewhere else. “Fine. Very enterprising.” She opened one of the papers to read an inside article spread over two pages.

  Anne said, “Shall I make breakfast?”

  “Yeah.” Marnie sat down at the table and opened another paper. Under her breath she muttered: “Blimey!”

  The door swung open to reveal Ralph in his dressing gown. He smiled. “Good morning.”

  Marnie looked up. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Was it something I said?”

  “Look at these, Ralph.” She handed him a paper. “Front page on all of them: What’s going on? Is it murder or isn’t it? Police baffled. Home Secretary covers up police bewilderment.”

  “Why does this make you think you’ve got to go?”

  “Try this one.” She passed him The Sun. Half the front page was taken up by the headline: LOOK WHO’S HELPING THE POLICE. The other half was a series of photos showing Malcolm Grant emerging from the police station. In one shot he was standing by the open door of a taxi, leaning forward as if to kiss a woman who was beside him on the pavement. Her head was partly concealed by Grant’s. She had very short dark hair. The caption read: “And look who’s helping him. Who is the mystery woman?”

  “This is you?” said Ralph.

  Marnie nodded. “We’d both been interviewed the same morning. He was in a hurry to get to a meeting, so he took the first taxi. Perfectly innocuous. The photo makes it seem more than it was.”