by Leo McNeir
“A visitor?”
“Ronny Cope came down on his bike. He’s up and about again. Came to see Anne.”
A pause. “She’ll be pleased. I’ll tell her.”
Predictably, Anne was not pleased.
It felt strange to navigate on past Sally Ann and Thyrsis at their moorings, seeing them as other boaters saw them. The approach was round a long curve, following a contour line in gently sloping ground, and their first view of home base revealed the pair nestling by the bank close up to the spinney, Thyrsis on the main line, Sally Ann at right angles in her dock. The boats formed a charming yet protective scene, as if they presented a defensive barrier against outside intrusion. If only, Marnie thought.
Now that the spring foliage had sprouted, it was impossible to see through the trees to the Glebe Farm complex beyond. The sight of their home base never failed to make Marnie happy. Turning to Anne, she was surprised at the look on her friend’s face. Anne smiled in understanding and recognition, but for half a second, Marnie had caught her registering anxiety and concern.
Anne turned her attention back to steering, concentrating on negotiating the bridge ahead, aiming to pass under the arch of the simple brick structure. With one fluid movement she suddenly pulled the control lever into reverse and applied full power to bring Perfidia to a halt, decisively raising a hand to wave to an oncoming boat to keep going. She reversed half a length back from the bridge to create a passing space and held Perfidia in neutral while the other craft came by.
Anne acknowledged the thanks of the steerer, pointed towards the bridge and called out, “Clear ahead?”
“All clear,” came the reply.
She lined Perfidia up for a second run and pushed the accelerator forward. Marnie glanced back and saw the couple on the stern deck looking across at the moored boats. The woman pointed and the man was nodding as Marnie felt Anne tap her arm, and she moved over in response to keep her head clear of the brickwork as they entered the bridge hole.
That evening they moored at the foot of the land rising towards Hanford Hall, the house of their client, Mrs Dorothy Vane-Henderson, scene of a highly successful and profitable redecoration contract.
After supper they took their coffee out onto the bank and sat on picnic chairs to admire the view as dusk came down. The rounded hillside and the scattered flock of sheep reminded Marnie of the paintings of Samuel Palmer, and she talked about his life and work while Anne listened, enthralled.
They spent a quiet night in the depths of the countryside, and Marnie drifted off to sleep with only occasional bleatings from the field above floating in through the half-open porthole in her cabin.
It rained in the early hours of the morning, but the sun was already burning off the clouds as they slipped their ropes after breakfast and set off for the Stoke Bruerne flight. In her role as navigator, Anne estimated an hour and a half to the first lock and she was correct to within five minutes.
They worked steadily up through the seven locks and had been underway over three hours by the time Perfidia crawled past the cluster of buildings beside the canal museum and found a mooring space long enough to tie up for their early pub lunch break.
When it was time to go they donned jackets and woolly hats, with a golfing umbrella and powerful hand-lamp at the ready, in preparation for the passage through Blisworth tunnel. Untying the bow rope, Marnie checked that the headlamp was in working order and gave a thumbs-up to Anne in the stern. Two minutes later they lined up for the gaping mouth of the tunnel, felt the chill air surrounding the entrance, flicked on the headlamp and slid into the darkness. Only two boats came towards them during the passage, and they emerged into daylight after thirty-five minutes, pleased to be back in fresh air, relieved that they had avoided the showers of water spraying down on them from the overhead ventilation shafts.
Within two miles Anne was lining up to take the right-hand Gayton turn, Marnie standing halfway along the gunwale, ready with a centre rope. Rounding the bend they found boats triple-banked against the wharf.
“Where can I put her?” Anne called out.
Marnie began pointing. “On the outside of …” Her voice faded. Her hand lowered itself slowly.
Anne waited, expecting further instructions. “Marnie?” Still no reaction. “Marnie!”
Then Anne saw it. Parked close to the boatyard’s office stood a cherry red metallic Jaguar. As she looked on two things happened at once. The driver’s door opened and out stepped Charles Taverner. At the same time a horn sounded from an approaching boat. Anne realised she had drifted across the canal, blocking the channel. She quickly raised a hand and accelerated lightly to gain steerage, easing Perfidia to the side, leaving space for the oncoming boat to pass.
Anne apologised to the other steerer, who smiled and nodded. “Piccadilly circus here,” he called out good-naturedly.
Marnie meanwhile had regained her composure and was indicating a space where Anne could bring Perfidia alongside another boat to tie up. Attaching short ropes to the nearest boat at bow and stern, they crossed the two inner boats to meet Charles on the bank. His expression was calm but he was not smiling.
As usual Anne sat in the back on the journey home. The interior of the Jaguar was so quiet she had no difficulty hearing the conversation between Marnie and Charles in front.
“I was going to ring you on your mobile to tell you about the change of plan, Marnie, but –”
“Which change did you have in mind? There seem to have been quite a few.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you were keeping out of the way in France, staying at your house in the Dordogne. I’ve been ringing you for days.”
Charles breathed out audibly. “No. It wasn’t on. There were too many associations, memories. I only realised it fully when I got there.”
