Bunburry--Sweet Revenge

by Helena Marchmont

  He scrolled through the photographs. The bride and her father arriving, not in a horse and carriage, but in a Daimler. The bridesmaids arranging her train. Bride and groom exchanging vows. Bride and groom exchanging rings. Bride and groom kissing. Bride and groom being showered with confetti. There was no sign of the “sweet little marquee” Olivia had mentioned, nor of anyone acting suspiciously.

  And there on the screen was the very image Olivia had mentioned. Heather sitting at the feet of an elderly man in a wheelchair, the train of her wedding dress draped artistically around her. The guests, groom and bridesmaids stood behind them, brightly coloured cocktails held aloft, as Heather balanced the salver of gold-enhanced pieces of fudge in one hand, and popped a piece of the confectionery into the old man’s mouth with the other. The camera had captured the very moment Morgan Sutcliffe was poisoned.

  Alfie scanned the picture intently. Olivia and the other bridesmaids were busy looking photogenic. The guests had obviously been instructed to say “cheese” or possibly “cheers,” and were beaming at the touching scene between grandfather and new grand-daughter-in-law. Greg stood behind his bride. Did his smile look a little forced? Triumphant? Alfie couldn’t tell.

  But he could see the resemblance between Greg and his grandfather. A slight curl of the mouth, a slight jut of the jaw that suggested they were used to getting what they wanted. Did Greg want his inheritance early?

  He glanced at his watch – time to go to the hospital to meet Philip.

  11. The Hospital

  He had never been to the Bunburry hospital before, and it wasn’t at all what he had expected. He thought it would be a modern brick-built unit, but he found himself parking by a three-storey Victorian mansion made of the local honey-coloured stone.

  It had large round-arched windows, and delicate carvings round the door, which opened automatically as he approached. A receptionist sat at a desk inside.

  “I’m looking for the cafeteria,” said Alfie and then, in case it sounded as though he randomly wandered into hospitals in search of hot beverages, he added: “I’m meeting the local vicar, Mr Brown.”

  The receptionist’s face broke into a smile. “Philip? Yes, he’s still visiting. The cafeteria’s down that corridor, to the left.”

  “This is a very unusual building,” said Alfie, glancing round at the murals of grateful patients being ministered to by angelic-looking nurses wearing long dresses and white caps. “Beautiful.”

  “Isn’t it?” she agreed. “A local philanthropist built it about a hundred and fifty years ago so that people didn’t have to travel to Oxford or Cheltenham. It was only built for a small number of patients, not like the usual Victorian hospitals with the huge Nightingale wards. It’s been renovated and refurbished, of course – we keep expecting to be closed, but so far -” Her phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, and answered it.

  Alfie made his way to the volunteer-run cafeteria. There was still no sign of Philip, so he picked up a coffee and doughnut and settled himself on an orange plastic chair at one of the small tables. Someone had abandoned a copy of the Bunburry Bugle, known locally as “The Squeak.”

  He leafed through it, a welcome change from the national newspapers he usually read, with their depressing diet of political tensions and international turmoil.

  Neighbour’s Quick Thinking Saves Day, read a headline over a story with the byline of Joseph Jennings, the young reporter who had interviewed Alfie about his capture of a murderer.

  Alice Robertson (72), had a worrying time last Wednesday when her pet cat, Tiddles, got stuck up a tree, the story read.

  Mrs Robertson thought she would have to call the fire brigade, but quick-thinking neighbour Jennifer Watt (68), brought out a plate of fish from her fridge and managed to coax Tiddles down.

  “I’m ever so grateful to Jen,” said Mrs Robertson. “I was so scared that Tiddles would be stuck up there for ever. But the fish did the trick.”

  Miss Watt said modestly: “I just did what anyone would do.”

  Joseph Jennings had ascribed that very quote to Alfie, who had absolutely no recollection of having said anything like it. He suspected Miss Watt (68) hadn’t said anything like it either.

