Gifthorse: The next instalment of the riveting Marnie Walker series

by Leo McNeir

  Willow looked at her across the room but said nothing.

  “You would have been very welcome. We had plenty.”

  Willow nodded slowly. Ben looked into his mug, not making eye contact with anyone. Anne expected Marnie to drop the subject, but she persisted.

  “I wondered if you might know Maurice Dekker.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Just a feeling. Each time I’ve mentioned the name you’ve veered away from talking about him, but you obviously know his boat.”

  Willow took a sip of the hot chocolate. “I will just say this. There are some people who carry more than their fair share of baggage around with them and it’s best not to get too close. No good will come of mixing with them.”

  Chapter 14

  Quentin Blunt

  When Anne came out of the office barn on Monday morning, the first thing she saw was the huge snowman they had created the previous day, resplendent with the biggest carrot they could find for a nose. Without thinking, she saluted him and barked an order: Carry on! Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she glanced quickly around and hurried on her way to join the others for breakfast on Sally Ann.

  Her first port of call was to look in on Poppy in the stable barn. Someone had been there before her. The horse was chewing her way through a mound of hay and the water bucket was full. Anne advanced in between the bales of straw, took an apple from her pocket and held it out towards the great beast. Like Dolly, Poppy seemed to be equipped with radar where food was concerned. She turned her head sideways, reached forward and deftly lifted the apple in her lips from Anne’s outstretched hand. With a friendly pat on the rump, Anne left her and headed for the boat.

  In the saloon Marnie and Ralph were locked in a discussion while laying the table. There were no prizes for guessing its subject. She took a container from the fridge and began pouring orange juice.

  “You know, Ralph, what surprises me,” Marnie said, “is that various people seem to have heard of him but you haven’t. I mean, you usually know something about just about everyone.”

  Ralph laughed. “I hev vays of knowing zese sings, comrade.”

  “I’m serious,” Marnie persisted. “Willow knows him, or about him. That BW man you spoke to seemed to have some idea about his past. Why don’t you?”

  Ralph sat at the table and took a sip of juice, his expression pensive. “Well, I don’t have contacts in every field. I’m not as well connected in the boating world as some people, including you, Marnie.”

  Marnie picked up her glass. “I wonder if we’re looking in the wrong place.”

  Ralph reached for the coffee pot. “You know, there’s something that BW man said about us not being like usual boaters, meaning Dekker and us. He was somehow linking us together as if we had something in common.”

  “What might that be?” Marnie asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think he thought we weren’t like ordinary people, whatever that means. It’s odd.”

  “Most boaters aren’t university professors,” Marnie observed.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Is anyone just ordinary?” Anne said. “Think of all the people we’ve met on the cut, all unique in their way. All of them have a story to tell. Why should Maurice Dekker be any different?”

  “Fair point,” said Marnie. “Perhaps he seems different because we don’t know what story he has to tell.”

  Anne looked unconvinced. “Perhaps he’s just a private sort of person.”

  Marnie and Ralph made no reply. Both were sharing the same thought. If Dekker was just a private sort of person, why were others so keen to warn them to keep away from him?

  *

  Shortly before eight-thirty Ben walked into the office barn and was about to speak when the phone began ringing. Anne smiled across at him as she picked up the receiver.

  “Walker and Co, good morning. … Hallo, Mrs Appleton. … Fine, no probs. I’ll be up.” She disconnected and said hallo to Ben before speaking to Marnie. “Mrs Appleton wants us to collect our post again. Alan’s still not keen to risk the van down the field track with all the snow. Shall I go now?”

  “D’you want to take the Disco?”

  “No. A walk’ll do me good.”

  “Okay, if you’re up to it. Hallo, Ben. All well on Glastonbury?”

  “Fine, no probs.” He grinned. “Mind you, Poppy needs some exercise.” He looked over at Anne who was pulling on her jacket and scarf. “Can I walk with you up to the village?”

  “Sure. Are you starting at school today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your mother going with you?” Marnie asked.

  Ben looked thoughtful. “Can you hang on, just a minute?”

  He dashed out of the office, and through the window they saw him hopping through the snow.

  Marnie smiled at Anne. “You have another admirer.”

  “I know.” She chuckled and imitated his accent. “Fine, no probs. Funny boy.”

  She wound the long apricot scarf round her neck and was pulling on matching gloves when Ben tapped on the window and waved. Anne went out to find Poppy waiting at the foot of the field track, wearing a head collar. Ben held her on a leading rein.

  “Can we do what we did the other day, Anne? We’ll walk her up and you can walk her back. Okay?”

  Anne looked doubtful. “Will she come for me?”

  “No probs. Here, you take the rein. She won’t mind.”

  The first surprise came when Ben said they should go on further, rather than tie up at the field gate. The snow lay thick on the road and few cars were running. Ben crossed the high street.

  “Remember you don’t walk on the pavement. Poppy’s like a vehicle. You walk her on the road and you keep to the left.”

  The second surprise came when Ben took the leading rein and attached it to the school fence.

  “You won’t be long, will you?” he said.

  “Couple of minutes.”

  There were no children in the playground, and Anne guessed Margaret Giles had called them in before registration and assembly.

