Alistair looked in horror at her bloodied dress. ‘You’re not allowed to bleed all over my good seats.’ It was touching that his concern was for his car upholstery rather than the dishevelled bride.
‘I’m not going to bleed anywhere,’ Jane said. ‘It’s not me who’s bleeding.’
For some mad reason this seemed to satisfy Alistair. She sprawled on the luxurious back seat and breathed deeply. She felt that it might have relieved her feelings if she could have snarled like a wolf or bitten somebody, but there are few nervous outlets available to a seriously bloodstained bride. She contained herself as they drove up the hill.
FOUR
In the door mirror of the limo she could see herself although there was no comfort in that view. The puppy’s blood was not only over the wedding dress, it had sprayed on to her face and hands and was even splattered in her hair. If there had been anybody in the Square they would have been staring, their attention first caught by the reappearance of the bridal car and then the sound of her scampering feet. She pretended to herself that she could make herself invisible, as she had done in moments of embarrassment ever since her childhood, though as far as she knew it had never worked yet.
The limo made short work of the steep hill. Alistair had longed for somebody to ask him to hurry and now was his chance. The fat tyres produced a squeal as he turned off into the byroad. The rest of the trip back to Whinmount passed in a flash. As soon as she leapt out of the car – as fast as the corseted wedding dress would allow – Jane gave instructions to Alistair to go and fetch Deborah, her Maid of Honour. The first thing that Jane saw on darting inside the front door was the light flashing on the recently installed telephone, insisting that there were messages. There was, in fact, a string of messages and they were all from Deborah, desperate to know why she had not been collected yet. Was she forgotten? While trying not to look at herself in the hall mirror, Jane called her maid of honour and assured her that the limo was on the way. She told her to sit beside the driver so as not to run the risk of staining whatever gorgeous dress she was no doubt wearing. Rather than be trapped in the hall answering a thousand questions, Jane disconnected.
She collected a big jar of salt and dashed upstairs. The bath was quickly part-filled with water and salt and she left the wedding dress to soak in it, while knowing that it was already far too late. Hoping against hope, she scanned her wardrobe but no miracle had produced a long white dress since the last time that she looked in it. There was nothing all-white except a tennis frock, but that was so short that it would barely have covered her underwear. Then memory threw up an inspiration. She closed the wardrobe and went to the airing cupboard and there she found a white nightdress of some silky material, a present from Roland on a recent birthday and never worn because it was far too sexy even for a fiancée. Perhaps for a husband it might have been just within the bounds of the permissible. As a wedding dress it would be outrageous but of the various choices open to her it seemed the least unacceptable and in fact the only one possible.
In washing the blood off her face Jane had necessarily removed the make-up that she had patiently applied two hours earlier. The return of Alistair brought relief in the form of Deborah, the maid of honour, who absorbed the sorry tale and, although her hand was shaking – with laughter Jane hoped – at the thought of the microchipped robber, managed to remove the more obvious bloodstains from Jane’s hair and to make a better job of the make-up than Jane herself had managed. With the veil pinned over her hair, Deborah said nobody would ever know that anything was amiss. The fact that the veil would be removed during the ceremony was not mentioned. Deborah directed Alistair’s attention to the view over the town while Jane whipped a sheet of polythene out of the house and flipped it over the back seat.
They were still tidying the veil during the short journey to Kempfield, whilst Jane was filling Deborah in on the eventful day so far. Deborah was still firing off a million questions to Jane when Alistair indicated that they were arriving at Kempfield. Jane was mentally unprepared as they swept into the outer courtyard and stopped at the big doors. It was hardly the serene kind of preparation appropriate for a bride just as she’s about to make the most important union of her life, but it was the only time Jane was going to get considering they were already running at least fifty minutes late; even the most high-maintenance of brides couldn’t expect to keep her groom and congregation waiting any longer.
