No Secrets (MARNIE WALKER Book 6)

by Leo McNeir

  No Secrets

  by

  Leo McNeir

  Dedication

  for

  Stephen

  and for

  Les and Gloria

  friends in all weathers

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  .

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  Epilogue

  About the Author

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  Prologue

  The woman got up from her desk and went out of the office with papers in her hand, walking along the short corridor to the lobby where the photocopier stood. Reaching the machine she steadied herself against its corner, pausing to take a series of slow deep breaths, waiting for the dizziness to clear. She recognised the signs, knew this vertigo had nothing to do with the new life inside her. Like almost everyone else in the office, in common with much of the population, she knew she was going down with flu.

  Slowly the feeling passed. She raised her head, blinked once or twice and looked over to the window, reassured that the world was coming back into focus. Outside, in the cold dark air of the wintry late afternoon, lights were twinkling between the bare branches of the trees across the water. In the windows of some of the houses Christmas trees with their own lights were struggling to create a festive atmosphere in the great city that had been so ravaged by illness in recent weeks.

  What a season! Ten days to go to Christmas, her last day in the office, and scarcely a friend to wish her a safe confinement or offer her a mince pie. There would be no office party, no cheap plonk – or orange juice in her case – not even a harmless peck under the lonely sprig of mistletoe dangling unheeded in the hallway.

  She cocked her head on one side and listened. Only the faint hum from the copying machine disturbed the silence. Two of the other women had gone home soon after coffee time that morning, both complaining of headaches and aching limbs. She herself would have left had it not been for the need to make sure all her files were up-to-date, ready for taking over by her successor. At the end of her maternity leave – or sooner if anything went wrong, God forbid – she would return, and it would be more than embarrassing to find she had left chaos in her wake.

  Snapping back to reality, she lifted the lid of the machine to copy her first page. Surprise. A single sheet of paper lay face down on the glass panel. She turned it over. Typical! But perhaps not so surprising. The boss was not used to copying his own documents. Leaving the original behind was the easiest mistake anyone could make if they were not in the habit of using the machine. Everyone was having to cover for missing colleagues, and he had had a busy day, with meetings and a steady flow of phone calls as everyone tried to clear their desks before the Christmas break.

  She placed her first paper on the machine, closed the lid, pressed the button for three copies and hit the start key. While the machine whirred into action, she walked along to the office at the end of the corridor and tapped on the door. There was no reply. She pushed the door open a fraction and looked in. The single desk lamp lit the room. She crossed to the desk and dropped the letter she had found into the boss’s in-tray.

  Back at the copier, she finished her work and returned to the office. The dizziness swept over her again. In haste, she slotted the papers into their respective files, ticked off the last item on her jobs-to-do list and made a decision. It was time to go. She quickly switched off the copier and turned out all the lights as she grabbed her coat from the hook and opened the front door.

  With no-one to see her on her way, she exited the building, pulled her coat collar high against the chill and headed out into the darkness.

  1

  Beep.

  “Hi! You’ve reached Beth and Paul. We’re not home just now, but leave your message and we’ll be right back.”

  Beep.

  “It’s Marnie. I want to talk to you about Sally Ann. I’m in the office till mid-afternoon. Y’all have a nice day, hear?”

  The last sentence was as close as Marnie Walker could come to a Southern-fried finger-lickin’ accent. She put the phone down, smiling and shaking her head. That sister of hers! Their regular academic visits to the US of A in connection with Paul’s work had really warped her brain.

  Just then, a sudden movement outside caught Marnie’s eye and she looked across the office towards the large window facing the courtyard. Beyond the cottages on the other side of the cobbled yard the breeze was rustling treetops visible over the slate roofs. The morning sun was breaking through the early clouds, picking out the red, yellow and gold leaves. There was almost a touch of the New England fall there in Northamptonshire that coincided with Marnie’s line of thought. That year’s extra rich colours had something to do with it being a long hot summer; increased sugar in the foliage that made the autumn transformation more brilliant. She had read that in the Sunday papers.

  It had certainly been a long hot summer, a time filled with incident for Marnie and her immediate circle. Her lover, Ralph – or maybe she should now think of him as her fiancé – was insisting that Marnie should have a relaxing autumn with nothing more exciting than occasional outings on her narrowboat, Sally Ann, plus visits to the theatre or concerts. And then a peaceful Christmas at home. Good idea.

