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

by Leo McNeir

  *

  Marnie decided to visit Knightly Court that afternoon to check on progress. She also admitted to herself that she was curious to know if Celia had returned. The visit was a partial success. The decorators were pressing on at a great pace.

  On the other hand, there had been no word from Celia. Her departure and absence hung like a question mark over the manor. It was only as she was turning to leave that Marnie realised that something was missing from the job. The decorators were working without their usual musical accompaniment. The radio was switched off.

  When she remarked on this, the foreman explained that they had been asked not to use it because the ‘old gentleman’ was unwell. The butler had asked them to ‘refrain’.

  *

  Marnie persuaded Donovan to stay for dinner that evening. The meeting with Rosemary and Rob had ended unsatisfactorily, with Donovan disappearing into a private world of his own. She wanted to tie up a number of loose ends before he returned to London. At six o’clock, when the archaeologists began pulling out, the black Beetle found itself alone and conspicuous in the field. Anne offered Donovan her space in the garage barn, which he accepted. Once the car was out of sight, he seemed to relax and accepted Marnie’s further suggestion that he should stay overnight.

  On impulse, Marnie had an idea: they would eat in the small walled garden at the back of the empty cottage number three. It was enclosed and private, and they could use the cottage kitchen and patio furniture. Anne announced that she would make the preparations with Danny and Donovan, and Ralph suggested a takeaway.

  When Marnie finally tidied her desk for the day at seven, she walked across the courtyard and through the cottage to find everything in place. Tablecloth and napkins in yellow and white gingham added a cheerful air to the meal, and a festive touch was provided by a dozen nightlight candles in small glass holders glowing on the table. For half an hour or so they managed to forget their troubles, but inevitably the conversation returned to the matter that had brought Donovan up from London.

  Curiously, it was Danny who brought this about.

  “Donovan, what was that Dummkopf business about?”

  There were smiles around the table.

  “Dummkopf?” Marnie repeated. “What d’you mean?”

  Donovan was not smiling. He knew what she meant.

  “I didn’t say Dummkopf.”

  “What did you say, then?”

  Donovan shrugged. Danny persisted.

  “I was sitting near you and I clearly –”

  “All right. I actually said Totenkopf.”

  “A death’s head,” Ralph murmured. “A skull, like on a pirate flag, with crossbones.”

  “Or on a pennant,” Anne added, “a university department’s emblem?”

  Danny understood. “Holbeach Man! What’s he got to do with the tattoo?”

  Donovan mopped up sauce on his plate and seemed to ignore the question.

  “Are you thinking,” Ralph began, “it might be part of an identity number, the kind they used in concentration camps?”

  Marnie turned to Ralph, incredulous. “How could that be … in Knightly St John?”

  “I suppose Donovan put the idea in my head, made me think about the Nazis, and that made me wonder about the tattoo.”

  “I still don’t see –”

  “I think it could be the reverse,” Donovan cut in. “They used tattoos for various purposes. The Waffen-SS had them, for example, giving the soldier’s blood group. You could lose your dog-tag or pay book in battle and be unconscious, but with the tattoo in place the unit would always be able to give you an emergency transfusion in the field.”

  “But Donovan,” Marnie protested, “you’re surely not suggesting that the body in Sarah’s grave was a soldier from the SS?”

  “No, of course I’m not.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “Before we know that, we have some way to go.”

  “But why here in Knightly?”

  “Oh, I think we know that now.”

  “Do we?” Marnie looked totally confused. “I must’ve missed that part.”

  Anne broke in. “I thought you said this morning that it didn’t matter.”

  “No. I said it wasn’t the main question.”

  Danny made a strange growling sound and shook her head. “These are just riddles, Donovan. Why don’t you just say outright what you mean? Who do you think was buried in the grave? What’s the tattoo about? Why here in this village?”

  “I’d rather wait until I’m sure.”

  “But you must have some idea, a hunch. It’s obvious you do.”

