Smoke and Mirrors: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  Any normal person would have been mildly amused at the idea of a gaggle of middle-aged women harmlessly reliving their youth by dressing up in baubles, bangles and beads – or prancing about starkers, for all he knew – chanting hippy songs round a camp fire. But not Celia. She was prone to refer to herself as ‘highly strung’, which meant she would make a drama out of anything remotely unusual. He snorted silently to himself. The witches had probably bought the skulls, corn dollies and all their paraphernalia from car boots, jumble sales and junk shops!

  Back at the bedside he propped Celia up. She gave in, gulped down the medicine, grimaced and slumped back. Looking down at his wife in the half-light coming from the open bathroom door, he had to admit she was a beautiful woman. If only she could act like a grown-up.

  “Thank you, darling. You’re an angel,” Celia murmured.

  He felt guilty, as if she could read his thoughts. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Just let me rest.”

  Hugh frowned, thinking, When did you ever do anything else? Her eyes opened and he quickly adjusted his expression to one of tender concern.

  “I’ll come back in half an hour to see how you’re feeling.”

  “Yes.” The word evolved into a sigh as she closed her eyes and turned her head on the pillow.

  Hugh crept across the floor, turning to look back in the doorway. Celia had given a fine performance. She had a natural gift, elevating saintly forbearance almost to an art form.

  *

  After breakfast Anne gave Danny a guided tour of Glebe Farm, including the unoccupied cottage number three. They spent a happy half-hour wandering in and out of the buildings and grounds, while Anne outlined the redevelopment plans. At the rear of the main farmhouse they stood facing the ‘tip’ that was to become a secluded garden.

  Danny gave her verdict. “It looks like a jungle. Our garden was like this when we first moved. Took my dad years to get it straight. Did his back in.”

  Anne laughed. “Marnie’s getting a contractor. There’ll be a pond over there, a terrace just there, the conservatory here, ooh, lots of features.” She checked her watch. “Come on. We’d better fetch our things. Time to tootle.”

  On their way back to the attic, Danny asked about Angela and Randall.

  “What are they like? I’ve never really met a vicar and a rural wotsit before.”

  “Rural dean. That’s like a sort of … super-vicar, in charge of the other vicars round here. He used to be the vicar in this village.”

  “Is he like, you know, ultra God-squad, preachy?” Danny made a face.

  “No, not all. He’s a bit like Ralph in a way, very intelligent.”

  Danny looked uncertain. “I’m not really used to people like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sort of, like … intellectual?”

  “Don’t let that put you off. Randall’s okay, honestly.”

  “And the lady vicar?”

  “Oh, Angela’s all right. She’s fun. Just think of her like a normal person. She’s about thirty. Randall’s getting on for about forty, I think.”

  “So they’re quite old.”

  Anne grinned. “Ancient, but still able to get around without crutches or a Zimmer frame.”

  They were in high spirits when they climbed down the wall-ladder, though Danny could not help but look up at the lavender suspended from the hook in the beam. Anne noticed but said nothing. She would never tell Danny that Randall had once tried to hang himself from that same hook two years earlier, in despair following the murder of Toni Petrie. Anne’s face clouded. Perhaps the re-opening of Sarah’s grave could stir up ancient conflicts and hatred. She shook herself mentally.

  “Right,” she exclaimed breezily. “Roll call. Got your sunhat?”

  Danny held up a beach bag. “Yep. In here.”

  “Book to read if we pull over for a sun-bathe?”

  “Got it.”

  “Bikini for same?”

  “On underneath.”

  “Sunblock?”

  “Ah …”

  “You can use mine. Sweatshirt for if it clouds over?”

  “All present and correct.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Anne was locking the office barn door when they heard tyres crunching.

  Danny swivelled round. “Ford Escort?”

  “That’s Angela’s. Brace yourself, Danny. You’re about to meet a real live vicar and her rural wotsit.”

