Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  “Anything else?”

  “No. That’s all. Now all you have to do is stitch up the purchase.” Marnie’s stomach tightened again.

  “Roger, did you make it clear to Robin that I have not as yet even made an offer on the farm? For all I know, people may have been looking at it this weekend and it might already be under offer.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, Marnie. Look on the bright side. From what you’ve told me about it, I shouldn’t think anyone in their right mind would touch it!” Marnie thanked him for boosting her confidence and hung up. Almost immediately the phone rang again.

  “Marnie, what did you say was the name of that village where the ruins are? Is it Knightly St Somebody?” Beth sounded quite animated.

  “Knightly St John. Why?”

  “It’s just been on television. You’d better not go there. The place is heaving with suppressed passion.”

  “So are Penge and Bromley, for all I know.”

  “Quite. It was a snippet at the end of the news. It seems the vicar is in dispute with his parishioners, some ancient row over prayer books, or something. They interviewed him. He’s very good looking. And some old buffer who said the vicar didn’t properly believe in God.”

  “Those are the ones who get promoted to Bishop,” said Marnie.

  “Yes, well, I thought you’d like to know, anyway. They showed the church surrounded by daffodils. It looked lovely. It has a very tall tower, doesn’t it?”

  6

  The singing in church that morning was less voluble than when all the men of the village were attending the service. Now with so many of the congregation away at the war, those remaining struggled to raise their voices to fill the church with song. And many now present could not find in themselves the power or the will to sing out. Sarah Anne had enjoyed coming to church since as long as she could remember, had enjoyed the feeling of being together with all the people she had always known, had enjoyed sharing and giving thanks for what they had been given. On this first Sunday after the band of men had left, she was glad the hymn was finished and she could sit down on the cool hard pew and drift away in her private thoughts.

  She saw Mr Goldsworthy mount the steps of the pulpit and she heard his voice, but she paid no attention to what he was saying. Perhaps her inattentiveness was a form of blasphemy. After all, you were summoned to church to hear the word. But what good would it do if you did not listen? Her father and brothers and uncles could be dead at this moment and it may be some time before news ever reached the village. Perhaps the King’s soldiers had been told of them travelling and had lain in ambush to kill them before they could even make contact with the regiment. It was said in the village that someone was giving intelligence to the Royalist army, someone who placed the interests of the King above the safety of their own people. It was the vicar. So it was said.

  The vicar, Joseph Goldsworthy, was holding forth. Sarah heard him speak of faith and loyalty: faith in God and loyalty to those appointed by Him to rule His people. There were murmurings in the congregation. Some around her were muttering that he was right; other voices said he was speaking against the people.

  Sarah watched the vicar raise his hand in emphasis, his long white hand, long white fingers that had never done a day’s toil. He was pointing up to Heaven, warning of the judgment that would fall on those who turned their backs on the true faith. Sarah could smell the incense in the air. Such beautiful hands he had, and such a fine head. His voice was clear and strong and could always be heard above all others during the singing of hymns. It was as if the vicar was the embodiment of all fine things dedicated to the service of God and the King. She was unable to take her eyes away from his beautiful hands.

  When the first man stood up in front of her, she jumped with shock, thinking that she had missed the announcement of the next hymn. She began gathering her skirts as if to rise, but saw that her mother and sisters were still. Other men rose from their pews and walked out of the church that Sunday morning. There was muttering, cries of ‘shame!’ and more walked out. The vicar continued to speak as if he had not seen them, his hand still raised in the air. His beautiful hand.

  *

  There was only moderate traffic on the roads that Saturday morning as Marnie made her way north out of London. The Rover purred along smoothly. It was one of those days when it feels good to be behind the wheel of a car, a feeling that she did not often experience. There was too much congestion and aggression on the roads, too many people chasing too many deadlines. Nowadays she only felt like that when she pointed the nose of Sally Ann out into the channel and moved off at a steady four miles an hour, the two cylinder diesel chugging and clanking beneath her feet. It was quite a contrast with the power of the two litre, sixteen valve fuel-injected engine that wafted her effortlessly up the motorway, the black leather-bound steering wheel firm and chunky between her fingers, the exhaust note a deep murmur too discreet to disturb the Bach flute concerto coming from the CD player.

