Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I’m sorry? Could you repeat what you just said?’

  This time he spoke slowly as though she was stupid or that English to her was a foreign language.

  ‘A worm. It was swimming in my porridge.’

  Refraining from asking whether it was doing a forward crawl or the breaststroke, her expression of apology morphed into one of outright shock.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  He looked affronted. The Gallic features she had thought quite handsome turned to Gothic stone.

  ‘Of course I am sure. It wriggled. Worms wriggle, do they not?’

  This was one of those moments she absolutely hated! She couldn’t argue because she hadn’t seen the worm. She’d have to check it out with the waitress and whoever had cooked breakfast this morning.

  ‘Monsieur, I am so, so sorry. Please stay here a moment and I will check what you have told me with a member of staff.’

  She offered him coffee. He shuddered at the suggestion, almost as though she had suggested he drink slime.

  Maria, a Spanish waitress who hadn’t long been with them, confirmed that indeed there was something wriggling and red in the porridge.

  Dumpy Doris was cooking breakfast. She confirmed that the porridge was freshly made and was quite upset at the news.

  ‘What with that and the frog in the bed.’

  ‘Frog?’

  ‘The Scottish gentleman said that he’d found a frog in ‘is bed. Quite put out he was.’

  Honey shivered. First a worm. Now a frog.

  ‘Whatever’s ‘appening,’ said Doris, her plump face taking on the look of a squashed pumpkin. ‘Worms, frogs and stuff in the punch that shouldn’t ‘ave been in the punch. Somebody’s put a curse on us, that’s what I think. Everything goes in threes. Three unexplained occurrences. T’aint natural. It ain’t natural.’

  With a jolt Honey realised she was right, not so much about being cursed, but the fact that they had indeed had three awkward occurrences. Not that all of those affected had been outraged; first one, magic mushrooms or whatever in the punch, hadn’t caused any complaints, just a number of requests for the recipe.

  ‘I’m not sure about being cursed,’ Honey said shaking her head.

  ‘You don’t s’pose somebody’s got it in fer us?’ Doris stood with her meaty hands resting on her equally meaty hips. Her fingers were as fat and pink as sausages.

  Honey shook her head. ‘I can’t see it, Doris.’

  ‘Well I do. There’s funny things afoot, you mark my words.’

  Honey shook her head again, though more vehemently this time.

  ‘No! That way lies paranoia, and anyway, isn’t it true that everything goes in threes? Three bouts of unlucky coincidences have happened, so that should be it. Now I’d better deal with Monsieur Parmentier.’

  Compensation hurt, but she had no choice.

  ‘No charge,’ she said to the red faced Frenchman and smiled sweetly. He’d had a damned good deal having stayed for two days and no charge for what he’d eaten, so no profit this week. Still, it couldn’t be helped. The last thing she wanted was a visit by Environmental Health.

  After grabbing his luggage, Monsieur left quickly muttering something about getting a flight from Bristol to Paris and hoping to get an upgrade in seating to make up for this shock to his system.

  Mr McDonald, the amiable Scotsman who’d had a recent run in with a frog, was striding across from the bottom of the stairs, beaming from ear to ear.

  Honey oozed humility. ‘Mr McDonald, I am so sorry.’

  ‘First time in a while I’ve shared my bed with anyone memorable,’ he said, laughing as he placed the frog on the reception counter. ‘There it was – he or she – whatever – sitting in the middle of my bed.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone put it there?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t notice it last night. Didn’t discover it in fact until this morning. I was in no state you might say. You see my wife and I had a big row early yesterday afternoon after I overindulged at lunchtime on twelve-year-old malt at the bar. You’ve got a good selection you know.’

  Honey agreed that indeed the Green River did maintain a very good selection of malt whiskies.

  ‘Did your wife see the frog?’

  ‘Oh, no. She stormed out after calling me a drunken sod and saying she’d be consulting a firm of solicitors regarding a quickie divorce. Not that I care. I reckon that she put the frog there or had somebody do it. Not that I minded that much. Quite frankly, the frog was livelier in bed than she ever was!’

  Honey almost choked, her mind boggling at the thought of a ginger haired Scotsman in bed with the frog. By the time he brought it down it was dead, so no witnesses to how it had got there. Not that anything really had; it was just an odd statement, until she reminded herself that he was Scottish and had been very drunk.

  Once someone else was able to take over reception duties, Honey escaped to her office accompanied by a croissant and a cup of black coffee. A single croissant wasn’t enough of a sugar fix like it usually was, so she ordered another.

  Just as she was about to bite into this second helping of comfort food, relishing the thought of the mascarpone filling oozing into her mouth, the phone rang.

  ‘Are you eating breakfast?’

  It was Doherty.

  ‘No! Of course not. You know I’ve been on a diet. I have to look my best for the big day.’ Hastily hiding the unfinished croissant beneath a sheet of A4 helped the lie roll off her tongue.

  ‘I’m out at Lower Wainswicke. We have a dead body. Can you make your way out here?’

  Honey frowned. It wasn’t Doherty’s habit to openly invite her to a murder scene; and in the very village where they were planning to hold their wedding. Seeing as the vicar hadn’t been on top form after receiving the bump on the head, they’d made an appointment for about two weeks hence. Now this! What a turn up!