  *

  It was one of those summer days that boat people dream about, just warm enough for relaxing, just enough sunshine to brighten the landscape without dazzling, just enough clouds to make the sky interesting. Anne and Ralph cast off while Marnie reversed Sally Ann out of her docking area. She brought the boat round in mid-channel and pointed her north towards Stoke Bruerne, an hour away with plenty of quiet places to tie up for lunch.

  At noon they had barely been underway for five minutes when Anne went below and returned to the stern deck with a tray of glasses and a chilled bottle of Aussie Chardonnay. Danny followed her out, carrying a tray with dishes of olives, cashews and pretzels. She had been wondering what could be the attraction of travelling on a canal boat at four miles per hour. Now she was beginning to understand. While serving the nibbles, she noticed that some of the moored boats they passed were not the same design as Sally Ann. She remarked on this, commenting that Ralph’s boat, Thyrsis, also looked somehow different.

  Marnie explained. “Ralph’s boat is a trad, a traditional design, with a stern like the original working boats. Most people think that’s the most attractive style.”

  Danny looked around her. “Sally Ann’s got more room out here at the back.”

  “That’s right. It’s called a cruiser stern. Boats with this layout were designed for leisure use. It may offend the purist, but it has certain advantages.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “For looks, it’s got to be the trad, like Thyrsis. But for socialising, the difference is obvious.”

  “More space.”

  “You’ve got it. That’s why we use Sally when we go out for a tootle. There are six of us on board, and we have enough room, just about, to stand on the stern deck. If we’d taken Thyrsis, someone would have to be back here steering in splendid isolation, while the rest of us would sit up front, being sociable in the cratch.”

  “The cratch? Is that what you said?”

  “The space in the bows.”

  “Funny name!”

  Anne handed her friend a glass of wine. “It comes from the French word, crèche.”

  “Is that where the children stayed when the boats were travelling?”

  Angela and Randall tried to conceal their mirth but Anne laughed.

  “That sounds logical, but it’s the word for a manger. It’s where they kept the hay for the horse that pulled the boat along before they had engines.”

  Danny sipped her wine. “There’s more to this boating thing than you’d expect, isn’t there?”

  After half an hour Marnie went below with Ralph, leaving Anne in charge of the helm and their guests. Soon the smell of food in preparation began to waft out. The cool summer fragrance of chopped cucumber blended with the pungent tang of garlic, shortly to be joined by a warm aroma. Something good was in the oven. In the galley, Marnie and Ralph noticed the boat begin to slalom and guessed that Danny was making her first attempt at steering. They heard a shriek from the stern deck before the boat resumed a straight course.

  They were approaching Stoke Bruerne bottom lock when Marnie looked out to announce that lunch would be ready in ten minutes. From behind her came the encouraging plop of a cork being extracted from a bottle. Danny handed the tiller back to Anne.

  At the point where the river Tove entered the canal like a tributary, Anne slowed the boat and announced that they were going to wind. She pronounced it to rhyme with “tinned’. Danny laughed, thinking it sounded rude until Anne performed the manoeuvre, a three-point turn. For a
few minutes they headed back south and tied up opposite a field of sheep, bounded at the water’s edge by a row of tall willows. The consensus was to eat out on deck, and Ralph put up a huge creamy parasol while Anne set out folding picnic tables and Randall brought safari chairs up from the saloon.

  It was the simplest and most satisfying of meals: a classic quiche Lorraine, plus a non-meat version with salmon and broccoli; a mixed salad in vinaigrette; new potatoes with butter and a sprinkling of parsley. The wine was a young red Côtes du Rhône from southern France, helped along by glasses of sparkling mineral water.

  Danny now fully understood the appeal of boating and wondered why the whole world did not live like this. And Anne had been right about the God Squad. Angela acted like, well, a normal woman, and Randall was friendly. Best of all, nobody tried to talk about religion. The closest they came was when Angela mentioned that the old vicarage was up for sale again.

  Marnie looked thoughtful as she sipped her wine. “So what’s happening about Sarah? I’m not really up-to-date on how things stand after the latest … developments.”