  “Are you okay, then?” Anne said.

  “Fine, no –”

  “I know. I thought your mum would be coming with you as it’s your first day.”

  Ben gave a faint smile. “I told her I was walking up with you.”

  “But you didn’t even know I’d be –”

  Before she could complete the sentence, he reached up and kissed her on the cheek. Setting off across the playground, he called back over his shoulder.

  “Will you be here when I come out at home time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You always come to post the letters,” he shouted. Anne nodded. “Bring Poppy,” he called and skated towards the entrance.

  When Anne returned minutes later, she found Poppy quietly waiting. She untied the rein and told the horse they were going back. Poppy turned and followed on behind, automatically stepping into the road. Anne, who had no experience of horses, wondered how Poppy knew what to do. She was so engrossed in the task of leading the great animal while plodding through the snow at the roadside that she failed to notice a face at a window in the school gazing out at her, wearing a smile.

  *

  Marnie sat back from the drawing board, slipped off the three-quarter length cardigan and draped it over the back of the chair, its normal position in winter. The office was snug and warm, but she suppressed a shiver as she glanced out at the snowbound courtyard. Turning her attention back to work, she was comparing shades of blue for curtains in a client’s Queen Anne lodge when the phone rang. Calls before nine o’clock were unusual.“Walker and Co, good morning.”

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs Marnie Walker. Is she available?” A clipped, business-like voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh.” A note of surprise.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Quentin Blunt. I’m ringing from Swinford and Cole in London. I’
ve been given your number by Roger Broadbent.”

  Marnie stiffened. Her solicitor would not normally give out her private details to anyone.

  “I see.”

  “You do know who we are, Mrs Walker?”

  Marnie hadn’t the remotest idea.

  “Perhaps you could remind me. Sorry, I was engaged on something when you rang.”

  “I apologise for interrupting your work, but may I have a word?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This concerns your apartment in London.”

  Marnie was confused. She had sold her Hampstead flat a few years earlier to move up to Knightly St John. That was all past history now.

  “Was there some irregularity with the sale? Mr Broadbent handled the legal side for me.”

  “I’m referring to your apartment in Docklands, Mrs Walker.”

  Docklands. A flood of images rushed through her brain. The view from the fifth-floor apartment down the Thames towards the Isle of Dogs. The spacious living area with ivory-coloured sofas, walls covered in pale honey fabric, brass lamps, Oriental carpets on the mahogany floor. Simon’s apartment, the London residence of her late ex-husband. More images. Simon smiling out from behind the wheel of his silver Mercedes executive express. Simon lying inert in the floodlit darkness beside a lock near Stoke Bruerne where he had been found dead almost two years before.

  “Mrs Walker?”

  Marnie had been the sole beneficiary of his will. She had inherited the Mercedes and had told Simon’s solicitor to sell it immediately, unable to bear the pain of seeing it again. There had been a portfolio of stocks and shares, bank accounts containing substantial sums, all of them transferred to her name, all of them left untouched. And there was the Docklands flat, situated across the river from Saint Katharine Docks by Tower Bridge in one of London’s most fashionable and exclusive developments. Marnie had once stayed there briefly, but had never been back since Simon’s death. She had instructed Roger Broadbent to manage the apartment until she could make rational decisions about it.

  “Can you hear me, Mrs Walker?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was explaining about your tenants.”

  “I, er, I lost you for a moment there.”

  “Your tenants, their agreement came to an end last week.” Blunt spoke with infinite patience. “It had been understood that they’d be renewing for another period, but instead there’s been a change of plan at the bank and they’ve returned to Singapore. The question now arises as to how we proceed from here.”

  “Can’t you talk to Roger about this? I leave all that to him.”

  “Not in this case, I’m afraid. You see the bank has expressed interest in it, one of the directors to be precise. In short, he wants to buy it from you. The market is currently rising and I’m sure he’d be willing to –”

  “Mr Blunt, I’m not able to think about it at the moment.”

  “Of course. Could I phone you again later today at a more convenient time?”

  “I meant I didn’t want to consider selling it at all.”

  “Mrs Walker, I really –”

  “You’ll have to excuse me. Good-bye.”

  After putting the phone down Marnie sat with elbows on the desk, chin resting on her fists, staring ahead, seeing nothing but memories. She knew it was irrational but even now could not face the responsibilities of Simon’s legacy. The details were barely lodged in the back of her mind, never thought about, abandoned to the care of her solicitor. Over and above the bank accounts, the investment portfolio and the apartment, she was dimly aware of a share in Simon’s company. Occasional hefty dividends with progress reports arrived in the post, which Anne forwarded unread to their accountants in Northampton.

  “Are you all right, Marnie?”

  She looked up startled, to see Anne standing near the door, peeling off her scarf and jacket.

  “I’m not sure, yes. I suppose. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  Anne’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t …” She crossed the office to hang up her jacket in the kitchen area. “Would you like anything while I’m here?”

  “No. It’s okay. You’ve got the post?”

  “Yes. I’ll have it sorted in just a minute.”

