Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  “I seem to make a habit of walking in on your mealtimes,” the visitor observed. “I was hoping to see Anne.”

  “She’s away for the day,” said Marnie, putting the tray down on the table.

  “I’ll leave you in peace, then. Sorry to intrude.”

  He turned and began walking away.

  “Aren’t you going to wish us Guten Appetit?” said Ralph.

  The young man stopped, and his head snapped round. His expression had changed to wariness and surprise. He scanned the boats with his eyes as if expecting an ambush.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, his body tense. He looked fixedly at Ralph. “Do I know you?”

  “I think that’s a possibility. I believe your late father may for a time have been a colleague of mine at Oxford.”

  The visitor considered this and almost imperceptibly nodded, his eyes focusing on his past life.

  “You know my name from Anne. When father was at Oxford I was only six years old. A lot has changed since then.”

  “Would you care to join us for lunch?” said Marnie.

  “No, thank you. That would be … I should be going. So, Guten Appetit, then.”

  His head dropped in an embryonic bow, and he was gone. Marnie and Ralph stared after him before addressing themselves to their rapidly cooling meal.

  *

  The yellow mountain bike was still in place on the roof of X O 2, like a royal standard proclaiming that the owner was in residence, when Anne returned in the early evening. She was in good spirits after a day with her family and regaled Marnie and Ralph with the latest news from the home front. It had been a happy, uncomplicated visit devoid of sinister undertones, and listening to Anne’s cheerful narration, Marnie felt reluctant to embroil her again in the cares facing them at Glebe Farm.

  The three decided to call in at the office barn, Ralph to put his washing in the machine, Marnie to check for phone messages, Anne to put flowers in vases. Her father had cut her several bunches from the garden. They arrived in front of the barn as Estelle’s Golf drew in to the yard. Luther opened the passenger door, waved and reached into the back of the car to bring out a heavy box. Estelle smiled radiantly.

  “Hi! Luther thinks I’m crazy to want so many books up here when I’m about to go off to Italy, but I like having them around me. Anyway, I want him to have plenty to occupy him while I’m away, no excuses that he’s bored and needs to wander.”

  “Shall we review the project in the morning?” said Marnie. “Say, around ten o’clock?”

  “Sure. We wondered about going up to the pub for a drink this evening. It seems a villagey thing to do. Feel like joining us?”

  Marnie and Ralph exchanged glances. “Fine. Give us a shout when you’re ready.”

  In the barn Ralph was sorting his clothes into the machine when Anne climbed down the loft ladder.

  “Anything interesting in the messages department?” she said to Marnie, who was at her desk with a notepad.

  Ralph was kneeling facing the machine, and his voice was muffled. “Your friend Donovan came looking for you.”

  “Oh? When was that?”

  Marnie looked anxious. “While we were having lunch.”

  “He seems to be making a habit of doing that,” said Anne.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Well …”

  “Anything memorable?” Anne cocked an eyebrow.

  “Not really.”

  Ralph wandered over. “I knew his father, Anne. And I met him when he was a child, not long after I got my fellowship at All Saints.”

  “Gosh, that’s weird. You actually know him.”

  “That would be an exaggeration. I saw him a couple of times when he was about six.”

  “And his father’s a colleague of yours?”

  “Was. His parents are both dead, a road accident in South Africa about ten years ago.”

  “Did he say what he was doing here, or what he wanted?”

  “No,” said Marnie. “He just said he was hoping to see you.”

  Anne headed for the door. “Then there’s one way to find out. I’ll go round while I’m feeling in a good mood. See you later.”

  *

  Am I really doing this? Anne was slightly amazed at her own temerity as she walked through the spinney and took the path towards the canal bridge. But it was a fine evening, she had had a good day, and everybody was home at Glebe Farm. The world seemed an ordered place again, and she felt able to get the situation in perspective. Everything had become too intense since the rioting and bombing had started. It was time to clear the air. And Ralph knowing Donovan when he was a child somehow made it easier.

  Reaching the bridge, she paused and looked over at X O 2, nestling peacefully by the bank. She took a deep breath and walked on, aware of the tracks left by Donovan’s bike wheels in the earth.

  She had reached the stern of the boat when she heard a door open at the bow end, and Donovan climbed out of the cratch well. Without looking in Anne’s direction, he reached up for the bike and swung it to the ground in a smooth motion, flicking a pedal round with one foot, preparing to move off. Her presence caught his eye, and he stopped on the point of mounting.

  “Have you come to see me?” he asked. He seemed tense.

  “Whenever I come here, you’re either coming or going,” said Anne.

  “And when I go over to your place, you’re always eating. You never seem to do anything else.”

  “So you’re off.”

  “Not for long. I have to pop up to the village. I’ll be ten minutes.”

  “The shop isn’t open, you know,” Anne pointed out.

  “I need the phone box. My mobile’s run down.”

  Anne reached for her pocket, but it was empty. “Sorry. You could use mine, but it’s in my room.”

  “That’s all right. Look, I’ve really gotta go. Er, why don’t you wait for me on board? I honestly won’t be long.”

