Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey didn’t really disapprove; it was just that he’d thrown a spanner into her thoughts. Suspicion was like a Satnav; it favoured main roads and tried and tested lines of enquiry. Nigel had also mentioned something about his wife preferring their pet Labrador to him.

  ‘Are you telling me that you’ve seen his wife?’

  ‘Oh yeah. He told me. Talked to me a lot. In fact it was hard to shut him up and I tell you this, if he’d stuffed me with more homemade scones I’d probably burst. If you’ve met him, you know what he’s like. He invites you in for a cup of tea. It’s not just difficult to say no, it’s difficult to escape. And all he talks about is his wedding day and how wonderful it was. Took a great interest in my wedding car venture. Came round to the garage with me to look it over. Then one day I was there – captured for another cup of tea, and she turned up. Said she wanted him to stop harassing her. Said their marriage was over and she had no intention of coming back. He didn’t seem to be listening to her. Kept smiling and looking at her all-gooey eyed. Funny smile though. You know all teeth and wide open mouth. He suggested they could get married all over again, that he had the dress and that he was negotiating with me for the hire of a white Rolls Royce. She went ape!’

  It was like a sudden break in a thick mist. She recalled how she’d felt when she’d entered that house. It was putting it mildly to say that Nigel had unnerved her. Who was the ex wife? Her bet was on Marietta. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that her old friend had married and divorced a first husband before Harold came along with his wedge of cheese torso and superior swing to the backside. Not forgetting oodles of money of course.

  Mentally crossing her fingers, she asked the million-dollar question.

  ‘So what’s her name, this ex wife of his?’

  Ahmed squeezed his eyes shut, threw back his head and began to click his fingers, mentally perusing ran through preferred names.

  Finally, out it came. ‘Janet. She’s gone back to her maiden name. Don’t know what that is.’

  It wasn’t the name she’d expected to hear. Janet. Janet who? Brooks?

  It was a wide remit, but never mind; there was still a chance of identification if she had some idea of an address. A long shot, but she went for it.

  ‘Do you happen to know where she lives?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Nigel told me all about it. She runs an animal sanctuary out at Wainswicke.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The dog was sitting in reception minding its own business, its leash tied to a chair leg. Seeing as it wasn’t making any noise and hadn’t bitten anyone or cocked its leg, nobody gave it much regard.

  ‘That is a very well behaved dog,’ said Lindsey and tickled beneath its chin. The dog wagged appreciatively.

  ‘The receptionist, Linda, another part timer, agreed with her that it was.

  ‘It’s been there most of the morning. Lovely little thing isn’t it.’

  Lindsey looked at the bundle of white wooliness. It looked similar to a poodle, but her guess was on it being a Bichon Frise – just as fluffy and white but with black button eyes and a shorter snout.

  ‘Did the owner say when they would be back?’ she asked.

  Linda shook her head as she shrugged into her pale lilac cardigan and prepared to depart. Linda had two jobs; The Green River Hotel from eight to twelve and the afternoon serving in the Edinburgh Wool Shop; hence the lilac cardigan. It was pure wool and she’d bought it cheap in the sale.

  ‘I didn’t see who left it there. I don’t know who it belongs to.’

  Lindsey couldn’t bring herself to condemn Linda for not noticing who had left it. Reception had been busy that morning, people coming and going, deliveries from the butcher, the baker and the man who went round checking the burglar alarm system. One thing she did know was that the dog had not been checked in with a resident but it helped to make sure.

  ‘None of our residents checked a dog into their room?’

  Lindsey waited for Linda to answer, but on seeing the fair haired, pink-cheeked girl chewing her bottom lip at one corner guessed the answer.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t see who left it there?’ She knew that no matter how busy things got, Linda was a sucker for celebrity lifestyle magazines and kept one beneath the reception counter. When she thought herself unobserved, she dipped into it.

