by Leo McNeir
“Then why were the remains buried in Sarah’s grave?” Marnie looked at the others for an answer.
She was surprised that Anne spoke first. “Who knew the grave was even there?”
“Good question, Anne,” Ralph said. “The houses in Martyrs Close were built when … the seventies, eighties? What was the land before?”
Marnie looked at Angela. “Didn’t Celia say the land was owned by her husband’s family?”
“That’s right. I’ve no idea what was there before they built the estate. Do you know, Randall?”
“Not really, never thought about it. Long before my time here.”
Another question from Anne. “The gate in the churchyard wall, why was it put there?”
Blank looks all round. Randall spoke tentatively.
“The owners of Knightly Court have their own gate further round, and a direct path from it that only they would use, leading round to the west entrance of the church.”
“Is it still in use?” Ralph asked.
“Oh yes. That’s how they go to church every Sunday.”
“So could the other gate have been provided for their estate workers? There would’ve been a lot of them in times past, and they would all have been expected to go to church.”
“It’s possible, yes, more than likely.”
Ralph shifted in his seat. “Sarah’s grave was marked by a small headstone, the one that got smashed. Would the estate workers have seen the grave every time they passed by?”
Randall frowned. “Not sure what you’re getting at, Ralph.”
“What I mean is, was it visible as a constant reminder that she was buried there, or was it hidden by the brambles all the time and perhaps only known to certain people?”
“Such as?”
Ralph shrugged. “Who knows?”
Randall shook his head. “No idea. This raises more questions every time we look at it.”
Ralph agreed. “And we’re still no closer to knowing who was put in Sarah’s grave. We’ve got no indications about that.”
“Apart from the tattoo.” Angela spoke quietly.
“Tattoo?” Marnie echoed. “What sort of tattoo?”
“It’s very indistinct, according to Dr Goodchild, even under a microscope.”
“What form does it take? I mean, is it a picture, a design, an inscription?”
Angela looked thoughtful. “Rob said it was too small and unclear to be certain.”
“Will they be able to find out more than that?”
“He said the equipment in the lab at Oxford was state-of-the-art, though they might consider getting a second opinion.”
Ralph sat back in his chair. “What sort of people have tattoos?”
“Sailors are famous for them,” Anne suggested.
“That’s right,” Marnie agreed. “And canal boat people, too.”
Chapter 12
Celebrity
The post had only just arrived on Friday morning when Marnie walked over to Anne’s desk and put a file down in front of her. The label on the cover read: Knightly Court. Anne opened it to find the initial designs for the redecoration.
She was surprised on two counts. The first was that Marnie had produced it so quickly. She was always a fast worker, believing that good design came from seizing the moment of inspiration, but she rarely progressed from first briefing to options schemes in just a few days. Marnie had accelerated the Knightly Court project to the top of the list.
The second was that Marnie asked her to examine the proposals and give her a reaction straightaway.
“What’s the deadline for showing her the designs, Marnie?”
“I’m going to beat her to it. I want to phone at nine o’clock – one minute to nine, to be precise – and arrange to go and see her as soon as she can squeeze me into the diary.”
Anne was puzzled. “What makes you think –”
“She’ll start chasing me if I don’t get in first. I want this job out of the way as quickly as possible. Something tells me that once we’ve got the archaeologists here, everything will be disrupted.”
“But I thought they were just –”
“Trust me, Anne. Nothing in life is ever as simple as it seems.”
Anne smiled. “Perhaps we ought to call them the anarchists instead of archaeologists.”
Marnie nodded. “And it’s easier to spell.”
Anne opened the file, amazed at how much detail Marnie had produced in such a short time. There were two schemes, both including Celia’s favourite colour, blue. One was based on variations of blue with pink and white or off-white tones, the other used blue with tones in the range from pale primrose to apricot.
At two minutes to nine she checked the phone number for the Court and picked up the handset. The minute hand on the office clock clicked once and Marnie pressed the green button. Celia answered immediately.
“Oh, Marnie, you must be psychic! I was going to phone you.”
“What a coincidence, Celia. Amazing. I was wondering if we could meet.”
Anne had the diary open and was grinning when Marnie disconnected.
“What time, Cleverclogs?”
*
Marnie’s Discovery came to a halt on the drive of Knightly Court at ten-thirty precisely. Celia came out to meet her and they strolled round to the terrace.
Celia concentrated hard and made quiet murmurings of approval while Marnie showed her the sample wallpapers, emulsion colours and materials in each portfolio. For half an hour they studied the plans. Celia seemed less interested in the costs and waved a dismissive hand over the columns of figures. Marnie pointed out that there were several thousand pounds involved and perhaps Celia would like to check the budget with Hugh before they went any further. Again, Celia merely shrugged.
“Hugh said we could do it. He knew it wouldn’t come cheap.”
“Nevertheless, Celia, I think –”
“Marnie, we aren’t short. It’s not going to be a problem.”
