Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Doherty almost hit a white van that had breezed over the speed bumps from the end of the crescent as if they were a challenge not a hindrance to getting up speed.

  ‘You are joking I hope?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think I would look quite cute in a sari.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  First off, on arrival back at the Green River, Honey talked to Smudger the Chef, listened to Dumpy Doris ranting on about the huge roast dinner she was planning to eat at home that night. She also spoke to her daughter.

  Just for once, Lindsey was away from the computer, taking time off with a romantic historical novel. She was laying full stretch on a settee in the conservatory. By virtue of the sun warming up the glass and the area within, she was wearing a dark blue linen tunic and knee length leggings.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  The cover looked appealing. ‘The Plague Ship.’

  ‘Medieval?’

  ‘Yes. It concerns the Black Death being spread throughout the Mediterranean. Quite macabre. Quite enlightening too.’

  She put the book down and eyed her mother with a knowing look.

  ‘Rough night?’

  Honey felt her face colouring up. ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘Oh well. Make the most of it whilst you can.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Basically I’m telling you to slow down. Be less physical and more spiritual.’

  Honey eyed her daughter warily. ‘Have you been talking spirits and seraphim’s with Mary Jane again?’

  Lindsey returned her look without a flutter of indignation. ‘She talks. I listen. I talk. She listens.’

  Honey felt a pang of hurt. ‘Are you saying that I don’t?’

  Lindsey sighed. ‘You lead a hectic life.’

  ‘I know, but...’

  ‘Listen! I don’t mind that. You’re a very different person to me. Just as you’re very different to your mother. So in lieu of that, I have to have somebody to talk to who knows what I’m talking about. Mary Jane does. So we talk spirituality and religion. People in the Middle Ages practised religion every day. Did you know that?’

  ‘Before my time.’

  ‘Quite. They never failed to say a prayer or enter a church, take confession or whatever. I quite like the life of the clergy, you know. It was so peaceful. It gave you time to think.’

  ‘Then I’m not a terrible mother?’

  Lindsey laughed. ‘Of course you’re not. You’re my mother and you’re fun and funny. But you’re not religious or spiritual. Mary Jane is.’

  Lindsey’s smile, her words and her sudden leaping to plant a kiss on her mother’s cheek, was reassuring.

  Honey breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Look. I’ve had a hectic night. I’ll go over the back for a shower, a coffee and a look at my emails.’

  ‘Right. Go. I’ll carry on entering the price list for next year. After that I’ll carry on my research into the life of monks and nuns. It seems a very peaceful existence. I think I’d make a pretty good nun if I chose to.’

  It wasn’t until she was sitting down with a cup of coffee and the only letter addressed personally to her that morning that a worrying thought came to her.

  She sat very still, both hands around her coffee mug. A nun? Her daughter? Surely not!

  She might have brooded on it and eventually trotted back over to reception or demand they talk this through before Lindsey committed to something she might regret. Instead she opened the letter inside the envelope with the copperplate handwriting. Once read, everything else flew out of her head. She took a deep breath, then read the words again. No, she thought, shaking her head. It had to be a joke. A nutcase. A relative who didn’t want her to marry Doherty? What person? What relative? One relative above all others sprang to mind.

  Her mother’s voice rang in her ears. ‘A policeman! You’re going to marry a policeman?’

  Surely not! But if it wasn’t a joke, if it was deadly serious...?

  Doherty answered on the first ring.

  ‘Ah. My betrothed.’

  ‘Your betrothed has received a threatening letter suggesting I should not be betrothed,’ said Honey feeling a definite shakiness in her knees. ‘Suggesting in fact that I might be bumped off if I don’t drop the idea. They also suggest that you’re a bent cop and a liar.’

  ‘Ah!’

  There was a lot of meaning in that two-letter word. The exclamation had a lot to do with it.

  Honey frowned. ‘What does Ah mean?’

