by Leo McNeir
A hesitation. “Not quite as simple as that, Marnie.”
“Oh?”
“Not the sort of thing I’d want to talk about on the phone.”
“I see.” Marnie did not see.
“Look, let me know when you get to London. Things may well have moved on by then, but I’ll still want to talk to you. Perhaps we can meet in Little Venice?”
“Of course. I’ll be in touch. Was there anything else?”
“Various things I want to do at the house. I had hoped we could talk about security, for example.”
“We’ve got a fair number of brochures in a folder in the office barn. You could get them if you want to. Angela Hemingway has the keys.”
“Good. I’ll do that.”
“Shall I ring to tell her you’re coming?”
“I wanted to see Angela anyway. I’ll contact her. Where will I find the brochures?”
“On one of Anne’s shelves. It’s easy to spot, one of our usual blue folders, clearly marked. You can’t miss it.”
“Good. We’ll talk when you get to London, Marnie.”
In the pub that evening over supper, Marnie tried to give all her attention to planning the journey. Anne had brought the cruising guide and together they mapped out their targets for each day. If the weather stayed fine and dry it would be a pleasant run through charming scenery, the best way to approach the capital. Anne seemed to have no qualms about travelling on Perfidia again, no thoughts of Barbara’s death on board.
49
For Marnie every journey taken on a boat felt like a stolen season, like truanting from school. She loved that sense of freedom. Travelling on the hidden highway of the canal those few days, slipping past thousands, even millions, of people who had no inkling of the boat’s presence, she felt she was living in a parallel universe concealed from the real world.
To describe the journey to London as uneventful would be an injustice. They endured no disasters, no unfortunate experiences with the small number of other boats they passed, had no accidents or technical problems. Uneventful, perhaps. But progressing through pastoral landscapes, operating the ancient technology of the locks, passing under bridges and occasionally over rivers and roads, all these filled their senses in a way that was wholly satisfying. Going to bed pleasantly weary each night with only the sounds of the country, a fish jumping, an owl hooting in the distance, and waking up each morning to see a heron on the bank, the early light reflected off the still water, these may not have been events but they combined to form a rich mixture of sensations and pleasures.
They set off early on Friday morning and passed round the northern and eastern edges of Milton Keynes. As soon as they had cleared the shallow lock at Fenny Stratford, Anne phoned home and agreed a time to meet her mother in Leighton Buzzard. Perfidia reached the moorings in the town centre within a few minutes of their ETA to be greeted by a wave from the bank. The three spent a convivial hour together over lunch before Jackie had to get back to work at the hairdresser’s in time for her next appointment.
For a few hours Perfidia travelled south, surrounded on all sides by pastureland, climbing steadily towards the Chiltern Hills. The last time they had passed that way Ralph had chosen to walk the towpath between the locks that appeared at frequent intervals. Now, Marnie handed the tiller to Anne while she tramped on foot from lock to lock. For mile after mile the open countryside enhanced Marnie’s theory of a parallel universe. Occasionally she caught a glimpse of a train in the distance across the fields, but otherwise she had only birdsong and the faint rumbling of Perfidia’s engine to accompany her walk.
At any other time Marnie would have felt refreshed and invigorated by the quiet of the countryside and the pleasure of an afternoon’s walking. But that day she was glad to climb back on the boat to rejoin Anne for the approach to Marsworth Junction. The solitude of the landscape had induced in her an uncharacteristic melancholy and, although she was reluctant to admit it, she had a sense of foreboding about what lay ahead.
Watching the elegant lines of Perfidia as Anne guided her into the last of the Seabrook locks, Marnie realised that she was looking forward to transferring the boat to Mike Brent to sell. She hopped aboard after shutting the lock gate behind her, put an arm round Anne’s shoulders and squeezed, smiling cheerfully. Deep down inside she rejoiced at the thought that once the journey was completed, she would hand Mike the keys and put Perfidia out of her life forever.
They tied up for the night in Marsworth, had supper in the pub and were in bed soundly sleeping soon after ten o’clock. A yawning early start on Saturday saw them clear the seven lock flight before nine, and they chugged through the deep cutting of the Tring Summit under a lowering sky that threatened rain.
At about the time that Anne was hunting in the boat’s cupboards for wet weather gear, the phone was ringing in cottage number three at Glebe Farm.
“Good morning, Angela Hemingway.”
“Angela, this is Charles Taverner. Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you’re around this morning. One or two things I’d like to discuss about the … the old vicarage.”
“Only for a short while, I’m afraid. I’ve got a meeting – I chair the lay readers’ group –have to get away quite soon. I’ll be out for the rest of the day.”
“Oh.” Disappointment.
“Is there anything urgent? I’ll be here for the next twenty minutes. Anything we can discuss on the phone?”
“Let me see … No, it’s all right. What about tomorrow?”
“Sunday?” said Angela, the vicar.
“Of course, silly of me. There is one thing. Marnie has some papers for me. She said I could collect them from the office barn. You have the keys, I believe.”
“Yes, yes, I do, but I don’t know anything about –”
“I could get her to ring you, if you’re in any doubt about it.”
