Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  Suddenly Marnie thought she heard a voice or the sigh of the breeze, and she could not tell whether the sound came to her from above or below. She paused and listened. It came again, a faint echo in the air. Marnie decided to go down, carefully treading from step to step. Soon she could see the foot of the staircase and at the bottom she looked up the way she had come. There was something wrong about this place. For a second or two she stood frowning thoughtfully on the last step and as she turned to continue on her way, the tower door was pushed further open and Molly Appleton looked through, her mouth wide, her eyes staring.

  “Hallo,” said Marnie. “Everything all right? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “Oh … oh.” Molly breathed in deeply. “I was calling you. Didn’t know where you were.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Or at least, it wasn’t clear. Have I held you up?” Marnie went over and put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve gone quite pale. Why not sit down for a moment? Can I get you some water?”

  “No, no thanks. I’m okay. I must get back.” She pulled the tower door shut. “Have you seen all you needed to see? I thought you were just going to look at the porch.”

  “I was, but in the file there was a reference to the tower, so I thought I’d just check it out while I was here.”

  Outside the church the air was warm. Molly locked the door and fastened the grill to the porch. They walked down the path and turned up the road together.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine now. What did you think to the porch, then?”

  “Looked sound enough to me. In fact, it looks as if the vicar thought so, too. All the pressure came from outside.”

  “Are you sure about that?” said Molly. “I’ve been in all the PCC meetings and the vicar always insisted the porch had to be done.”

  “Well, I’ve read the file. The office gave him no choice.” They walked on a few steps in silence and Marnie added: “Do you know anything about the tower?”

  Molly stopped abruptly. “What do you mean? I never go near it.”

  “Just the structure. I only meant had anyone talked about it needing repair.”

  Molly thought about it. “Nothing that I can recall.” They resumed their walk.

  “Is there any reason why you never go near it? It isn’t unsafe as far as I can judge.”

  “Oh, you know what it’s like in a village, superstition, fairy stories. All my life I’ve heard things about the tower and the murdered vicar years ago. I just don’t like to go anywhere near it. People say it’s unlucky.”

  “What about the bell-ringers? They have to go up to get to the ropes.”

  “Yes. But there’s a crowd of them and they usually take a pack of beer. It would take more than a ghost story to scare that lot!” She laughed. “That reminds me. Are you coming to the pig-roast on Saturday?”

  “I didn’t know there was one.”

  “Only just been arranged. A notice went up in the shop this morning. It’ll be nice for you and Anne, if you’re around next weekend.” They separated at the corner and Marnie crossed the road to the pub. A pig-roast, she thought. Anne will love that.

  Marnie read through the file over her ploughman’s lunch. Something about the church still bothered her and she stopped at the gate on her way home to look up at the tower. She did not notice someone standing in the churchyard half-hidden by a yew tree until he turned towards her. It was Frank Day.

  “Marnie! This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hallo. Visiting your ancestors?”

  “No. Just rounding up Cassius and Bruno. They’ve chased a squirrel round to the other side.” He eyed the file that she was clutching. “I suspect the church is locked, but you can get a key from the shop if you want to go in. I’m assuming your visit is professional rather than casual.”

  “I’ve already been inside once today. I just wanted to look at the tower in passing.”

  “It’s a fine edifice, though it has a lugubrious past. You know all about that, I expect.”

  “Do you know the tower, Frank, from the inside?”

  He hesitated and glanced round at it. “Yes. Yes, I’ve been in on one or two occasions.” The two black Labradors came bounding up and circled their master, sniffing at the headstones. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the ground and they sprawled out on the grass in the shade of the tree.

  “Do you know the landing about halfway up?” said Marnie. “It has a wall of dark timber, probably oak I would say.”

  “It would be oak in these parts,” he said.

  “Do you know what purpose it serves?”

  “Yes. Or to be accurate, it serves no real purpose. It was put in at the start of the seventeenth century. A wealthy benefactor paid for a new clock.”