  She arrived early and left the car near the gate to walk down the field path. The air was clean and she breathed in deeply, savouring the scent of young leaves, new grass and the smell of the earth beneath her feet. The farm buildings were deserted and she walked on through the spinney. The canal was still, reflecting the first shoots now appearing on the overhanging branches. Some way up the cut a water vole was making a pathway of the vegetation beside the water. The sun was breaking through the light clouds in brief bursts that dappled the surface of the canal. Marnie shut her eyes, enjoying the smell of the water, the cool air and the peace of the morning.

  Behind her she heard a car arrive and she turned back to Glebe Farm. Two men were waiting for her. Mr Dyson was about her own age, early thirties, pink-faced and fair, dressed in dark blazer and flannels, smiling broadly and extending a hand. He introduced the older man as Mr Fletcher, the owner of the property. Marnie found her hand enveloped in the huge firm grip of the farmer, who looked her straight in the eye. Though not tall, he gave the impression of strength from his broad shoulders and his way of standing four-square on the ground. He looked like a man who had lived all his life on his own land and knew his place in the scheme of things. Dyson, still smiling, took out the details of the property from his folder.

  “Shall we begin with the farm house itself? As you see, it’s a fine structure, seventeenth century, with stone mullions, constructed of local limestone under a roof of Welsh blue slate.”

  “Where it has a roof,” added Marnie. Dyson inclined his head, conceding the point. He went up to a window and peered in.

  “Now, if you look through this window, you’ll see that the reception rooms have good proportions.” He led the way to the next window and put his nose close to the glass, cupping his free hand round his face. “This is the dining room, with easy access to the farmhouse kitchen.”

  “Was the dining room,” said Marnie in a quiet voice. Dyson picked his way carefully over fallen pieces of masonry to see through to the kitchen from the next window.

  “The kitchen itself is a good size, plenty of room for an Aga, if you like that sort of thing,” he smiled broadly, “with charming views out to the, er …” he looked down at the particulars.

  “Sky?” suggested Marnie, peering up at the gaping holes in the ceiling.

  “Herb garden,” said Dyson with a flourish.

  “I’m impressed,” said Marnie. Dyson looked gratified. “That’s a real feat of the imagination,” she added. During the inspection so far, old Mr Fletcher had not spoken a word. He held himself at a distance, looking down at the ground or gazing across the yard and the fields.

  “Now, if you’ll come this way, we can see the farm cottages,” said Dyson. Again, he peered in from the yard, the only difference this time being that there were no windows impeding the view, just empty window frames, though he was quick to point out the stone mullions. “This is the larger of the three farm workers’ dwellings, as you can see, based on the traditional two-up two-down
pattern much favoured in the period …” He droned on as they went from building to building, cottage to barn.

  “This cart barn is one of the earliest buildings on the site at present.”

  “Former cart barn,” interrupted Marnie. Dyson stopped and turned to face her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, it isn’t a cart barn at present, is it?”

  “Subject to renovation,” said Dyson, evidently put out and seeming to find Marnie’s objection unreasonable.

  “Mr Dyson,” she said evenly, “it has three walls all full of holes. The roof has collapsed and only boasts a few rafters badly damaged by fire. At best it’s a shell, at worst it’s going to have to be demolished and rebuilt from the ground up.” From behind her Marnie heard the old farmer give a snort or a cough. Dyson looked as if he was about to launch into a defence of the qualities of the property. “Can we go inside some of the buildings now, please?” said Marnie.

  Dyson looked uneasy and cleared his throat. “Actually, that isn’t possible, Mrs Walker. There’s a technical problem, I’m afraid. The local authority has declared the buildings to be structurally unsound in their present state.”