  ‘That’s the fourth. I mean, I’ve received three now you’ve received one. Whoever it is has changed tactics.’

  Holding the letter close to her eyes so she didn’t have to find her glasses, Honey read it out purposely emphasising the bit about him being a bent cop and a liar.

  ‘These letters; when did you receive them?’

  He ummed and ahhed a bit. ‘Only in the last few days.’

  ‘You should have told me sooner.’

  ‘I didn’t want to scare you.’

  ‘I don’t scare easily.’

  ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘See what you think.’

  She read the letter aloud.

  ‘I think you should know that your policeman boyfriend is your typically bent copper and, not only that, but he’s a liar. Are you so stupid that you haven’t noticed?

  If you dare go ahead with this stupid idea of marrying a bent cop, I will personally make your life a misery, or perhaps end it.’

  ‘Signature?’

  ‘It’s unsigned.’

  ‘So were the ones I received. They usually are.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  She heard a heavily exhaled breath on the other end of the phone; Doherty at his most exasperated.

  ‘I was of the opinion that whoever it was would get fed up. Three letters and that would be it.’

  ‘Looks like he or she is dedicated.’

  ‘Have you checked where it was posted from?’

  The question took her off balance. She paused, picked up the envelope and studied the franked place and time. It was a little smudged, but she could just about make out Edinburgh. She told Doherty.

  There was silence at first, and finally, ‘Leave it with me.’

  It wasn’t often that someone as exotic as Carolina Sherise came into the village shop. Heads turned the moment the old brass bell jangled. The two construction labourers involved in the restoration of a brick and beamed property at the other end of the street were waiting for the pasties they had bought to warm up. On seeing her, their jaws dropped, all thought of eating forgotten.

  Mrs Jenkins, the woman behind the portion of counter reserved for post office matters, looked up from lowered eyes whilst tearing a strip of stamps off for a customer.

  The customer was Janet Glencannon who ran the animal sanctuary.

  Carolina Sherise was perusing the magazine selection so didn’t notice the alarm that entered Janet’s eyes. Neither did she bother to look round when Janet told Mrs Jenkins that she’d suddenly remembered she’d left something in the oven and would be back later.

  Hermione Thompson, who on Mrs Flynn’s demise had immediately stepped into her shoes, was on her way to the church, a vast bouquet of flowers boldly nodding from a huge wicker basket.

  ‘Janet,’ she shouted out, and waved.

  Janet ignored her, clambered into her Land Rover, banged the door shut behind her and was gone.

  ‘Suit yourself!’

  Hermione, who had moved here from a big city, was of the opinion that everyone in the village should make the effort to be friendly. Janet had purposely ignored her and she so hated being ignored. She really did like things to be all sweetness and smiles. By the time she had finished the flowers and was on her way back to the chocolate box cottage she shared with her husband, she was sniffing prior to fully flowing tears.

  ‘Anything wrong, sweetheart?’

  Nicholas, her husband, was out walking their
Labrador, Quincy. The dog was straining at the leash and was awarded a slap across the back for his troubles.

  She smiled a sickly sweet smile. ‘Not really, sweetheart, except I was thinking how childish some people can be.’

  The Thompsons were in the habit of adding endearments to every sentence they spoke to each other.

  ‘Oh. She’s still bearing a grudge is she, darling?’

  ‘I believe so, my love.’

  ‘Her prerogative. Don’t let it upset you. Don’t get angry, just get even. That’s my motto, my sweet.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes darling,’ said his wife, as her smile diminished into a scowl, her eyes glittering at the diminishing presence of Janet Glencannon’s vehicle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Green River Hotel was uncharacteristically quiet and it had nothing to do with business.

  Honey couldn’t remember a day when she hadn’t had interruptions from two quarters in particular. Number one was Caspar St John Gervais, chairman of the Hotels and Restaurants Association. He was like a praying mantis as far as crime was concerned, hassling her with regard to progress – as if the perpetrator was amongst a collection of suspects, all sitting in a circle, waiting to be pounced on thanks to simple deduction. He’d read too much Agatha Christie.