A pause. “No … no. I’m sure it’ll be okay if you’ve arranged it with her.”
“Good. I’ll be down straight away.”
The first raindrops hit the roof of Perfidia while Marnie was stepping off at Cowroast to work the lock. She had pulled on a yellow cagoule as a precautionary measure, hoping it was no more than a passing shower and that the run down to Berkhamsted would not be in a downpour.
Standing on the counter in a bright blue cagoule, Anne inched Perfidia forward, glancing back over her shoulder as the rain caught her cheeks. There were no other boats in sight, no-one to share the lock. She raised a hand to Marnie who pulled on one gate, went round the balance beam and pressed the small of her back against it to walk it open.
They had begun their descent to the capital.
Angela Hemingway checked her papers, bag and keys and looked at the kitchen clock for the umpteenth time. It was with relief that she heard the scrunching of tyres on gravel and went to the door to find Charles emerging from his Jaguar.
“Very good of you to do this, Angela. I appreciate it.”
“A pleasure, Mr … Charles.” Try as she might, she could not get used to calling him by what she regarded as his Christian name. “Sorry I’m in such a hurry and can’t give you my full attention.”
They crossed the cobbled yard together. Angela fiddled with the bundle of keys and found the right one at the second attempt.
“I should’ve thought to have the office ready for you,” she muttered, pushing the door open. “Only I’m not sure where things are in here, of course. You know where to find what you want?”
“Marnie said it was on Anne’s shelf.”
Angela pointed. “That’s her desk, over there.”
Charles walked quickly across the room. Anne had left her desk very neat and tidy. He admired that. Finding the blue folder would be a doddle. He ran a hand along the wall shelf and brushed several folders all labelled in felt tip pen. None of them was blue. He checked a second time.
Angela hovered behind him. “Everything all right?”
Charles frowned. “Sure Marnie said a
blue folder,” he muttered to himself and turned to examine the desktop. “I’m damned, er, blessed if I can see it. Marnie said there was quite a lot of bumph, should be easy to spot.”
Angela bent forward and peered at the shelf. “No blue folders here.”
“Is there anywhere else she might have put it?” He looked at Angela’s blank expression. “You wouldn’t know, of course, any more than I would.”
Angela’s eyes strayed to the wall clock and scanned the office, coming to rest on the loft ladder. “I wonder …”
“Yes?”
“Did Marnie say the shelf in the office, Charles?”
He shrugged. “Anne’s shelf, I think.”
“Well, her room is in the attic above us.”
Charles saw the gap in the ceiling. “Up there?”
“It’s the only other place I can think of where Anne would have a shelf.”
Charles hesitated. “D’you think I should …?”
On balance, Angela thought he should probably not go up to Anne’s room without Anne being present or at least giving her permission, but she sensed that Charles would do whatever he wanted to do. And she knew he would touch nothing that did not concern him.
“That wall ladder’s the only way up. I’ll wait for you down here.”
Charles needed no prompting. He mounted the ladder with an agility that belied his age. Angela heard the click of a light switch and footsteps proceeding cautiously overhead. Another sound reached her ears. Through the open doorway she heard a phone ringing across the courtyard.
“Charles, I think that’s my phone. I won’t be a moment.”
There was a muffled reply from the attic, and she sped from the room. By the time she had finished the call Charles was outside closing the rear door of his car. He held out the keys.
“I’ve locked up.”
Angela caught a glimpse of blue on the back seat. “Did you get what you wanted?”
“More than enough to keep me occupied by the look of it.”
Angela smiled. “Very thorough is Marnie, and Anne too, of course.”
“Yes, they make a good team. Hope I haven’t delayed you too much.”
They shook hands and went their separate ways.
Intermittent showers followed them all the way down to Berkhamsted, and a light drizzle settled in for the rest of the morning. Even so, Marnie spent most of that stretch on the towpath, except between the locks that were spaced further apart. By twelve-thirty they had reached the swing bridge at Winkwell, and Marnie took a decision. They tied up for a pub lunch at the Three Horseshoes.
They were waiting for their food to be served when the mobile in Marnie’s cagoule pocket began vibrating. In deference to the other patrons she took the call outside the front door.
“Hi Ralph, don’t tell me about the weather you’re having in DC, okay?”
“Bad as that, is it, Marnie?” He sounded cheerful. “I won’t mention that I’m having breakfast on the terrace of the hotel. Otherwise how are things?”
She told him about the drugs raids in Little Venice, about Belle Starkey being indiscreet while in the cells, and the story getting into the papers that her evidence at Neil Gerard’s trial was probably unreliable.
“What action’s being taken on that?” Ralph asked.
“Not sure. I spoke to Charles on the phone. He knows more about it than he was willing to say.”
“Interesting. I suppose that means he’s got involved somewhere in the background.”
“How could he?”
“He’s probably got his QC lobbying like mad for an appeal or a retrial. I expect you’re pleased, aren’t you, Marnie?”
“Of course I’ll be glad if Neil’s case is going to be re-examined.”
“But we’ll be left with a big question.”
“Yes, if not Neil, then who did it?”
