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

by Leo McNeir

  Everyone gazed at Winterburn, who stood with a slightly confused expression on her face.

  “How do you switch off the engine?”

  Marnie leapt forward and reached under the step.

  “Er, slightly primitive arrangement here, I’m afraid.”

  She pressed down on the cut-out lever and the Lister clattered to a gradual stop. Marnie withdrew a greasy finger. It was as if a spell had been broken. Marnie turned off the key in the ignition. Anne and Ralph set about the mooring ropes. The party stepped ashore where the detective was waiting for them. Danny produced a tissue from her back pocket and gave it to Marnie who wiped her fingers.

  “Good evening, sergeant. A late call.”

  “I thought you’d maybe done a runner again, Mrs Walker.”

  “I’m not obliged to stay on the premises, am I? I’m not under house arrest.”

  “Of course not. I have some news for you.” Everyone gathered round the detective. “Our search found no burials in the woods.”

  “Nothing? But surely –”

  “I said no burials, Mrs Walker. But we did find evidence of a large bonfire. Unfortunately,” He gave the word special emphasis, “much of the site had been trampled before we got there. You’d been there first.”

  Marnie shifted uneasily, glancing at Anne. “Oh dear.”

  “Quite. However, our scene-of-crime officers were able to identify different types of ash scattered over the hilltop and raked into the ground. We’ve sent samples off for analysis.”

  “Can ash tell you much?”

  “It should reveal whether the fire consumed more than just wood.”

  “Will you be able to let us know the outcome?” Ralph asked. “Assuming that we haven’t sailed Sally Ann off to South America in the meantime, of course.”

  A hint of a smile. “I’ll be in touch.” Binns looked at Marnie. “You did after all point us in that direction.”

  After Binns had left, Anne and Danny set out the first course while Marnie put the quiche in the oven to warm and Ralph opened more wine. As they began eating, Marnie explained to the guests the background to the detective’s visit. Fellheimer and Winterburn listened attentively, though Marnie knew Ralph had probably already outlined the situation to Guy.

  Winterburn dabbed the corners of her mouth with the napkin.

  “So you’re thinking that these were witches’ graves on your land and that modern witches – or whatever they call themselves these days – removed the remains and cremated them on a bonfire. That was to prevent anyone from touching them?”

  “That’s what we’re wondering,” Marnie said.

  “And they did that on a hill somewhere round here?”

  “Up in Knightly Woods beyond the village, the other side of the dual carriageway.”

  The old lady looked thoughtful.

  “What’s on your mind, Miss Winterburn?”

  “Presumably, they must have been buried by their own kind down here for some particular reason?”

  “They would have chosen a site of special spiritual significance,” Fellheimer interjected. “Pagan sites were often associated with a spring, for example, or some other feature like a rock or a glade or dell that they considered to have some kind of mystical quality.”

  “They deliberately chose not to scatter the ashes on consecrated ground?” Winterburn said.

  “They have their own views on what constitutes consecrated ground.”

  “What’s so special about the place in the woods where they had the bonfire?”

  “Well,” Marnie began, “we’ve been told that modern-day witches use it for festivities, ceremonies, special occasions, you know.”

  “So presumably, when you went up there and trampled the site – as your detective put it – you were probably trampling on the dusty remains of various dead witches.”

  Marnie made a face. “Nicely put, Miss Winterburn.”

  The old lady shrugged. “That’s how it was.” She took a sip of wine. “And it’s … Iris.”

  Marnie smiled. “It’s still a sobering thought … Iris.”

  “What’s new?” said Danny.

  When the dishes were cleared away and the next course was served, Ralph asked Fellheimer to bring them up to speed on his enquiries.

  “Do I take it you all know about the Man Who Never Was?” Heads nodded round the table. “Good. Well for some reason not readily apparent, there seems to be quite a lot of renewed interest at the moment in that episode in the war. It’s hardly a state secret. There have been books about him and a film, plus TV documentaries.”

  “So why now?” Marnie asked.

  “It appears someone has been carrying out research to establish who he really was.”

  “Hasn’t that been established?”

  “Not hitherto. In the film he was a Scot who’d died of pneumonia. There was a touching scene in which his father gave permission for the body to be used to serve his country. That was pure fiction.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Reasonably. This new research cut across a project being run in London. It apparently suggests the real man was a Welsh vagrant, who may have been buried in a cemetery in Treorchy, an alcoholic who died in Cardiff after ingesting rat poison. It contains cyanide which leads to chemical pneumonia.”

  Ralph leaned forward. “Why wasn’t it picked up through the research council, Guy? You wouldn’t normally expect two people to be researching the same topic. Waste of resources.”

  “It seems the work in question was being pursued as a kind of hobby. The person doing it was outside the university world. No-one in academia knew it was going on until an amateur historian in Cardiff contacted a publisher who brought it into the open.”

  “What happened to the London University project?” Marnie asked.

