by Leo McNeir
“I was dressed in black with a white T-shirt. It may have looked like a dog collar. The curtains were partly drawn in the bedroom.”
“This was all entirely by chance, your normal style of dress?”
Donovan nodded. “I didn’t know I was going to see Mr Devere.”
“Okay. Let’s leave it there for the moment and return to the facts. We now know that the body in the grave was that of the older brother, Roland Devere, a Major serving in the Special Operations Executive, the SOE.”
“Was that a forerunner of the SAS?” Randall asked.
“No. The SAS had been in existence for a long time. The SOE operated behind enemy lines in world war two only. They were set up by Churchill to carry out sabotage and clandestine missions. The interesting point here is that Devere referred to Norway. The SOE had a lot of success in that country, including the destruction of a plant that was crucial to Hitler’s nuclear weapons programme. When the invasion took place, SOE agents played a key role in disrupting German defences throughout France.”
“Including Normandy, then,” Randall said.
“Especially, but not exclusively, in Normandy.”
“You mentioned Norway as significant,” Ralph prompted.
“As an agent in Norway, Roland could have had contact with members or sympathisers of the Nasjonal Samling. That was the pro-German party that formed the puppet government. They were fanatically opposed to communism, and Roland may have sympathised with their anti-Soviet views. He wouldn’t be the first member of the British upper classes to have done so.”
“Hence the reference to King Edward,” Ralph observed.
“Yes. I’m having to guess a lot here,” Eustace said, “but it makes sense in light of what Marcus Devere told Donovan. Quite a few people of that class wanted Edward VIII to return to the throne and help create an anti-communist alliance to counter what they regarded as the red menace.”
“That’s why he was killed,” Ralph said.
“Yes. He brought disgrace on a patriotic family who revered him as a war hero. It was too much to bear. A tragic story.”
“What about the tattoo?” Anne asked.
“Roland, remember, was operating behind German lines with the constant risk of capture. His tattoo was reasonable proof that he was not an enemy but an ally. More accurately, it might give a German commander reason to pause before having him shot. If he was taken, the tattoo number could be checked with German Military Intelligence and his story corroborated.”
“The Major Hallgarten link,” said Donovan.
“Correct.”
“So,” Ralph said, “that seems to have resolved the outstanding issues. Presumably Roland returned on leave after the Normandy invasion and told his family he believed they should side with the enemy against Soviet expansion. The family was outraged and Marcus took the decision to have him eliminated. Too feeble to deal with his highly-trained brother himself, he ordered others to do it for him.”
“How?” said Donovan.
“We’ll never know.”
“We know he was strangled,” Marnie said. “That broken bone in his neck.”
Ralph reflected. “Perhaps some drug in a drink served by the butler to disable him beforehand?”
Nobody wanted to dwell on those details.
“What are we going to do about this?” Marnie asked the group. “I mean, do we tell anyone, the police, the authorities, whoever they might be? Or should we keep Mr Devere’s secret?”
Angela looked at Donovan. “What do you think? You’ve played an important part in this. You’ve lost something very valuable that belonged to your father, nearly got yourself killed, heard the old man’s confession. I think you have some rights in this decision.”
“I also threatened an old man on his deathbed.” Donovan glanced fleetingly at Eustace. “That old man had taken a tougher decision than I’ve ever done. I have no sympathy with the murder victim in this case. I may not be eligible as father confessor, but Mr Devere spoke to me in confidence. If I have any say in the matter, I want to respect that confidence. Let it remain his secret.”
*
Marcus Devere took his secret to the grave. That afternoon, Randall paid a visit to Knightly Court and was met at the door by a tearful Celia. She told him that her father-in-law had not regained consciousness since the previous day and was now slipping away. Father Martin was expected at any time.
Randall went up to the bedroom where Celia left him to go in alone. He found Hugh sitting beside the bed.
Minutes later Randall came downstairs to tell Celia that her father-in-law had died peacefully in his sleep.
“What about his last confession?” Celia sobbed.
“I administered the last rites,” Randall said. “He departed in peace with a clear conscience.”
Chapter 60
Celia and Hugh
“Walker and Co, good morning.”
Marnie reached for the notepad and scoured the desk for a pencil. It was one week later. Life had returned to the Glebe Farm version of normality and, much to Anne’s disgust, a spell of damp weather had settled in, bringing a thaw that scuppered her dreams of a white Christmas.
A familiar voice came on the line. “Before this conversation goes any further, I want you to promise me no-one will discover a body or anything else lugubrious while we’re talking.”
“Hi, Beth. No probs. That’s a dead certainty.”
Beth ignored her sister’s attempt at humour. “So how are you? Recovered?”
“Fighting fit. How’s you?”
“Okay. We’re thinking of going to see Mum and Dad in Spain over Christmas. Any chance of you coming?”
“Ralph and I are planning a quiet break at his cottage in Murton. It’ll be empty. His tenants have returned to California.”
“Sounds good. What other news d’you have?”
“Am I allowed to mention bodies being put back in graves rather than being found in them?”