  “Trying to curry favour with the church?” Marnie suggested.

  “Probably. Those were difficult times for minority groups. Up until then the clock was only a simple mechanism that struck the hour. They took it out and replaced it with the clock you see today, with a face and hands. Very modern for its time.”

  “And the wooden partition?”

  “It covered the place where the old mechanism hung. The new clock was higher up so that the face could be put on the end wall.”

  “Of course,” said Marnie. “There was no need to have access at that level so they boarded it in.”

  “It would have been a matter of great local pride in its day,” said Frank. “No expense spared. The church was the centre of everyone’s life, especially with all the tensions between the sects.”

  “Thanks. You’ve solved my mystery.” She smiled.

  “A pleasure.” He bowed his head.

  “You’re very knowledgeable about it all. It’s funny, there was one thing I couldn’t quite put my finger on.”

  “What’s that?” said Frank. For a moment he was distracted as one of the dogs leapt up and bounded off. He whistled and it slowed down to turn and jog back, returning to have its ears fondled before flopping down again beside its brother.

  “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure,” said Marnie. “There’s something at the back of my mind that I can’t dredge up. You just reminded me of it.” She frowned and shook her head.

  “It’ll probably come to light just as you’re about to go to sleep.”

  “Yes. It’s frustrating. It’s just that there can’t be many people who know the sort of detail that you obviously know.”

  “Probably not. But you see, it was my family – my ancestors as you put it – who paid to have the work carried out.”

  “They were the benefactors?”

  “That’s right.” By now the dogs were growing restless, unhappy to remain laid out under the tree. They jumped to their feet and stood expectantly looking up at their master, tongues protruding, heads canting to one side and then the other.

  “Not much doubt about the message there,” said Marnie.

  “I’m always being dragged off when I see you,” said Frank smiling. “It’s nothing personal. You must come over and have a meal with us. It’ll be more relaxing.”

  “Thanks. I’d like that. Perhaps you can finish telling me the story about the gamekeeper’s cottage?” Frank looked blank.

  “Gamekeeper’s cottage?”

  “Yes. You started to tell me about it. In the forest near Northampton, an old couple, worried about ‘the visitor’. Remember?”

  “Oh that, yes. Oh, that’s nothing much. I shouldn’t really go on about such things. Too boring. Sometimes it’s better to leave the past behind, I think. We go on too much about that time in these parts. Probably best forgotten.”

  “If you say so,” said Marnie with a casual shrug.

  “It’s just that they had this visitor, a Cavalier officer, quite old, with a grey beard, bleeding from his wounds. He used to walk through the house some evenings and go upstairs. Rather disconcerting.” Frank called the dogs and set off across the churchyard. Marnie watched t
hem, wondering where they were going as they headed towards the hedge on the far side. There was no indication of a break, no door or gateway. Mysteries, murders, ghosts. So restful the country life, she thought.

  “Now that’s no way for a pretty young thing to be spending her time!” The voice came from behind Marnie and she turned to find George Stubbs and Albert Fletcher standing at the gate. She smiled at them and glanced back over her shoulder. Frank Day and the dogs had vanished. “You shouldn’t have to loiter all alone in the graveyard, young lady.” It was George Stubbs who spoke, with a smile some way down the scale from a leer, but Marnie had to make a determined effort to conceal her irritation.

  “It’s a kind of professional visit,” she said, indicating the thick file. “The porch needs maintenance work doing.” The two men narrowed their eyes.

  “By order of the vicar?” said Mr Stubbs.

  “Not at all,” said Marnie. “By order of the diocesan surveyor.” They were evidently not sure what to make of this.

  “And there I was thinking you had a tryst,” said Mr Stubbs.

  “In the graveyard on a Saturday afternoon?” said Marnie, raising a quizzical eyebrow. They laughed. “Actually, I was talking to someone, Frank Day, taking his dogs for a walk.”

