Getaway With Murder

by McNeir, Leo

  *

  While Randall Hughes was addressing the congregation, a dark blue Rover drew up outside. Marnie got out of the car and walked through the gate into the churchyard, taking care not to rub her light linen jacket against the stone wall. She had left ample time on route to Oxford to stop off and find the gate that Frank Day and his dogs had taken to leave the churchyard the previous afternoon. Marnie looked up at the tower as she picked her way among the graves, its massive bulk seeming to fill the sky above her. She came to the hedge that formed the boundary on the far side and walked along until it gave way to reveal a stone wall about two metres high in which was set a small arched gate. She tried the handle. It opened easily and she stepped through to discover a path in a clump of bushes, leading towards an area of open grass and a small development of a dozen or so modern executive houses. It was the first time she had seen them or even known of their existence. On a sign she read: ‘Martyrs Close’.

  She wondered who the martyr, or martyrs, had been, not trusting the punctuation on a road sign to reveal one or the other. Perhaps it was the patron saint of the church. Was Saint John a martyr? A great many saints had been martyred. It was one of the qualifications for the job, she thought. Or was it a reference to some local person or people, put to the stake in the time of Bloody Mary? Marnie was unsure whether she really wanted to know after all. Maybe Frank Day was right. Time to let the past go.

  In the background she heard the organ start up and she paused, head on one side, trying to recognise the hymn. Now an agnostic, she had in her childhood attended Sunday school and family services at church and still joined in with the more familiar hymns while pottering about on Sunday mornings with the radio playing. She found it hard to make out the tune and listened intently.

  As she stood there, something caught her attention. In among the brambles she noticed what she first took to be part of the wall dislodged from the rest. It was the curved outline of the stone and its lighter colour that led her to it. Here unmistakably, almost completely hidden among the bushes, was a headstone marking a grave outside the churchyard. Marnie picked her way carefully round the thorny brambles until she could see it plainly. She bent down to pull the brambles aside.

  The name surprised her. It seemed to be ‘Sally Ann’, but as she inspected the stone more closely, running her fingers over the soft washed away surface, she found it read ‘Sarah Anne’ and she muttered “Anne with an ‘e’” to herself. Little remained of the inscription: “… memorie of Sarah Anne Day, belov’d daughter of Jonathan …” Day! One of Frank’s ancestors. Marnie bent forward, peering at the stone, trying to feel the almost invisible words through her fingertips. “… departed this life in the 45th yere …” She ran her hand further down the face of the stone. It was no good. Everything else was worn away. Marnie shook her head and went back to the car. She had no more time to spare.

  Marnie wondered how Sarah Anne Day had died. Female mortality was high in those days, especially in childbirth. But if she died with the same name as her parents, she could not have been married. She reached the car and got in. Beside her on the front passenger seat lay the Observer, its main headlines proclaiming another explosion in Northern Ireland and a failed murder attempt against the leader of one of the paramilitary factions. Her thoughts returned to the gravestone. A strange coincidence that her name should be virtually the same as the boat’s and that she had died in the same year as the vicar had been murdered, assuming that the ‘45th yere’ referred to 1645.

  With that thought, Marnie pulled herself back to the twentieth century, switched on the ignition, pushed a music tape into the cassette deck and engaged first gear. The car accelerated away.

  *

  The side access to All Saints took some time to locate and Marnie first found herself sucked past in the central Oxford one-way system. It was only by a deft manoeuvre involving a rush across two lanes of traffic and squeezing the Rover in behind a tourist bus, that she was able to slip into the narrow side street. She discovered a courtyard filled with cars and a single empty space displaying a sign: Reserved – M. Walker.

