Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  He told them he didn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought because the land was his anyway, and he was in his rights to claim it lock, stock and barrel. It was only down to his goodhearted neighbourliness that he wasn’t fencing it off.

  ‘And I could. If I bloody well wanted to, I could,’ he’d shouted at full volume.

  As a last ditch attempt, Constance had suggested that the deed he’d produced might have been countered some years later in a written agreement between the owners of Belvedere House and St Michaels.

  ‘Prove it,’ he’d said, his jaw set and his eyes gleaming with triumph.

  He’d even suggested the work being done over a period of eleven days covering two weekends.

  Constance was appalled.

  ‘You can’t do that! I have weddings booked. Think of all those disappointed couples about to enter into holy matrimony.’

  He’d sneered.

  ‘Tell them to live in sin. It makes more sense nowadays. Saves them bothering to get divorced! Think of the money they’d save.’

  She’d been appalled and more determined to get the matter sorted, at least giving the church more say in the disputed land.

  The fact was neither she nor the church lawyers could prove it. The archives had been searched, but there wasn’t a shred of evidence that either party in the dispute owned the property. Somehow the deeds had been lost.

  Constance shoved her hands in the pockets of her sleeveless gillet and trudged on, not exactly cursing him under her breath, but not far from it.

  It wasn’t just a question of what the ground should be covered with, it was the threat of Clinker taking it over entirely; she had visions of him carrying out his threat and building a fence around it, leaving only enough room for pedestrians to pass through. Wedding cars, the joy of St Michael’s existence, would have to park at the far end of the lane. And what about funerals? Imagine manhandling a coffin along the lane and over the rough ground before even entering church precincts. Anything could happen.

  ‘Like something from a horror movie,’ she muttered.

  As if to confirm her statement, a bat flew out from beneath the lych-gate. Constance stopped, her eyes following its flight up to the tower. There were a whole colony of them up there. Had been for years.

  Constance quite liked bats and had no objection to them living in the belfry. She entertained the vague hope that one of them might be a vampire bat, would bite Clinker and he would fall dead.

  The trouble with that was that he’d become a member of the undead and become a vampire himself. She pulled a face then brightened at the prospect of hammering a wooden stake through Clinker’s heart. If she remembered rightly the next stage was chopping off his head so he wouldn’t come back to life. At least it would stop him shouting.

  Just lately she’d taken to locking the church door. In times past it had been left unlocked, but a single break in at the beginning of her tenure had made her more cautious, at least until the culprit had been caught – if ever.

  Not that anything had been taken, not even the collection box, a rough looking thing sitting on the table close to the entrance and surrounded by free pamphlets detailing St Michael’s history. The idea was that people might donate a small coin in lieu of the free pamphlets. The highest denomination of coin she’d ever found in there had been a twenty pence piece.

  The big iron key turned in the lock and she entered. For a moment she stood still and silent, savouring the atmosphere of ancient sanctity.

  The church was a place of shadows except where the last rays of the setting sun fell like orange torchlight through the west window.

  Constance fell to her knees did her obligations at the altar and instantly felt a great sense of relief. She couldn’t help muttering a little prayer of thanks.

  ‘Thank you for giving me the strength to face Mrs Flynn, her fruitcake and her sherry. I promise, Lord, I only had one. Honest!’

  In her mind she fancied God smiling and being pleased that she’d survived the ordeal without hitting the woman on the head. Mrs Flynn wasn’t an easy person by any means. A village old timer, she’d attended the church for years, wheedling her way onto every committee, having a say in every lay decision, and also attempting to influence the clergy. Even the vicar who’d retired before her had undergone the same ordeals.

  ‘She got quite cross with me when I wanted to clean up the older graves down in the south east corner; threatened to write to the bishop if I dared disturb them.’

  Mrs Flynn liked everything to stay the same and her greatest joy was organising church decorations, especially those for weddings.

  ‘A good marriage should be for life. That’s why it should be in church. People aren’t so likely to break their vows if they’re married in the sight of God.’

  Whether the deceased Mr Flynn had thought the same, Constance wasn’t sure. He was never mentioned. Neither were children though she had heard there was a daughter. When she’d asked about her, Mrs Flynn had glared at her as though she’d suggested having an orgy in the vestry.

  ‘My daughter is dead to me.’

  As the orange of sunset diminished, Constance remembered the latest task Mrs Flynn had set her. Check that the old coffer had not been damaged by water.

  She very much doubted any damage had been done, but was obliged to check.

  Weathered through hundreds of summers before it was even cut down, the oak from which the coffer was made had no shine, no carvings, and no decorations of any kind. It was just a very old chest, about six feet long, by three feet deep, by three feet high.

  It was actually big enough to have served as a coffin, but there was no record of a body ever having been interred inside.

  Constance ran her fingers over its dented surface. She could see no evidence of water damage. Nothing at all.

  ‘Another of Mrs Flynn’s fantasies,’ she muttered as she headed for the door leading to the belfry. Mrs Flynn liked to keep people busy and that very much included the vicar.

