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

by Leo McNeir

  “Yes. Trouble is, Celia can’t get back because the roads are too icy, and the butler’s apparently stuck in Stony Stratford.”

  Marnie snatched up her car keys and made for the door. “Come on. We’d better get up there.”

  “Will your car get through?”

  “We’ll soon find out.” Marnie grabbed her jacket from its hook. “Anne, can you ring Donovan and get him to come and help. We may need to dig out the garage barn.”

  Two minutes later Donovan was shovelling hard to clear a snowdrift that was blocking in the Discovery. He climbed aboard with the three women and they set off at a cautious pace up the field track. They willed the four-wheel-drive up the treacherous slope in conditions that resembled a blizzard, as its chunky tyres bit into the snow and ice.

  “So far, so good,” Marnie murmured as they eased past Angela’s abandoned car in the field.

  They slithered through the field gates and out onto the high street. No other traffic was stirring as they took the road to Knightly Court. Visibility was worsening by the minute, and the wind seemed to be gaining in force. The entrance to the Court loomed up ahead.

  “Mind the gateposts, Marnie. They’re very solid stone.”

  Marnie suddenly turned to Angela. “If the butler’s out, how do we get in?”

  Angela was aghast. “Oh, lore. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  They parked by the front door and Angela trod carefully towards it. Inevitably, it was locked. Donovan walked round the side of the house and found a back entrance. Locked. He continued on his way and met Angela coming from the other direction. They took shelter from the elements in the lee of the conservatory.

  “This is awful,” Angela said, raising her voice above the howling wind. “There’s no way of getting in. It’s hopeless.”

  Donovan pointed to an outbuilding. “There’s a ladder hanging on the wall over there. You go back to the car that way and see if there’s a window open upstairs. I’ll carry on round here.”

  They met again by the front door and huddled in the porch. Marnie and Anne got out of the car to join them. Donovan indicated over his shoulder with a thumb.

  “I think there’s one window slightly open at the back on the first floor. I’ll fetch the ladder and have a go at getting in, but you’ll have to hold it to stop me blowing away.”

  “Oh, Donovan, you can’t do that,” Angela protested. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Donovan spread his arms. “Alternative suggestions gratefully received.”

  “We’ll all hold it firm,” Marnie said. “Come on. Where is this ladder?”

  With the three of them holding on tight, Donovan climbed gingerly to the window. Marnie tried to look up at him, but the snow whipped her face and she had to turn away. They felt the ladder shaking as Donovan struggled to raise the sash window high enough to climb in. The ladder became still and they heard his voice through the snowstorm.

  “That’s it. I’m through. I’ll come down and let you in.”

  “Can you see if Mr Devere’s all right first,” Angela called up.

  The women lowered the ladder to the ground and headed back to wait in the car. Minutes passed.

  “Where is he?” Angela said.

  “We know he’s in there,” Marnie replied. “Perhaps the old guy’s in a bad way.”

  “Something’s happened.” Anne’s tone filled the others with dread. “Donovan wouldn’t hang around for no reason.”

  “Perhaps the window was on a landing,” Angela began. “Perhaps he’s fallen down the stairs or something.”

  “No.” Anne pushed open the car door. “I’m going to see.”

  She was gone before anyone could stop her, rushing from window to window, peering in until she went out of sight round the side of the house. The snow was slashing at the windscreen, piling up against the glass like window-panes in a Victorian Christmas card. They waited, but Anne did not return.

  Suddenly Marnie put a hand to her throat. “Oh, no … Anne!”

  “What is it?” Angela looked alarmed.

  “She’ll try to climb up the ladder. I know she will. I’ve got to stop her.”

  Marnie was out of the car, forcing her way against the blizzard, before Angela could react.

  “Oh Jesu,” said the vicar, and leapt out in pursuit.

  They found Anne battling to prop the ladder up against the partly open window. Marnie grabbed her arm.