“Suppose you start at the beginning. How is it that you’re here to meet us? Where’s Ralph?”
“Ralph,” Charles repeated vacantly. “Oh, yes. I rang you on Friday afternoon to say I was getting ready to come back. Just before I left, Ralph phoned to say he’d picked up my message. We talked and he explained about coming to meet you here. But there was some change to his programme at the seminar that meant he’d be later than he’d thought. I offered to come instead. It seemed the obvious solution.”
“But you live in London.”
“Not any more. I arranged with Harrods to move everything up to the Old Rectory. I called by just now to check. Everything’s in place. I’m now officially a resident of Knightly St John.”
“That was sudden.”
“I’ve made up my mind about a lot of things, Marnie. The trip to France helped me to see clearly what I had to do. It was a good idea of yours. Oh, by the way, your mobile seems to be switched off. I told Ralph I’d ring you to let you know what was happening.”
Marnie tut-tutted. “It ran out of charge. Did you have to wait long at the boatyard?”
“No.”
“So what about France?”
“The house was too full of memories, so I took myself off to the coast, found a good hotel at Arcachon the other side of Bordeaux, right on the seafront. Went for long walks on the beach … huge sand dunes there, space to think. It just all became clear to me. After that I was bursting with impatience and frustration. I had to get back – to hell with the consequences.”
There was an interval while Charles overtook a line of lorries and negotiated a roundabout. Marnie wondered if Charles’s conclusions were in line with her own.
“Are you able to tell us what you concluded on your walks?”
“It’s easy. But first, Marnie, tell me about Neil Gerard.”
“What about him?”
“What do you think of his story? You’ve been travelling on the boat. That gives you time to think. My guess is, you’ve reached conclusions of your own.”
“I … I tend to believe his account of what happened.”
“Was Barbara in love with him, do you thi
nk?”
“That’s hard to say. From everything I’ve heard I’m pretty certain she was completely loyal to you, despite the circumstances.”
Charles said nothing for some minutes, and the Jaguar purred along the open road. Anne sat in silence, touching the leather upholstery, hoping her jeans were not making any marks on the seat, or her trainers any stains on the carpet.
Charles suddenly spoke in a firm voice. “I believe him too. He didn’t do it.”
“I only said I tended to think he –”
“I know. But I’m convinced he didn’t.”
“Do you intend doing anything about it?”
“That isn’t the next question.”
Marnie was bewildered. “What is?”
“I expected you to ask me why I’d decided he wasn’t guilty.”
“Okay. Why did you decide that? And why are you so certain?”
“You go first. I’d be interested to know your reasons.”
“Well, I can’t really explain, Charles.”
“You’re not telling me it’s all just intuition. Women can’t use that argument these days. It’s old hat.”
“I mean literally I can’t explain, not yet, anyway.”
“It has something to do with your visit to Bermuda Reach that Sunday morning when I found you there?”
“Possibly.”
“You’re being very enigmatic. When will you tell me about that?”
“I’m not sure, maybe never.”
“Marnie, that isn’t an answer.”
“I’m sorry. It’s the only one I have at present.”
They turned off the dual carriageway on the minor road to Knightly St John. Passing the Old Rectory, Anne suddenly spoke.
“Will you still be wanting the frieze in the conservatory and the kitchen now that you’ve moved in, Mr Taverner?”
“Definitely, Anne. Can you arrange for it to be done?”
“I’ll do it myself.”
Marnie pointed at the field entrance. “You can drop us here, Charles. No need to bring the car down the track. We’ve only got light kitbags.”
“Nonsense. But I do have one more favour to ask, Marnie. Could you come round the house with me and check what still needs to be done? We can drop off your bags and leave Anne to settle in at Glebe Farm.”
Marnie understood his meaning.
It was strange to open the door of the Old Rectory and find it furnished again. Marnie recognised a small hall table from Templars’ Wharf. The surprise was to notice the vase of freesias beside the telephone. It brought an unexpected woman’s touch to the entrance.
“You said Harrods did the move, Charles?”
“Loaded up in London early on Friday morning, drove up and had all the furniture in place by evening.”
Marnie sniffed the flowers. They were real. “They think of everything.”
“What? Oh, the flowers. That would be Ellen’s idea. She has a marvellous eye for detail.”
“Ellen?”
“I persuaded my old secretary to come out of retirement to supervise.”
Marnie had a vision of an elderly lady in a pale blue twin set, grey hair gathered back in a bun, fob watch hanging on a chain round her neck. They moved from room to room. Apart from the odd packing case, the house looked as if it had never been furnished any other way. Returning downstairs, Charles led Marnie into the drawing room and invited her to sit down.
“I’m glad to have a few minutes alone with you, Marnie.”
“You wanted to tell me your reasons for believing Neil Gerard.”
“I said it was easy, but in fact it’s a mixture of a lot of elements. Oddly, one of them is rather intuitive, or more accurately it’s about personal judgment and experience. To be successful in business you have to be a good judge of character. Gerard has always struck me as a straight sort of person, reliable, honest. You know that. He’s no choirboy, but neither is he the type to help himself to the collection or steal the church silver.”