  She guessed the vicar was in the frame as a murder victim seeing as she’d got bashed over the head only the night before.

  ‘I don’t understand. Is this something to do with our wedding? Is it the vicar? Is it Mr Clinker?’ she added. The vicar was important to their arrangements. Mr Clinker was a lout. The fact that he wore Armani did not make him a gentleman.

  ‘No. The vicar is still alive, kicking and available to do the business. It’s a Mrs Flynn. The fact is you may be a witness. She was found sitting in the front pew of the church wearing a wedding dress.’

  In her eighties and wearing a wedding dress; now where had she heard – or rather read of that before?

  ‘Was it new? The wedding dress; was it new or was it faded and a bit tatty around the edges.’

  There was a pause at the other end. Doherty must have thought she’d gone mad.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Was it new?’ she repeated.

  ‘No. It looked a bit grey and old fashioned. Does that have some significance?’

  ‘Miss Haversham.’

  ‘Who the hell is Miss Haversham?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll explain when I get there.’

  ‘By the way. We’ve found Harold Clinker. He was hiding in the long grass in the churchyard with a hood over his head and his hands tied behind his back.’

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘I should have said found, but to my mind he was hiding. His ankles weren’t tied. He could have escaped at any time. But he didn’t. Reckoned he didn’t hear the police sirens. Figured his attacker was still hanging around.’

  Honey made disagreeable sounds. ‘A suitable place to be found seeing as his wife described him as a bit of a snake in the grass. Didn’t hear the sirens, my foot!’

  ‘He did have a sack over his head, but even so I’m inclined to agree with you. It’s very likely he had another reason for staying put.’

  Honey murmured a response and added, ‘So who tied him up?’

  ‘His other half. So he reckons.’

  ‘Marietta!
’ Honey exclaimed, her expression one of profound disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it. She’s an airhead not a contender for the World Wrestling Championships! You saw her yourself. She’s a girly girl. Never been any different.’

  ‘I saw her.’

  ‘Well there you are.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Bath has a few problems, but this village takes some beating!’

  ‘Language,’ Honey whispered. ‘We’re on holy ground and if we do decide to marry there, we have to show some respect.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Honey could hardly believe what had happened. And in June. Such a beautiful June, perfect for summer brides.

  As she drove through the High Street to the church, she passed one police vehicle parked outside a red brick cottage with green framed windows; the victim’s home. Keep it sealed. Keep out the gawpers or anyone who might disturb things.

  Two more police vehicles plus a white van were squashed into the parking area outside the church. There was no sign of life from Belvedere House and certainly no sign of Mr Clinker.

  The usual teams had set up their tape, their tents and were pulling on their (fairly) comical crystal white onesies’. My word, she thought with a grin, did they know they’d started a fashion?

  Doherty waved her in from the other side of the lych-gate.

  Inside the church was cool and smelled of polish and dust, but also a heavy perfume. Flowers, she thought, on seeing the breath taking displays placed in alcoves and on wrought iron stands to either side of the altar. Another large display was positioned on a long box – a blanket box she called it – of roughly hewn wood that looked only fit for kindling.

  Mrs Flynn was propped up in the fourth row her back against the rood screen so that only the very top of her head was showing from behind.

  She eyed the deathly white face of Mrs Flynn whilst giving Doherty a brief resume of Great Expectations; woman jilted at the altar wields her revenge through her beautiful young ward on the luckless Pip.

  ‘In which case Mrs Flynn couldn’t have been married. Miss Haversham kept the dress she was supposed to get married in. In fact, if I remember rightly, she used to wear it every day after the day she was jilted at the altar. Even the wedding breakfast including a wedding cake was still spread out on the table. The food was rotten and crawling and everything covered in dust and cobwebs, including Miss Haversham herself.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Doherty gave her the basic details. ‘Mrs Flynn’s wedding dress was a one off. She dressed normally enough for a woman in her eighties.’

  ‘Was she married?’

  ‘We think so. She did occasionally mention her husband dying years ago so we can presume she was, though I’ll get it checked.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘We’re checking on that too.’ He paused, wrinkling his nose in the direction of the dress. ‘Did that Miss Haversham really wear that dress day in and day out?’

  ‘Huh, huh.’ Honey nodded. Staring at the woman’s dead face was bad enough but staring at the dress was something else. Miss Haversham had come back to haunt her. The book had always been a nightmare. All those English literature lessons, ploughing through a book in a dusty classroom day after day after day; a story that had started out as a joy became, with familiarity, a contemptible nightmare.

  The angst she’d felt as a child threatened to overwhelm her. ‘I hated Great Expectations.’

  Doherty wasn’t sure of the relevance of all this but said he would bear it in mind. He had a questionable death on his hands. The procedure he might need to follow was like the disembodied voice of a SatNav. Left to this juncture, right to this one, assess and evaluate then straight on till morning. If the death did turn out to be suspicious, it would indeed be straight on till morning. The first twenty-four hours following a death were crucial. After that the trail tended to go cold. If it is a murder, he reminded himself, but hoped it was not.