  “Oh, I don’t –”

  “Here!” He thrust his boat keys into her hand and pushed off the bike. “Make yourself at home.” He began pedalling, looking back over his shoulder to call out. “You could make coffee if you like. You’ll find everything in the galley.”

  He accelerated, made the turn onto the bridge and disappeared from view.

  Am I really doing this? Anne was again amazed, this time at accepting Donovan’s invitation to enter his inner sanctum in his absence. It looked the same as before, everything neat and orderly. She stood in the saloon – the study area – and realised that she found the overall effect of the almost monochrome environment strangely satisfying. It had been designed. It was all of a piece, a thought-out concept. Donovan had style, she grudgingly admitted to herself.

  She walked into the galley area and immediately saw the coffeepot on the workbench, beside a brown ceramic filter, like a broad funnel to stand on the pot. Leaning beside them was a box of Melitta filter papers, and she fitted one in place. All that was missing was the coffee. She filled the kettle and lit the gas. It ignited first time. Systematically she began a hunt through the cupboards that smelled pleasantly of coffee and spices until, under the workbench, she found a box of coffee – Jakobs echter Filterkaffee aus Berlin. Rummaging further she found cups and saucers – Rosenthal Studio-line – in plain white and spoons with the brand mark WMF on the back. It was like being on holiday in a house in a foreign country. She looked in the food cupboard and found brands she did not recognise: Dr. Oetker, Bahlsen, Stute. The fridge was much the same: Onken, Mildessa, Bärenmarke. Where did he buy these? Presumably he knew shops in England that sold them. In the bread bin she found a dark rye loaf and read the label: Schneiderbrot – Paderborn.

  The water was heating, and Anne poured a little into the pot to warm it. While she waited she felt an overwhelming curiosity about these surroundings … and their owner. Living with Marnie, she was accustomed to having continental food and wine in store, but her
e virtually everything she could see was foreign., German. She was suddenly struck by an image: Donovan as a little boy, lost, orphaned, all alone, clinging to anything he could find that reminded him of his homeland. His Fatherland.

  She went towards the desk. His radio was a Grundig, his pencils made by Staedtler, his pen a Pelikan. It was eerie to find this haven of Germany on an English canal in the heart of the country. The laptop bore the Siemens logo. By now she would have expected nothing else. There were drawers under the desk, and she pulled at them, one by one. All were arranged tidily with stationery in separate compartments. In one was a box of small candles, nightlights. In the bottom drawer was an old tin box, its paint chipped and worn away at the corners. Anne eased off the lid and found herself looking at a collection of medals. One of them was the familiar shape – familiar from countless war films and documentaries – of an Iron Cross. And there, lying further back in the drawer was the strangest shape. Anne pushed the lid back on the box and moved it aside. Perhaps what she saw was nothing more than an odd shadow, a trick of the half-light, her imagination distorting things as it had before. She began to reach towards the back of the drawer.

  Just then a clang from above her made Anne slam the drawer shut and leap up. She raced to the galley and poured the water from the pot into the sink, hurriedly spooning two measures of coffee into the filter and pouring hot water from the kettle until it reached the rim.

  “That smells good!”

  Donovan came in through the cratch door. He seemed changed, more relaxed, at ease in his home, more cheerful perhaps after his phone call.

  “I hope I’ve got the quantity right. I’m not used to filters.”

  Donovan looked at the pot. “Just let that go through, then pour in as much water as you want. Three top-ups should do it. What do you normally use?”

  “A cafetière.”

  He walked through, past the sitting area into the saloon, looking at the book-shelves. “You found everything you were looking for?”

  “No probs.”

  One drawer was not fully closed, and he pushed it home absent-mindedly with his knee. Anne concentrated on pouring water over the coffee grounds. Donovan took a candle from a shelf and set it down in the middle of the table. It was a nightlight like the ones she had seen in the drawer, resting in a shallow ceramic candle-holder. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a lighter, holding it sideways to catch the wick. Anne lifted the filter and looked into the pot before adding one more top-up of water. Donovan took the crockery from the bench and laid the table. Returning to the galley, he crouched at the fridge.

  “Do you take milk? I only have evaporated at the moment.”

  “A little,” said Anne, and watched as he took a jug from a cupboard and poured in the milk from a tin labelled, Bärenmarke.

  She checked the pot and removed the filter, placing it in the sink. Donovan came over and lifted the filter paper out, dropping it into the waste bin under the unit, together with the milk tin. They took their places on opposite sides of the table, and Donovan poured the coffee, the candle-light softening his sharp features.

  *

  The four from Glebe Farm decided it was warm enough to sit outside and found a table in the pub garden. Luther insisted on buying the first round and came out with a broad grin, carrying a tray of drinks.

  “Nice pub, very olde worlde. I assume it’s the real thing.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Ralph. “Not a fibreglass beam in sight.”

  “Why are you looking so pleased with yourself, Luther?” said Estelle.

  “I was just thinking, they can’t have seen many black faces in the bar. I suspect the locals are probably sitting in there trying to work out how much I’ve devalued their properties by moving into the village.” He laughed.