Marnie had seen it happen before. She had known marriages break up for lesser sums than she had produced for this project. Celia may have been right. Perhaps they were loaded. But Marnie allowed no exceptions.
“Celia, let me tell you what happens next. I’m going to leave these schemes with you to show to your husband, including the cost estimates. You get back to me when you know which proposal, if any, you want to proceed with. I’ll also want you to confirm acceptance of the cost implications. Once you’ve done that, there’ll be a contract to sign, and I’ll be able to move on to the next step.”
Celia blinked a few times. “Is that how you always work, Marnie?”
“Always. It keeps everything clear and simple. Dorothy Vane-Henderson at Hanford Hall had no problems when we followed the same procedures.”
“Very well, then. That’s what we’ll do.”
Marnie had an afterthought. “Perhaps it might be wise to include your father-in-law in the discussions about the design, in view of the impact on his home.”
“The house belongs to Hugh and me now, Marnie.”
“But the entrance hall is used by him and I’d like to know that he’s happy with the decor. Also, we mustn’t forget there’ll be tradespeople coming in and out for a few weeks while the work’s in progress.”
Celia sat in silence. Marnie decided she had made her point. She took a sip from her cup and waited. Celia’s eventual reply surprised her.
“That makes sense. I think you ought to talk to him yourself, Marnie, since you were such a hit with him.” She got up and walked towards the French windows. “Stay there and I’ll see if he’s around.”
There has been friction between them, Marnie thought. She wondered if he had made the mistake, in Celia’s eyes, of not being captivated enough by her looks? Did he see her as a gold-digger?
Marnie was still mulling over the possibilities when Celia returned. Standing behind her was the man Marnie had seen in the hall on her last visit.
“This is Mr
Devere’s butler, Marnie. He’ll take you through.” She held out her hand, palm down. “I’ll get back to you soon about this.”
Marnie gathered up the files and followed the butler through the house. It was as much as she could do not to laugh. She had never been escorted by a butler before and did not think such people were still around.
She was shown into a morning room where Mr Devere was already standing, waiting for her. He was wearing a suit and tie. They took their seats at a Victorian mahogany round table and Marnie went through the proposals for the second time. The old man paid careful attention, and Marnie went into particular detail about the main hall.
When she reached the end of her description, Mr Devere looked at her.
“You’ve worked quickly on these designs, Mrs Walker. Frankly, I think they’re both excellent. I slightly prefer the one with the apricot tones, as you call it, but either would look wonderful in the house.”
“I’m so glad you like them. Thank you.”
“If I were a younger man, I’d be asking you to do something similar in my part of the house, but I think it’s rather late for that now.”
“It’s very charming as it is, actually.” Marnie hoped that didn’t sound patronising.
A wrinkled smile. “Faded gentility, I think you’d call it.” He laughed. “Rather like me, perhaps, though I don’t lay claim to the charm.”
He stood up shakily and Marnie took his elbow to steady him. They walked to the door and out onto the drive as they had done before.
“Do you watch those programmes on television, Mrs Walker, the ones where people have their homes redecorated by their neighbours?”
“Er, no. I don’t get much time to do that. In fact, my own television set is still packed away since I moved up from London two years ago.”
“The programmes are dreadful. The people just guess what the others might like. It’s the opposite of what you do.”
“I do it professionally, Mr Devere. It’s how I earn my living.”
“Yes, but you’re not like those other people, the so-called experts, who foist their ideas on the ones I call the victims. You know the sort of programmes I mean? Some smooth-talking trendy imposes all manner of ghastly gimmicks on some unsuspecting soul who just thought it would be a good idea to get on television. Some of them end up in tears. Then the so-called designer shrugs and says he or she will be back next week to help some other wretch.”
Marnie was taken aback by this quietly-spoken tirade. She laughed gently.
“No, I’m not a celebrity designer. I just aim to make my clients happy.”
Mr Devere rested against the bonnet of the Discovery. It was the perfect height for his elbow.
“Celebrity designer.” A wry smile. “That’s the key word these days, isn’t it? Celebrity this, celebrity that. The world’s upside down.”
“In what sense?”
“No disrespect to you, Mrs Walker, you’re a true professional, but all this celebrity business. It’s the people who used to be the servant classes who rule these days.”
“I’m not quite sure I follow.”
“Think of the people who used to be minstrels or jesters. They’re now pop stars or comedians, earning huge sums on television. People who used to be hidden away in the kitchen are now celebrity chefs, world famous, with their own television shows and chains of restaurants. They’re far wealthier than the people they cook for. And half of them sound like foul-mouthed barrow boys.”
“I see.”
“And there are celebrity gardeners. More TV shows. We used to have six gardeners and under-gardeners here when I was a boy, and there were dozens of them in my father’s day before the Great War. Who ever heard of a celebrity gardener?”
Marnie hesitated to disagree with the old man in full flight. “Capability Brown, John Kent, Gertrude Jekyll?” she suggested.