“Exactly. That’s interesting, really quite intriguing.”
“Why do you say that, Ralph?”
“Well, we’ve said before that if it wasn’t Gerard, the next most likely suspect could be Charles himself.”
Marnie tried to grapple with that idea. “I don’t think Barbara was planning to leave Charles, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“That’s not really the point. I think it’s about their whole relationship.”
“Yes. Thinking of the tapes, the more I heard, the more convinced I was that what she felt for Neil was probably the real thing.”
“And that’s precisely what puts Charles in the frame.”
The clouds began to clear in the afternoon while Perfidia was passing through Boxmoor. Waiting for the lock chamber to empty, her thoughts wandered up the hill towards the prison where she had first met Neil Gerard, where he had later tried to hang himself. So much had happened since then, and now he might be on the brink of being released. She could hardly believe it.
They stopped to take on stores for supper that evening at the supermarket south of Hemel Hempstead. When they came out, Anne asked if she could have a spell at working the locks. Among their purchases was a newspaper and, while Marnie steered the boat, she read about the latest developments in the Little Venice Murder case. She had noticed that all the papers on the news-stand were running the Odd Couple story, still fascinated by the idea that the campaign for an appeal by a convicted murderer was being led by the victim’s husband.
The report in the Independent that Marnie was reading mentioned that Charles Taverner had “gone to ground” and could not be contacted for comment, while his “cohorts” were pushing for Neil Gerard’s early release pending further investigations. The editorial described it as “the most sensational legal story of the decade”.
Marnie took another decision late in the afternoon. Consulting the cruising guide had convinced her that they could reach Little Venice by Sunday evening if they made a determined effort. They could certainly not make it in time for lunch.
“Cassiobury Park,” she stated, pointing at the map.
Anne was perched on the edge of the counter between locks. “So another lock or two?”
Marnie nodded. “Yep. That should give us somewhere peaceful to tie up for the night. I’ll keep a look-out for a spot.”
The spot was in the middle of the park but felt remote as if far out in the country. Anne asked if she could take a shower before eating, and Marnie packed away the stores that had been left on the galley worktop.
They prepared supper together, Anne declaring that one of her favourite aspects of boating was the simple meals and the relaxed atmosphere at the end of the working day. Chatting amiably about the weather and the sights they had seen on the journey, they produced a meal that was an old favourite: herb omelette, a baguette, tomato and basil salad, a simple French red vin de pays, Greek yogurt with a swirl of honey.
Taking their seats, Anne stretched and arched her back with pleasure. As usual, she was almost purring with contentment. “Marnie, this is perfection.”
Marnie laughed and poured the wine. “You’re very easy to please. You appreciate the simpler things in life. I must say it’s really pleasant travelling with you, Anne.”
They chinked glasses and sipped the wine.
Suddenly, looking at Marnie over the rim of her glass, Anne’s expression shifted. She was still smiling, but a subtle change had come over her. She spoke softly and reflectively. “You haven’t really been travelling with me, Marnie. You’ve been travelling with Neil Gerard and Barbara and Charles Taverner. I bet you know the newspaper story off by heart.”
Sunday morning did not look promising, unless the promise was for rain. Marnie decided that they did not need to hurry, but once they were up and about there seemed little point in idling when they could make steady progress on their journey. They had not long set off, with Marnie at the tiller, when the mobile trilled.
“Didn’t get you out of bed, did I? Hi, Marnie. It’s Jane.”
“Sure, you know what the Grand Union’s like. We were out clubbing ti
ll dawn. How are things?”
“Slight change of plan at this end. Little Venice is in a state of chaos.”
“Why’s that?” Marnie dreaded the reply. “More raids?”
“Raids?” Jane sounded bewildered. “Oh, raids, no, not in the sense you mean. We had an invasion last night. A whole convoy of New Age travellers descended on us. Things here are, to say the least, very crowded.”
“Trouble?”
“Not really, just lots of boats. Someone said they were on their way to a festival in the west country. Mike Brent’s here trying to sort them out. He’s not best pleased, having to come in on a Sunday.”
They reached Rickmansworth at eleven. The locks were spread out evenly in this sector, and after making a quick phone call, Marnie called Anne on board to discuss the change of plan over coffee while they cruised the short pounds. She explained that Mrs Jolly had insisted on them having a buffet lunch at her house. Beth and Paul could not get away but Roger and Marjorie were free. They agreed to get Perfidia as close to their destination as possible by the end of the day, ready for a prompt arrival on Monday morning.
Slowly descending in the next lock, Marnie phoned Mike Brent. “I hear you’ve got problems, Mike.”
“You could call it that.” There was laughter in his voice. “It’s complete chaos here, but we’re getting it sorted.”
“Trouble?”
“Just boats moored all over the place.”
“You sound fairly calm in the circumstances.”
“Yeah, well, what can you do? They had quite a lively time in the local pubs last night, by all accounts, but they’re no real bother, just so many of them. It’s like a New Age fleet.”
“What do we do with Perfidia?”
“Er, you can leave her up near the end of the line beyond the houseboats. I’ll find her a mooring later, once our guests have moved on.”