Death in Little Venice

by Leo McNeir

  “I know that look,” said Marnie. “What are you plotting?”

  Anne’s face was innocence personified. “Moi?”

  “Did you say you wanted us to open presents now?” said Ralph.

  Anne looked out through the conservatory windows. “It’ll be dusk soon. Could we have presents after coffee?”

  Ralph did not quite grasp the connection between dusk and presents. “Of course. Actually, I’ve got some champagne in the fridge. We could have that while we’re doing the Santa Claus act. Or a Bucks Fizz. What do you think?”

  After coffee, as dusk came down around the cottage, Anne asked if she could have a minute or two by herself in the living room, which was how Marnie and Ralph found themselves standing with a growing sense of anticipation in the hall. The feeling reminded them of their childhood.

  “Ralph,” Marnie spoke quietly. “I was going to ask you. In the car, Anne said that Tim Edmonds and Malcolm Grant were both going to be promoted, one a minister, the other a lord.”

  “Yes.”

  “You were going to say something, but changed your mind. Do you remember?”

  “I was going to say that becoming a lord isn’t viewed by politicians as a promotion. It tends to mark the end of their main political career, an end to ambition. That’s all. I didn’t say it, because I thought it would seem as if I was putting Anne down.”

  “They were really good friends, weren’t they, Edmonds and Grant?”

  “Oh yes,” said Ralph. “Through thick and thin.”

  “Is that usual in politics?”

  “It’s not unusual. In their case I think they were both on the same national committee and spent a lot of time working together.”

  “Same interests, same views,” said Marnie.

  “Well, not actually. That’s the funny part of it. Edmonds was pro-Europe, Grant more of a sceptic. Edmonds liked Major, Grant preferred at least one of his challengers.”

  “So it was just a personal thing.”

  “Yes. They liked each other’s company and I think they trusted each other. That’s not always the case in politics.”

  “From what I’ve seen,” said Marnie, “Malcolm Grant is pretty devastated by the death of his friend.”

  “No doubt about it,” said Ralph. “In fact …”

  At that moment, the door opened. Smiling impishly, Anne beckoned them in. The room was transformed. The lights on the tree were candles. Candles flickered and glowed on the table and on the windowsills. Through the window they could see yet more candles reflected in the panes of the conservatory.

  “It’s marvellous,” said Ralph. “I’ve never seen the house look so lovely. I’ll just go and check my fire insurance policy.”

  Anne laughed. “Ralph, I don’t think you’re a real romantic.”

  “I’m learning.”

  Marnie walked over to the French windows. “I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “Look at this.” Anne took Ralph by the arm and led him across the room. The three of them gazed out towards the garden and saw the snow falling in large flakes, swirling gently in the breeze.

  “All part of the service,” said Anne. “Time for Santa?”

  “I’ll fetch the champagne,” said Ralph.

  Anne had arranged the presents at the base of the tree and positioned herself to pass them round. Marnie and Ralph were to open Anne’s bulky gifts last. From Ralph, Anne received a copy of The Water Gypsies by A. P. Herbert. It was an old hardback, a signed first edition no less, and inside was the inscription: To A.P. from A.P. with best wishes.

  “Who was the other A.P., I wonder?” said Anne.

  Ralph shrugged. “No idea who the original was, but I know who it is now. How about Anne Price?”

  “Me!” she exclaimed. “That’s brilliant.”

  Next, she opened a gift from Marnie. It was a waistcoat in black velvet decorated with gold thread and beadwork. It went perfectly with her new silk shirt. Another small parcel from Ralph was opened to reveal a triple bracelet in gold of three colours, pink, yellow and white.

  “I’m overwhelmed, I really am.” She hugged them both. “I hope you won’t be disappointed with my presents.” She placed one each in front of them and watched anxiously while they untied the ribbons and pulled off layers of corrugated cardboard and bubble wrap. Their expressions told her that they were not disappointed.