  There were three bells up in the tower and a number of ardent campanologists in the village. The electricity supply only went as far as the main nave of the church not in the tower, though the light switches were on the belfry side of the door. This necessitated Constance having to go in there every time she wanted to switch a light on for somewhere else in the church. What the electricians back in the fifties had been thinking of was anyone’s guess, though it was rumoured they frequented the Angel Inn for their lunch which might have had coloured their judgement.

  Constance was just about to open the door, when something on the floor caught her eye. It was a chisel, sticking up from between the flagstones. Had someone been trying to lever up a flagstone?

  Bending down for a closer inspection a sudden scuffling made her jump. Being of stout figure and brave heart, she held her ground.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ Her voice bounced back off the bare stone walls.

  Daft thing to say, she thought. If anyone was there who shouldn’t be, they were hardly likely to answer. Intruders might have evil intent, but they weren’t stupid.

  If only she’d turned the lights on earlier. It was getting dark. Shadows were getting longer. The sun had set and the air suddenly turned cold.

  Nervous now, she took backward steps in the direction of the door to the belfry, her eyes darting in and out of shadows thrown by the pillars lining the nave. There were no gargoyles inside the church to leer at her, but the sombre engravings of the rood screen warranted keeping an eye on.

  ‘I’m not alone,’ she shouted out.

  The watcher in the shadows stayed absolutely still. The vicar was backing away from the light and into the darkness. Closer and closer and.

  The Reverend Constance Paxton didn’t see the blow coming, and even if she had the result would have been exactly the same.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Doherty held the church door open for Honey. ‘Hey it’s pretty dark in here. Don’t they have lights? I thought churches had
lights nowadays. Creepy old place, don’t you think?’

  Honey grimaced. A church wedding wasn’t necessarily what they’d end up with, but no stone was being left unturned.

  ‘Are you sure about this? You sound nervous,’ Honey said to him.

  His restless eyes darted from side to side, flagstones to rafters.

  ‘Churches make me nervous. I’ve only ever attended one ceremony in a church. On the occasion before that I had no choice in the matter.’

  ‘Your first marriage of course.’

  ‘No. I got married in a registry office. I meant when I was born. I was christened in a church. I only ever expected to come here again for my funeral.’

  ‘Now there’s a jolly thought!’

  He caught the sarcastic tone. He hadn’t meant to sound off hand about a church wedding but they had agreed to leave their options open. In the circumstances he went out of his way to apologise.

  He reached out and gently stroked her cheek. ‘Honey. It’s OK. I’ll do whatever you want to do. I don’t mind getting married in a church. I don’t mind getting dressed up all fancy for the occasion.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll be the one in the dress.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  She didn’t quite know why she had suggested they enquire about a church wedding. It was something vaguely connected with the princess culture. Little girls liked to dress up and pretend they were princesses if only for a day. Not only little girls. Big girls who should know better liked it too.

  They had made no firm commitment to where they would marry. It had been a joint decision to evaluate the options before actually tying the knot. They’d both wanted to see how they would feel about it, whether it was a white wedding in a church, or perhaps just the two of them on a Caribbean island, or an elopement to Gretna Green – although of course Gretna Green no longer carried out instant weddings. Like everyone else they required due notice.

  Doherty took a couple of steps forward so he stood level with her in the aisle.

  ‘So where’s the vicar?’

  Honey looked around. Doherty did the same, though more efficiently, eyes peeled, nose held high as though he were sniffing for trouble.

  ‘Are you sure we’ve got the right night?’ he asked her.

  Honey slowed so she could scrutinise the pews in the event that the vicar might like practical jokes and was presently playing hide and seek. A few more steps and she might leap from hiding and shout ‘boo!’

  Honey wasn’t the greatest for jotting notes in a diary, even special birthdays or events. Doherty had sown a doubt. She frowned as she did a quick rummage of her handbag; a big pink one that had only recently replaced a big brown one. Think travelling office.

  ‘Hold on. I’ll double check with my diary. I wrote it down.’

  Juggling bag and diary, she finally managed to open it. Not that it proved of any value. She couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘It’s tonight. I’m sure of it. Perhaps the vicar forgot.’

  She looked up and found herself alone.

  ‘Steve?’

  She wasn’t exactly panicked but it was dark in here. Worse than that was the smell of old dust and the scuttling sound coming from floor level.

  ‘Steve,’ she called again.

  ‘I’ve found the vicar,’ she heard him shout.

  She quick marched down the aisle to where Doherty was hanging over a black robed figure lying flat out on the floor. A pair of pink fluffy slippers showed from beneath the black ankle length robe. Her straight black bob hid her face.

  Honey copied his stance, body bent to the same angle, eyes scrutinising despite the mean light.

  ‘Oh my God! Is she dead?’

  Doherty shook his head. ‘No. But she has had a nasty knock on the head. Phone an ambulance.’

  The hair fell away from the vicar’s face as she moved, blinked and opened her eyes.

  ‘Oh. Oh my word.’

  She raised her hand to her temple and looked up at Doherty.

  ‘I think it might be a good idea if you go to hospital,’ he told her.