  “Yep,” said Marnie, joining in. “That’s Glebe Farm down the drain.”

  Ralph raised a finger. “Ah, but wait till they find out about your sporting pedigree, especially at cricket. They’ll start worrying how much you’ll have put the rates up. People will be flocking to live here when the word gets round. Cheers.”

  They raised their glasses.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring Anne along,” Estelle observed. “She’s never usually out of the picture.”

  “She has things to do this evening,” said Marnie.

  “Oh?” Estelle noted Marnie’s serious expression.

  “Actually,” Marnie began. “I was wondering about sending her with you to Italy.”

  “Sure. Is she keen to go?”

  “I haven’t mentioned it to her yet. It’s just an idea.”

  “Fine by me,” said Estelle.

  “Marnie thinks you need a chaperone,” said Luther, grinning. “Good idea.”

  *

  It was only early evening and still broad daylight outside, but Anne found the candle-flame homely and comforting. She sensed that Donovan had not lit it to increase the lighting in the cabin, even though it was subdued. It seemed to be his custom. He watched her looking at it.

  “Do you find the candle eccentric, unusual?” he asked.

  “No. I like it. Do you always do this?”

  He paused. “Always isn’t the right word. If you mean always when I have a visitor, then no, I don’t. Because I’ve never had a visitor on the boat before.”

  “But you often burn candles?”

  “Often, yes. Small ones on the table here, larger ones when I’m working at my desk in the evenings. Church candles are best. They last longest.”

  “What work do you do?” Anne wanted to resist being drawn into an interrogation, but it seemed inevitable.

  “I study.”

  He stopped there. Anne waited, but he seemed unlikely to go further. Or unwilling. She raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m not used to talking about myself,” he said.

  “Is that a polite way of telling me to mind my own business?”

  “Not really. It’s just a statement of fact.”

  “Why do you think I came here this evening? And – more to the point – why did you ask me to stay?”

  Donovan considered the questions for a while.

  “You’ve been on the boat a few times now. What do you deduce about its owner?”

  Anne stared back at him.

  “The owner is very orderly, disciplined, neat and tidy. There’s obviously a German connection, but he doesn’t speak English with a German accent. He likes technical things, obviously computing, photography. How’s that?”

  Donovan shook his head. “That’s just the surface. Anyone could work that out.”

  “His taste for order could be regarded by some as … obsessive.”

  “By you, for example?”

  “Yes, but I don’t count.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m the same. I bet you write lists for everything.”

  He smiled. “On target. Go on.”

  “He has a sense of design … style. Not trained, I don’t think … instinctive.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t get the feeling of a broad range beyond this style. This might be his only shot.”

  “Mm. That’s pretty good. Any more?”

  “I don’t know enough about people to know if he’s insecure, but I do wonder about that.”

  “Why?”

  “It should be obvious, as you might say.”

  “Touché! But you can’t just stop there. Why insecure?”

  “Perhaps because he surrounds himself with special things from home, German things, to carry his home around with him. And he only goes out to contact the world on his own terms. Then he comes back to secrete himself away in this secure environment. Is that on target?”

  “Who knows? I’d be the last person to be able to judge that. So, when are you going to say what you really think?”

  “I think I’ve said enough already.”

  “But there’s more there.”

  “I’m allowed m
y own private thoughts. I don’t have to say everything I think. And to be honest, Donovan – or whatever your first name is – I’m starting to find this game a little bit boring.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So your professor friend has been talking about me. I wonder what he knows.”

  “Not much. And he’s not a gossip. He told us about your parents, and I’m sorry about what happened to them … and to you. But he doesn’t know much else. He said your father was a lecturer and your grandfather a famous professor in Germany.”

  “Did he tell you my grandfather had been denounced, twice?”

  Anne did not reply.

  “What did you come to find out, Anne?”

  “There’s little point in going further, if you don’t like talking about yourself. Mind you, you’re not making a bad job of it. We’ve done nothing but talk about you since I came.” She began to get up, but he put his hand on her arm.

  “Ask me anything you want … whatever’s on your mind.”

  “All right. Where do you go when you’re out all night? What is this duty that takes you away? Why have you come here? What are you mixed up in? How’s that for starters?”

  Donovan’s turn to stare.

  “Family matters,” he said eventually, his voice very quiet. “After my parents died I went to live with one of my mother’s sisters and her husband, my aunt and uncle. They’ve been very good to me. My uncle is suffering from a terminal illness. When I’ve been away, I’ve been at the hospital with my aunt. She needs my support.”

  “So you’ve been there for them.”

  He nodded. “Because they’ve always been there for me.”

  Anne had a sinking feeling in her chest, and her eyes began pricking. She blinked and took a few deep breaths to retain her self-control, camouflaging her emotions by sipping coffee.

  Equally quietly, she said, “So what about the boat and travelling on the canal?”

  “The name of the boat is the clue, though you may not find it very obvious.”

  “I don’t.”

  “When I bought it, it had an airy-fairy name, a bit of English whimsy … September Mist, or something like that. It was fitted out in the cosy-cottage style that some people seem to like. I changed everything and fitted her out like a real boat.”