  She shook her head, face blandly innocent. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lindsey, surlier than she was ever inclined to be. ‘I suppose you’d better go and pull a few yarns at the Edinburgh Wool Shop.’

  Linda mumbled something that sounded like an apology before taking her leave for her afternoon session selling cardigans and plaid skirts to American and Japanese tourists.

  The dog wagged its tail, its black button eyes friendly and full of interest.

  Lindsey leaned down to undo its leash. ‘Well little chap, we’d better see if we can find out who you belong to – if anybody.’

  She frowned. Poor little thing. It was probably already missing its owner. It didn’t deserve to be dumped. It was cute. If she could she would keep it, but she wouldn’t. She didn’t have time to look after dogs. Besides, she had plans for her future and dogs were not included.

  Just as she was contemplating phoning the RSPCA, Honey came down stairs closely followed by Mary Jane. Her mother sported a plunger beneath her arm, the rubber protrusion pointing forward like a medieval knight about to take part in a joust. She explained that somebody had blocked the shower in room five again, which was par for the course in that particular room. The shower was spacious, big enough for two or even five if you were into that sort of thing. Honey believed that everyone washed their hair in that shower – understandable – and twosomes were the norm. Loose hairs were the problem so hair washing was number one culprit. Two sharing a shower doubled the chance of the drain getting blocked especially when pubic hair was included in the equation.

  Mary Jane was wittering on about Sir Cedric; the long dead ancestor who she insisted shared her room.

  ‘I’m not always sure he tells me the absolute truth about his life or his conquests. According to the records, he was married twice, but he seems to have had a lot of descendants – too many for two wives to have been responsible.’

  Honey pointed out that he was landed gentry and could do as he pleased.

  ‘I’m off to check the parish records. He had an estate in Wainswicke, you know. That’s the great thing about the Church of England, they kept such meticulous records. I sure am grateful to all them priests and monks noting everything down with nothing more than a quill pen. Beats me how they did it.’

  Honey tucked the plunger behind the reception desk. It didn’t really belong there, but she had a mountain of paperwork to go through and was also awaiting Doherty’s findings regarding Nigel Brooks and the Janet Glencannon woman who ran the animal sanctuary at Bobby’s Bottom, formerly Brindley’s Bottom.

  Mary Jane continued to prattle on about her ancestor and where all his heirs actually came from.

  Honey let it all go through one ear and out the other. There was something about Lindsey’s stance that drew her attention. It was a look she’d seen before, the kind she had when things were slightly off kilter. It wasn’t exactly a frown, but kind of a grimace like when she was small and had wet her pants. That was no longer an option, so it had to be something trivial but aggravating. After dipping into the mental filing cabinet, she came out with aggravation number one.

  ‘My mother has married a twenty-four year old Tunisian who deals in prayer mats.’

  ‘No. We have a dog.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Honey on seeing the pretty little face, the black button nose with matching eyes and the big fluffy ears. ‘How cute. What’s his name?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Lindsey was under no illusion that her mother hadn’t quite twigged on yet.

  ‘He’s been abandoned, tied to the leg of the table and left there.’


  ‘Oh,’ said Honey again.

  Lindsey waited for her to rant and rage or throw her head back, close her eyes, wishing herself lying on a Caribbean Beach and not lumbered with a homeless stray – if it was homeless that is. The truth was that the look on Honey Driver’s face was calculating, sneaky even. It was the kind of look she always got when she was planning something out of the ordinary, almost as though the dog was an answer to her prayers.

  ‘I know just the place to take it. They cater for abandoned pets. It’s not far. Can you cope until I get back?’

  Lindsey said that she could.

  Honey cooed to the dog as she undid its leash. The dog wagged its tail enthusiastically, placed its paws on her knees and licked her hands.

  Aware that she was no longer centre stage, Mary Jane stopped yakking on about her ancestor. Something was going on here that she wasn’t part of.

  ‘Is this animal significant in some way?’