  Donovan looked pained. Before he could give an answer, Ralph spoke quietly.

  “Danny, there’s nothing wrong in clarifying your thoughts before revealing them. I’ve spent much of my life teaching students to do just that.”

  Danny sighed. “But he doesn’t have to be so mysterious about it, does he?”

  Ralph smiled. “That’s how you see it from the outside. From inside, things might seem very different.”

  *

  Anne climbed up to the attic that night to find Danny lying on her side in the camp bed, elbow on the pillow, head propped up on one hand.

  “You’re sure it’s okay, Anne?”

  “What?”

  “Me sleeping up here and Donovan on Sally Ann?”

  “He’ll be comfortable enough on the boat with the Li-lo and sleeping bag.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I meant –”

  “I know what you meant. This is fine.” Anne’s tone was emphatic.

  “I only asked.” Danny looked pleased with herself. “I think I’ve worked it out.”

  “Well it may not be quite what you think, Danny.”

  “No, listen. I meant about the body in the grave. What if in the war an enemy agent parachuted in, like a spy?”

  Anne was doubtful. “Parachuted in to Knightly St John?”

  “Why not? It’s fairly central, secluded, lots of places to hide.”

  “And the risk of being seen,” Anne added.

  “Yes! Suppose he was captured and killed by the locals. They’d have a grim secret – a sort of war crime. They’d probably decide to bury him somewhere he’d never be discovered, in an old grave. They’d think it would be safe. No-one would disturb it, not even the risk of coming across it by chance while levelling the churchyard. What d’you think?”

  “Well, it leaves a lot of other questions unanswered. I mean, why would the government want it hushed up now? Why would they want to take away all the evidence?”

  “I don’t have all the answers, Anne, but I think I could be on to something.”

  Anne slipped under her duvet and yawned. She hoped Danny’s theory wouldn’t give her friend bad dreams.

  *

  Not far away, in the sleeping cabin on Thyrsis, Marnie was sitting on the end of the bed, brushing her hair. Ralph was sitting, propped up against his pillow, reading. Marnie turned to look at him.

  “I must say, I thought Danny had a point this evening. Donovan can be rather maddening with his mysteries. Though, I suppose, to be fair, you were right to speak up for him. It must have been just as frustrating for you.

  “On the contrary, my dear Watson. I think I’ve worked it out, too.”

  “And you’re going to be as maddening as Donovan, no doubt?”

  “No.”

  “You mean you’re going to tell me what you’ve deduced, Holmes?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I thought I’d let you wheedle it out of me.”

  “Oh? How will I do that?”

  Ralph closed his book and slipped it onto the shelf above his head.

  “I’m sure you’ll find imaginative ways …”

  Chapter 39

  Donovan’s Friend

  Unusually, Marnie went for a walk alone that next morning before breakfast while Ralph was in the shower and the girls had not yet appeared. It was
Thursday, and she realised with surprise that the university dig was almost at an end. She strolled from the spinney past the HQ barn and stood beside the witch-graves, recently filled in, staring out at the trench-pitted slope.

  The previous night in bed, she had listened while Ralph outlined his understanding of the circumstances surrounding the body in Sarah Anne’s grave. Or rather while he explained his interpretation of Donovan’s line of thought.

  “Come on, then, brainbox, tell all. What did Donovano Mysterioso mean when he said he knew what had happened here?”

  Marnie had rolled Ralph onto his front and was running her fingertips up and down the length of his naked back.

  “If you carry on like that I’ll drop off before you’ve gained my full attention,” he muttered into the pillow.

  “Wait till I turn you onto your back and start on the other side,” she whispered into his ear. “I guarantee that will get me your full attention.”

  He groaned. Marnie continued.

  “Well? What did he mean? Start telling me while I search for the thumbscrews.”

  “Working backwards, which is what you’re doing rather effectively,” He arched his back as Marnie’s fingernails drifted between his shoulder-blades. “first of all, Donovan doesn’t know whose remains were in the grave.”