  On an impulse Marnie stood up, went to the kitchen area at the back of the office barn – the office had been converted from one of Glebe Farm’s outbuildings – and switched on the electric kettle. Anne would be back soon and would be glad to return to the aroma of fresh coffee after her walk up to the village shop in the crisp air. While the water heated, Marnie wandered over to the window to look out at the stone cottages and house that had once been a working farm dating back to the seventeenth century. Bought when virtually in ruins, Marnie was gradually converting it to a complex of three cottages, two of which were already rented by young couples from the village, adjacent to the original farmhouse that she was refurbishing to become her home. While she was surveying the scene, the sound of sawing wood reached her from somewhere inside the house.

  Marnie folded her arms, standing with feet apart. She was taller than average and casually dressed for a day to be spent in the office. Thirty-something, she looked good in close-fitting jeans and a long woollen cream sweater. Her hair was dark and wavy, reaching to her shoulders, eyes brown, with a clear complexion and what Ralph described as intelligent features.

  The question exercising Marnie’s thoughts at that mom
ent was centred around cottage number three which was renovated, had been occupied for a short time by a colleague and was now vacant. Should Marnie and Ralph move in for the winter? The alternative was to hang on until the spring when, with luck, steady cash-flow and good planning, the rebuilding of the main farmhouse should be completed. Her thought process was interrupted by the phone ringing.

  “Walker and Co, good morning.”

  “Hi, Marnie, it’s me! What’s with the y’all business?”

  “Just trying to keep up with the Transatlantic theme on your answerphone.”

  “Transatlantic? Oh, right. Marnie, Paul’s work takes us to Connecticut, that’s New England Yankee territory. They don’t y’all each other up there.”

  “We don’t be right back each other over here, as far as I recall.”

  “Well, this is fun. Do you want to continue the discussion on language differences, or was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

  “Sally Ann. I wanted to talk to you about my boat.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Pause. “About your boat.”

  “That’s better. How many years have you been borrowing her, can you just remind me?”

  “That’s the point. I want to pay you for her.”

  Silence.

  “Beth? If you’re going to do a frothing-at-the-mouth-while-passing-out routine, don’t bother. It’s old hat.”

  “Marnie, this is genuine shock, bordering on the mind-bending.”

  “I’m being serious. I know I’ve had her for … a while, and I want to buy her from you, properly.”

  “Does that involve the sordid passage of coin?”

  “That sort of thing. I’ve been meaning to do this for some time, but things seem to have got in the way.” Marnie ignored the squawk at the other end of the line. “I mean it.”

  “Sorry, Marnie. Okay. No more jokes. Now I’m being serious. I do realise you’ve not had it easy, what with almost being murdered, almost being shot, getting caught up in –”

  “That’s fine, Beth, I do remember those things. I was there.”

  “Of course. Well, this is a surprise. I’ll tell Paul and he’ll no doubt do some research on how much boats cost these days, and we’ll get back to you with a price. That okay with you?”

  “I can save you the trouble. I’ve been checking prices in the boat magazines and I’ve even phoned up some brokerage firms.”

  “Great. So what’s Sally’s current value?”

  “The starting point is fifteen thousand for a boat of her size.”

  “Fair enough. That seems reasonable. D’you want to send us a cheque?”

  “I said that’s the starting point.”

  Suspicion. “Meaning?”

  “Given her age, I think an offer of around … thirteen thousand would be appropriate in the circumstances.”

  Another pause. “Er, circumstances. Mm … You mean like the fact that you repainted her topsides, put in new curtains and brass rails, refurnished her. That kind of thing? And I suppose you did get her taken into dry dock to have the hull reblacked. Oh, and the engine serviced each year. And paid for the licence and insurance. Is that what you had in mind?”

  “Hell, no! That’s another two thousand off the price.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. I wanted the first reduction to take account of all the wear and tear she’s suffered in the past couple of years. That boat’s been through a lot!”

  Marnie held the phone away from her ear so as not to suffer permanent hearing damage.

  Minutes later Anne arrived back at the office barn. She walked briskly across the room and perched on the corner of her desk, breathing heavily, her cheeks and nose tinted pink. Marnie began pouring coffee.

  “Have you been jogging?”

  Deep breath. “Power walking.”

  “Impressive.”

  “You didn’t see me. Actually it was more like … power slouching, even downhill on the way back.”

  Marnie carried the mugs of coffee over and put them down on the desks. Anne smiled thank-you. Almost as tall as Marnie, she was thin and pale, with urchin-cut blonde hair, sharp features and light blue eyes. She took off her blouson jacket and hung it on a hook. Like Marnie she wore jeans, but topped by a navy sweatshirt. Dropping into her chair she gave Marnie an appraising look.

  “You’ve been talking to Beth, haven’t you?”

  “How do you know that? You’re as bad as my sister. Any witches in your family?”

  “The whole tribe. Dad’s changing the house name to The Coven. And you’re trying to change the subject. You always have that amused look in your eye after you’ve been winding her up.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Who hung up first?”