There had originally been a huge, open inner courtyard between the farm buildings but as the centre grew unstoppably, as well-managed enterprises will, and its catchment area had expanded, this had been roofed over to make an enormous general purpose workshop. It had now been cleared of benches, machinery and ongoing projects and then decorated tastefully but frivolously with garlands of coloured wrapping paper from the printworks, whose manager had been at school with Jane. It was into this building that Jane made her entrance, with Deborah behind her, holding a delightful bouquet of flowers that the local florist had donated, of which there were plenty more in strategic places around the venue.
On making her belated entry to the sound of a great cheer, Jane was stunned by the number present. Somehow news of the event had got a mention on the Internet, probably on Facebook, and in the local media, with a hint that the event was open to any friend of a friend of the bride or her family; and it seemed that this definition might have become stretched almost to snapping point. Champagne had been mentioned without the proviso that it had been made on the spot and from elderflowers rather than grapes, and of course everyone expected a great feast as well.
Looking around, Jane could see officials, volunteer leaders and benefactors of Kempfield; former schoolfellows, fellow students from college; many of GG’s old friends, clients and colleagues; her own clients and most of the denizens of Newton Lauder. It had been made clear that morning suits were not expected; the groom and the best man wore kilts and tweed jackets and at that point formality ended. So the guests were a multicoloured, melting pot of all styles, fashions, uniforms and hairdos; everyone having their own opinion of what constitutes an acceptable dress code at a wedding on a gorgeous summer’s day.
While the bride was awaited the festivities had begun anyway and luckily the supplies of food and elderflower champagne seemed to be holding up. It seemed that volunteers had managed to clear up most of the mess of the earlier explosion, but the smell of wine was all-pervading, although considering everyone was drinking the stuff, and would be consuming plenty of it as the day wore on, they would become immune to the smell fairly quickly.
As Jane entered further into the room, she noticed the expressions on various faces – the men entranced, the younger women envious and the older ladies outraged – and was reminded that the nightdress that was now substituting for the bloodied wedding dress was daring in the extreme, being made of a very thin and clinging material with inserts and panels of lace that was so transparent as to be barely visible. Oh well! She would soon be a respectable married woman. And she had been too busy to have the traditional hen night. Surely some allowance could be made. She avoided eye contact with any of the throng as she held her head up and walked calmly forward towards the rear of the room, which was to act as the wedding ceremony area.
Manfred, Jane’s soon-to-be brother-in-law, was to be best man. Roland and Manfred were first to reach Jane. Roland in particular was almost gagging with questions and he rushed up to her, clasping her hand in both of his. His expression was a mixture of relief and concern; relief that Jane had turned up (as part of him had begun to worry that she was having second thoughts about their future), and concern at what exactly had delayed her. Manfred too was spouting questions, but Jane hushed them both. She was living in hyperdrive.
‘It’s not the bride’s place to make speeches,’ she said. ‘Manfred, your job. Please apologize to everybody. Explain. Urgent call surgery. Attempt to rob knifepoint. Microchipped the … the intruder. Got blooded, went home to change. Sorry delay. Please enjoy.’
She stood back, confident that she had given a full explanation. Manfred was a tall man with a head of carefully waved hair and a handsome face ruined, in Jane’s opinion, by an effeminate mouth. Putting flesh on the bare bones, he began a tolerable speech of explanation and apology.
As Manfred finished, Jane found herself breathing heavily with nothing to do at last except to get married. But before that could happen she was approached by a confused-looking Mrs Ilwand. Emotion flushed over her. Before the other could speak, Jane burst out, ‘I’m sorry about your wedding dress, so sorry, but the pup was spouting blood – I had to put it down in the end – I couldn’t just leave it. I was going to—’
Mrs Ilwand managed to break in without slapping her and instead held on tightly to her forearms in a half reassuring and half restraining embrace. ‘My dear, never mind the bloody dress. I don’t have a daughter to pass it on to. I urged you to look after it so that I could give it to a charity shop. I’ll make a donation instead. More importantly, are you all right? That’s the point. I could barely understand what the best man was going on about, but I gather it has something to do with an injured pup and lots of blood …?’ Mrs Ilwand looked at Jane with a sympathetic tilt of her head and grasped her for another hug.