  Ralph was already approaching from a double arched doorway as Marnie got out and took stock of her surroundings. At a distance of about twenty metres, she saw Ralph raise a hand and step forward, only to be confronted by a young man in shirt sleeves and slacks who engaged him in conversation. Marnie walked towards them and caught one or two words in an American accent. “… your views on the ‘McDonalds culture’ … its wider relevance to the countries of the Pacific Rim …” Ralph was nodding thoughtfully and suddenly looked up as if he had noticed Marnie for the first time. The young man turned to look over his shoulder at Marnie and then back at Ralph.

  “Oh, pardon me. I see you have a visitor, Professor Lombard.” Ralph smiled. “Well, I look forward to hearing your summing up this evening. I just wanted to say how much I admire your work, sir.” With that the young man walked quickly away, with a nod towards Marnie. Ralph drew breath, raised his eyebrows and smiled at Marnie.

  “Believe me, it’s wonderful to see you.” He kissed her on both cheeks.

  “I take that in the spirit in which it’s meant. Thank you. It’s nice to be here. I see you have an admirer, Ralph.”

  “Yes.” There was a slight weariness in the tone. “I like America and Americans. They’ve always been very good to me, but there is a certain style.”

  “Earnest?” suggested Marnie.

  “Quite. Let’s go to the Common Room and get a glass of something before lunch.” They went through the doorway and Ralph guided her across a lobby and along a cloister beside a small lawned courtyard. It was a cross between a stately home and the House of Lords, far removed from Marnie’s own experience of college life at art school in London. No messy piles of work being put together for display, no paint-flecked walls. Here all was order and calm, elegance and decorum.

  “What was that about ‘Professor’? Have you been promoted?”

  “No. Every university teacher is called that in America. I’m not likely to get a chair while this government has a say in it.”

  “Do they have so much influence in such matters?”

  “They do here. We have a few retired cabinet ministers at this college. No-one is in any doubt about my views.” They turned a corner and Ralph indicated a door a short way along the cloister.

  “I didn’t realise you were regarded as such a subversive,” said Marnie lightly.

  “That’s just it. I’m not. But they regard anyone who has an open mind as not being ideologically sound. ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us’. They’re as bad as the Marxists!” He laughed gently.

  “And the … what was it? … the ‘McDonalds culture’? What’s that?”

  “Oh, it was just a throw-away comment I made on the emerging free market economies of eastern Europe. You can tell when they’ve become developed by the arrival of the fast food places on the high streets.”

  “The old Soviet bloc countries have changed into a strange mixture,” said Marnie.

  “Very,” said Ralph. “I wanted to sub-title this seminar: ‘Old McDonalds had a collective farm’!” They went into a book-lined room, large and filled with armchairs like a London club, with views onto a small garden abundant with pink roses. Groups of men and women were talking in quiet voices, some of them glancing over to acknowledge Ralph, others discreetly appraising Marnie without making it obvious. They were offered sherry and went to sit by a window. No-one sought to join them and they were left to speak privately together as if their space was respected. Ralph read her thoughts.

  “It’s a feature of collegiate life here that people can have conversations without being interrupted.”

  “Very civilised,” said Marnie. She sipped the sherry. It was chilled and very dry. “Do you live here all the time?”

  “Not all the time. I have a cottage outside Oxford in a place called Murton. It’s by the river, very pretty, a quiet spot. I think of it as home, sp
end half my time there, though much less this year while I’m away on Thyrsis, of course.”

  “And you have All Saints as well,” said Marnie. “As I said, very civilised.”

  “Yes, very privileged,” said Ralph. He sipped his sherry. “Lunch will be in the main dining room with all the seminar participants. We’ll be sitting on high table with the Master and four other Fellows. I think you’ll find it quite agreeable. The Master in particular is looking forward to meeting you.”

  They were invited to move into the dining room where grace was said in Latin. No-one sat until the Master took his place. Almost immediately Ralph introduced Marnie to the Master who offered her the seat on his right and shook her hand warmly. He had a handsome if rather fleshy face, with eyes twinkling behind gold-framed spectacles and a thick mane of white hair. His voice had the gentlest trace of a Welsh accent.