“Ah now, yes, they were celebrities in their day. But they were like you, Mrs Walker, experts, who planned what was to be done. The gardeners planted the trees and laid out the beds. That’s the difference. Anyone can dig the soil. The great landscapers were both artists and botanists combined, people of genius.”
Marnie suddenly saw a way of changing the subject. “Talking of landscaping, Mr Devere, may I ask you something about Martyrs Close?” She turned and looked towards the church some distance away, its tower rising above the trees near where the executive housing estate was situated, out of sight. “It’s beyond that high wall, isn’t it? Can you remember what was there before the houses were built?”
“Trees. A spinney between the Court and the village.”
“And you sold it for housing?”
“No. My father leased the land to a developer. That was over twenty years ago. He had no choice.” The old man frowned. “Now, if you will excuse me …”
They shook hands and Marnie drove off. On the way home she wondered if Mr Devere regarded his daughter-in-law as an example of the lower orders who had risen above their station, thanks to having celebrity looks. The world’s upside down. Perhaps the old boy had a point.
*
As Marnie swung round the corner to the garage barn, she caught sight of Rob Cardew’s Land Rover parked outside his ‘base camp’. She climbed out of the Discovery and met Rob coming towards her. He looked more animated than usual.
“Marnie, can you spare me a minute or two?”
“Sure. Come round to the office.”
“I was wondering if we could have a word in private.”
Marnie stopped. “This concerns the body in the grave?”
“Indirectly.”
“There’s nothing you can tell me that you can’t say in front of Anne.” She smiled. “Sorry, that sounds like a cliché. What’s on your mind, Rob?”
“I hinted the other day about television.”
“Don’t tell me you’re about to become a celebrity archaeologist.”
“A what?”
“Sorry, private joke. Do go on.”
“Actually, you’re not too wide of the mark. Have you heard of Timeline?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s an archaeology programme on television.”
“I think you ought to come round to the office.” Marnie led the way. “If things are going to get more complicated here, I want Anne to know what’s happening.”
When the three of them were settled in the office barn, Marnie asked Rob to explain.
“The Timeline people are interested in the Knightly developments.”
“Surely the police won’t let them anywhere near Sarah’s grave,” Marnie said. “They’re treating it as a potential crime scene.”
Rob shook his head. “It’s not the grave they’re interested in, Marnie. It’s what else is going on round here.”
“Your settlements study, you mean?”
“No. Timeline is interested in witches.”
Marnie looked bewildered. “Where did they come in? I mean, I don’t recall anyone talking about witches, except of course to make the point that Sarah wasn’t one.”
“There are certain areas of the country where witchcraft has played an important part in history, Marnie, and in many cases continues to this day.”
“What are we talking about, Rob?”
Rob took a deep breath. “Well –”
“The potted version will do,” Marnie interjected.”
Rob flashed his owlish grin. “Rather than the three-hour lecture? Right. There are various levels to this. Historically, you could say witches were a kind of invention by the church. That might be controversial, but some would argue it was a way of combating heretics, pagans, superstition, dissenters in general. Okay?”
Marnie and Anne nodded. Rob continued.
“You could say there were three main strands to this. The church was after the ones who were out-and-out devil worshippers. They were seen as a threat to the authority of the Pope, or the head of the church after the Reformation. It was the same idea.”
&nb
sp; “And this kind of thing went on round here?”
“Oh yes. Northamptonshire was well known for it. Other counties included Essex, Sussex, Norfolk, Lancashire. They all had famous covens, not to mention the towns and villages around London.”
“I can’t imagine devil worship in Northamptonshire,” Marnie muttered, looking incredulous. “Black magic here? Seems impossible. What did it involve?”
“They were accused of invoking the devil, evil spirits, child sacrifice, the black arts, various lewd practices.”
“The black arts,” Marnie repeated. “It all sounds like smoke and mirrors to me. What were the other levels you mentioned?”
“The saddest one was probably the persecution of the mentally ill. In those times – we’re mainly talking about the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries here – people who suffered from certain conditions: depression, epilepsy, what we might now call paranoia, all sorts of phobias. They were regarded as being possessed by the devil.”
“I think we can guess what treatment the church authorities prescribed for dealing with such people.”
Rob nodded, his face grim. “Quite. Then you have the group known these days as the wise women.”
“Were they the white witches?” Anne asked.
“Some called them that. They were in touch with the old ways, the pagan traditions, observing the ancient festivals that went with the change of the seasons.”
“The winter festival of light,” Marnie observed. “The coming of spring, the harvest festival, the kind of things taken over by the church.”
Rob grinned again. “Absolutely, but I don’t think Randall would quite see it like that.”
“So how will this affect us, this Timeline thing?”
Rob paused for reflection. “They’ll be around for just a few days initially, checking out different sites.”
“Here?”
“And around the village.”
“What makes them think they’ll find traces of witches?” Anne asked.
“Their historians have been researching the area. They’ve got some ideas about where to look.”
Marnie frowned. “Don’t tell me …”