Death in Little Venice
Page 45
“With nothing else to go on, it’s not enough.”
Marnie sighed. “That Bruere made me so … I don’t know.”
“Be careful, Marnie. You admitted leaving a hip-flask possibly containing some sort of poison with Grant. They then find some strange substance in his bloodstream at the autopsy. They could link you with that and make things tricky for you.”
“But –”
“Added to the fact that you also admitted to taking his revolver. My advice to you as your solicitor, and as a close friend, is to leave things alone. Put it down, Marnie.”
“But I know Malcolm killed Tim Edmonds. For the sake of his family, I think they need to know that. And what does Bruere say? The man was a hero, Mrs Walker, a war hero in the Falklands.” She sighed. “The man was a hero! This is a cover-up, Roger.”
Roger stared at the traffic rumbling past. “That may or may not be so, but there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve got the chance to get your life back to normal, Marnie. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Of course.”
“Then take it. You can’t bring them back. Time to put things down.”
“I just wish I had proof so that I could set the record straight.”
“It’s over, Marnie. Let them rest in their graves.”
*
Mrs Jolly had lit a fire in her sitting room, and it took little effort to persuade Marnie to have a sandwich when she returned from the police station. Marnie told Mrs Jolly and Anne about the interview and about what Roger had said.
The old lady was concerned for Marnie’s health. “I’m going to speak to you like an aunt, my dear.”
Marnie smiled. “You used to think I was a water gypsy. Now suddenly I’ve become you’re niece.”
“By adoption.”
“Fine by me.”
“What Roger said was right, and you know it really. Power and politics are a long way removed from the life you wanted for yourself and for Anne. Time to let go. You’ve had enough of that kind of stress to last a lifetime.”
“You can say that again,” said Anne.
*
Mrs Jolly took it as a sure sign that Marnie’s recovery still had some way to go, when she agreed to have a lie-down that afternoon. They left her for an hour or two while Anne helped in the kitchen preparing vegetables for supper. For her it was a blissful return to normal life, and she hummed as she cut parsnips into chunks for roasting and peeled off the outer leaves of Brussels sprouts.
Eventually, as dusk began to fall, Anne crept quietly up the stairs and peeped in at the bedroom door. Marnie sat up and smiled at her friend, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. It cast a warm glow over the room. Marnie still looked tired.
Anne went across and sat on the bed. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking.”
“I can guess what about.”
“Yes. Now that it’s all over, it’s hard to get it in perspective. Malcolm did a terrible thing, but he’ll be remembered as a hero and nobody wants to see it any other way. Doesn’t that strike you as weird, Anne?”
“Maybe. But I’ll tell you what I think. Betraying a friend like that, betraying your best friend, the way Tim Edmonds did, that was a terrible thing, too.”
“I suppose so. Betrayal, murder, the whole thing just keeps going round and round in my head. It makes me feel dizzy.”
“I don’t want you going down with another migraine, Marnie.”
“Blimey, it’s two aunts now!”
“I mean it. I was quite worried about you. Just when we thought you were really well again.”
“I know. So what would you like to do?”
“Easy. Get our life back. Move into cottage number two. Move on.”
“Me too. Let other people fight their own battles.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good.”
“Let’s go back to Knightly St John tomorrow,” said Marnie.
“Great. I can hardly wait.”
“We can meet the new vicar and have tea! Village life doesn’t get much more normal than that.” They laughed.
Outside, they heard Mrs Jolly call up the stairs. The mobile was ringing, and she offered to bring it up. Anne took it from her in the doorway. Mrs Jolly said sternly, “If it’s that Inspector Bruere, pass the phone to me.” It was Beth. Anne took the phone over to Marnie, and Mrs Jolly went back to her cooking.
“It’s all over, Beth. I’ve given my statement. The case is closed. At least I think it is.”
“That’s great. I’ve been reading about it in the press. They’ve had a field day. Two tragic accidents. You’ve probably seen it.”
“Yes. Sad business. So tell me about you.”
“Oh, things here are much the same as usual. People coming to dinner. We’re in for a pulsating evening. One of Paul’s colleagues. I never understand a word he says, lives on his own little cloud, a low-temperature physicist, no small talk.”
“You’ll have to break the ice,” said Marnie.
Beth snorted. “You’re obviously on the mend. Your jokes are as bad as ever.”
Marnie yawned. “What else is new?”
“Nothing really. I’ll tell you something, though. You won’t believe it, but I can’t get used to the garage not having your MG in it. We still leave our car on the drive.”
Marnie blinked drowsily in Anne’s direction as Beth was speaking. She closed her eyes and lay slowly back against the pillow, the phone slipping away from her ear. Anne leaned forward and took the mobile from Marnie’s hand. She could hear Beth’s voice chatting on, as she bent down and kissed Marnie on the forehead. She turned out the light and tiptoed silently out of the room.
Postscript
It was late morning when Marnie and Anne reached Glebe Farm, the taxi from the station dropping them in the courtyard outside the office barn. Anne went off to check the heating on Sally Ann as Dolly came in and rubbed her side against Marnie’s leg. Everything looked pleasantly normal, including the pile of letters on the floor. Marnie dumped them on her desk, spotting one envelope bearing the embossed scarlet crest of the House of Lords. She slit it open and tipped out the contents. There was a newspaper cutting showing Malcolm Grant ushering Tim Edmonds into a car. Tim Edmonds looked haunted and grey. Malcolm’s concern for his friend was obvious. With the picture was a betting slip. It read:
Marnie
Why? Loyalty is everything. Try not to judge me too harshly. There was only one honourable way out. I know you understand.
Yours now and forever,
Malcolm.
Marnie studied the picture for some time and read the note over again. She stood deep in thought and then, slowly and decisively, turned to drop the photograph and the betting slip into the bin.
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About the author
When not writing novels, he is a linguist and lexicographer. As director of The European Language Initiative he compiled and edited twelve dictionaries in fifteen languages, including English, since the first one was published by Cassell in 1993.
They include the official dictionaries of the National Assembly for Wales (English and Welsh), the Scottish Parliament (English and Gaelic) and a joint project for the Irish Parliament and the Northern Ireland Assembly (English and Irish).
For the record, the others are specialist dictionaries in Basque, Catalan, Danish, Dutch, French, German, Greek, Irish, Italian, Portuguese, Russian, Scottish Gaelic, Spanish and Welsh.
Leo and his wife, cookery writer Cassandra McNeir, live in a 300 year-old cottage in Northamptonshire.
His website can be found at: www.leomcneir.com
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Leo McNeir, Death in Little Venice