  Danny did not register the connection and thought Marnie was asking about a mutual friend. She was taking a mouthful of quiche when Angela replied.

  “There could be real problems with getting her reburied in the churchyard.”

  Danny almost choked, and Anne came to the rescue with a glass of water. Gasping, she muttered, “Sorry, went down the wrong way. Sorry.” She took another sip.

  Angela leaned forward and laid a hand on Danny’s arm. “No, I’m sorry. This is all rather distasteful.”

  Danny smiled weakly.

  Anne explained to her friend. “Sarah’s the one who hanged herself in the office barn.”

  Danny grimaced. “The lavender.”

  “Yes. Angela and Randall want her to be reburied – she’s outside the church grounds at the moment – and they think that isn’t fair.”

  “Why is she outside? Do I really want to know?”

  Anne tried to sound matter-of-fact. “She committed suicide when she found out that her family had been involved indirectly in the murder of the vicar.”

  “That was all a long time ago, right?”

  Anne nodded. “Hundreds of years.”

  “So it’s all history.”

  “Yes, well, almost … sort of …”

  Danny looked doubtful. “I don’t get it.”

  Randall joined in. “We know she did what she did when the balance of her mind was disturbed. It could happen to anyone. That’s why we want to bring her back into the churchyard. We don’t want her to be an outcast any more.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “We’re just wanting to move her a few yards.”

  “So no big deal, really,” Danny suggested.

  Randall raised both palms upwards. “Not everyone sees it like that.”

  Danny was puzzled again. “Why not?”

  “Well, some people say she might have been a witch.”

  Danny’s eyes grew wider. “Could she have been?”

  “No, but in the sixteen hundreds a lot of people believed in that kind of thing.”

  “How can you be sure she wasn’t one?”

  Ralph stepped in to try to head off the conversation. “There’s a lot of historical evidence to the contrary.” He thought that sounded anodyne enough to bring matters to an end. “More wine anyone?”

  Randall picked up his glass, turning back to Danny. “We know for a fact she wasn’t a witch. Her grave was aligned west-east – witches were usually north-south – and she was buried with a crucifix in her hands.”

  Danny gasped. “You’ve looked inside the coffin?”

  “Well it was falling apart and in any case, we had to. We needed to be sure we were re-interring the right person.”

  Danny felt her past life floating before her eyes, as if she were drowning. They were talking about bodies, coffins and witches as if they were the most commonplace things in the world.

  Angela held up her glass for a refill. “Just a little, please Ralph. I’m driving. We know it is the right person in the coffin, at least we have no reason to doubt that. The brass plate on the lid confirms it, and it’s definitely a woman inside. This new development, as you call it, Marnie, could well cause delays, could let our opponents mount a new challenge to the bishop’s decision.”

  Against her better judgment Danny asked, “What’s this new development?”

  “Well, when we began the exhumation, we found there was another body, on top of Sarah’s coffin.”

  Danny had never heard anything so appalling in her life. “Another body?” she repeated faintly.

  Ralph poured himself some more wine and sat down. “Just a skeleton, surely?”

  Randall shook his head. “Rather more than that, actually. There’s also some … the pathologist called it other tissue, mainly skin, still attached to the bones in places. The soil in the grave was damp at that depth.”

  “I see. How interesting.”

  Danny looked at her plate. Small pieces of finely chopped bacon were visible through the cheese topping of the quiche. She wondered what skin – and other tissue – looked like after it had been in the ground for a few centuries.

  In the background Ralph was still talking. “Is there any means of identifying the other body?”

  “Not yet. That’s why it’s gone to this specialist lab in Oxford.”

  “The Archaeological Materials Laboratory,” Marnie said. “Quite a mouthful.”

  Randall looked surprised. “Yes, that’s right. How did you know that, Marnie?”

  “Rob mentioned it, Dr Cardew.”

  “What do they expect to find at the lab?” Ralph asked.