  “Him,” said Albert Fletcher. Marnie was surprised at the tone of voice, wondering if it was safe to talk about anything or anyone without treading on somebody’s toes. She had a sudden feeling of sympathy for the vicar and a recollection of Mrs Jolly telling her of the complexities of village life.

  “I found his firm very efficient when I moved up from London.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Oh yes, I’ve no doubt he runs a good company,” said Mr Stubbs, as if trying to gloss over the situation.

  “I have the impression that half this conversation is eluding me,” said Marnie. Her words were uttered more pointedly than she intended. George Stubbs glanced at Albert Fletcher. It was the older man who replied.

  “Frank Day is not part of this village and should stop pushing his nose in where it’s not welcome.” These words were definitely uttered as pointedly as they were intended, causing Mr Stubbs to look uncomfortable. Marnie, on the other hand, was beginning to find it interesting.

  “I thought his family were locals,” she said. “Been here for centuries.”

  “Depends what you call ‘local’,” said Mr Fletcher.

  “Oh, I know what ‘local’ means,” said Marnie.

  “It might mean something different in the country, compared with what you’re used to,” said the old man, the annoyance gone from his voice.

  “I suspect Albert is right,” put in George Stubbs with a smile. “We have different ways out in the sticks.” He chuckled. “It’s not like London.”

  “No,” said Marnie. “In London, ‘local’ usually means someone who had gone to school in the area. It’s not a bad rule-of-thumb definition when you think about it.”

  “And what do you think it would mean up here?” asked Mr Stubbs, evidently interested in the comparison.

  “That’s easy,” said Marnie. “Or at least, I always thought it was easy until now. A local is someone who has three generations or more buried in the churchyard.” George Stubbs guffawed and even Albert Fletcher managed a smile.

  “You’ll do, young lady, you’ll do!” said Mr Stubbs heartily. Marnie tried not to wince. She clutched the file firmly to her chest and stepped towards the gate. Mr Stubbs pushed it open for her, beaming broadly, and the two men stood aside. “Always a pleasure to see you, my dear. You’re definitely a local in my book.” He chuckled again and Marnie smiled at the compliment, despite her inclination to throw up. “That reminds me,” Mr Stubbs added. “Albert and I are organising a celebration on Saturday of next week.”

  “The pig-roast?” said Marnie.

  “So, you’re on the old bush telegraph already. It proves you’re a local!” said Mr Stubbs. “I hope that means you’re planning to be there.”

  “ I’ll check the diary.”

  “Good. We’ll look forward to seeing you then. I’m sure it’ll be an evening to remember.”

  *

  From force of habit Marnie looked in on the office to check the answerphone when she got back. A number two was glowing in the messages box.

  “Hi Marnie!” It was Beth. “We were thinking about your invitation. We know you’re a workaholic and it would do you good to have a break. So why not give us a ring and we’ll fix a date? Paul is dying to see your place.” In the background Marnie heard a muffled shout: “I can’t believe it’s real!”

  The second message came as a surprise. “Marnie. Hallo, it’s Ralph. Sorry for the short notice, but I’ve arrived back to find that there’s a lunch here tomorrow and I wonder if you’d like to join me. I thought you might like to see All Saints. Also, you’d be doing me a considerable service, saving me from the earnest attentions of some of the seminar participants. Could you possibly give me a ring and let me know?” He read out the number of the porter’s lodge. “We’d need to meet here by about twelve thirty for one o’clock. Oh, by the way, it would be high table and moderately formal as far as dress is concerned. Quite pleasant, anyway. Hope you can make it. Bye now!”

  Marnie crossed to the wardrobe that stood concealed at the back of the office. She selected a Liberty print dress in silk and a short fitted linen jacket in natural colour and sniffed them for any trace of the diesel tang that clung to every item of clothing that had been kept on Sally Ann for more than a day or two. All clear. She rang the college and left a message for Ralph confirming that she could meet him for lunch.