  Fellheimer raised a long finger. “That’s where it starts to get interesting. This research fellow at Queen Mary College, Nigel Penrose, was feeling pretty disgruntled after nearly two years spent on his project. He’d been in touch with a lecturer at King’s Cambridge who had similar interests, and she sympathised with his position.”

  “Would this be someone in Rob Cardew’s department?” Marnie asked.

  “No. She’s a historian, not an archaeologist. Dr Zoë Maltravers. She met Penrose at a seminar in Oxford at a time when he was desperately looking for other leads. Maltravers had come across some papers from the period in question while researching a topic on Germany’s post-war economic recovery. Sorry, this must sound terribly boring.”

  “Not at all,” Marnie said. “But I think, Guy, we’re probably wondering how this connects with Knightly St John.”

  “It doesn’t, except by implication. You see, Maltravers had come across references to a dossier relating to Hitler’s plans for governing Britain after invasion. Penrose arranged to examine the dossier in Cambridge in the library of Cantwell College. He followed all the correct procedures and travelled up from London to discover … that the dossier had been removed.”

  “By who?” Marnie corrected herself. “I mean, by whom?”

  Fellheimer raised both hands. “That is the question.”

  “To which you have no answer,” said Ralph.

  Fellheimer nodded.

  “Just like the remains at the Archaeological Materials Laboratory in Oxford,” Marnie said.

  “I think that may be your link with Knightly St John,” Ralph suggested.

  Marnie turned to Fellheimer. “Guy, what sort of thing is this dossier? What’s it like? Is it a folder of papers or a report or a book?”

  “I’ve not actually seen it, of course, but I understand it’s a collection of papers and a policy document.”

  “An official German government document from wartime?”

  “That’s what I understand, according to Henry Eustace.”

  “So it might be possible to find other copies of this document around?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Can I ask something?�
� Anne’s voice caused everyone to look in her direction. “Would this dossier be like secret plans, Hitler’s plans for who’d take control of Britain if he won the war?”

  “His plans in general are quite well-known, Anne,” Ralph said.

  “So who would’ve been in command?”

  “It’s been understood for some time that King Edward VIII would have been installed as a kind of puppet king under the direction of Hitler and his cronies.”

  “The one who abdicated? He’d come back?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And run Britain for the Nazis?” She looked incredulous. “He was on their side?”

  “That’s no secret, Anne. He was a sympathiser, and there’s quite a lot of evidence that some parts of the British aristocracy admired Hitler. They saw him as a bastion against the threat of Soviet Russia and communism.”

  “What has all this research stuff got to do with the body in Sarah’s grave?”

  To that question no-one had an answer.

  *

  It was dark when Marnie walked with Iris Winterburn to her car. The others were still at the table, but the old lady wanted to go back to her hotel before it got late.

  “I’m so glad to have seen you again, Miss … Iris.” Marnie smiled. “I can’t quite get used to calling you that.”

  “At my age very few people – fewer as time goes on – ever call you by your first name. It makes a pleasant change, as has my coming here this evening. Thank you, Marnie.”

  They reached the car and Winterburn opened the door.

  “Don’t hang around while I get ready to go. There’s all that fumbling with the keys and the seat belt and so on. Go back to your guests.”

  As they shook hands, Winterburn looked thoughtful.

  “I have a request. May I call in tomorrow, just briefly, some time in the morning? Or would that be inconvenient?”

  “We usually have coffee at ten-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  On the way back through the spinney Marnie was surprised to find Anne running through the trees towards her.

  “Oh no! Have I missed her, Marnie? She left when I was in the loo. Damn!”

  “It’s okay. She’s coming for coffee in the morning. You’ll be able to say goodbye then.”

  Chapter 34

  Official Secrets

  Morning clouds were clearing by the time Danny was setting the table on the grass beside Sally Ann. Straightaway after breakfast, Marnie had baked biscuits and left them to cool in the galley. To both their surprise, Anne had been otherwise engaged up in her attic. Their surprise increased when she eventually appeared shortly before ten-thirty wearing her best sun-dress.

  Danny was accustomed to being under-dressed, but on this occasion she decided to change out of her T-shirt and jeans. When she hurried off to the attic to put on her only dress, Marnie spoke casually to Anne.

  “Nice dress.”

  “Oh, yes. I thought I’d make a bit of an effort, as we had a guest coming.”

  “A special guest.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “I was just thinking about how you turned away when Iris took the tiller yesterday.”

  “Oh, did I? I suppose …”

  Anne blinked several times and her eyes became decidedly pink.

  “What is it, Anne?”

  Anne’s voice was choked.

  “Well, she is special, isn’t she? I mean, she’s one of the real Idle Women.” Two tears ran down Anne’s cheeks. “When I saw her at the tiller, it suddenly came over me. She was a living piece of history, and there she was, on our boat. It was …”

  Marnie went over and hugged her friend.

  “Yes, living history, but also a real person and I’m sure she’ll be pleased that you’ve made an effort for her.”

  “So have you, Marnie, and Danny is, too.”

  “Everything all right?”