  “Condemned as unsafe and unfit for habitation?”

  “As things stand at the moment, yes.”

  “If something isn’t done very soon, there won’t be much standing here at all, will there?” She wandered over to the one barn that still boasted a roof. Dyson muttered something inaudible to Mr Fletcher and they slowly followed her. “Evidently someone comes here,” said Marnie, pointing at the cigarette butts still lying where she had seen them.

  “Probably ramblers taking shelter, caught by a sudden shower, I expect,” said Dyson.

  “When did the vandalism happen?”

  “Vandalism?” It was the first time that Marnie had heard the voice of Mr Fletcher.

  “Several of the buildings show signs of fire damage,” said Marnie, addressing her words to the farmer.

  “Oh, there’s been fire here. All along.”

  “Well, only in one or two places,” added Dyson cheerfully.

  “It must be difficult to protect a place like this from vandalism,” said Marnie.

  “Vandalism?” said Dyson. “Mrs Walker, where you come from is very different from here. This isn’t London, this is the country.” Marnie shrugged in reply. This meeting was becoming tedious and she was beginning to think she had made a mistake. These people were not going to be reasonable in negotiating. They probably took her for an ignorant townie with more money than judgment, who had some Romantic notion of the country gleaned from glossy magazines that never mentioned the inconvenience of not having a supermarket up the street or a doctor’s surgery nearby.

  “Mr Dyson, even in the country I don’t think buildings are susceptible to spontaneous combustion. My worry is that already they’ve reached a serious state of dilapidation. Anyone making an offer on Glebe Farm could well find conditions have deteriorated badly by the time they complete. There has obviously been vandalism here.” Dyson opened his mouth to speak, but the words came from Mr Fletcher.

  “You’re quite right. There has been fire and vandalism. This house has known fire in its time. It was burned when it was new, it was burned after the war and now it has burned again.” He lapsed into a sullen silence.

  “I only wondered if something couldn’t be done to prevent it happening again,” said Marnie. “No-one’s going to buy a property that may have been turned into a pile of ashes before they can take it over. It would be such a pity if the whole lot were destroyed.”

  “Short of mounting guard on it, there isn’t a lot we can do, Mrs Walker.” Dyson seemed genuinely worried and Marnie was sure he could see his commission in the imagined pile of ashes.

  “Well, I think I’ve probably seen all I can see today. Thank you for showing me round.”

  “But you haven’t seen the other barns or the extent of the gardens and grounds,” said Dyson. “It goes right over to that line of trees and back round by the canal to those bushes by the docking area and then up to the back of these barns. It’s nearly two acres in all.”

  “Fine. You’ve given me a great deal to think about.” They turned to leave, making their way across the uneven tarmac of the yard. Marnie felt deflated at the thought of all the work needed to restore the place. Here and there the tarmac had crumbled to reveal ancient cobbles below the surface. There seemed to be much lying beneath the surface in Knightly St John.

  In broad daylight the idea looked increasingly impractical. Suddenly she stopped. “Do you hear that?” she said. The old farmer shook his head. The younger man strained to listen. “Bells,” said Marnie. “Church bells. I wonder what it can be on a Saturday. A wedding perhaps?”

  “Not here,” said Mr Fletcher. “Hardly any young people in the village. Can’t afford to live here these days. Everything’s too expensive. Probably just practice.”

  “I’d like to look in at the church before I get back to London. It looks a lovely old building. Wasn’t it in the news last week? My sister said she’d seen your vicar on television.” Dyson looked away and Mr Fletcher frowned.

  “This village is cursed!” he cried. “Has been ever since they tried to take it over. Came here with their fancy ideas. Ruined everybody’s lives. Now it’s all starting again. “ The three of them had come to a halt while the farmer delivered his tirade. An uncomfortable silence fell over the group when he had finished.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marnie. “I seem to have spoken out of turn.” She heard the farmer draw in a deep breath.