  Marnie stuck out her tongue.

  “Did she accept your offer for Sally Ann?”

  “Not in so many words. But she will. I teased her a bit by knocking off another two thousand … for wear and tear.”

  “Marnie!” Mock indignation.

  “I know. Anyway, the broker at Braunston said twelve to thirteen would be a fair price.” Marnie pulled a cheque book from a drawer. “So I’ll send them thirteen. It’ll cheer her up.”

  Outside came the sound of tyres crunching on gravel. Anne glanced up. “Are we expecting anyone?”

  “Probably just a delivery.”

  Anne got up and went to the window. An elderly Ford Escort pulled up outside the farmhouse and the door swung open. Out stepped a woman in a navy blue jacket, unbuttoned to reveal a clerical grey dress surmounted by a dog collar. The vicar was calling.

  Anne called over her shoulder. “It’s Angela. I’d better get another mug. She never refuses coffee. I think it’s against her religion.”

  Angela Hemingway tapped on the door and walked in. “Mm … that smells good.”

  Marnie pointed to a chair. “Good morning, vicar. What brings you to this den of unbelievers? Come to save our souls?”

  “Gave up on that ages ago.”

  “Threats of ever-lasting damnation are not permitted during office hours.”

  “Actually, Marnie, I’m here because I’ve got a problem.” She accepted a mug from Anne. “Thanks. That’s great.”

  “You’ve run out of coffee?” Marnie suggested.

  “No. That just determined the timing of my visit. I’m about to be made homeless.”

  Marnie sat up. “Really? How?”

  Angela took a sip. “Delicious. It’s a long story.”

  “Just give us the Sunday school potted version.”

  “The church is trying to economise – as usual – and the diocesan surveyor is looking at old vicarages with high running costs.”

  Marnie pictured Angela’s large and elegant Georgian house standing in spacious grounds.

  “You’ve guessed, Marnie. They’re putting the vicarage up for sale.”

  “The market’s sluggish, Angela. You could have to wait ages for a buyer.”

  “They’ve accepted an offer at virtually the full asking price, subject to survey.”

  “Already? That’s amazing.”

  “A wealthy businessman from the City, wanting to retire to the country. They came up and had a look yesterday, he and his wife. Phoned in their offer first thing this morning. Straight cash. The diocesan office rang to let me know the couple are pressing for early completion.”

  “How will that affect you? Where will you go?”

  “I’ll be moving to a new house in the village, one of those semis being built the other side of Martyrs Close.”

  “So, problem solved. Still, I expect you’ll be sad to leave the vicarage. It’s a lovely place.”

  “That’s not the point, Marnie. The new house won’t be finished till Easter or thereabouts, depending on what kind of winter we have.”

  Marnie quickly grasped the point. “You want to move in here until then.”

  “Well … I was wondering about your third cottage, though I realise y
ou probably want to use it yourself. It’s a long shot, I know, but I thought I’d check it out before looking further afield.”

  “To be honest, Angela, I hadn’t quite worked out my plans for number three.”

  “No. And I think I may have made a mistake. I thought you’d be moving into the main house by now, but I see the builders are still in there.”

  “There’s quite a lot to be done before it’s ready for occupation: new floorboards, replacement windows, replastering …”

  “I should’ve realised. I certainly wouldn’t want you to have to spend another winter staying on the boat because of me, Marnie.” She shivered.

  “Boats are fine in the winter as long as you have a reliable heating system, which we have. They’re quite cosy.”

  “Come to think of it, that’s what Mr Taverner said. They’re bringing their boat up from London. One of the attractions of Knightly St John is having the canal near the village.”

  “Did you say Taverner?”

  “They’re the buyers.”

  “Not … Charles Taverner?”

  “You know them, Marnie?”

  “And his wife is called Barbara? He must be getting on for about sixty and she’s … forties, at a guess – auburn hair, smart dresser, vivacious?”

  “That’s them.”

  Anne frowned. “Do I know them, Marnie? The name isn’t familiar.”

  “They had a boat in Little Venice when I first took over Sally Ann, but they moved away. I think they bought a house on the river with its own mooring. I’m not sure where exactly, but I think Charles said he could walk to the office from home.”

  Angela was nodding. “He’s taking early retirement. That’s why they want to move to the country. I don’t want to be uncharitable, but I got the impression they fancied the life of the country squire and his lady.”

  “And a Georgian vicarage just fits the bill perfectly. Perfectly for them, that is. But it leaves you without a roof over your head.”

  “Strictly speaking, Marnie, it’s a problem for the diocese, not me. They have to find me suitable accommodation.”

  “The diocese …” Marnie looked thoughtful. “I suppose …”