  “You can’t do this, Anne.”

  “I can if you’ll hold the ladder,” she shouted.

  “No. It’s too risky. The conditions are getting worse. Come on, back to the car. If he’s not out in five minutes, I’m going to call 999 for help.”

  They half-dragged Anne back and climbed into the Discovery. Marnie turned the engine on to run the heater.

  “There must be a reason why he hasn’t come out.”

  “That’s what I was trying to find out,” Anne said calmly.

  “What could be the reason?” Angela asked.

  “God knows.” Marnie checked her watch. “I don’t like this.”

  “How long is it now?” Angela again.

  Anne replied. “About ten minutes.”

  Angela was wringing her hands. “What can have happened?”

  Marnie pulled out her mobile. “We can’t just sit here. We need back-up.”

  She pressed three nines and raised the phone to her ear. As she heard the first ring, Angela put a hand on her arm.

  “Listen, Marnie.”

  Through the roaring of the wind they heard a siren wailing. Marnie pressed the red button on the mobile. The siren grew louder.

  “It’s getting nearer,” Angela swivelled to look out of the rear window. “It must be coming here.”

  Through the buffeting snow they saw lights, white and blue, as an ambulance beat its way through the gates and down the drive. It pulled up on the other side of the porch.

  “There’s Donovan!” Anne cried, pointing to the front door.

  He stood holding the door open. Two men in green tunics leapt out of the ambulance, each carrying a bag, the word Paramedic emblazoned across their backs. They jogged into the house, quickly followed by Marnie, Anne and Angela.

  Donovan led the paramedics up to the bedrooms and came down to find the others waiting at the foot of the stairs. His expression was grim.

  “How is he?” Marnie said.

  Donovan’s mouth turned down. “Not good.”

  “But he’s alive?”

  “Maybe, hard to tell.”

  “You’ve been trying to revive him?” Anne said.

  “Not quite. Tell you about it later.”

  One of the paramedics came down and walked briskly out through the front door. He returned carrying a bag the size of a rucksack and bounded up the stairs without a word.

  The four of them stood in the hall, no-one noticing the beautiful decor. While they waited, Anne’s eyes drifted across to Donovan. He looked drained.

  *

  Ralph was becoming a dab hand at producing fortified coffee. As Marnie and the others were returning to Glebe Farm, she had phoned to let him know they were on their way back. They pushed open the door of the office barn to be greeted by the aroma of coffee and brandy.

  They had been relieved of their duties not long after the paramedics arrived by the butler. With great presence of mind he had phoned Leonard Fletcher, the farmer, and asked if he could fetch him from Stony Stratford in the Land Rover. With nothing left for them to do, Marnie and the others had gone home.

  Angela asked if she could make a phone call to tell Randall what had happened.

  After she disconnected, Ralph said, “You’ve had quite a morning.”

  “But that’s not everything, is it?” Anne said, looking at Donovan.

  “No.”

  “Are you going to tell us?” Marnie said. “You were gone a long time.”

  Donovan looked troubled. “Confession is confidential, isn’t it?”

  “Confession?
” Angela repeated. “What confession?”

  “To a priest, I mean. Isn’t that kind of confession supposed to be secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if it isn’t given to a priest, but to someone who’s mistaken for a priest by someone who’s too ill to know the difference?”

  “Mistaken for a priest?”

  They all looked at Donovan. He was wearing his usual black jeans and sweater with a white T-shirt visible round the neck. They understood what he meant.

  Ralph said, “I think you should tell us what happened, Donovan.”

  “Okay. I will …”

  *

  Donovan managed to get the window open and slide into the house over the sill, lowering himself onto the floor in what was obviously a large bedroom. He called down to the others and heard Angela telling him to check Mr Devere before letting them in. As he turned to find the door in the darkened room, he realised that the bed protruding from the wall was occupied. He crept towards it and bent forward. Marcus Devere was lying on his back sleeping, his breath shallow and wheezing.