  “Not at all, Mrs Walker,” said Dyson, trying to retrieve the situation. “I’m sure it’s just a little local difficulty. These things happen from time to time.”

  “Huh!” said the farmer. “This village has been cursed for centuries. Still fighting the Civil War in these parts. You’ll find no peace here. Vicar’s stirring it all up again. Ought to get rid of him!” Over the old man’s shoulder, Dyson frowned at Marnie and shook his head. She was uncertain whether he was commenting on the old man or urging her to say no more. Without another word Mr Fletcher set off across the field leaving them where they stood.

  “I really had no idea,” Marnie began. Dyson interrupted her.

  “He’s a queer one and no mistake. I’ve never seen him like that before. Usually he says hardly anything. He’s put people off just by being here, but he always insists on coming. I’d better go and talk to him. Sorry about this.”

  “My fault,” said Marnie. Dyson set off, but stopped abruptly after a few paces and turned to look back at her.

  “You did say you were a cash buyer, no chain involved?”

  “Yes. But I’ll have to think about it.” Dyson nodded and walked away briskly.

  Think about it! What was there to think about? The entire scheme was crazy. Marnie wandered slowly around the yard, kicking up some of the loose tarmac with the side of her boot. If the whole yard was cobbled underneath; it would make an attractive courtyard garden. But that would probably mean digging up all the cobbles and relaying them. She shuddered at the thought of the expense.

  Why had she been so taken with the place? She could not say she had no idea of the realities of doing up derelict buildings. Where would she start? Where would she live? The trouble was, a place to live would take so much of her resources, she would have little left over for the other conversion works. Everything she earned from the Willards Brewery contract would have to be spent on the renovation of Glebe Farm.

  Her wandering had taken her back to the canal, to where she had first pulled over in Sally Ann on a hot day the previous Summer. Then, it had been a touch of the sun that had addled her brain; now, it was the bewildering permutation of possibilities that was having much the same effect. She strolled along the bank. According to Dyson, all this was part of the property, as far as the docking area. What docking area? He must have meant the place where the trees thinned out and a boat could be pulled over, as sh
e had done last year. A row of bushes now formed a barrier across her path, seeming to form a hedge in the undergrowth, a straight line that was oddly out of place in a spinney. She stumbled and was surprised to discover an iron ring protruding from the soil. She knelt down and pulled at it, but it was firmly fixed to a metal plate in the earth. A mooring ring.

  The bushes ran in a straight line back to the canal, as if they had been planted … as far as the docking area. Could it be that she was looking at it now? She leaned forward and parted the undergrowth. The roots were in water.

  Returning to the farmyard, Marnie decided to take one last look round the buildings and inspect the gardens, especially the herb garden behind the kitchen of the main house. As she suspected, all she found was a tangle of growth reaching up to shoulder height. While pushing her way through the “garden”, she heard dogs approaching and two black Labradors came bounding along the field track, followed by the man she had met there once before, striding along behind them. The man called the dogs back and they walked obediently at his side as he approached.

  “Good morning. We meet again, I believe. Weren’t you here a while ago?”

  “Hallo. Yes. I can’t seem to keep away.”

  “Have you come on your boat?” He stood at the edge of the ‘herb garden’, the dogs sniffing impatiently at the start of the track that Marnie had made.

  “Not this time.” She paused, feeling awkward. “Actually, I came up from London by car to have a look at the place. Sometimes it’s not easy to find it.”

  “I should be careful, if I were you. Lions and tigers could be lurking in that jungle.”

  “More like the Amazon Rain Forest.” They smiled and the dogs circled round their owner, anxious to be on their way.

  “Do I take it the property’s on the market again?” said the man. “It’s difficult to keep up with the situation.”

  “It is, but it’s full of problems, not the least of them being the owner. His idea of the hard sell is to tell prospective buyers that the place is cursed and anyone who comes here is doomed. I expect you know Mr Fletcher.”