  Marnie’s was a water colour of Glebe Farm as it had been when they first found it in ruins. The picture conveyed all the atmosphere of abandonment on the brink of total dereliction, but the lines of the old farm and the beauty of the setting seemed to hint at hope for the future.

  “One day, Anne with an ‘e’, I shall have a wall worthy of your painting. Thank you. It is beautiful.”

  Ralph’s was also a water colour, his boat, Thyrsis, at her mooring by Glebe Farm, the trees in spring foliage, morning sunshine seeping through the spinney, an atmosphere of freshness and new beginnings. Ralph shook his head slowly.

  “Sometimes, Anne, I think you can read people’s minds and know them better than they do themselves. This is wonderful. Thank you so much and thank you for doing everything to make this a really memorable Christmas.”

  For once, Anne did not have a quick reply. Her eye fell on a last small parcel under the tree and she turned to pick it up. “What’s this? I don’t remember putting this out.”

  “Oh that,” said Ralph. “Er, that. It’s, um, a small gift for … er, Dolly. I thought she could use a new collar and a tin of that special food for pampered cats.” He looked at their faces. “Well, once or twice a year won’t do any harm … will it?”

  *

  Wednesday 28 December

  Anne awoke slowly and lay basking in the comfort of her warm bed. She thought back to dinner in the conservatory, relishing the way of life that she now enjoyed, a life she had scarcely imagined in her dreams. It was as if she was looking in on their meal from outside, seeing the three friends chatting together in the candlelight. They had tried to focus on pleasant subjects, Ralph’s trip to Japan, Marnie’s visit to her parents in Spain, new plans for the business, Ralph’s ideas about a new direction. Anne laughed softly to herself at the thought of Ralph’s Christmas pudding ice cream and its ‘secret recipe’. It was she who had revealed that the recipe was contained in the December edition of one of the boating magazines. Ralph had coped very well with the ribbing he received from Marnie.

  Anne sat up in bed. River Cottage was like Glebe Farm. There were no sounds to be heard and the world seemed far away in the silence. She wondered what time it was and thought it must be late. Already there was daylight showing at the window’s edge. She slipped her feet into her slippers and stood up to open the curtains. The light was reflecting from the snow, the deep snow that covered the garden and was still falling in broad flakes jostled by breezes. There came a soft tap on the door.

  Marnie, also in dressing gown, smiled at her. “Have you seen it?”

  “Yes. It looks lovely.”

  “Ralph’s out checking the road. He may be gone some time, or rather, we may be here some time.”

  “You think we might be snowed in?”

  “We’ll have to see. How soon will you be ready for breakfast?”

  *

  Eating in the conservatory that morning was like being inside an igloo. Every time Anne looked out at the garden, where the snow was knee-deep on the ground and bent the boughs and bushes down with its weight, she felt like smiling for pure joy. It was everyone’s dream, to be snowed into a warm house stocked with good food and drink in the best of company. Her only anxiety was the thought that she was supposed to be going home that morning, and Marnie and Ralph were due to visit Randall Hughes in Brackley. Now it seemed that all their plans would be disrupted. She hoped it was not an entirely selfish thought, but she did not care.

  “It’s not as if anything really important was at stake,” said Ralph, pouring them all a second cup of coffee. “Shall I put on some more toast?”


  “To be honest,” said Marnie, “I love the idea of being snowed in. Nothing could be better. But I’m sorry if it causes problems for your parents, Anne.”

  Anne shrugged. “No probs for them. My worry is that you were going to see Randall and this will spoil it for you.”

  “We can go later,” said Ralph reaching over to the toaster on the windowsill. “Anyway, the road outside isn’t too bad, strangely enough. It must be a sheltered spot, air currents or something. The problem is more likely to be the buses. I think we’d better assume that you’ll be staying here at least for another day, Anne. I hope that’s all right.”

  Anne put on her most enigmatic expression, like a poker player giving nothing away. She shrugged and nodded, convinced that she showed less emotion than the sphinx.

  “No need to smirk,” said Marnie grinning.

