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

by Leo McNeir

  *

  The senior common room at University College London was not the place for a quiet private conversation, so Paul had arranged to meet his friend for a pub lunch in Bloomsbury at noon, before the main rush started. Beth had promised Marnie that her husband would try to find out more of the background to Timeline. Dr Paul Sutton and Dr Rufus Maitland found a corner table away from the entrance and ordered beer and sandwiches.

  Paul began with a casual question about Maitland’s latest research project: the despoiling of the monasteries: Henry VIII’s disposal of their wealth following the Reformation in England, 1536-1547. He had finished one pint of beer, a large ham salad baguette and a packet of ready-salted crisps before Maitland seemed to pause for breath.

  When Maitland finally made a start on his baguette, Paul got a word in. “My sister-in-law’s got a load of archaeologists up at her place at the moment, something to do with settlements.”

  A nod. “You mentioned it before. Cambridge, isn’t it?”

  “Some chap called Cardew.”

  “Rob Cardew. Very sound, knows his stuff, all right. Only problem with him is, he’s rather obsessive about it all.”

  “Really? There’s a surprise.”

  “Wife’s in the same line, too. She’s at Oxford.”

  “Marnie tells me your Timeline chums are coming to descend on her at any minute.”

  Maitland paused briefly before biting into the baguette. He chewed steadfastly on, as if his digestion depended on it. Paul was undeterred.

  “Are you involved in that programme, Rufus? You’re one of their consultants, aren’t you?”

  Maitland took a large swig of beer. “Indirectly.” He stared into his glass.

  Paul waited and eventually said, “I’ve never really understood where this witchcraft thing came from. To me it’s all –”

  Maitland turned his gaze on Paul with an extraordinary intensity of expression.

  “Rufus, what’s going on? I know there’s something. I can’t imagine what can be so compelling about a load of superstitious old hags dancing round –”

  “It’s not about witchcraft.” Maitland had lowered his voice.

  “Then what is it that’s got your knickers in a twist?”

  Maitland shook his head imperceptibly.

  Paul was not going to be deterred. “Is it to do with the body in the grave on top of the coffin?”

  “What do you know about that, Paul?”

  “Only what Beth’s heard from Marnie, and she doesn’t know much.”

  Maitland was not making eye contact and seemed to be lost in reverie. More chewing, more beer. After an age had passed he looked up at Paul.

  “Your sister-in-law would be well advised to keep out of the way.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s just it, I’m not in the loop on this one.”

  “Then why are you giving me the gypsy’s warning? You must know something, Rufus. You’re the consultant. You must have some idea what’s going on.”

  Maitland pushed the plate away and drained his beer. “It started off quite simply, the way these things do. One enquiry leads to another. You begin with one question, you end up somewhere else, sometimes quite different. You never know what’s going to emerge when you dig up the past.”

  “That’s what happened when they dug up the grave and found those remains?”

  “Yes. They carried out tests –”

  “Who did?”

  “This lab in Oxford, where Cardew’s wife works. They called in some experts, then some more, then … nothing. Suddenly doors were slamming in faces.”

  “Why?”

  Maitland shrugged.

  “Rufus, you said it began simply. What did you mean by that?”

  “I can’t tell you anything more, Paul.”

  “You’ve been warned off, haven’t you?”

  “In a way.”

  “Who by?”

  Maitland looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back.”

  “Who warned you off? What had your colleagues discovered? You can at least tell me about the start of it all, if it was just simple, as you put it.”

  Maitland smiled. “It reminded me of the old poem, you know, the one about the stairs.”

  “You’re talking in riddles.”

  “I suppose it is like a kind of riddle. You must know the poem:

  Yesterday upon the stair

  I met a man who wasn’t there.

  He wasn’t there again today.

  I wish, I wish he’d go away.”

  *

  Anne was up in the attic settling a flaked-out student on her bed when the office phone rang. Marnie took the call and listened carefully while Ralph outlined his conversation with Fellheimer.

  “I can see why the idea has persisted that Sarah was a witch. These old myths hang around – sorry – and just won’t go away.”

  “But Ralph, if Guy makes his findings available to the Timeline people, surely that will be an end of it.”

  “Probably, though you can never be sure.”

  “Well that’s some progress at least. Thanks. So, what time will you be back this evening?”

  “Hang on, Marnie, there’s something else. Guy thinks there’s something going on in the background, to do with the remains in Sarah’s grave.”

  “Such as?”

  “He’s not sure. It’s more a question of what isn’t being said.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “No-one wants to talk about it. Guy finds that suspicious.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Not quite. He’s got a friend who has links with Timeline, consulted on one of their programmes. Guy’s going to do a little digging of his own to see what he might uncover.”

  “You know, Ralph, I’m wondering if we might be reading too much into this. Could it be nothing more than academic jealousy?”

  Ralph laughed. “What a surprise! That’s always a possibility, of course. Oh, there was one other thing. Guy wondered if anyone went missing around the time the remains were put in the grave. That would be roughly from the thirties to the fifties.”

  “Surely the police will’ve checked that.”