  Satisfied that the old man was alive, he made his way across the room and was reaching for the door handle when he heard a faint voice behind him.

  “Is that you, Robert?”

  “No, sir.” Donovan walked quickly back to the bedside. “No, it isn’t. Can I get you something?”

  Marcus Devere looked up from the pillow, his rheumy eyes trying to focus. “Oh, it’s you, father.” The voice was weak. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It’s not –”

  “I must tell you.” A hand reached out from the bedclothes and took hold of Donovan’s wrist. “You must hear my confession.”

  “But I can’t –”

  “Before it’s too late.”

  Donovan knelt by the bed, his mind racing. What should he do? With the storm raging outside, it could be hours before Mr Devere’s priest arrived. By then, perhaps the old man was right, it could be too late. What harm could it do to hear his confession, especially if he was dying? There couldn’t be much to confess, and it might make him feel better.

  Without waiting for a reply, Mr Devere spoke again. His first words sent a chill through Donovan’s heart.

  “The other body in the grave. It has weighed on me all my life. May I be forgiven for a mortal sin. All these years, living a lie. Bless me, father, for I have sinned, now at the hour of my death.” The quiet voice faded.

  Donovan was breathing faster. “What body … my son?” It seemed incongruous to address in that way a man old enough to be his great grandfather. “Whose body was in the grave?”

  “I knew he was a traitor. The things he said. The people he thought he fooled, but not me. Pretending to be loyal to the king, to his country. It had to be … had to be.” His head slumped on the pillow.

  “Who was it, my son?”

  The old man shook his head, breathing with difficulty, either too weary to speak any more or unwilling to go the whole way and finish his confession. Donovan felt desperate. The answer to all their searching may have been within reach, literally, of where he knelt. He hardened his heart.

  “You have not confessed, my son. Nothing of what you’ve told me makes a confession. If you die, you will die unshriven.”

  Marcus Devere swallowed and tried to clear his throat. Donovan tried to reach up to the bedside table to give him a glass of water, but the old man would not relax his grip.

  “My father’s butler.” The words were barely audible.

  Yes! Donovan thought. It was logical. All that business about him going away to Scotland and getting killed in a bombing raid was a lie, a subterfuge. They had discovered that the butler was betraying his country to German Intelligence and they had killed him. Everything was clear now. The patriotic Deveres had taken drastic action rather than risk the tainting of the family name by association with an enemy agent. Worse, it would have made them look foolish, harbouring a Nazi spy in their midst.

  “Who killed your father’s butler?” Donovan asked.

  “The Germans.” The voice was firm.

  Donovan realised the old man was becoming confused. “My son, who was it who killed the butler?” He spoke slowly and clearly.

  “The Germans … bombed his home … Scotland.”

  He must be sinking, Donovan thought. Perhaps there was time for one last effort.

  “The body in the grave, my son. The butler. Who killed him?”

  “Yes. He killed him. I was too weak … my asthma … too weak then.”

  No, no, no, Donovan thought. Start again. “The body in the grave. Tell me who it was.”

  Marcus Devere breathed in and out. “The traitor … my brother.”

  “Your brother? But he was –”

  “Brought dishonour on the family … thought Germany should be our allies … hated the communists … Russia the enemy … wanted the king to return … Edward … met Nazi sympathisers in Norway … contacted German Intelligence … our father’s blue-eyed boy.”

  You’re telling me your brother Roland was buried in the grave?”

  “My brother, yes. Fletcher helped bury him. Arthur … Fletcher.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Butler … but my orders. My confession. Bless me, father …”

  *

  “What did you do?” Angela said. “I mean, did you try to give him absolution?”

  Donovan shook his head. “He fell asleep, at least, I thought he did. I wondered if he was dead. I found a phone and called for an ambulance.”