  *

  While Marnie and Anne cleared the breakfast things away, Ralph phoned the weather service, the AA and the bus station. He came into the kitchen and leaned against the rail on the Aga.

  “Well, the worst weather is to the south and east of us. We shouldn’t attempt to go in that direction unless it’s really urgent and even if we did, there are no buses running until further notice.”

  “Which direction is Brackley from here?” said Marnie. “It’s north isn’t it?”

  “More or less. I thought I’d report back before we decided about Randall.”

  “Obviously Anne is snow-bound,” said Marnie. “So no great problem, is it?”

  Anne heaved a theatrical sigh. “It’s tragic.”

  “Absolutely,” said Ralph. “You ring your parents, then I’ll ring Randall. We’d better make emergency plans to withstand a siege. First priority, fetch a bottle of claret from the cellar. Won’t be long.”

  He rejoined them in the living room a few minutes later. He was carrying two bottles of claret. “We must be on the edge of the blizzard. Randall says it’s not too bad over there. We may be able to go after all. And he’d be delighted to see all three of us. I suspect he wants us to help him finish the turkey.”

  *

  “Help yourself to the bashed neeps,” said Randall. “I think the ratatouille goes quite well.” He sat at the head of the table in the well-proportioned dining room of his Georgian rectory in the centre of the small town of Brackley. The candlesticks on the table were silver, highly polished and probably also Georgian. Tall and thin with dark curly hair and a sensitive face, he was wearing a deep blue velvet jacket and no dog-collar. The serving dishes in the centre of the table were Imari, and steam was rising from them as the guests served themselves.

  “A very original menu,” said Marnie.

  Randall raised his glass and paused to admire the colour of the wine. “Well, cheers and a happy Christmas to you all. Wonderful wine, Ralph. Excellent.”

  “I hope it complements the meal,” said Ralph.

  “Not exactly a traditional Yule-tide lunch,” said Randall. “But when I knew that Anne would be coming, it gave me a golden opportunity to get the haggis out of the freezer.”

  “I hope I’m not being a nuisance,” said Anne.

  “Absolutely not. In fact, I was given the haggis, a vegetarian haggis, by one of my church wardens, a delightful lady from Aberdeen. Fiona Murray. She wanted me to have it for Burns night when she’d be away in Scotland.”

  “Why vegetarian?” said Marnie. “You’re not a veggie, are you?”

  “No, but Fiona suspected that most English people might not like the idea of a real haggis and these taste just as good, or so she told me. Quite rich and spicy, isn’t it?” They all agreed that the combination of haggis, neeps and ratatouille was a success, especially washed down with a nine year old claret from Pauillac.

  “I should have brought a dozen bottles in case we get snowed in here as well,” said Ralph.

  “Hear! Hear!” said Randall. “In future, as soon as I hear a bad weather warning, I’ll invite you over straight away.” He replaced the lids on the dishes and transferred them to a heated server on the sideboard.

  “You seem to have settled into Brackley very well,” said Marnie. “The life of Rural Dean obviously suits you.”

  “It does. And it gives scope to work on a broader scale than in a single parish. Since coming here I’ve been able to branch out.”

  “In what ways?” Marnie asked.

  “Well, I’m organising a choral festival for church choirs in the area. Actually, it’s in memory of Toni. She had a wonderful singing voice.” Marnie remembered it well. A voice like an angel, Anne had said the first time she heard her singing in the church. “I’ve introduced a pastoral system for new clergy. We have three women vicars in the area now. They’re growing in numbers, unlike the men.”

  “How are they being received?”

  “On the whole ...” He nodded thoughtfully, “pretty well. Actually, there’ll be a new woman vicar coming to Knightly. Did you know?”

  “Mr Fowey told us,” said Anne.

  “Let’s hope she’s accepted by the village,” said Randall. “Do you think she will be?”

  “I do,” said Marnie. “Toni’s death made a huge impact on people. So did her life. I’d rather think about positive things, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” said Randall. “I’m sorry. I was forgetting about your recent experience. I hope it’s not too distressing.”