  Unfortunately cerebral deductions only happened in books. Guesswork and clever deduction had given way to science, finger printing to DNA and ploughing through reams of paperwork to flicking through electronic records kept on a computer database.

  Caspar’s absence was no big secret. He’d gone on holiday with a group of friends on a thirty metre long catamaran sailing from Mauritius to Ceylon. They did have a satellite phone on board, but he obviously wasn’t paying too close attention to it, the Internet connection confined to the weather and navigation issues. It had also occurred to her that Caspar St John Gervais wouldn’t be too uptight seeing as the murder of Gladys Flynn had taken place in a village on the outskirts of Bath and not in the city itself. Caspar would be pleased about that – as far as it was to be pleased about a murder not occurring on one’s own doorstep.

  She was unaware of her mother’s whereabouts.

  Lindsey hadn’t heard from her. No visit, no phone call and no email. Gloria Cross had splashed out on a very swish tablet and enlisted her granddaughter’s help in using it. Lindsey had been happy to oblige. It had been five days since they’d had a word from her except for an email four days ago to say she was on cloud nine. Lindsey suggested she meant the Cloud, that metaphysical archive that existed to devour all the information in the world. Honey wasn’t so sure and wondered what her mother was up to. Not being in touch for any length of time just wasn’t her thing. There was something slightly worrying about her not being around and although Honey did not welcome her interfering in her life, it was unsettling her not being around. It was like getting used to living with background music and then somebody switching it off.

  She might have popped round to her mother’s if it hadn’t been for the letter. She wondered whether it was her mother, interfering, warning from a distance. But surely she wouldn’t threaten violence?

  She decided to quiz him further when the time was right and he wasn’t so busy. Hopefully the murderer would be found. Either way he’d have more time to look at other things once the case had gone cold – if it went cold.

  Happy times were being enjoyed in the village of Wainswicke. The kids were dressed as pirates, all part of a birthday party for Luke Simpson, a little kid with red hair and horn rimmed spectacles and the energy of an electric Jack in the Box.

  Having eaten the party food and opened his presents, Luke and his guests, girls as well as boys, were running across the field, shrieking at the top of their voices.

  They careered off down towards Badger’s Bottom towards the abandoned water works. The brick built buildings were boarded up, the reservoir, that had once sparkled with water, was now empty. Cost cutting had closed it down turning what had been an attractive feature into an empty hole with mud at the bottom.

  A steep incline dropped down from the lane from the disused access for water company vehicles. The whole area was surrounded with a six-foot high wire fence but the padlock that had once kept the gate firmly closed against outsiders, hung forlornly, one half of the gate partially open.

  The land beyond the fence backed onto the rear of Belvedere House and the top of the church tower could be seen above the trees.

  The band of pirates ran whooping down to the drained lake, perhaps in the hope of finding a sunken treasure ship. Alas there was none, but parked to the side of what had been a small but very nice lake, was a white Rolls Royce.

  The kids hesitated in going any further. They’d already left their adult minders behind, and so far had ignored the warning shouts not to stray out of sight. They were now hesitating at their own volition – except for Luke that is.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted, unfazed by what the consequences of his actions might be and wiping his snotty nose on the back of his sleeve. ‘Let’s rescue the beautiful princess. She’s been captured and imprisoned in a big white castle.’

  OK, to adults the Rolls Royce bore little resemblance to a white castle, but this was a gang of five and six year olds, with vivid imaginations.

  Luke ran on regardless, his little friends alternating between outright enthusiasm and a mild trot. One or two hung back.

  Luke’s mother was the first adult on the scene, her lightweight summer skirt flapping around her skinny shanks. She’d expected them still to be going strong, but found them gathered silently around a white car.