  “His brother,” Ralph said. “He really did say the body in the grave was his brother?” He turned to Angela. “He did have just the one brother, presumably?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God. Who’d have thought it? The war hero was a traitor, his own brother.”

  “It must’ve been unbearable,” Marnie said. “The idea that one of the Deveres could betray his country. It was just too much.”

  “Wait a minute,” Anne said. “Who’s buried in France, then?”

  “I suspect we’ll never know,” Ralph replied.

  “The Deveres paid for that memorial in France, remember,” Angela said. “Just as they paid for the memorial in our churchyard. Families like the Deveres have connections.”

  “And they use them to cover up what they don’t want to get out,” Donovan said.

  “You mean like the remains being removed from Rosemary’s lab?” It was Anne’s turn to speak. “Could they have done that, Ralph?”

  “Connections,” Ralph said simply. “It wouldn’t surprise me. I’d like to discuss this with Guy Fellheimer and perhaps Henry Eustace.” He had a sudden afterthought and looked at Angela. “Or would that be a breach of confidentiality?”

  “In what way, Ralph?”

  “Was Marcus Devere making his last confession? Should we respect it as such?”

  “But I’m not a priest,” Donovan said. “Surely it doesn’t count.”

  “Even so, if that was his impression, and you encouraged him to think of it in that way …”

  “We’re dealing with the Nazis here.” Donovan’s tone had hardened. “Normal rules don’t apply. Anyway, I’ve told all of you what he said, so it’s hardly a secret now.”

  “The question,” Ralph said quietly, “is how far this should go.”

  They fell silent as each of them considered the implications of what they had learnt that morning. Outside, the snow was falling, but the wind had dropped. Anne broke the silence.

  “Do you realise?”

  They all looked at her.

  “What is it?” Marnie asked.

  “It really was the butler who did it.”

  Chapter 59

  Eustace

  Guy Fellheimer was unavailable the next day, but Henry Eustace needed no second bidding to travel to Glebe Farm when approached by Ralph. Weather conditions had improved to the extent that it had stopped snowing and the wind had subsided, but Marnie advised Eustace to park
in the high street from where she would collect him in the Discovery.

  She provided the same shuttle service for Angela Hemingway and Randall Hughes, both of whom were anxious to resolve the final issues relating to the body in Sarah Anne’s grave.

  Donovan helped carry safari chairs through the spinney from Sally Ann, and they sat in a circle in the office with the phones switched to immediate answerphone, the barn doors shut tight and the door locked. Eustace found himself facing Marnie and Ralph, Anne and Donovan, Angela and Randall.

  Donovan told his story, occasionally looking down at his notepad. He had decided to note every detail while the ‘confession’ was fresh in his mind. There was also the possibility that he might need to make a formal statement at some point to the police, and he wanted to be certain of his facts.

  Eustace listened without interrupting. At the end of the narrative everyone turned their gaze from Donovan to look at him as he sat back and folded his arms.

  “I think the facts are quite straightforward as presented. One or two questions. Donovan, was Mr Devere lucid as far as you could judge?”

  “I don’t think he was delirious.”

  “You seem to have had some difficulty in understanding him.”

  “Only because he was saying things I didn’t expect to hear.”

  “When he spoke of the butler in relation to the body in the grave, you mistook him to mean that the body was that of the butler?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re quite sure now, with hindsight, that he meant the butler was responsible for the body?”

  “Yes. I got him to clarify that.”

  “Because you pretended to be a priest and told him he would die unshriven.”

  Donovan shifted in his seat. “He mistook me for a priest.”

  “Nevertheless, you exploited that mistake deliberately to induce his confession.”

  “It may have been our only chance –”

  Eustace raised a hand. “I’m not criticising you. You showed great presence of mind. What you did may be regarded as somewhat ruthless, but I don’t believe you intended it to be callous.”

  “I gave him the chance to get things off his chest.”

  “Quite. Why exactly did he think you were a priest?”