‘Don’t worry about a thing, Inspector. We’ll recover your plans as closely as possible to the original, but I’m afraid you may lose a layer or two.’ If only Honey hadn’t stipulated sponge cake with a fondant icing under the roses, they might have got away with it, but in the absence of a dense fruit cake, there had, inevitably, been a rather deep facial imprint in the thing, with some of the roses broken beyond repair.
As Falconer girded his loins for what was to come and re-entered the feast, his glance was taken by a detail at the Carmichaels’ table, and he wandered over. ‘Hello Kerry. How are you?’
‘Lovely day, Inspector. Is everything going alright?’
‘There is a bit of a hiccough, and I shall have to keep your husband after the dancing is finished, but nothing for you to worry about.’
‘That’s fine. I’ve got the people carrier with me, so I shall be able to get back to Castle Farthing alright.’
‘Um, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course. Ask away.’
‘Did your husband, er, dress Harriet this morning?’
‘He did, and don’t say anything. She thinks it’s pretty, and I didn’t notice until we were at the church and it was too late to do anything about it.’ Harriet Carmichael was sitting sideways on her chair in her pink and white frilly flower girl’s frock and red and green tartan socks. However hadn’t he noticed it in the church? ‘Sometimes,’ she continued, ‘I think he’s colour blind.’
‘Kerry, I would say there’s no doubt about it, but as long as he remembers which order the traffic lights come in, I’m not that bothered. He’s a good officer.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Kerry with a small smile. Praise from Falconer was praise indeed.
When he returned to the top table, Carmichael asked him what was afoot, but he rapidly shushed him as Honey was coming back to the table, having renewed her lipstick, and he didn’t want her to get a whiff of anything off-kilter before she saw the cake being wheeled in.
‘Where’s the cake got to?’ she asked as soon as she sat down.
‘It’ll be through in a minute,’ he falsely assured her, hoping that they were able to salvage enough so that he couldn’t look like either a mean git or a total fool who’d ordered far too small a cake – or a traffic accident with the police vehicle already in attendance.
After a while the toastmaster came through the double doors leading two waitresses pushing a trolley before them, and announced, ‘Ladies and gentleman – the cake.’
As it came in sight there was a muffled scream from the bride and she yelled, ‘What the bloody hell’s happened to my lovely cake?’
‘Honey,’ pleaded the groom, putting a hand over one of hers. ‘A bride shouldn’t swear on her wedding day. And I’ll explain later.’
‘How the hell can you explain away an abomination like that? That’s not the cake I saw safely delivered here only yesterday,’ she yelled, pointing an accusing finger at the now two-tiered cake, with a rather the worse for wear police car on the top.
‘There’s a bit of a situation,’ her husband hissed, ‘so please keep your voice down. It’ll be alright when it’s cut,’ he assured her, crossing his fingers that none of the blood had run down from the wound and stained the icing.
‘We can’t cut that in public.’
‘We have to, and we can screen what’s left from too many prying eyes. Most people won’t be paying attention.’
The cake had been left in front of the stage, so they left the top table and approached it from the room side of it so that their bodies would shield the sorry remains, and Falconer shooed the photographer away. The inspector allowed Honey to put her hand on the sword first, before adding his, as this really was now for show only, and the photographer could only get a slanty profile shot which cut out the cake altogether.
As she turned her eyes to the front again, she caught sight of the small incision that had been made on what was left of the cake, and her expression changed from one of a smile pasted over strong disapproval at the damage that had been done without her knowledge, to one of absolute horror. There was a line of red through some of the icing roses which could be nothing other than blood.
Hastily, she snatched her hand away from the short ceremonial sword’s handle, looked at her palm and screamed. It was red and this was undeniably blood. ‘Harry, I think I’ve cut my hand,’ she croaked, before her legs went from under her and her new husband had to catch her as she swooned. She didn’t mind other people’s blood, but passed out cold at the sight of her own. In the fluster that followed, Carmichael, Tomlinson and Honey’s father all rushed from their respective places to lend a hand.