  “I believe you are to blame for Ralph’s conversion, Mrs Walker.” Marnie glanced at Ralph who smiled faintly. “Forgive me. I’m being obtuse. I am referring to his new passion for canals and narrowboats.”

  “I stand guilty as charged,” said Marnie. She sat back in her chair to be served with fresh asparagus and accepted a glass of Sancerre. She was beginning to think she could become accustomed to the academic life. Ralph, seated on her right, inclined his head towards her.

  “I chose the menu with you in mind,” he said softly. “I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”

  “You’ve made a good start.” She noticed a printed menu standing in a silver holder in front of her. The main course was poached wild salmon, with fresh raspberries as dessert. She turned to Ralph. “How did you know?”

  “That this was your ideal menu? It was mentioned at our first meal together soon after we met, also in Oxford.” Marnie thought back to that evening the previous summer, the day after she had pulled Ralph from the canal where he had attempted to commit suicide. Ralph continued. “I think you were trying to change the subject to something more agreeable than individual troubles.” Marnie smiled and returned her attention to the Master, who raised his glass towards her.

  “Welcome to All Saints, Mrs Walker.” They sipped the Sancerre. “It’s surprising,” the Master continued. “Everybody in Oxford knows the Isis and the Cherwell, but few ever think of the canal. Ralph describes it as a secret world. I’m sure he’s right. Did you know it’s only a short walk from here?”

  As they started on the asparagus, Ralph spoke quietly. “I thought we might take a stroll in that direction after lunch, if you agree. It really is just a short step away.”

  *

  Just a short walk from the Grand Union Canal near Leighton Buzzard, Sunday lunch was in progress under the bower in the garden.

  “Mum, this is delicious. My favourite.” Anne admired the salmon on her fork before popping it into her mouth.

  “Good. I thought it would make a change. Are you able to cook properly on the boat?”

  “Oh yes. It’s easy in the summer. We just hope at least one of the cottages will be ready before winter sets in.” Anne noticed her parents exchanging glances.

  “Your mum and I were wanting to speak to you about the future,” said Geoff.

  Anne looked down to cut through a piece of broccoli before speaking. “I’m not sure I know what to say until the exam results come out.”

  “No. That’s right. But you know we’ll do the best we can for you.” Anne looked across the table at her brother Richard, two years older and struggling to get a permanent job. Since leaving school he had been on two government schemes, a course at the local college and picked up seasonal work when he could find it. His main hope was to try and get a job with the big car and lorry factories around Luton and Dunstable, but it felt as if there was a queue a mile long for every vacancy.

  “If you get good results,” Jackie began.

  “I could carry on working with Marnie for a year, like you agreed with her. And if I don’t, perhaps I could do evening classes to improve my grades.”

  “It’s working out okay with Marnie?” said Geoff.

  “Brilliant. She gives me a small income as well as all my keep. And I’m getting good hands-on experience.”

  “Hands-on. That’s a new one,” said Geoff.

  “She’s all right, your Marnie,” said Richard. “A godsend, really.” Anne nodded and felt her stomach churn. Just let’s wait and see what the exam results are like, she thought, pronging a piece of salmon.

  *

  After lunch, Marnie and Ralph stood for a few moments in the quadrangle. With the sun washing over their cream stone, the old college buildings looked like a water-colour painting or an over-exposed photograph. The scent from a climbing rose mixed in the air with the smell of the freshly trimmed lawn.

  Marnie sighed with pleasure. “Cotswold architecture and country house garden. That’s why Oxford is one of the world’s great places.”

  “I expect you’re wondering why anyone would want to have a sabbatical away from all this,” said Ralph.

  “Fine buildings don’t make life easier,” said Marnie with a shrug. “Nobody could understand why I wanted to give up a smart flat and good job in London to live in a ruin miles from nowhere. Anyway, you want to come back here, don’t you?”

  “That’s my intention. Unless the book so outrages public opinion, or more likely private opinion, that I’m drummed out of the establishment.”