  She frowned, pausing to catch her breath before striding on, her arms swinging at her sides. Tall and slim, she had a commanding manner, which had landed her the job of chairperson of the PTA and other posts relating to children, education and the protection of seals, lobsters and the greater spotted lemur.

  Her high voice shrieked out at them. ‘Now come away from there. All of you. Come away from there.’

  Nobody moved. The fact that they were all stood there, staring at whoever was in the car, made her blood boil.

  ‘Courting bloody couples! Can’t they wait until it’s bloody dark, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Come on. All of you. Get out of the way and get back to the house...’

  Spreading her arms wide, she shepherded them away from what she thought would be two people in semi or total undress, doing what two people do when they’re in a quiet spot accompanied by nothing but bird song and a soaring libido.

  OK for them, she thought to herself, her expression flushed and angry. They don’t have kids. You soon get too tired for that once you’ve got kids.

  Once she was sure the kids were at a safe distance, Paulette Simpson turned purposefully back towards the car, determined to tear them off a strip for lewd behaviour in a public place.

  The fluttering of a piece of white ribbon stretched along the bonnet slowed her stride. It was hitched around each wing mirror and onto the famous Rolls Royce lady; the spirit of ecstasy wasn’t it?

  A wedding car? A courting couple were having sex in broad daylight in a wedding car? Sacrilege! To her mind a wedding car was almost as sacred as the marriage service itself. She herself was married. She did not believe in living in sin..

  ‘Right,’ she said, rolling up her shirtsleeves as though preparing herself for a bout with Lennox Lewis. ‘You are going to get a piece of my mind, my friends. Just you wait. How dare you...’

  She leaned onto the car, one hand on the bonnet, the other on the roof. Devoid of any form of makeup, her long face fell further and turned paler. Her protruding eyes loomed large.

  She had expected to see two people locked in lust. Instead there was only one. A bride. A dead bride.

  For a moment she froze taking it all in. The bride’s veil was scattered with seed pearls and her face was as white as the dress she was wearing. Through a gap in the seed pearls, she espied half closed eyelids, just as if she was about to fall asleep
. Only she wasn’t about to fall asleep. She was dead. Stone dead.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At the sound of the police sirens, those villagers who were at home craned their necks from cottage and mansion alike.

  Heads bobbed together over garden fences to discuss what was going on. Those who had been in the village store or merely traversing the high street, stopped in huddled groups.

  Two mothers spread news of what was going on with children attending Luke Simpson’s birthday party.

  ‘A woman dead in a car. A wedding car. And wearing a wedding dress! Well fancy that!’

  The kids, who had seen everything, filled in the details in a matter of fact manner.

  ‘It’s a lady and she’s dead.’

  ‘A bride. She was a bride,’ added one of the more precocious little girls.

  ‘How do you know that?’ A boy’s question of course.

  ‘She was wearing a bride’s dress stupid. And she had a veil.’

  ‘Why?’

  Already having less than a complimentary opinion of men and small boys in particular, the little girl rolled her eyes. Only a boy would be stupid enough to ask why a woman was wearing a wedding dress and sitting in a wedding car trimmed with a broad white ribbon.

  ‘She was going to the church to get married, but she changed her mind.’

  The kids accepted the reason for the bride’s demise as though it were just an extra entertainment to a moderately entertaining birthday party. The adults were more put out, curious to know every salacious detail.

  Rumours were rife and centred around Paulette Simpson who was responsible for finding the body and phoning the police.

  There were various guesses at to the identity of the victim. Paulette Simpson, who dared anyone to call her Marge, declared that she had not studied the dead woman in great detail. ‘Besides, she was wearing a veil. A very nice one actually – well, as far as I could see. Nothing cheap.’

  Doherty buttonholed one of the SOCOs’ at the scene, asking him who had found the body. Les Partridge, a seasoned officer, pointed in the direction of the athletic woman with mousy hair and a plain face. She stood a head taller than the other women around her, arms folded in what Doherty instantly interpreted as a defensive position.