  “So we’re no further –”

  “However, there are one or two things we do know. The man must have died in suspicious circumstances. I know that’s very obvious, but bear with me a moment. Whoever buried him probably killed him. Reasonable? So the first question is: why?”

  “Why did he kill him?”

  “It’s two questions, really. Why did he kill him and why did he bury him secretly in a place where he was unlikely to be found?”

  “Because it was murder?”

  “All right, let’s assume that for now. Marnie, don’t stop doing that.”

  Marnie shifted her position. She pulled Ralph’s right arm out straight and lay face down across it, leaving her left hand free to continue its roaming.

  “Not too uncomfortable?”

  “Well within the bounds of the Geneva Convention on the interrogation of prisoners, I’d say.”

  “Good. Carry on, then.”

  “We’re assuming of course that all this happened in the nineteen-forties, and I’m sure Donovan believes it took place during the war. He thinks the tattoo has something to do with the Nazis, hence his Totenkopf allusion.”

  “All this we know. When are you going to tell me something new? The thumbscrews are just a shot away.”

  “I’m taking things step by step, setting out the salient points in a – ouch! All right. This is where it gets interesting. Let’s assume whoever was killed, it had something to do with the war. If it had been someone military, say, a soldier or an agent killed while trying to parachute in, there’d have been no reason to conceal the body.”

  “The wicked Hun invader repulsed,” Marnie intoned. “Good propaganda, medals all round.” She made a flourish on Ralph’s back like a regiment of spiders scurrying about.

  Ralph moaned with pleasure.

  “Exactly. You know, Marnie, if we introduced this method into our examination procedures, I’m sure we’d get much better results in our vivas.”

  “Your whats?”

  “Oral exams.”

  “Orals. Now you’re giving me ideas …”

  Ralph quickly moved on, before he lost concentration.

  “You realise I’m trying to follow Donovan’s reasoning in all this.”

  “Not your own? I thought you agreed with him.”

  “I’m using his ideas – as far as I can tell – as a starting point, a kind of working hypothesis.”

  “Okay, but don’t get too technical on me. I’m not used to the ways and methods of academia.”

  “Your methods are much better, believe me. So, a man was killed, presumably because he was an enemy who had to be silenced.”

  “But why conceal the –”

  “It was obviously important that his identity should be kept secret. That’s the question on Donovan’s mind. He doesn’t think we can work out who it was – even if we could decipher the tattoo – assuming it’s relevant – but he does have a theory about why the burial had to be secret.”

  “Which is?”

  “I believe he thinks it was probably in case it gave away the identity of the person who had discovered the dead man’s activities. The killer was worried about possible revenge.”

  “By whom?”

  “Thinking about what Donovan has let out and what Fellheimer’s chess friend, Henry Eustace, has told me, I think it could be because there was an active fifth column group in the area.”

  “You mean like spies?”

  “Could be. And not just any common-or-garden spies. Whoever they were, they were somehow connected with the upper ranks of British society.”

  “Let me get this straight. You think – that is, Donovan thinks – the man was a fifth columnist, killed for being a spy, and the killer hid the body for fear of reprisals. That right?”

  “More or less.”

  “That’s your answer to Donovan’s question: why the cover-up?”

  “Seems logical.”

  “What about the other question? Who killed our spy and how did he rumble him?”

  “We have no way of knowing that, any more than we can identify who the dead man was, on the evidence we have.”

  Marnie’s hand was now describing languorous circles up and down Ralph’s spine. Suddenly, he rolled onto his side, facing Marnie, easing his right arm gently out from under her.

  “Actually, I do have a theory about who killed him, or at least an idea.”

  Marnie rolled him onto his back and began slowly criss-crossing his chest with her fingernails.

  “Is this your theory or Donovan’s? It’s getting difficult to keep up with you.”

  “I think you’re way ahead of me, Marnie.”