  Next, she dialled a familiar number. “I got your message, Beth. Look, there’s a village event next Saturday. Fancy coming up for it?”

  “What is it, human sacrifice on the altar or annual gathering of witches’ coven?”

  “That sort of thing,” said Marnie. “Probably, a bit of both. It’s a pig-roast.”

  “How mediaeval,” said Beth. “Will there be an archery contest and jousting?”

  “Probably not, just burning a few heretics and virgins, I expect.”

  “Sounds great! We’ll be there.”

  19

  Sarah and her mother finished their work alone. Mrs Lockyer had stayed in the vicarage with much wailing and tears. They had laid the vicar in the side chapel to wash and lay out his body. Neither had spoken while they prepared him, but both had seen the terrible wound in his chest, both had seen the awful expression of shock and agony in his face. Sarah had closed his eyes and mouth, washing the blood from his hair. Too numb to speak, too stunned even to feel, she had held back the nausea with a shudder, knowing that later she would have to give vent to her despair.

  Sighing, Sarah’s mother set herself down on a bench, elbows resting on her knees, staring at the floor, leaving her daughter to finish covering the body with a linen shroud. Under his head she placed a cushion, not wanting to leave him lying back on the hard table. Finally, Sarah lifted each arm and laid his hands together on his chest on top of the shroud. She silently wished him to rest in peace, asking herself if she would ever know peace again, if the village would ever recover from the horror of this act of murder. She looked down at the body now lying in repose, the face calm and pale, all emotion drained away. She looked down at his hands, crossed flat on his chest, his beautiful hands.

  *

  Sunday 25 June

  It was just before eleven that Sunday morning in late June that the Reverend Randall Anthony Hughes mounted the steps of the pulpit to preach to his flock for the last time. There was a stillness in the air, as if the congregation was watching him ascend the scaffold to be executed, having been condemned by their testimony. He placed his notes on the lectern and looked down with a smile at the upturned faces he had come to know during his time as vicar. He let his gaze roam over the whole assembly before speaking, pleased to see how full the church was, recalling the dwindling band of the faithful who had been regulars at
the time of his arrival in the village. Nowadays, every service was attended by large numbers, many of them drawn by his magnetism, even if some were suspicious of his views and theology.

  “My dear friends, my brothers and sisters, it is with a mixture of joy and sadness that I must tell you that this will be my last celebration of Holy Communion with you as your vicar.” A murmur spread among the congregation. “It is three and a half years since I came to be among you.” The biblical, almost messianic words, made some feel uncomfortable, as if he had edged close to blasphemy. “Now the time has come for me to move on to another calling and for reasons of which we are all aware, the Bishop has decided that it should take effect in the very near future. I want to thank you for many kindnesses shown to me throughout my ministry and I will think back with great affection on my days here. I must now leave you and I confess that this move has come sooner than I would have expected. However, the time has come for me to accept new challenges.”

  In the second row, Albert Fletcher leaned forward to whisper in the ear of George Stubbs. “Anyone would think he’d been promoted instead of sacked!” Without turning, Mr Stubbs acknowledged the words with a nod. The vicar noticed the movement below him.

  “I spoke of my sadness at leaving Knightly St John, but I also spoke of a sense of joy. This is because I have been asked by our Bishop to assume greater responsibility. He has invited me to become … the Rural Dean of Brackley and I am sure you will understand how honoured I feel to be asked to take on this role, honoured and humbled, for it is a great challenge at this stage in my career.” A sound resembling a cough, or perhaps a gasp, was heard by everyone in the church. It appeared to come from the second row.

  “In asking you to reflect for a moment on the many happy times we have enjoyed together, I would ask you also to look forward to the coming of your new vicar. It is not possible for me to tell you the vicar’s name on this occasion, because the Bishop is only now making the necessary arrangements for transfer, but I am sure you will be able to create a good relationship, working together for the benefit of the whole community. For you all, it will be a fresh start, a new beginning and you will be much in my thoughts and prayers in the weeks and months to come.”