  They turned to see Ralph coming across from Thyrsis. In blue shirt and cream chinos, he too looked as if he had dressed for the occasion. Marnie explained while Anne wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. Ralph kissed her on the forehead and she announced she would begin preparing coffee in the galley. She looked more cheerful as she walked away.

  “Is she okay?” Ralph murmured when Anne was out of earshot.

  “I think so. She was really moved by the idea that one of the famous Idle Women was actually standing beside her, steering our boat.”

  “I’m glad it’s nothing more than that.”

  “Oh, there is more to it than that, Ralph. I’m sure of it. Anne’s up to something and I haven’t a clue what it is.”

  *

  The table was decorated by a posy of small pink and white roses that Iris Winterburn had brought as a gift for her hosts and Anne had arranged in a vase. As Marnie served coffee and offered biscuits, she had the feeling that Winterburn had something to say. They had hardly begun when she was proved right.

  “I asked to come back this morning for two reasons, one of them personal the other … different.”

  “What’s on your mind, Iris?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what’s been going on round here and I don’t think you quite understand what it was really like in the war. When you see films about that time, you know how it all turned out, so it may be frightening, but you know the Allies won in the end. We didn’t have that insight and for much of the time we knew it could go either way.”

  “Like scary or what?” Danny said, her eyes wide with alarm.

  Winterburn ignored the interruption.

  “What you may not realise is the importance of secrecy in those years. We were constantly being told not to talk about anything we were doing that was remotely connected with the war effort. One of my friends actually called the police and accused a man of being a fifth columnist because he was plying her with questions about what their boat was carrying, how long it took to travel from Birmingham to London by canal and so on. It took him some time to persuade the police that he was just … what’s the expression?”

  “Chatting her up?” Anne suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why did you want to tell us that?” Marnie asked.

  “Because you have to understand why no-one knew about the Man Who Never Was. You see, if someone died, there were documents to be completed, procedures to follow. The real dead man had to have a funeral as part of the secrecy. They couldn’t just whisk away a corpse without explanation, even in wartime. Suspicions could be aroused if there was no funeral. One careless word in a pub by a hospital porter or a nurse about a vanishing body could get back to enemy intelligence.”

  “I’m sorry to seem stupid,” Anne said, “but how does that tie up with the remains found in Sarah’s grave in Martyrs Close?”

  Winterburn stared at her.

  “That’s just the point, Anne. It doesn’t. This person doing research in Wales who thinks the false remains – probably a load of sandbags the same weight as a man – are buried in somewhere like Treorchy cemetery may well be right. What is absolutely certain – unless I’ve got everything completely wrong – is that the remains found in the grave of the woman you mentioned are not at all connected with the man who ended up buried in Spain during the war. Anyone who thinks they are connected is looking in entirely the wrong direction.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Ralph. “Those remains have nothing to do with that operation in the war and moreover, they have nothing whatever to do with witches.”

  Marnie nodded. “We’re all back to square one.”

  “Not all,” Anne muttered.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Whoever removed the remains from Dr Goodchild’s lab must have known something about them, something important.”

  “Well, if the intelligence service has got hold of them, you’ll never hear of them again,” Winterburn said. Her tone was emphatic.

  Marnie got up and went to make another cafetière while the others sat mulling
over what had been said. When she returned, the conversation was still revolving around security during the war. Anne was speaking.

  “And didn’t they put up posters saying even walls have ears and careless talk costs lives? I’ve seen them in books about graphic design.”

  “Yes, but that was only part of it,” said Iris. “Secrecy went far deeper than that and it continues to this day.”

  Marnie bent over to fill her guest’s cup.

  “How does that work, Iris? I’m not sure I follow. It was all a long time ago.”

  “Not in historical terms,” Ralph pointed out.

  “I’m talking about human terms,” Iris persisted.

  “Can you give us an example?”

  “Let me just think.” The old lady stirred her coffee, an expression of deep concentration on her face. “Yes, I’m sure that would be all right.”

  Marnie took her seat again, and all eyes were on Iris Winterburn.

  “I’m not going to mention any names for obvious reasons. I have a friend I’ve known all my life. She married shortly after the war. One morning last year she received an invitation to a kind of reunion. It was in her name only, not including her husband. They were both going through the post at the breakfast table. My friend told her husband about the invitation, saying she would like to go, as it would involve meeting wartime colleagues she had not seen for decades. When she told him the date, he said he was going to a reunion on the same day.”

  “That’s amazing!” Danny exclaimed.

  “My friend asked her husband what kind of reunion it was. At first, he was evasive, so she asked him outright if it had anything to do with Bletchley Park. He was astonished and said it was indeed about Bletchley Park.”

  “Presumably that’s in Bletchley, the other side of Milton Keynes?” said Marnie.

  “Exactly.”

  “Does that have a special significance?”

  “It was one of the most important top secret units in the whole of the war. Even though ten thousand people from several countries worked there for years, its existence was never revealed. It’s where some of the most brilliant minds in Europe cracked the codes in the German communications system, called Enigma.”