‘Has my li’l darlin’ hurt herself?’ asked Mr Dubois in concern, knowing what his daughter was like.
‘What’s happened, sir?’ asked Carmichael.
‘What’s going on?’ chimed in Tomlinson.
Lifting his bride in his arms and straining with the effort, wondering how they made it look so elegant in films, Falconer puffed, ‘Mr Dubois, please can you go back to your seat. Carmichael and Tomlinson, you come with me. If we can lay her down on one of the chaise longues in reception, I’ll take her shoulders and you take her feet, Sergeant. I just can’t hold her any longer in this voluminous dress. Constable, you just follow on behind, for I have something to tell you about what’s happened here.
Back to police titles. There must be something criminal afoot, thought Carmichael, and immediately suspected Jefferson Grammaticus of some ill deed. He was a right slimy character, and the sergeant wouldn’t put anything past him. Tomlinson thought she’d probably just fainted from the excitement of the day and possibly nerves, then he noticed red marks on the front of her dress where she’d tried to wipe away what she’d found on her right hand.
Jefferson Grammaticus, who knew damned well what the main event of the afternoon had been, followed discreetly behind them, awaiting instructions.
Honey was eventually laid on the bed in the honeymoon suite, and Falconer suggested that the others convene in the little library just along the corridor, a necessary adjunct in case newlyweds got bored on their wedding night, as most of them had lived together for years, but would hardly have thought to bring a book to their own nuptials.
In the relative privacy of the book-lined room, Falconer launched into an explanation of just what was going on, concluding with, ‘… and I was in such a lather that I not only moved the body and had it taken away, but I’d already pulled out the short sword with which we were going to cut the cake, hoping that they could clean it up and try to repair the damage to the cake so that we still had something to cut. And the short sword was a family one which was very important to me for this. But they obviously didn’t notice that there was blood left on the blade. Why would anyone look for that when they thought it had just come through with the cake so that the cake could be worked on, then they could both go through together? God, I’m speaking drivel.’
‘God, you are in a pickle,’ commented Tomlinson.
‘Oo er, sir. You’re going to be for the high jump when Chivers finds out,’ added Carmichael, with a certain amount of schadenfreude. It was usually him in trouble over procedure, not their nit-picking, perfectionist inspector.
‘Look, gentlemen, if I may make a small suggestion,’ interjected Grammaticus, ‘we could treat this very softly-softly. I have all the names from the staff roster for this afternoon and evening, and presumably, you, Inspector, have a full guest list?’
‘Of course,’ snapped Falconer, with a finger up to his teeth ready to resume the nail-biting he hadn’t indulged in since childhood, as he thought of what the Superintendent would do to him for this interference with evidence and a murder scene.
‘You, Sergeant and you, Constable, go and inform your partners that you will be busy for a while but that they aren’t allowed to tell anyone that you have been called away. If anyone asks, you’re just in the little boys’ room or chatting over at the other side of the
room. I’ll announce that Mrs Falconer’ – here, the inspector swelled with pride, even in the difficult circumstances – ‘has been taken ill and that I will be sitting with her.’
‘We’ll let the guests get on with things as normal,’ chimed in Grammaticus, ‘and I’ll allocate you a room well away from the celebrations where you can start interviewing the staff. There are only two ways into that room where the cake was left, and only one of them is off the banqueting hall.
‘The other is a kitchen route which is used for discretion’s sake. As I told you, I already had someone watching the door from the banqueting hall, so it’s unlikely that your vicar or his murderer entered through that way. No, this definitely indicates a staff member, and I intend to find out who, and hand them over to you for the full punishment of the law, if you don’t get to them first.’
The circumstances were very unusual, but after thirty seconds’ silent consideration, Falconer smiled a weak smile and said, ‘I think that’s a splendid idea, Grammaticus. And then we can just present the superintendent with a fait accompli.’