  Marnie shrugged. “I think they want to try to put a date on the remains. As for anything else, I’m not sure. We’ll have to wait and see what they turn up.” She was anxious to steer the conversation away and turned to Angela. “On a slightly different tack, what can you tell me about Celia Devere? Until the other day I’d never heard of Knightly Court. Celia’s interested in a makeover, just in their wing of the house.”

  Anne pricked up her ears.

  Angela looked thoughtful. “Well, you know I don’t like to gossip …” Everyone pricked up their ears. “… but it’s common knowledge that Celia is Hugh’s second wife.”

  Marnie smiled. “That’s hardly gossip these days, Angela.”

  “No, but I gather there was some sort of scandal about their relationship before they got married.”

  “Even that’s not uncommon. Were they worried about the family’s good name? Are they the local aristocracy?”

  “I’m not sure. I bet you know, Randall. You were vicar here for a few years.”

  “I think they’re what is known as landed gentry, not actual lords, but related to some branch of the nobility. They tend to regard themselves as the backbone of Britain. The big house – Knightly Court – is owned by Hugh’s father, the Honourable Marcus Devere. He’s now old and infirm, lives in one wing with his butler and a housekeeper.”

  “Butler?” Marnie could hardly believe her ears.

  “Yes, really. He doubles up as chauffeur, though the old man doesn’t get out much these days. The butler’s wife is the housekeeper.”

  Suddenly Anne burst out laughing. “Oh well, that solves the problem of the body in Sarah’s grave.” Everyone stared at her. She grinned. “The butler did it!”

  For a few seconds there was no reaction. Anne thought she had overstepped the mark. “Sorry. Of course it’s a serious matter. I shouldn’t joke about it, not really.”

  Then Angela giggled, and laughter spread round the stern deck.

  Smiling, Marnie stood up. “Right. There’s a little more food left. Danny, what can I get you? Oh, I see you haven’t quite finished. Did I give you too much?”

  *

  After supper on Sally Ann with Marnie and Ralph, the girls went back to the attic and spent an enjoyable hour or two listening to mus
ic, chatting and reading magazines. There had been no more talk of bodies, skeletons or witches. It was only when Anne offered Danny the first turn in the shower at the back of the office that they found she had left her bag on the boat. Danny insisted she could go to fetch it while Anne used the shower. Anne quickly set up the camp bed for Danny, as her friend climbed down the wall-ladder.

  Rounding the corner of the office barn, Danny hesitated before entering the spinney, regretting that she had declined Anne’s offer to go with her. Night had fallen, though away to her right the sky was not yet completely black. She could make out the shape of tree-tops in the darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw the path into the woods before her and listened for any sound of movement nearby. Perhaps it was not too late to go inside and accept Anne’s suggestion. Then she heard something, a steady hissing. The shower. It was too late. Danny took a deep breath and set off.

  The walk proved to be less scary than she had expected. The spinney was no dense forest of Disney-like trees with gnarled branches reaching out to snag her clothes and ensnare her. There were no gleaming eyes glinting in the shadows. Ahead of her she could see lights twinkling. Marnie and Ralph were on Thyrsis. This was a tranquil, civilised place where friends led interesting and fulfilled lives. Clutching the boat’s keys, Danny reached the docking area and walked to the stern doors to let herself in. Flicking on a cabin light she was struck again by the cosiness of the interior. The walls were lined in tongue-and-groove pine, with brass fittings to the curtains that glowed in a red, blue and cream Liberty pattern.

  Danny found her bag on the floor beside a chair and made her way out. She was turning the key in the lock when she became aware of a sound behind her, rhythmic and mechanical, the steady beat of an engine, a boat approaching. But when she turned to face it, there was nothing in sight. Danny felt her pulse quicken and took a few short breaths, telling herself to calm down. Reason told her that her night vision had been impaired by the light in the cabin. Even so, it was the strangest feeling. She could hear the engine louder now, though still only a faint murmuring, yet she could not see any other boat. Without further hesitation she withdrew the key from the lock and jumped silently onto the bank, scurrying towards the shelter of the spinney. From among the trees she looked again and this time she saw it.