  In the absence of an immediate response from her mother, Lindsey enlightened Mary Jane, taking it as read that the only course of action was to return the animal to whoever had left him there. ‘Only if we find his owner. Then he’s not our responsibility.’

  ‘We can find somebody to look after him in the meantime,’ Honey went on in that same cooing voice the dog seemed to like.

  ‘Look to see if his owner’s name and address is attached to his collar,’ suggested Lindsey.

  Honey picked the dog up, tucking it beneath her arm so she could more easily examine whether it was wearing an address on a little brass bone around its neck. She’d seen those little brass bones at the shop that sold bags and belts in the arcade. There was none. However, on turning it onto its back, she did discover that this was a fellah. A damned cute little fellah who seemed dead keen on licking her face.

  ‘Let’s you and me take a little trip pretty doggy,’ she cooed against its fluffy ear, though only briefly; it smelled vaguely of candle wax and goose grease.

  Lindsey reached for the phone. ‘I’ll phone the vet. He can check the dog to see if it’s been chipped.’

  ‘Oh, I know what that is,’ declared Mary Jane who up until this point had only express mild interest in the abandoned hound. ‘A micro chip carrying the owner’s name and address; clever stuff, huh?’

  ‘Very clever,’ said Lindsey.

  Honey hugged the dog more tightly. ‘There’s no need of that. I know somebody who would be happy to look after the little guy until we find his rightful owner.’

  ‘But it would be so easy, and.’

  ‘No. Leave it to me. Don’t ring anyone. I have everything under control.’

  Lindsey did as ordered. Something was going down here, but she couldn’t figure what it was. Her mother didn’t look demented in anyway. Quite frankly she was pretty sharp for her age and despite being in her forties, was no frump. She could still turn heads, not that she ever noticed heads turning in her direction – except for Steve Doherty of course, and she’d done a lot more than turned his head.

  What concerned her was that she couldn’t always work out what was going on in her mother’s mind. Perhaps that was what interested the men in her life, never quite being able to work out what she was thinking or what she would do next. She supposed men found that quite exciting, almost like having a different woman in bed every night.

  Her mother’s likes and dislikes changed as she got older or circumstances changed. Like now. This dog!

  The last dog her mother had been lumbered with had belonged to an elderly lady. That in itself had been fine, except that the dog had never received any toilet training – at least that was the way it seemed. Honey had been desperate to get rid of it, whereas with this one...

  ‘If Doherty calls, tell him I’ve gone to see a woman about a dog – this dog. Kind of...’

  She knew Doherty had been out at Wainswicke interviewing Janet Glencannon, the former Mrs Brooks.

  Nigel Brooks had been arrested for causing an affray and taken to Manvers Street Police Station.

  Going out to Wainswicke to ask Janet Glencannon about wedding dresses was blatantly nosey, but she owed to Marietta. The dog, whatever the circumstances of his abandonment, provided a suitable excuse for her to visit Janet Glencannon and maybe ask a few questions. After all, Ms Glencannon, formerly Mrs Brooks, ran an animal sanctuary. It was her vocation in life to look after waifs and strays. She found herself wondering whether Nigel Brooks had once fitted into that category.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  With the afternoon sunlight warming her back, shining as it was into the nave of St Michael and all Angels, the Reverend Constance Paxton thanked the ladies in charge of the flower arranging for their steadfast resolve in producing such splendid floral displays despite recent difficulties. She had only just returned from a two mile run hence being attired in grey jogging pants, pink trainers and a long line matching grey top with ‘In Training for Truth’ emblazoned in pink across the front.

  ‘The church looks wonderful. Absolutely wonderful and very seasonal. Lots of lovely roses I notice. And the smell is fabulous. I’m really grateful that you’ve soldiered on despite everything. I really don’t know how you do it, but thank you again.’

  ‘Mrs Flynn would have done the same if one of us had been...taken.’ The speaker was Hermione Thompson, her shoulder length hair listed by the sunlight steaming through the windows from mouse to faintly gold; her floral dress gently skimming her slender calves. Her dress was duck egg blue, a weak colour she often favoured.