  “Concentrate!”

  “The Deveres.”

  “You think one of them killed the man in the grave?”

  “Why not? Don’t you think that’s why Donovan is being so cautious about naming the person he suspects? We know they have a history as patriots and war heroes. I’m sure the Deveres would react in a very hostile manner if they uncovered an enemy agent.”

  The tips of Marnie’s fingers were now flickering across Ralph’s abdomen, heading south in a significant direction.

  “They’d be able to conceal the body easily on their own land,” she murmured, “and ensure the grave site stayed hidden under brambles to keep everybody away. D’you think I’m getting there?”

  “Any time soon, I hope.”

  Marnie grinned and laid her head on the pillow.

  “It all seems possible,” she muttered, “but somehow it doesn’t ring true.”

  “Mm?”

  “Sure, they would have bumped off an enemy, with their track record in wars, but why wouldn’t they be able to report it to the authorities and let them take care of things? Surely, that’s what they would’ve done if they’d been involved.”

  “Maybe.” Ralph’s voice was drowsy.

  “But it didn’t have to be the Deveres themselves,” Marnie continued. “It could have been someone who knew their estate, perhaps worked on the estate, though everyone in Knightly knew the estate, and many probably knew about Sarah’s grave. Donovan’s right. The question is: why the cover-up? Who were they trying to protect? Or perhaps, who scared them so much they had to conceal the murder to keep suspicion from falling on them?”

  Marnie sighed and rolled onto her back. Her head was spinning. She had the sensation of going round in perpetual circles. No wonder Donovan didn’t want to reveal his hand until he had things worked out. Ralph had been right. Donovan may have appeared mysterious on the surface, but deep down inside, he might have been undergoing the same inner turmoil that Marnie was feeling.

  Of one thing she was certain: they had
no way of finding the answers to the unresolved questions. Too much time had elapsed since the dead man had been lowered into Sarah’s grave. Marnie closed her eyes, hoping for enlightenment, breathing deeply to calm her mind.

  They had eventually fallen asleep without making love, entwined in each others’ arms, and had awoken next morning to find the sleeping cabin lights still on. Both of them had a slight crick in the neck.

  Marnie resumed her morning walk across the sloping field, squeezing the back of her neck, amazed at how many test pits and trenches had been cut into the land. Her head was still filled with the images conjured up the previous night.

  Graves. All around her were graves. Away to her right down near the moorings were the shallow graves of the two navvies. Not far from them were the witch-graves whose occupants had probably been cremated on the heights of Knightly Woods. Up near the church was Sarah’s grave with its shadowy interloper. Two outcasts, who had lain together undetected for half a century, unlamented and unmissed. A far cry from the local hero with his own personal war memorial in St John’s churchyard, whose actual grave may have been in foreign soil in Normandy, but whose remains were revered in a plot carefully tended by his comrades and their respectful descendants.

  Marnie turned back, anxious to return to the land of the living.

  *

  Anne’s site visit to see the decorators at Knightly Court had become a daily routine, preferable to the possibility of an unpleasant surprise catching them unawares. On arrival, she spotted Celia’s Audi parked in its usual place on the drive to the right of the front door. On the other side, the decorators’ van occupied its usual place. After a few words with the men, Anne climbed back into the Mini to return to base.

  She reached the high street in time to follow the convoy of archaeologists heading for Glebe Farm. When she walked into the office she was accompanied by Rob Cardew.

  “Did you realise, Marnie, these are our last days trampling over your land? After Saturday you’ll be rid of us.”

  “We’ll miss you.” Marnie hoped that sounded convincing.

  “I’m sure.” He flashed the owlish grin.

  “I’ll be redundant as tea-girl,” Anne said.

  “We’ll miss you.” Rob spoke with absolute conviction. “But before we leave, we’ll be having an end-of-dig party on Saturday evening. If you’re free we’d like you to join us, all of you from Glebe Farm.”