  “What’s this enterprise you’re so keen to show us?” said Ralph.

  Randall shrugged. “Nothing grand, really, but a minor victory for humanity in its way. It’s just a drop-in centre for the homeless, people who can’t cope with life.”

  “A sort of drop-in for drop-outs?” Anne suggested.

  Randall smiled at her. “Yes. Exactly. Most of the ones who come are what would've been called ‘tramps’ years ago. They can stay for as long as they like, but they seem to spend a couple of nights with us and move on. It’s their way of life.”

  “So they never have a permanent home?” said Marnie.

  “Well, I’m no real expert, but the ones we have here tend to move around. They seem to come to Brackley at roughly the same time each year, I gather. And they usually have a special place they visit at Christmas. But I think the ones who live in big towns move around rather less than the country ones.”

  “What do the locals think of them?” said Marnie.

  “They’re very tolerant, actually. Some of the old boys have been coming to Brackley for years, apparently. They’re no trouble.”

  “Where do they come from?” said Anne.

  “Ah, that’s difficult.” Randall got up and fetched the second bottle of wine from the sideboard to top up their glasses. “That’s something you can’t do … ask them questions. They’re very private, never talk about themselves, especially about the past.”

  “At least you’ve helped give them a present,” said Marnie. “I mean a here and now.”

  “Yes, but it was a close run thing. That’s why I said it was a minor victory for humanity.”

  “Would this relate to a building by any chance?” said Ralph.

  “You’ve guessed it. The old convalescent home was due to close. On closure it would revert to the trustees of a foundation, a small private trust bequeathed by a local benefactor at the turn of the century.”

  “They had plans for it?” said Ralph.

  “They did. Or rather the chairman had plans for it. He’s a great-grandson of the benefactor and runs a business here in town. His plan was to turn the building into a hotel and conference centre. It would make a fortune, or so I was advised by one of my churchwardens.”

  “But if it was a charitable trust …” said Marnie.

  “Ah …” said Ralph.

  “Ah …” Randall agreed

  “Ah?” said Anne.

  Randall nodded. “It would be a potential goldmine, a goldmine with jobs.”

  “Jobs for the boys,” said Ralph.

  “Well-paid jobs,” said Randall.

&
nbsp; “Ah …” said Marnie.

  “Ah …” said Anne.

  “Never let it be said that the art of conversation has died in Brackley,” said Marnie. “So what did you do to stop the master plan?”

  “Briefly, after I heard about it from the churchwarden, I did some research on the trust documents and found that the building could only be used for medical or charitable purposes. That’s what gave me the idea. So I lobbied the health authority and got them to agree to let the church take it over for a nominal rent to use for the benefit of the needy.”

  “What did the chairman of the trust think of that?” said Marnie.

  “His views were rather less than charitable, I’m afraid. He virtually accused me of robbing him of his birthright. Anyway, when he realised he’d lost the argument, he quietened down. He had to, I suppose. He’s a county councillor and he was standing for re-election. As a politician, he couldn’t afford to let people know what he really thought.”

  Ralph threw his head back and laughed. Anne looked thoughtful.

  “Now you’re starting to sound like Ralph,” said Marnie.

  *

  The hostel was in the high street not far from the town hall. The entrance was located in a narrow lane and the impressive Georgian front door was no longer used. Snow was falling lightly as they drove carefully in Ralph’s car the short distance through the town from the rectory, preferable to taking their chances on the slippery pavements. Once inside the building, they were all surprised, except Randall, at the brightness of the interior and the absence of unpleasant smells. His visitors had expected the building to hum with the odour of dirty clothes and unwashed bodies, but they were greeted only with a faint aroma of cooking. Randall said he did not want the ‘guests’, as he called the tramps, to feel they were being inspected, or subjected to a ‘Royal visit’, so he suggested that they take coffee at a table on one side of the dining hall. One of the volunteers, a young woman student, greeted Randall and his friends warmly and poured the coffee into china cups with saucers. It tasted good.