  “Have they said anything about it?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Might be interesting to find out.”

  Anne came down the wall-ladder a minute or two later. “Any more of this and I’ll be putting in for a nurse’s uniform. We’ll have to change the name of the place to Glebe Casualty Clearing Station. She’s the third one to conk out today. I reckon it’s cooler up in my room than outside on the crash pad.”

  “Mm.”

  Anne lowered her voice. “I think she might have more than just heat exhaustion, that one. I’ve got more than a slight suspicion she’s got a hangover.”

  Anne looked across at Marnie, who was staring into space.

  “Marnie? You all right? Don’t say you’re going to pass out.”

  Marnie looked up as if she had not heard what Anne was saying. “What? Er, no.”

  “You sure?”

  “Anne, did the police say anything about missing persons?”

  “The remains in the grave, you mean? I think Cathy Lamb did say they were looking into that. First thing they’d check, I imagine.”

  Marnie reached for the phone. “Angela, hi it’s Marnie. I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know if the police have run a check on missing persons from the time the body was buried in Sarah’s grave?”

  “Yes. They were talking about it some time ago.”

  “Do you know what they found out?”

  “They’ve not actually said, but Binns probably wouldn’t have told me anyway.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Cathy Lamb did mention that such occurrences were quite rare in Northamptonshire, people going missing and turning up dead.”

  “Oh well, just a thought.”

  “Have you tri
ed asking any of the older people, like George Stubbs?”

  “George? Surely he’d be too young to remember that far back.”

  “He was born in the thirties, a child in the forties, grew up in the fifties. He might have heard things.”

  *

  At four-thirty Anne climbed down the wall-ladder and went to her desk to gather up the day’s letters for posting. She nodded significantly towards the attic.

  “She’s still sleeping it off.”

  Marnie put down her pencil. “Fancy a run out in the MG?”

  “On a Thursday tea-time?”

  “Ideal weather for it.”

  “You’re on.”

  After pausing briefly by the post-box for Anne to drop off the letters, Marnie accelerated up the high street. She was still only in third gear when she gave a hand signal, braked and turned into the drive of one of the finest houses in the village. Passing the name board, The Old Farm House, she pulled up at the end of the long drive by a perfect herbaceous border, blipped the throttle and switched off the engine. The classic car looked as if it had been made to stand in front of the creamy stone façade.

  Marnie climbed out and Anne followed, looking puzzled.

  “This is the run out, calling on Mr Stubbs?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you sure he’s at home?”

  “I checked while you were up in the loft doing your Florence Nightingale bit.”

  Marnie pressed the brass button of the bell. They waited in silence, breathing in the perfume from a deep red rose climbing round the doorway. Mrs Stubbs invited them inside and led them through to a large, square living room with double French windows opening into a conservatory. Anne glanced sideways towards the open door of the kitchen. She could see half the Aga, shining in cream enamel with bright chromed lids.

  “George will be down in a minute, Marnie. He’s upstairs washing his hands, been doing some weeding. You know how it is at this time of year. The garden’s an absolute wilderness.”

  Marnie could not suppress a smile. “I think we could show you a real wilderness, Sheila. I haven’t even got started on the Glebe Farm garden yet.” She raised a hand towards the windows. “Look at your view. Magnificent.”

  Across the diagonally striped lawn, the view was dominated by a further herbaceous border, swathes of colour glowing in the sunshine, the tops of fruit trees visible beyond.

  “You’ll get there, my dear, you’ll get there.” George Stubbs entered the room. In country check shirt and flannel trousers secured round his substantial girth by a leather belt, he was pink in the face from his exertions. “I know you want to do it all properly, and that’s the only way to get things right. You’ve transformed the place already. Bloody marvellous. Oh! Pardon my French.”

  Sheila invited her visitors to sit down. Anne almost sighed with pleasure as she sank into the deep cushions of a blue and white chintz-covered sofa.

  “May I offer you tea while you have your chat with George? Would you like to stay in here or sit outside?”

  “Cooler in here,” George said, planting himself heavily in an armchair. “Tea would be wonderful, dear. I bet Marnie and Anne would appreciate that Lapsang Souchong we had delivered.”

  When his wife left the room, George turned to Marnie with a smile. “You said you wanted to talk about the other body in Sarah’s grave. So, how can I help?”

  “One of Ralph’s colleagues wondered if anyone had gone missing about the time the body was placed there. I don’t know if you’ve heard whether the police have come to any conclusions on that?”

  George shook his head. “They questioned me about it, of course, and a number of other people too. Frankly, my dear, I don’t think they’ve got anywhere with those enquiries. I’ll tell you what I told them. To the best of my knowledge there’s never been a missing person unaccounted for in this neck of the woods.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say, George.”

  “Well, I’ve lived here all my life and I’m sure I’d know, or I would’ve heard something in the last sixty years. People talk. You know what it’s like in a village.”

  “I did wonder about asking Albert Fletcher. Being older than you, his memory might go back further.”

  George raised his palms. “True. But I think he’ll say the same thing. Though there was his brother, of course.”