Jane could have fainted with relief; she couldn’t believe that Mrs Ilwand was being so forgiving about the ruined wedding dress. She had been thinking of the bloodying of the wedding dress as the ultimate calamity of the day.
‘Well … I’m a bit shaken,’ Jane replied. She was tempted to add ‘but not stirred’; but backed away from such flippancy. ‘I’ll have the dress sent to specialist cleaners. They get quite used to getting blood out of vets’ clothes.’
Mrs Ilwand laughed. ‘I said not to mind the dress. But what you’ve got on …’ She ground to a halt, short of words as her eyes ran up and down Jane’s figure, taking in the blatant transparent nature of the replacement dress.
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it does look more like a nightie. Where did you get it from in a hurry?’
‘It is a nightie,’ Jane explained. ‘It was the only all-white thing I could find. Not that anybody will think me entitled to a white wedding when everybody knows that the groom and I have been cohabiting for yonks and if they look too closely they might also notice a slightly bulging waistline …’
Mrs Ilwand was still laughing. ‘They don’t place too much emphasis on that, these days,’ she said. ‘In the West Highlands things may be different. I was married in that virginial dress but nobody was taken in by—’
‘Errr, I’m afraid that’s enough girl talk, thank you.’ A voice broke in to interrupt the conversation. Jane looked around and realized that a sort of queue had started to form in front of her, at the head of which stood Ian Fellowes, the local detective inspector who was also Deborah’s husband and Keith Calder’s son-in-law. He was among those who felt obliged to wait before talking to the bride. Now he had lost patience. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt so rudely, and Jane, best wishes of course. Now, everybody else please back off. We’ll let the full story be known shortly.’ Then back to Jane he said in a quieter tone, ‘Jane, tell me about this attempted robbery.’
‘I can’t add anything to what Manfred said,’ she replied, now beginning to regret having been so informative about her delay in arriving. She rather wished she had said nothing and explained all later, once she’d actually got married, which was the whole point of why they were all there today, wasn’t it?
‘You weren’t listening to what he said.’
‘Yes I was, some of it. And I’m getting married right now. After that I may have time for you. It can’t be so very urgent because of the microchip.’
‘The what?’
‘Didn’t Manfred mention it? I stuck the robber with the wrong syringe and put a microchip into him, so you’ll have him bang to rights, if that’s the proper expression. Until I’m available, go and enjoy yourself. The drinks are on me.’
‘And that’s you told,’ Deborah said to her husband and ushered him away from Jane into the throng of guests, and towards the bar at the other end of the room.
A small stage had been set up at one end of the workshop with a table for the registrar. That lady had put down her glass of champagne and walked to meet Jane and Roland, ready to pounce. ‘You’re lucky nobody else wants to be born, married or buried this afternoon,’ she said. ‘So I was able to wait for you.’
‘Bless you for that,’ Jane said. ‘We’re just coming.’ She realized that she had eaten nothing since breakfast and the big room seemed filled with the smell of a delicious soup that furnished almost the only hot item of food. She did a quick scan of what remained on the buffet. ‘God, I’m hungry!’ Jane wandered towards the selections on offer, the palm of her hand held up in a stop sign to prevent anyone from coming towards the bride and disturbing her in her primal need to eat before taking the next important step in her life; she certainly wasn’t going to look back on this day and only remember the hunger she felt whilst taking her vows.
An electronic keyboard had been borrowed from a choral group based in a local church. At a nod from the registrar the organist struck up the wedding march and seconds later the bridal procession was to be seen approaching the improvised altar with the scantily dressed bride biting into a pork pie. The Maid of honour, who was also facing starvation, had chosen a large slice of quiche. Each had a plastic glass of champagne in the spare hand. There were multiple flashes as the members of the photographic section of Kempfield were busily recording the scene. Instead of the usual respectful silence accorded to a wedding party approaching the altar there were handclaps and even a few cheers. Roland and Manfred had hurried ahead during Jane and Deborah’s snack stop and were already waiting before the registrar’s table. The ladies handed the gentlemen their empty glasses and wiped their lips on the bridal veil. The groom was noticeably red in the face. The short ceremony then began.