Marnie nodded. “I agree.”
“Once I’d settled on that point, the rest fell into place. His non-alibi is believable. Paradoxically, his sister’s story backed him up in my view. If it had been too definite, that would be more suspicious. The tampering with the gas system … no. This was supposed to be a crime of passion. You don’t kill someone in a fit of anger by messing about with gas valves or joints or whatever.”
“That’s right. Too premeditated.”
“Quite. For me, the last straw was the suicide attempt. That was no cry for help. You don’t hang yourself hoping someone might happen to come by, too risky. That was the real thing.”
“But he could’ve known when the officers did their rounds.”
Charles shook his head. “No. I enquired. The timing is random. Significantly, he strung himself up just after an inspection. Every now and then they do a quick follow-up tour without pattern or warning. He couldn’t have known they’d come round so soon that day. He intended to kill himself.”
“Could’ve been remorse,” Marnie suggested.
“That’s possible, I suppose. But the timing, he did it just after I refused to help with the appeal campaign.”
Marnie shrugged. “I’m not sure if that necessarily proves anything.”
Charles continued. “There’s something else, something you don’t know about. He sent a letter to his sister.”
Marnie sat up in her chair. “A letter? A suicide note?”
“He thanked her for her help, asked her to forgive him, said he was innocent and that he couldn’t stand being in prison any longer.”
“How do you know this? He’s not mentioned it to me.”
“I contacted Sarah.”
“Have you seen the letter?”
“Not yet.”
“But you believe her.”
“Absolutely. She’s as honest as he is.” Charles began to get up. “I should’ve offered you a cup of tea, Marnie, or perhaps something stronger.”
Marnie waved him back. “No, that’s fine. I ought to be getting home. Do you have everything you need? What about provisions?”
“All taken care of by Ellen. There’s enough food in the fridge to withstand a siege. Before you go, Marnie, I wonder if you have any news of any of the people on the suspects list?”
“No further progress, if in fact they are suspects. I don’t think there’s much I can do in that direction, being realistic about it. What about the ex-spouses?”
“You can rule one of them out. I spoke to my first wife on the phone. She’s happily living in Florida with her second husband … and their three children.” Charles emphasised the last part of the sentence. “She was on an anniversary cruise in the Caribbean with her husband at the time of the murder.”
“And Barbara’s ex-husband?”
“Don’t know. I think he’s also abroad somewhere, but …” A shrug.
“It’s not easy to investigate things when you’ve no authority or resources, is it Charles?”
He stood up. “Worth trying, though.”
They crossed the hall, and Charles opened the front door. Marnie had insisted on bringing the Discovery up from Glebe Farm behind Charles’s Jaguar, and he walked her out to it.
Marnie scuffed the surface of the drive with her shoe. It seemed to be rough concrete that had been laid many years before. The church commissioners did not go in for extravagant finishes. “Here’s a job that still needs doing. I don’t think you’ve yet decided how you want it surfaced.”
“What do you think would be appropriate, Marnie?”
“Nothing too smart, I think. In the country block paving always looks to me as if it’s come out of a catalogue.”
“What about simple tarmac, then?”
Marnie looked doubtful. “Maybe, or something more rural. Rolled hogging might be more in keeping, though it tends to pot-hole after a time. Cobbles would look nice or maybe gravel would be best … pea shingle, perhaps. But you need to be vigilant.”
&nb
sp; “Vigilant. From the security point of view, you mean?” He smiled. “I can always rely on my military training. Gravel never lets anyone get close to the house without making a sound.”
“I didn’t mean vigilant in that way. I meant you have to keep weeds from growing through it.”
“Of course. Perhaps there’s a local chap who’ll help look after the garden?”
“I’ll put a card on the notice board in the shop. There’s bound to be someone.”
“Kind of you, Marnie. But I’m imposing on your goodwill. That would be rather outside the remit of an interior designer.”
“Put it down to help from a friend and neighbour. Anything else, while we’re talking business?”
“The name plate?”
“Of course. I’ll make enquiries and get that put in hand. You still want it to be The Old Rectory?”
“Absolutely.”
“That reminds me, Charles. Perfidia. It’s been suggested to me that now might be a good time to change the name.”
“Why?”
“It’s a tradition on the canals, I gather, that you change the name when a boat is out of the water. Perfidia will be coming out for hull blacking.”
“I still don’t follow.”
Marnie hesitated. “It’s not going to be easy to sell her with her current name. There’s only been one offer, and the people haven’t seen her yet. They’re in New Zealand.”
Charles frowned. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I should think about it.”
“The point is – and I’m sorry there isn’t a pleasant way of saying this – she’s rather an infamous boat with her present name. A number of potential purchasers have withdrawn when they saw her.”
“Just because of the name?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
Charles walked a few steps away, looking down as if inspecting the surface of the drive. He turned back. “No. I can’t do that. Perfidia was Barbara’s boat. She loved it. It was part of her. That was the name she gave it. It stays the same.”
“That’s your decision?”