  There was a picture of the two ladies standing side by side, one, presumably Miss Watt, holding an empty plate, and the other, presumably Mrs Robertson, holding a cat which was clearly struggling to get free and shin up the nearest tree.

  He turned over the page, and there was a picture of Heather and Greg in their wedding regalia, under the headline Bride’s Big Day Ruined By Mystery Illness. Was there really not enough space to say “Couple’s Big Day,” Alfie wondered. Why were grooms consigned to a mere supporting role?

  A former local councillor, Morgan Sutcliffe (80), is currently in hospital after being taken unwell at his grandson’s wedding.

  Greg Sutcliffe (28) and Heather Rutterford (26) tied the knot at St Michael and All Angels Church in Bunburry on Saturday. The service was taken by Revd Philip Brown.

  During the reception at the groom’s parents’ house near Witney, a mystery illness broke out with many of the guests affected. Mr Morgan Sutcliffe was taken to hospital by ambulance where his condition is described as “serious.”

  The chief bridesmaid, Olivia Browning (26), said the new Mrs Sutcliffe was too upset to make a comment. “It’s all quite dreadful,” she said.

  Sergeant Harold Wilson of the Bunburry Police Station said: “This incident is currently under active investigation. I would ask anyone with any relevant information to come forward.”

  At least there was no speculation about what had happened, and absolutely no mention of the fudge. Alfie suspected that Joseph Jennings was too nervous of a lawsuit to point the finger before official confirmation.

  “Alfie!” It was Philip’s voice. The vicar, looking more stooped and elderly than when Alfie had seen him last, was standing at the entrance to the cafeteria, close to another man who seemed familiar. It took Alfie a moment to place him. He had seen him in the photographs. This must be Greg Sutcliffe’s father, Morgan Sutcliffe’s son. He felt a tremor of excitement. What if it was Greg’s father who wanted to do away with Morgan? He might have been the one counting on the inheritance, and assuming his elderly father would have passed away by now – had he decided to spur the process on?

  Alfie stood up as the two men approached him.

  “Alfie.” The vicar gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again. This is Simon Sutcliffe. Simon, Alfie McAlister.”

  They shook hands. Sutcliffe had a ferociously hard grip.

  “I was very sorry to hear about your father,” said Alfie. “I hope things are improving for him.”

  “Thanks,” said Sutcliffe curtly. “That’s what we all hope.”

  Was it?

  “I’ll get you a coffee,” said the vicar. “Alfie, can I get you another?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” said Alfie, who had been wondering whether he could furtively pour it into a nearby pot plant. It was even worse than the vicar’s instant.

  Alfie and Simon Sutcliffe sat in awkward silence for a moment before Sutcliffe said: “Do you live near here?”

  “Bunburry,” said Alfie. “I’m a friend of Emma Hollis’s, who was at school with Greg and Heather.”

  Sutcliffe looked at him with distaste, as though he was some sort of cradle-snatcher. Just a friend, Alfie felt like saying, and in any case, there’s only fifteen years between us, which isn’t outrageous.

  “Heather still seems very upset,” he said instead.

  Simon Sutcliffe made an impatient gesture. “She’s not the one whose father’s in hospital.”

  Not much sympathy for the daughter-in-law.

  “She just keeps moaning about not being in the Maldives,” Sutcliffe went on. “And that Olivia’s still hanging round, says she has to support her. I don�
��t know how Greg puts up with it. He’s a good lad. Worried sick about his grandad.”

  Philip returned with two coffees.

  “Thanks,” said Sutcliffe, beginning to gulp it down. “I’ll go and check up on Dad before I leave. It was good of you to visit him. He enjoyed it.”

  “I enjoyed it too,” said Philip. “I’ll be back again tomorrow, so don’t feel you or Greg have to come in.”

  “We want to be with him,” said Sutcliffe stubbornly. “When we might not have -” He swallowed the rest of the sentence.