  ‘No! No! I’m all right. I fainted. That’s all. Please. Help me to my feet?’

  The vicar raised herself onto her elbows. Honey and Doherty took hold of her arms and helped her to her feet.

  ‘Do you have electricity here?’ asked Doherty.

  ‘Of course we do. Through there,’ she said, pointing to the door to the kitchen which was directly behind her and very slightly ajar.

  Between them they settled the vicar into a chocolate brown leather armchair.

  ‘I’ll go switch some lights on,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want a doctor?’ Honey asked Constance as she awaited Doherty’s return. ‘You look quite flushed.’

  The vicar shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine thank you. Just a funny turn. Must be getting old.’

  She gave a little nervous laugh that Honey didn’t like the sound of. Not so much nervous she decided, more as if she was frightened.

  ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea? You’ve had a shock. You could probably do with something hot and sweet.’

  The black hair glistened when she shook her head. Once she’d composed herself, she looked at them as though nothing whatsoever had happened and even managed a funny little lopsided smile.

  ‘You must be Doherty and Driver come to discuss the possibility of holding your wedding here.’

  ‘That was the idea,’ said Honey, exchanging a quick glance with Doherty. ‘We wanted to take a look round and ask about the possibilities – seeing as we’ve both been married before.’

  ‘Both divorced?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. I’m a widow.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m not. He was doing what he wanted to do with a crew of lithesome ladies.’

  ‘More than one indiscretion?’ said the vicar, obviously warming to Honey and looking overly keen to hear more.

  ‘They were crew on his racing yacht, though I suspect that he had stretched the meaning of the term ‘first mate’.

  ‘Ah. I see.’ The effort of nodding was a bit too much. The vicar’s head rolled around as though she were about to faint again. Doherty caught her before she fell.

  ‘I think we should leave this for another time,’ suggested Honey.

  ‘Oh no. I won’t hear of it. Not after you made this journey especially.’

  ‘It’s no problem. We can make an appointment for another time when you feel better.’

  ‘What’s the pub like?’ asked Doherty.

  Honey shot him a scathing look before turning back to the vicar and offering some pretty standard advice.

  ‘I think the best thing you can do is have a hot drink and an early night. Let’s get you home.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Constance, getting to her feet. ‘But I can find my own way...’ She stopped suddenly as though something important had suddenly occurred to her.

  ‘Someone hit me.’

  Doherty’s attention was captured. He loomed in closer. ‘Someone hit you?’

  She touched her head again then stared at her fingers. ‘Blood,’ she said. ‘I’m bleeding.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  She shook her head, and then tottered a little. Doherty held out a steadying hand.

  ‘No. He...I presume it was a man, came up behind me.’ She raised a hand and rubbed the nape of her neck. ‘Ouch. I think I’ve got a pigeon’s egg.’

  ‘Then I think you need to see a doctor.’ Honey was adamant.

  The Reverend Paxton refused to go to hospital, but agreed for the local doctor to call.

  ‘I can’t afford to go to hospital. I’ve got too much to do. We’ve got a wedding tomorrow. It should be lovely.’ She smiled at them bravely. ‘Do come along if you can. It will give you some idea of what your wedding could be like.’

  The vicarage was built of stone and shared its garden with the car park and shrubbery surrounding the village hall
.

  Honey and Doherty manoeuvred her to the front door. Before they got there, three people of disproportionate size, all looking in a state of flap, came rushing out to meet them.

  ‘The parish council,’ the vicar explained. ‘Well three of them anyway.’

  The first to face them was a man who seemed as broad as he was high and looked like an old-fashioned bank manager.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he demanded, looking straight at Doherty who promptly explained what had happened. All three members of Wainswicke Parish Council made appropriate sounds of sympathy before following them to the vicarage door and into the house.

  The vicarage was large but had a homely feel. Threadbare rugs covered the flagstones – shabby chic rather than fit for throwing out.

  A small dog came rushing out to meet them, yapping in ear splitting staccato whilst wagging its tail fit to fall off.

  Still holding her head, the vicar told the beloved pet to be quiet whilst one of the villagers helped her into a chair.

  ‘You poor thing,’ the woman cooed. ‘We were wondering where you were. It wasn’t that dreadful Mr Clinker was it? He did pop into the meeting to warn us only to use the land for weddings, but didn’t stop long. It wasn’t him that did it, was it Constance?’ As though suddenly aware there were strangers in the room, she threw Doherty and Honey an aside. ‘He is something of a gangster, not at all the type we want in this village.’

  Honey couldn’t help noticing that the leader of the parish council, who had introduced himself as Mr Masters, deftly moved the dog out of the way with the side of his shoe. She couldn’t help wondering whether his action might have been more forceful if they hadn’t been there.

  ‘Get the vicar a cup of tea,’ barked Mr Masters.

  One of the two female members of the parish council scurried off to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Mr Masters and the other woman hovered until the rotund leader of the parish council straightened and looked towards the door.

  ‘Is Mrs Flynn not with us? Can someone go outside and see where she’s got to?’