After the perfunctory ceremony, and the obligatory newly-married kiss, Jane accepted that she’d have to recount her earlier experience to the inspector before he forcibly tried to haul her off to the police station. The manager’s office, just inside the double doors, was made available and Jane, clinging to her share of the quiche and another large glass of her own champagne, but with a borrowed sheepskin coat over the nightdress, found herself recounting her adventure to Ian Fellowes.
‘No, I can’t tell you the name of the boy who called me about the puppy,’ she said, ‘but I’ve seen him around Newton Lauder and I believe his mother’s here now, so I can probably point her out. The puppy was beyond saving so I put it to sleep to end its suffering. I told the boy how to hold it but he was overpowered by the thought of death and he let his grip shift and I got sprayed with blood, that’s where all the time went. I told him to go and get me some salt – soda would have been better but I didn’t want to waste more time explaining what sort of soda I wanted. He went to get salt and, next thing I knew, I was being robbed.’ Jane looked as though she was going to end her story there, but she was encouraged to continue by the detective’s expectant expression and vigorous note-taking. She felt she had to make more of an effort to be a useful witness, wedding day or not.
‘The robber was wearing jeans and what I took to be a T-shirt but it could have been any loose, short-sleeved cotton shirt. He was about my height, quite slim, and he had a woollen mask over his head. I think it was a woollen cap in the local football colours but eyeholes had been cut in it and hemmed with red wool. He had what looked like the help-yourself plastic gloves they have at the garage to protect your hands if you’re filling up with diesel. Oh, and it may have been somebody I know, because they used a disguised voice, a sort of rasping whisper.
‘He had what looked like the sort of large kitchen knife that you could buy in the ironmonger’s shop here. It looked brand new, unused and very sharp. He used the back of the blade to sweep the drugs off my shelves into a carrier bag. Then he tol
d me to open the steel box under the counter, which showed that he already knew about that. After a bit of argy-bargy I told him the combination rather than get my face sliced. And a fat lot of good that will do him,’ Jane said, ‘because I paid cash into the bank yesterday and he’ll have got credit card slips and one or two cheques only. In cash, probably about twenty quid if he’s lucky.’ Here Jane paused again, but this time not out of a desire to end the conversation, but to gather her thoughts so she could be as accurate as possible about what happened next.
She continued, ‘But after I told him the combination of the lock he stooped to look at it and a gap opened between his jeans and his shirt. And I meant to shoot a sleeping draught into him, because I still had half a syringeful handy from putting the puppy to sleep, but what came to my hand was the syringe that puts in microchips. I had already loaded another microchip out of habit because a lot of dogs get restive if they see you fiddling with a syringe. It has a much fatter needle than the usual hypodermic needle and I believe it hurts like hell. Anyway, it hurt him. He gave a high-pitched yelp. I told him that nobody could take the microchip out again or he’d end up on dialysis for the rest of his life, which isn’t true but he seemed to believe it. He went out and ran off. And I can give you the number of the microchip. I suppose I should really register him with the Kennel Club,’ Jane added reflectively.
Ian Fellowes had been making rapid notes on some typing paper borrowed from the desk. Now he looked at her severely, but apparently he decided that she could be allowed a little latitude on her wedding day. ‘Wait here quietly for a couple of minutes,’ he said as he quickly slipped out of the room and left Jane to her own thoughts.
Jane felt that she had been engaged in frantic activity for several weeks past, so she was quite happy to relax in the comfortable desk chair and wait for things to happen. Sounds of disco music filtered in; there was laughter and an occasional cheer. It seemed that a good time was being had by all whereas ironically at her own wedding celebration, here she was, on her own in the building manager’s office, waiting to be interrogated again. The adrenaline rush wore off and the events of the day so far, as well as the past few days’ manic preparation, suddenly caught up with her and she began to fall asleep. She woke with a jump when Ian Fellowes returned, carrying a plate of hors d’oeuvres and two large glasses of elderflower champagne. He pushed the door to with his behind and the noise diminished again.
The Unkindest Cut Page 4