The other two policemen stood open-mouthed. They’d never known the inspector to bend the rules before like this, and they were astounded, but needs must where the devil drives, and at least this way he wouldn’t come out of the situations smelling completely of ess-aitch-one-tee. There may even be the faintest whiff of roses, as he would have wrapped everything up without involving the press.
‘And if we don’t find the culprit,’ the portly man continued, ‘maybe I could have a look at your guest list to see if I’m acquainted with any of them. If one of them worked here in the past, then they would know the alternative route to the room in which the cake was stored for’ – he almost choked over the last few words – ‘safe-keeping.’
‘Where have you put the vicar’s body?’ asked Falconer, finally remembering one of the other complications.
‘We’ve wrapped him in cling film and put him into the refrigeration room to keep him fresh. Don’t worry: he’s suitably covered so that he won’t contaminate any of the food.’
‘And the cake? It hasn’t been left in the hall, has it? Somebody might notice and raise an alarm.’
‘All taken care of, Inspector. I had someone move that back to the kitchen before I followed you up and it is, as we speak, being cut into suitably unstained slices to serve to the guests.’
‘Grammaticus, you’re such a devious and efficient old crook that if you weren’t running this place, I’d have liked you to be working for me,’ exclaimed Falconer, dramatically.
As his other two officers looked shocked at this, Grammaticus smiled and said, ‘I’d have been Chief Constable by now, Inspector. I wouldn’t have hung around.’
‘Well, follow your own advice and don’t hang around here. If you could send the first members of staff up here, we’ll use this little reading room-cum-library in which to question them.’
‘No sooner said than done, Inspector. Your wish is my command.’ Falconer didn’t even suspect that the man was just being so helpful and cooperative because he didn’t want the policeman to ask for a discount after how the proceedings had gone. The owner/manager expected to be paid in full for today with, even perhaps a little bonus, for how he had aided them and dealt with all the ugliness of a murder at such a happy event. Also, it wasn’t the first time there had been the taint of unnatural death at the Manse, and he wanted to stir up no memories.
‘I’ll be off, then. Adieu, then, dear Inspector. I shall return soon.’ This was spreading it on a bit thick, and the man actually rubbed his hands together in a very servile way as he made his exit.
Actually, sir, is there any way I can get out of this monkey suit? I’m very uncomfortable?’ and this was something that Falconer could believe of Carmichael who usually dressed so casually. The inspector asked Tomlinson if he felt the same, and he said that if it was alright to nip down to his car he had something more casual in the boot, if he could have leave to change.
‘Okay, Tomlinson, get yourself out to the car park and you, Carmichael, get yourself off to the laundry room and see if they’ve got anything you can change into. It’ll be somewhere near the kitchens because of all the linen that has to be washed and starched. They must have some spare uniform there. Then get your dress suit sent to reception so that I can collect it on the way out: if we ever get out, that is. I’m just going to slip along to the bridal suite and see how Honey is.’
Falconer found his new bride sitting up on the bed, conscious again, and surveying the front of her wedding dress with despair. ‘Just look at this stain,’ she said. ‘However am I ever going to get it out?’
Almost before she’d stopped speaking, Falconer had gone into their bathroom, soaked a handkerchief and grabbed a hand towel. ‘Cold water,’ he explained, as she looked at him in puzzlement. ‘Now, just hold it up, I’ll put the towel behind it and give it a sponge with this. It should be gone in no time. Hot water sets it. And if it’s not completely gone, I’ll go down and get one of those little sachets of salt and try again.’
‘Did your mother teach you that?’ she asked innocently.
‘My mother taught me nothing but bigotry with which I wanted nothing to do. My boarding school taught me good manners, with a little earlier help from my various nannies, and the army taught me self-respect. Any other questions?’
But Honey wasn’t listening. ‘Look, it’s gone. You are a clever man. Oh, thank you, thank you, Harry. But, what do we do now?’