  “Or drummed out by the establishment, as you might put it,” said Marnie.

  Ralph offered her his arm. “Let’s go for that walk.”

  They walked through the gate of All Saints. The centre of Oxford was thronging with visitors. There were Japanese tourists forming up for photographs and boisterous Italians irreverently clinging to railings. There were families with at least one parent reminiscing about their student days and solitary walkers intently taking photographs of the architecture. Marnie and Ralph left behind the university precincts and made their way through to Jericho, with its small Victorian terraced houses in quiet streets leading down to the canal.

  “It’s another world, this part of Oxford,” said Marnie. “I wonder how many people even know it exists.”

  “Or the canal, come to that,” said Ralph. “The Master was right.”

  “You seem to have transported your own college onto the canal,” said Marnie.

  “It’s a good place to think. And you are in the process of creating your own world, too, at Glebe Farm. Are you enjoying it as much as you thought you would?”

  “It’s wonderful, very satisfying. At least, it will be once we get started on the rebuilding works.”

  They turned into a small road leading to the gates of the boatyard where they had first met. “Any news of the unsolved murder?” said Ralph.

  “Well, it’s strange, but there is something odd about the tower. I can’t quite work out what it is.” They walked through the gates and crossed the concrete surface of the boatyard. All was quiet. There were boats moored on their side of the canal and a few drawn up on the opposite bank beside the towpath.

  “Odd in what way?” said Ralph. “Is it the atmosphere or something physical?”

  “That’s just it. I ask myself if I’m reacting to a feeling because I know what happened there. On the other hand, there is definitely something not right about it. I almost identified it the other day, but it slipped away. It probably sounds crazy.”

  “That’s the last word I could think of to describe you, Marnie, especially standing here.” They had come to a halt by the edge of the canal. It was almost exactly where they had talked on the morning after Marnie had pulled Ralph out of the water.

  “Why have we come here?” said Marnie.

  “Just for a walk. Just to see the canal and a few boats, an interest we have in common.”

  “We all seem to be laying ghosts at the moment,” said Marnie. She turned to face him. “Look, Ralph. What happened that night was in the past. Only you and I know about it. I’ve never brought it up agai
n and I never will. I know you’re the great thinker and I’m just a designer, but my advice to you is to let it go.”

  “Good God,” he muttered. “Do you mean you’re actually trying to think and you don’t even have the basic qualification, a doctorate in philosophy? Whatever next?!”

  “I’d thump you, if I wasn’t a lady,” said Marnie wagging a finger under his nose.

  “Ah, resorting to violence. The last refuge of the unthinking classes!”

  Grinning, Marnie grabbed him by the arms. “It’s definitely not too late to throw you back in!” She gripped him firmly and he was surprised at her strength.

  “There’s someone behind you,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  “You can’t fool me with that old trick.” She pushed herself forward and kissed him on the lips.

  “Now that could become habit-forming,” he said.

  “Good afternoon. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Marnie released Ralph and turned to meet the smiling gaze of the boatyard mechanic. “Oh hallo,” he said. “I remember you, miss. We did some work on your boat.”

  “You sorted out my electrics,” said Marnie. “They’re still going strong.”

  “And you were looking for clues on a shoe in the canal,” said the mechanic. “You’d make a good detective.”

  “My reputation’s taken a knock lately,” said Marnie. “I can’t even work out who committed a murder over three hundred years ago.”

  “Is that really your line, then, detective work or history?”

  “Neither. Just a bystander.” Marnie had no desire to begin the saga of the murdered vicar. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you again. We’d better not hold you up. I expect you’re busy as usual.” The mechanic glanced at Ralph and raised an eyebrow. Marnie looked round in time to see Ralph give the faintest of nods. At that, the mechanic reached into a pocket in his overalls and produced a small, cigar-shaped package wrapped in brown paper.

  “I’ve taken care to keep it clean, Mr Lombard.” He handed it to Ralph.