  She looked quite satisfied as she said it, and indeed she was. Mrs Hermione Thompson was glad Mrs Flynn was dead. The hateful old woman had gone out of her way to bully her, decrying her flower arranging efforts, actually tipping some onto the floor and trampling over the blooms she’d said formed too delicate a display for a church. Mrs Flynn had also made her pick up the mess, even to mopping the floors after everyone else had gone. It had then been Hermione’s task to return the key to the vicar. At least there she’d got a cup of tea and some sympathy; not that she’d complained or even told anyone how Mrs Flynn treated her. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps the bullying might then have stopped.

  The three women with her, Mrs Granger, a forthright soul of sixty seven years with work worn hands and clear blue eyes, and Ursula Pitt, a retired and unwed woman of nearly sixty, had no affection for the dead woman either, but were not the sort to speak ill of the dead. The third woman was Janet Glencannon, the only woman Mrs Flynn had stayed well clear of.

  Constance Paxton nodded and said that yes, Mrs Flynn would have carried on. She did not remark that the old bitch would have carried on regardless even if every single one of them had dropped dead, though she firmly believed it was so. Mrs Flynn had enjoyed being in control. The flower arranging committee had been her life, as had the church and its surrounding precincts. So had the village. In such a close-knit community, secrets were shared. Mrs Flynn had collected peoples’ secrets like some people collect fossil shells or postage stamps. She’d thrived on gossip as nobody else thrived. She’d told the vicar that she kept a record of what people got up to.

  Constance had been appalled and told her it was not a very neighbourly thing to do. Mrs Flynn had laughed at her. ‘What are you worried about, vicar. Frightened that I might have jotted something about you in my notebook?’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mrs Flynn to speak to, vicar?’ That’s what the police had asked her. She had said that night when she’d shared sherry and cake with Mrs Flynn. They’d asked if she was sure. She’d told them she was having been invited that afternoon when she’d come across Mrs Flynn sitting in front of a computer in the central library in Bath. She’d told them how she’d complimented Mrs Flynn on being able to use a computer at her age. She didn’t tell them what Mrs Flynn had said besides inviting her over. Neither did she mention what she’d seen on the computer screen, but then, they hadn’t asked.

  ‘I’m so glad you approve,’ gushed Hermione Thompson, her face
still pink in response to the praise she’d received.

  Mrs Granger and Miss Pitt voiced their thanks. Janet Glencannon said nothing, but gave a little nod. The other women smiled tight smiles. Out of all of them, Janet had been the only one Mrs Flynn did not pick on. In fact it often seemed as though she went out of her way to avoid her. That wasn’t to say that Mrs Flynn had tried to intimidate her. Miss Pitt assured them that she had.

  ‘I had taken the wrong pill from my medicine cabinet, a sleeping pill instead of my arthritis pill. I nodded off. I woke up to the sound of somebody threatening somebody else. They didn’t see me, but I saw them. Janet had Mrs Flynn by the throat. She looked as though she was going to kill her. Janet was saying something like, ‘don’t think I don’t know about you. I know everything about you Mrs Flynn!’ That was how she said it. Mrs Flynn. As though her name wasn’t Mrs Flynn at all.’

  One half of the stout arched church door creaked open. ‘I’m sorry. Am I interrupting anything?’

  Bright sunshine entered along with a woman dressed in figure hugging jeans and a dark cotton top. A twisted strip of blue and green scarf complimented a mop of dark hair keeping it from outright disarray. It needed restyling, but Honey had been holding on. She was getting married at some point. She would fit it in then. For now she was pretending that she had only just entered the church, hence making sure the door creaked when it opened. It hadn’t at first so nobody had heard her come in.

  On recognising Honey, the vicar smiled broadly and held out her hand, her eyes twinkling with welcome.