  There was no way he was faking that compression of the lips, that tensing of the shoulders. Alfie recognised it from the waves of grief that would suddenly overwhelm him after he lost Vivian. This was a man in distress for a loved one, not someone waiting for the death of a victim.

  Philip put a hand on his shoulder. “Your father’s in the best possible place. He’s getting excellent care. And you need to get a decent sleep. You won’t do him any good by wearing yourself out. You have my number – remember, you can call me any time.”

  Sutcliffe gave a weak smile. “Thanks, padre. Right, I’ll say goodbye to the old man, and get back home. Nice to meet you, Mr McAlister.”

  “And you. I hope all goes well with your father.”

  Sutcliffe nodded, and left.

  “Poor man,” said Philip. “It can be worse watching someone suffer than suffering yourself.”

  “Do you think Morgan will pull through?” Alfie asked.

  Philip shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s a fighter, but he was in poor health to start with, and this has been a real shock to his system. But he’s strong-willed, and he’s not ready to go.”

  “He’s not one of your parishioners, is he?”

  Philip chuckled. “None of the Sutcliffes strike me as God-botherers.”

  “But you’re visiting him, and you let Greg and Heather get married in your church.”

  Philip tapped the side of his nose confidentially. “Terrible, isn’t it? Don’t shop me to the bishop.”

  And he had told Simon Sutcliffe to ring him any time. No wonder he was looking so elderly. He was the one who needed to get a decent sleep.

  Alfie was about to suggest this when Philip slapped a hand on the table and said: “Anyway, should we now convene a Green Party meeting, as per Betty’s instructions?”

  “Sorry?” said Alfie. “What instructions?”

  Philip chuckled. “I don’t know whether you should be insulted or relieved. I assumed she’d sent the same postcard to us both, but apparently, I’m the Chosen One. She suggested I get help from the Cheltenham branch to keep our meetings going.”

  There had only ever been the three of them. Betty, Philip and Alfie, meeting in the Horse, and Philip and Alfie weren’t even party members.

  “Perhaps she knew you weren’t around,” said Philip. “I only discovered after you’d left.”

  Alfie knew the vicar was neither prying not criticising, but he still felt he had to provide some sort of explanation.

  “I had sudden business to attend to in London,” he said. “But I’m glad to be back. Did Betty say when she would finish her project?”

  Philip thought. “I don’t think so. She just said she was in the States and asked to be remembered to everyone.”

  Everyone except me, thought Alfie. She definitely wants to forget me.

  He found Philip watching him with his usual mixture of awareness and understanding. There was something about the vicar that invited confidences, in the certainty that nothing you said would be repeated. Alfie had a sudden impulse to unburden himself about what had happened at the Saviles’ party, to hear Philip exonerate him and tell him that Betty had over-reacted. But that wasn’t why he was here.

  “Philip, I wanted to talk to you about the wedding.”

  The vicar sighed. “Dreadful business. I still don’t understand what happened. Those caterers are well-known and reliable, and they’re used to outdoor venues. Perhaps the fault lies with suppliers.”

  Alfie lowered his voice so that there was no possibility of being overheard. “Philip, it wasn’t food poisoning,” he said. “I’m afraid it was Liz’s fudge. The most likely explanation is that it was laced with laxatives. And since Liz didn’t do it, who did?”

  The vicar raised his eyebrows. “And why?” he murmured.

  Alfie was impressed that Philip didn’t question what he had said and was already considering the implications.

  “Did you notice anything unusual when the caterers were setting up the marquee by the church?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Philip. “I stayed out of their way and let them get on with it. Most of their work was done during the service.”

  “Anyone else behaving oddly, any guests who left the church before the end of the service, anyone coming to join in the photographs from an unusual direction?”

  Philip looked thoughtful. “It’s not exactly what you’re asking, but yes, there was something -”

  Alfie’s phone vibrated. Someone had sent him a text.

  “Excuse me a moment,” he said. “It might be Emma.”