“Which ones? You seem to have collected so many over the summer.”
“Sarah. Sarah Anne Day. Angela’s organising a small service for her in a few days’ time. She’s making it into the churchyard after 350 years outside.”
“The girl’s a late developer, obviously. What about the others? Any more witches around?”
“Not that I know of. I’ll check with Angela.”
“And the other one?”
“Sarah’s uninvited guest?”
“That’s the guy.”
“He’s getting buried too, but not on the same day. He’s getting his turn along with the two dead navvies some time in the new year.”
“It’s nice to have a hobby.”
*
Shortly after lunchtime that same Monday, Anne was pouring the remains of a bottle of milk into Dolly’s saucer in the kitchen while Donovan was unloading his clothes from the washing machine. Marnie was working on a design when she heard footsteps outside on the gravel. She looked up and her heart went into freefall. Passing the window were Celia and Hugh Devere. Was this to be a showdown?
They pushed open the door and entered, bringing with them a blast of chilly air that Marnie thought might not be entirely related to the winter weather. Advancing into the centre of the office, they stood side by side. Celia linked arms with her husband. They smiled. Anne thought that if they had been cats, they’d be purring. For Marnie, the words lovey-dovey came to mind.
“Hi.” Marnie hoped her smile did not look too artificial. “This is a surprise.”
“It’s been a day of surprises, Marnie.” Celia glanced briefly at Hugh. “You tell her, darling.”
Hugh cleared his throat in the embarrassed manner of an Englishman of his class who is going to boast about something. Marnie had a flash of inspiration and guessed that she was about to be given a new commission: the design of a nursery at Knightly Court.
“This is after all the season for glad tidings,” Marnie said encouragingly. “So you’ve got some good news.”
“That’s right.” Hugh looked surprised. “We had a letter this morning from the Ministry of Defence.”
“Congratu–” Marnie’s turn to look surprised. “The Ministry of Defence?” She repeated the name slowly.
“That’s right. The MD wants to arrange a funeral with full military honours.”
“For whom?”
“For my father.”
“Isn’t it wonderful, Marnie?” Celia joined in. “They’re going to send a guard of honour with pall-bearers, flags and everything.”
“Sorry to be thick, but I don’t understand.” Marnie saw that Anne was equally baffled. Donovan was expressionless. “I thought your uncle, Roland, had the distinguished military career.”
“Quite,” said Hugh. “We always thought father’s wartime service involved some kind of desk job in Whitehall, but no. Turns out he was one of the top people at Bletchley Park, you know, the code-breaking place, Enigma and all that. But he kept quiet about it all his life. It’s only now that the story’s coming out that people like him are getting recognition.”
“He’s getting a posthumous medal for his contribution to the war effort,” Celia said, beaming a film star smile.
“So your father, Marcus,” Marnie began, “was …”
Hugh nodded. “Yes. He was really important. It’s amazing. We had two war heroes in the family all along. What d’you think of that?”
“Incredible,” Marnie said. She meant it.
Hugh and Celia looked at Anne and Donovan.
“Unbelievable,” said Anne. She meant it too.
Donovan shook his head, his face solemn.
“You shake your head in wonder,” Hugh said. “It’s people like my father and uncle who make you proud to be British, isn’t it?”
Marnie bit her lip. Anne stared at Donovan. His reply was little more than a whisper.
“Absolutely.”
Marnie walked out with Celia and Hugh. It had been puzzling her why Celia was so buoyed up with the news that her father-in-law was going to be honoured by his country after his death. The truth was revealed when they reached the car. Celia turned to Marnie.
“Oh, one other thing.” She glanced across at her husband. He nodded. “Between ourselves, Marnie, Hugh’s been working on a major deal over the past few months, rather confidential sort of thing. Secrecy runs in the family, you might say. Anyway, he’s won this contract for the company and got a huge bonus.”
Hugh coughed, as if partly to signal an indiscretion by his wife, partly to declare modesty at his achievement.
“The point is, Marnie,” Celia continued, “I want to talk to you about another project.”
“You want to complete the redecoration of the Court?”
“What? Oh, yes, I suppose so, in due course. No, this is much more exciting. Hugh’s said we can afford to build a swimming pool, an indoor one. I want you to do the interior design.”
“Right.” Marnie knew she had failed to sound enthusiastic.
“Oh, don’t look so worried. I know you’ll be up to it. It’ll be something we can work on together, something for you to look forward to. Won’t that be wonderful?”
Marnie’s reply was little more than a whisper.
“Absolutely.”
*
Angela Hemingway arrived at four o’clock. Marnie was pleased to see her but wondered if she was ever going to get time to settle down to a solid block of work that day.
“Marnie, sorry to barge in like this, but I was passing and there was something I wanted to tell you.”
“Come in, Angela. This seems to be the day for sharing news, and actually there’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“You go first, then.”
“My sister was on the phone this morning and the subject of witches came up.”
“You really should get out more, Marnie.”