  Marnie sat up straight. “His brother?”

  George nodded. “Arthur. He went missing.”

  “The name on the war memorial,” Anne said quietly. “Arthur Fletcher, Corporal.”

  “That’s right. We looked at it the other day, didn’t we Anne?”

  Marnie relaxed again. “But he was killed in the war.”

  “The inscription was Killed or Missing in Action,” Anne said.

  “That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Pretty much,” George agreed. “People go off to war, don’t come back, are never seen again. It’s very hard on their families, never getting the chance to say good-bye.”

  “Oh sorry, George, thoughtless of me.” Marnie looked pained. “He must’ve been related to you. Albert Fletcher is your cousin, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. His father and my mother were first cousins, so I think that makes us cousins of some sort. And Arthur, too, though I’ve no firm memories of him. He was a good bit older than me. I was only three when the war broke out. He joined up straight away in ’39. That’s practically the last I remember of him.”

  “He was lost early on?”

  “Not really. He came back on leave occasionally. Then that last time he came home for a short leave. Don’t know if I actually saw him. Went back to war and soon afterwards we heard from the big house that he was missing in action.”

  “The big house?” Marnie repeated.

  “Arthur was an under-gardener at the Court.”

  “Why did they tell the family? Didn’t the authorities send a telegram direct?”

  “Arthur lived in the servants’ quarters up at the Court. That was his address, so they sent it there. Old Quentin Devere went personally to Arthur’s parents to give them the news. Very good of him. Some landowners would’ve just sent a boy along with a message.”

  “I see. A sad business.”

  George gazed out towards the garden for a few moments. “Strange, really …”

  “What is?”

  “So many men were lost in the first war, only those two in the second.”

  “Roland,” Anne murmured. “With his own personal war memorial.”

  “Yes. Though no-one would begrudge him that. They say it broke the old man’s heart when he was posted as missing in action. That was behind enemy lines, of course.”

  “He was highly decorated,” Anne said.

  “Oh yes. He was the older son, father doted on him. A fine young man, as well as a war hero.”

  “Were there any others in the family of that generation?” Marnie asked.

  “No, just the two boys.”

  “What did Marcus do in the war?”

  “Not sure, to be honest. Never really heard anyone talk about it. But then, people lived more privately in those days. Families like the Deveres were somewhat distant.”

  *

  On the way home, Marnie banished thoughts of wars and the dead by taking to minor roads. The little sports car was in its element, burbling along country byways that had hardly changed since the time it was first built. Marnie laughed out loud, causing Anne to look at her.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Just occurred to me.” Marnie raised her voice above the sound of the engine and the road noise. “The MG is almost exactly the same age as George Stubbs.”

  “Blimey!”

  “Quite. Rather an antique!”

  “Which one?”

  “Both!”

  They laughed cheerfully together. Marnie was glad not to be dwelling on the gloomy subjects that seemed to be dominating their lives that summer. It was good to be out in the country, feeli
ng the taut suspension keeping the car firmly under control in the twisty bends, the faint warm smell from the engine and the rush of the air blowing through their hair.

  Anne had thrown her head back in exultation, but turned again to look at Marnie.

  “I love their house. It’s brilliant! Did you see the Aga in the kitchen?”

  “Of course.”

  “I bet you’ll make Glebe Farm just as nice. Will you get an Aga?”

  Marnie made a face. “D’you know what those things cost?”

  “Arm and a leg?”

  “Both arms and both legs.”

  Anne grimaced. “But they are beautiful, perfect for a country house.”

  “Tell me about it.” Marnie smiled.

  Anne knew Marnie was trying to imagine the kitchen at Glebe Farm, perhaps with a tiled floor, a Welsh dresser and an Aga as the gleaming centrepiece.

  “Are you and Ralph going to have children, Marnie? Oh sorry, don’t know why I said that. It just slipped out. None of my business.”

  “Thinking of families gathered round the kitchen table for tea on chilly afternoons, warmed by the Aga?”

  “I suppose that’s what it was. Forget I spoke.”

  “I think it’s got to be one thing at a time, Anne. That’s the answer to your question.”

  “Right. What colour Aga will you have?”

  Marnie laughed. “I told you, one thing at a time.”

  “Sorry.”

  They drove on for a few miles before Marnie took a turning that led back to Knightly St John. The engine was singing in the warm air as Marnie glanced briefly at Anne.

  “Maybe dark red or deep blue?”

  Anne grinned. “That’s what I’d have. Hard to choose between them.”

  Marnie relaxed at the wheel. Rounding a bend, the top of the church tower came fleetingly into view as they approached Knightly St John. In her mind’s eye she saw Knightly Court somewhere beyond the church and tried not to imagine the Devere family in times past, gathered round the tea table, the parents with their two boys who would grow to manhood in a war that only one of them would survive.

  *

  Marnie parked the MG in the garage barn and went back to her desk, while Anne hauled the heavy five-litre water bottle from the fridge and set off on her regular mission. The red light was flashing on the answerphone. Three messages: two routine, one family.