  It was. The text read: “News from lab! Not the fudge!!!”

  In that split second he realised. It had been staring him in the face. Of course it wasn’t the fudge. And that meant it was no longer an investigation for the Bunburry Parallels. Liz and Marge had nothing to fear.

  He could say goodbye to Philip and go back to Windermere Cottage. But there was a seriously ill man in hospital because of what had been done. Philip hadn’t turned his back on people just because they weren’t members of his flock. Could Alfie turn his back just because Morgan Sutcliffe wasn’t his friend?

  “Philip,” he said quietly, “I have my suspicions about Greg Sutcliffe. Do you think he might have been responsible?”

  “I’ve spoken a lot to Greg, before and after the wedding,” said Philip. “There’s no doubt in my mind that he loves his grandfather dearly. So no, I don’t think he would do anything that might harm him.”

  Alfie stared gloomily at his half-drunk coffee.

  “But,” added Philip, “I think he might know who did.”

  12. In the Church

  “This is cosy,” said Olivia, looking round at the pews and the stained glass.

  “It’s safe,” said Greg, standing beside a pile of hymn books. “We can’t exactly talk at my folks’ place.”

  “I’ve noticed. Sometimes I get the distinct impression you’re ignoring me.”

  “What do you expect?” he said. “What are they all going to think if they see us chatting?”

  “They’ll think you’re being polite to your wife’s best friend who’s helping her through this terrible time. But it doesn’t have to be at your folks’ place. I could come round to yours.”

  “I’m staying at my parents until we know Grandad’s out of danger,” he snapped. “And I’m not having you coming round to mine – mine and Heather’s – if Heather’s not there.”

  “Change of policy now you’re a married man?” asked Olivia, taking a couple of steps closer to him.

  “You weren’t invited,” Greg said. “You just turned up on the doorstep.”

  “I did, didn’t I? And you were really quite rude to me. But you know what? I’ve decided to give you another chance.”

  She stretched out her hand towards him and with a muttered exclamation, he turned and stalked off down the aisle to sit down on one of the oak pews.

  “The answer’s still the same,” he said.

  “You might want to reconsider.” She followed him down the aisle and sat in the pew opposite, crossing her long legs. “It’s only because I’m such a nice person that I didn’t do what I said I would, but -”

  “I know what you did,” he burst out savagely. “You deliberately ruined our wedding day. I
know it was you.”

  “Darling, I really don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. All I did on your wedding day was run around at the beck and call of your wife. And now it looks like you’re going to be doing the same, you poor baby.”

  He glared at her across the aisle. “It’s time you left,” he said. “Mum and Dad are getting fed up with you being around.”

  “I couldn’t care two hoots about them,” she said airily. “Heather needs me.”

  “I’m getting fed up too, quite frankly,” he told her.

  “Darling! That’s not very friendly. I thought you liked having me around. You certainly used to.”

  “I told you, it’s all in the past. Just leave me alone.”

  She started to speak, but a ringtone suddenly jangled out, deafening in the silent church, and they both jumped.

  He got out his phone. “It’s Heather,” he muttered. “I’d better answer.” Then, in a falsely cheerful voice: “Hello, darling – what? Oh, sorry, I thought you were Heather. What? Yes, I – no – no – he can’t – oh, God.”

  He slumped forward on the pew, head down as though he was about to faint, the phone slipping from his hand onto the floor.

  “Greg? What’s the matter?” Olivia demanded, but he didn’t reply.

  She could hear a female voice calling: “Hello? Hello, Greg? Are you there?”

  She crossed the aisle and picked up the phone. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Olivia?” came Emma’s voice. “Thank God you’re there. I’m on Heather’s phone. She’s too upset to ring, so I’m calling for her. Do you have your car?”

  “Yes – but what’s going on?”

  “It’s bad news. Very bad news. Greg won’t be in any state to drive. You need to get him to the hospital as quickly as possible. He may not be in time, but he has to try.”