by Leo McNeir
“Still, it can only be an assumption. We’ll get more details when Estelle can make a full statement.”
“But even then you won’t have verifiable evidence,” said Marnie.
“No,” Bartlett conceded. “Only Estelle will ever know what really happened in the tunnel.”
“A lot will depend on how you present the facts.” Ralph checked himself. “How you interpret the details.”
Bartlett pulled a face. “Well, would anyone seriously believe that a woman like Estelle would be capable of overpowering a strong, athletic man like Mr Curtiss? I think that’s doubtful.” He stood up. “Thank you for the tea. We’ll show ourselves out. We know the way.”
“What about the Brandon killing?” Ralph asked. “Are you any further forward?”
Bartlett shook his head. “Between ourselves, a total blank. This has not been a good week for our crime statistics.”
After the detectives had left, Anne sat with her head in her hands. Ralph crossed the room and knelt down beside her, holding her gently. Marnie breathed out audibly. She walked over, squatted down and hugged them both.
“I could use a brandy,” said Ralph.
“Make it two,” Marnie agreed.
“Three.” Anne spoke without looking up.
“Mm?” Marnie was surprised.
“Doubles,” Anne added. “For medicinal purposes.”
Ralph walked to the medicine cabinet and took out a bottle. “Anne, remind me never to play poker with you.”
Marnie kissed the top of Anne’s head. “For once I agree with Bartlett. You did the right thing.”
Ralph returned carrying three glasses. “What was that about fighting the enemy with the truth?”
“It was Donovan, wasn’t it?” said Marnie.
“Yes. Something I’ll never forget.”
33
On the following day, Anne awoke feeling calm and rested, but strangely empty. She had slept soundly but had no recollection of going to bed the previous night. It was a morning of new beginnings. Everything needed recharging.
The sound of footsteps in the courtyard drew her to the window slit. Marnie was opening the front door of Estelle’s cottage. She would be tidying her things, the first step in Estelle’s gradual withdrawal from Glebe Farm and out of their lives.
Anne pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and left the barn to go through the spinney to prepare breakfast on Sally Ann. It was her first walk along that path since setting off for the riot. She expected to meet Dolly, but the sturdy black cat did not intercept her. Probably on mouse patrol. It was early morning, though too late for the dawn chorus. Anne’s walk through the sunlit trees was accompanied by silence.
Leaving the spinney she found the two narrowboats lying comfortably at their moorings. Thyrsis looked unoccupied. Anne knew Ralph would be striding up the hill, taking his morning exercise. Suddenly her eyes were drawn to movement on the roof of Sally Ann. On the hatch cover above the entrance door Dolly was skitting about. Anne groaned inwardly. It looked as if the cat had taken a mouse up there and was toying with it, patting it with one paw then the other. Anne quickened her pace to try and save the poor creature.
Her attention fixed on the cat and her mind on rescue, Anne was surprised to see that Dolly’s plaything was not an animal. Dolly made a stab at the flower as Anne picked it up. Stroking Dolly’s head, Anne was musing on why and how the cat had carried it up to the hatch cover when she realised what she was holding. It was a single white rose.
She snapped her head round so fast she almost had vertigo. Across the still water of the canal, the mooring of X O 2 was empty. Donovan’s boat had gone. Anne sniffed the rose … die weiße Rose. It looked suspiciously like those that Marnie had planted in the farm garden.
They had all been wrong. The clothes found in the skip had not been a sign from their enemies, a warning to opponents. They had been a smokescreen. Donovan had covered his tracks. Quickly Anne jumped onto the bank and raced towards the bridge. But no boat was visible in any direction. She was still clutching the white rose. A smile crept slowly across her face.
Postscript
In cottage number two Marnie had finished gathering Estelle’s Umbria papers together, as always admiring the quality and thoroughness of her work. She checked the desk but it was empty. As she slid open the bottom drawer and was making to close it, she heard something rustle inside. Bending down she looked in and found a bundle of papers at the back, letters addressed to Estelle in Luther’s firm confident handwriting.
Marnie was turning her eyes away when she noticed something protruding from underneath them. She moved the bundle aside with a finger. It was a Valentine card. She could not help reading the inscription on the front. To the Most Perfect Man in the World.
Marnie covered it with the letters, pushed the whole collection to the back and closed the drawer.
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About the author
When not writing novels, Leo McNeir 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.
http://www.leomcneir.com/