‘Everything is taken care of and in hand, and all I want you to do is to keep your mouth shut about the blood, go downstairs and have a bloody – sorry, damned good time. No! Shh! Time for questions later, when I’ve finished what I’ve got to do. Just act as normal, have a few glasses of champagne and boogie the night away. I’ll be back later.’ By now he had sponged the blood from her hand as well, and she looked at it in amazement.
‘But there’s no cut: no injury? Whatever’s going on? Where did the blood come from, and where are you going? What’s happened? Why aren’t you coming back with me?’
He put a finger over her lips and smiled into her eyes. ‘Time enough for Twenty Questions later. For now, I have work to do. And, while you’re down there, have a glass or two for me as well: will you promise me that?’ Realising that she wouldn’t get another word out of him until he was good and ready, she smiled up at him and agreed.
‘I can hardly tell anyone anything when I don’t know what the hell’s going on,’ she declared with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Perfectly correct. Use my mobile number if I’m wanted, or ask Grammaticus.’
The owner was tied up with as many of his staff as he could muster without leaving the banqueting hall deserted, and currently offering them a small bonus if they kept whatever was asked of them in an interview completely secret until tonight’s event was over. It would be a very small bonus indeed, but to get anything extra out of this very ‘careful’ man would be a triumph, and they all agreed.
Having been delayed, Falconer was just back in the currently empty small library when he espied a bizarre figure lurching down the corridor towards the door. Surely this wasn’t his first interviewee? There was no sign of Grammaticus and the figure looked more like a sleepwalker than anything else.
A figure lurched into the room and said, ‘Sorry, sir, they didn’t have anything to fit me from uniform and the only thing I could get on was these pyjamas. And that glass of champagne I had has gone straight to my head.’ Falconer heaved another gigantic sigh. Carmichael really did look like Frankenstein’s monster, ready for bye-byes.
Shrugging his shoulders in resignation, he thought that the events of the recent past were all he needed: a murder at his wedding breakfast, and now his sergeant looking as if he’d been roused from a deep sleep. He was just coming to terms with this when Tomlinson returned wearing a casual tracksuit as black as night.
Great, now he had a demented scarecrow in pyjamas, a man who looked like a mugg
er, and himself in a morning suit, and suddenly wondered, irrelevantly, if he were Larry, Curly or Mo. Whatever would Grammaticus think when he came back? And the sky had turned a horrible mackerel colour and was threatening again to resume the tempest they had endured before the wedding ceremony
As he awaited the inevitable cymbal crash of thunder after the warning flash of lightning, there was a murmuring of voices from the staircase, and he steeled himself for whoever Grammaticus was bringing up to them, and their reaction to the three figures in waiting.
Meanwhile, Honey had returned to the banqueting hall and was being embraced by both her parents, who immediately wanted to know why she had disappeared so suddenly. A wave of bile rose to her throat as she noticed the half-eaten slices of wedding cake on their plates.
‘Beautiful cake, Hortense,’ her mother complimented her. ‘So good I could’ve baked it meself.’
‘And your mother don’t tell no lies,’ added her father, winking at her. ‘Now, what was all dat about, earlier? Why you rush off?’
Honey thought fast, not having been enlightened about one darned thing, and came up with the first plausible story that entered her mind. ‘It was all the excitement and a bit of nerves. I just felt very faint and I had to go up to our room for a little lie down.’
‘But why was de cake so small. I thought you tole us it was five tiers.’
‘There was a little bit of an accident: nothing to worry about and certainly not worth spoiling the day for.’ Hey, this lying to your parents thing was easier than she had expected it to be.
‘Will you take a little dance wid your father? After all, I’ve legally given you to another man today, and I’d like the chance to hold you close for one last time.’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Pops.’
‘You know what I mean. Anyway, dis Harry guy seems like a good man,. And dere’s nobody better at keeping you safe than a policeman, is tere? A nice steady job and, as he’s a hinspector, he’ll have a nice comfy desk to sit behind while all de other guys lower down de chain take the risks.’
Nuptial Sacrifice Page 3