  The atmosphere in the office was strange. Marnie, who normally shared everything with Anne, seemed closed in on herself, frozen and isolated. What surprised Anne was that Marnie seemed not just unable to speak, but unwilling to communicate.

  “Marnie, would you like a bit of time to yourself? I could go and check that Poppy’s all right.”

  Marnie’s hesitation was answer enough. Anne plucked an apple from the fruit bowl, grabbed her jacket from the hook and headed for the door.

  “I forgot to give her an apple. Won’t be long.”

  Before Marnie could muster a reply, Anne had gone. Marnie blinked and reached for the filofax. She found the name she wanted and dialled the number.

  “Good morning. I’d like to speak to Roger Broadbent, please. It’s Marnie Walker.”

  “He’s only just walked in, Mrs Walker. Can I get him to call you back when he’s got his coat off?”

  “You can tell him I’m hopping mad. That should bring him to the phone.”

  A pause. “One moment, please.”

  Marnie could imagine Roger going to his office and closing the door. There was a click and her solicitor was on the line.

  “Marnie, what’s happened?”

  “Did you give my phone number to someone without consulting me first?”

  “Of course not. Who are you talking about?”

  “Someone called Blunt, I think, from Somebody and Cole.” The silence lasted several seconds. “Well, did you?”

  “Quentin? That would be it. Quentin Blunt, Swinford and Cole. The answer’s still no, Marnie.”

  “Then why did he phone me this morning and tell me you’d given him my number?”

  “No idea. Marnie, they are your agents. They work on your behalf. I’ve had no contact with them for months, not since I approved a tenancy agreement last year for some bank wallah from the Far East doing a stint in the City.”

  “But he distinctly told me –”

  “Ah, wait a minute. It’s coming back to me. When Simon … died,” Roger couldn’t bring himself to say, was murdered, “you asked me to take care of all matters relating to his estate.”

  “I know. That’s why –”

  “Please hear me out, Marnie. I engaged Swinford and Cole to let the apartment while you decided what to do with it. They opened a file for the property – for accounting and so on – and wanted your personal details as owner. You asked me to give them your office phone number and said you left the rest to me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Let me think … early summer of ninety-five, almost two years ago. Marnie, I’m sorry if –”

  “No, no. I’m sorry, Roger. Sorry I doubted you, sorry I don’t face up to things, sorry for the whole situation. I apologise for –”

  “Marnie, let’s stop the apologising, shall we? There’s no need between friends. I do understand how you feel.”

  “It was such a shock when that man phoned out of the blue. It just brought it all back to me.”

  From the corner of her eye Marnie saw Anne look in at the window. She waved to her to come in.

  “What did Blunt actually want, Marnie?” Roger asked.

  “He said the tenants were leaving and some bank director wanted to buy the flat.”

  “Are you interested in selling? Would you like me to look into this for you?”

  “I don’t know. I never think about it.”

  “Perhaps you should give it some thought now, Marnie. It’s been two years, after all. In the meantime I could phone Blunt and tell him not to bother you again. Shall I do that?”

  “Please.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One other thing, Roger. You can take your coat off now.”

  He chuckled.
“Thank you, Marnie, my dear friend. Leave everything to me.”

  Marnie was trying to get her thoughts in order when she became aware of a tearing sound. Anne was slitting open the morning mail with a paperknife, part of the office routine. Was she becoming so much a creature of habit that any variation was uncomfortable, or did her sense of anxiety have deeper roots?

  She suspected that everyone who met her regarded her as strong, capable and focused on her career. Below the surface Marnie knew she had a number of insecurities, which she accepted as part of running her own show. Like any self-employed person she had worries about contracts, cash-flow and other pressures. But deep down inside she knew there were areas of extreme sensitivity that even now, after the passage of time, could cause her real pain. Among these, the death of her former husband, Simon, was like a raw wound.

  Marnie looked across the office at Anne, who was putting the mail into piles and dropping envelopes into the recycling bin, calmly getting on with the morning routine. Marnie knew that under the surface Anne was troubled by her behaviour and would do all she could not to make the situation worse.

  “Anne, I’m sorry I was, you know …”

  “That’s all right. Problem? Can I help?”

  Marnie explained what had happened and why she felt unsettled at having Simon brought unexpectedly back into focus. Anne sympathised. She had shared all Marnie’s triumphs since setting up her own business and all Marnie’s troubles. When Marnie had suffered, Anne had been in the firing line with her.

  “So are you going to sell the flat, Marnie?”

  Before Marnie could reply, Anne spoke again.

  “You don’t need all this hassle, do you? I’ll just shut up. Forget I asked. You don’t want to have to think about it. I can see that.”

  “Maybe it’s time I faced up to my responsibilities, Anne.”

  “In what way?”

  “By sorting out the flat. That would be a start.”

  “I remember it from the time of our visit … beautiful. It had lovely views. Did you say your tenants had left?”

  Marnie stared at Anne for several seconds. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  *

  Anne spent most of the day in her attic room studying. She had phoned in to college that morning and explained she would be unable to attend her classes. The secretary told her that half the students and several members of staff were in the same position, snowed in at home. It was no hardship. Anne had plenty of work to do and was happy to press on with her latest project.