“Thank you for that advice. Beth wondered if there might be any more buried out there and whether one ought to do anything about them.”
“Such as?”
Marnie shrugged. “I dunno.”
“I don’t believe in witches, Marnie, at least not harmful ones. That was all superstition in my view, born of ignorance, intolerance and probably misogyny. My sympathy’s with those poor women. They were persecuted for no good reason.”
“That came from the heart!”
“You wouldn’t believe how much prejudice there is against women priests. We get it from parishioners, male clergy, the media, you name it. We even get accused of being witches ourselves.”
Marnie was dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”
Angela raised a hand. “Don’t get me started.”
“Okay. Fair enough. So you don’t want to exorcise my field in case there are any more buried out there?”
“If there are any, let them rest in peace, Marnie. They’re not doing anyone any harm.”
“Fine by me.” Marnie sensed that this was a matter to discuss further, but perhaps on some other occasion. It was time to change the subject. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Just that I’ve got a date for Sarah’s funeral – that’s what I’m calling it, rather than a reburial.”
“The first one didn’t count?”
“Exactly.”
Marnie put the date in the diary.
“You’re intending to come?” Angela sounded hesitant. “I know church things aren’t really your scene.”
“We’ll all be there: Ralph, Anne and myself. Sarah’s part of our lives.”
“That’s wonderful.” The light was back in Angela’s eyes. “Did you know there’s been a subscription in the village to raise money for a headstone? I’m not sure of the wording yet, but we’ve got time to decide on that.”
“Can I make a contribution?”
“That’s kind of you, Marnie, but I think we’ve got the costs covered.”
“What about a brass plaque to go on the lid of the coffin?”
“That’s a lovely idea.”
“I’ll get it made.”
“What will you put on it?”
Marnie opened her notepad and wrote some words. “Will that do?”
Angela read the inscription. “It’s perfect, Marnie. We’ll use it for the headstone too. Couldn’t be better.”
*
That night Anne had a phone call from Danny. She sounded more excited than usual.
“You won’t believe what’s happened to me.”
“Wanna bet?”
“No, I’m serious, Anne.”
“Go on, then. Tell all.”
“It’s absolutely incredible. I met this boy …”
For the next twenty minutes Anne made all the right noises at all the right times and managed not to yawn or remind Danny of all the other boys she had met who had been incredible. Eventually Danny got round to one of her other favourite topics.
“Any news about Donovan?” Her tone was wheedling.
“Not much.”
“There must be something to tell.”
“Well …”
“Oh go on, Anne.”
After a pause Anne said, “He doesn’t think the Nazis are really onto him. He thinks they probably don’t know who he is. After the two men who were following us got killed when their car crashed and exploded, and Donovan’s Porsche slid down the bank into the river Main, where it may not be discovered, he thinks they may have run out of clues about who he is, or was. Also, he thinks that if he lies low for long enough, the police may not after all have any way of linking him with the shooting of Garth Brandon last year, so they may not be likely to try to arrest him for murder.”
“Bloody hell!”
“Other than that, things have been fairly quiet round here since you left.”
Epilogue
A mid-week morning a few days before Christmas. Frost crunched under the feet of the congregation as they processed out of the church into the graveyard, following the coffin. Black-clad villagers against the light stone
of the church. Angela had expected a handful of individuals to take part in the ceremony, but upwards of twenty people turned out. She gave a brief homily urging everyone present to think of themselves as supporters or witnesses rather than mourners, and there was an atmosphere close to joy among the participants. Sarah Anne Day was coming home to her final resting place.
There were tears in the eyes of the assembly, but these were brought on by the sharpness in the air. A chill wind hinted that a white Christmas might yet be in prospect.
Marnie, Anne and Ralph stood beside the open grave, where Angela gave a blessing, referring to Sarah as ‘this innocent child, our sister in Christ’. The pall-bearers began lowering the coffin into place, sliding it gently down into the earth that had waited more than three centuries to receive her. Standing alone, slightly apart from the gathering, Celia stood in regal designer black, clasping her prayer-book with head bowed, the studied personification of elegance in grief.
Marnie found her mind wandering. She thought back over the past two years to all that Sarah had come to mean in their lives.
We therefore commit her body to the ground …
Two vicars had been murdered and committed to the ground, victims of an age-old hatred. If Marnie had believed in prayer she would be asking for an end to all conflict in Knightly St John forever.
… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …
Would there still be enmity in the village while they had a woman vicar? Perhaps the anxieties that Angela had expressed were only the faintest glimpse of antagonisms that would last for yet more centuries.
… in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.
Perhaps Sarah had hoped that the sacrifice of her own claim to eternal life by a sinful death would cleanse the community of its bigotry and prejudice.
Marnie refrained from throwing soil into the grave, finding that custom somehow distasteful. She looked down at the fine oak coffin. The Deveres had done Sarah proud. On the lid the small brass plaque that Marnie had provided was shining faintly in daylight that would soon be taken from it for evermore. From where she stood, Marnie could just make out the inscription:
Sarah Anne Day
(1622 – 1645)