  Placing his hands on his knees, Doherty leaned forward for a closer look.

  ‘The dress doesn’t look as though it’s been lived in. It’s a bit faded, but it doesn’t smell dirty.’

  Honey had to agree with him that it wasn’t in bad condition for its age.

  ‘So it is old. I’m no fashion expert, but I am right in thinking this dress is out of the ark, as my old mum used to say. Am I right?’

  She pushed out her bottom lip when she nodded. ‘Full marks for your fashion appreciation.’

  The dress had a tight bodice, lacy full-length sleeves and a straight skirt. She jettisoned the 1950’s idea placing it more accurately at the end of the sixties, possibly early seventies. The veil was short and held pertly in place by a swan feather headdress.

  At one time it had been brilliant white as befitted a virgin bride. It was now veering towards yellow, the lace limp and tired and the feathers wilting and squashed as though a broody hen had been sitting on her head and had left the feathers behind as a kind of thank you.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Doherty asked.

  Honey gritted her teeth. The Charles Dickens story had been ground into her at school; familiarity had bred contempt. Great Expectations was the only book by Charles Dickens that she really hated. That long ago teacher had drummed it into her class so avidly she’d done it to death.

  ‘I have to ask myself whether the reason she’s wearing this dress is for a similar reason.’

  ‘The village say she was married. We haven’t checked the official records yet.’

  ‘Ah! In that case was she jilted at the altar? On the other hand was she wearing it in remembrance of her dead husband? People do odd things through grief.’

  ‘What about the bride you reckon you saw running over the village green.’

  Honey shook her head vehemently. ‘It couldn’t have been her! The bride I saw was running and the dress was different...’

  ‘Was it?’ His expression read that he wasn’t convinced. ‘How do you know one dress from another at that distance?’

  ‘Believe me! A woman knows.’

  Doherty knew better than to question a woman’s skill at telling one dress from another. It certainly wasn’t a skill he possessed.

  ‘OK. I’ll take it the woman you saw was not Mrs Flynn.’

  ‘Were there any other relatives?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Not sure. As I’ve already said, the records are being checked.’ He looked at her sidelong then shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it. I thought you’d be more curious.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You haven’t asked how she died.’

  ‘Do I have to guess?’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  ‘Is there a prize for getting it right?’

  ‘I’m a generous man. You’ll get a prize if you get it right and a prize if you get it wrong.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Win or lose, I get the same prize.’

  ‘Aren’t you the lucky one!’

  Starting at the nape of her neck he ran his hand all the way down to her bottom.

  ‘OK.’ She bit her lip and did her best to concentrate. It wasn’t easy. Earthquakes leave an aftershock. Doherty’s touch was like that.

  ‘Let’s see.’ She glided across the front of the body. Mrs Flynn’s head was held to one side. She had a surprised expression on her face.

  Honey chewed her bottom lip as she chewed over her thoughts. She leaned forward.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ warned Doherty.

  ‘Don’t worry. I know better than to contaminate a crime scene.’

  She managed to crane her head so she could peer around the back of Mrs Flynn’s head.

  ‘That’s a whopper of a bruise. Still, it doesn’t mean she was murdered. She could have fallen down and hit her head. Old people are always doing that.’

  ‘So are some young people come to that,’ quipped Doherty. ‘Have you seen the centre of town on a Friday night? Still, I do know what you’re saying. The ME has pronounced her dead. Now it’s up to the man with the saw and the white coat to tel
l us the cause.’

  Honey knew he was referring to the pathologist; the saw was a definite giveaway.

  ‘Odd though.’

  ‘Very odd.’

  ‘I mean, this dress.’ She frowned. ‘Perhaps she got married when she was middle aged.’

  ‘The dress tells you that?’

  ‘Oh come on! She’s in her eighties. Most young women of her generation married when they were in their twenties, even in their teens. It was no big deal back then. But that dress, if it was her wedding dress, is definitely late sixties, early seventies.’

  ‘Perhaps she just liked dressing up.’

  Honey sighed. ‘Perhaps she did, poor thing.’

  ‘Makes you wonder...’His voice trailed off.

  ‘About the dress?’

  ‘About dressing up. I mean, at the end of the day a wedding is for a day, a marriage is supposed to be longer.’

  ‘You could be right. Perhaps she liked reliving the event. Some of my closest friends were closet serial brides. They loved the dressing up bit, but the rest of it left them cold.’

  ‘Really?’ Doherty looked surprised then one side of his mouth lifted in a smile.

  ‘I thought that was the best bit, taking off the clothes and getting down to what it was really about.’

  Honey glared but couldn’t hold it for long. A grimace then a grin appeared.

  ‘Depends on what you find the most fun.’

  A look passed between them that confirmed that when it came to fun, they were pretty much in agreement.

  ‘So we need to wait for the post mortem to be carried out before we know for sure. However, I must admit my nose tells me she was. That bruise on the back of her neck couldn’t have been caused by a fall, and yet...’

  ‘You’re not Hercule Poirrot. Your nose and little grey cells carry no weight in a court of law. Though I know what you mean. How could somebody have crept up behind her and whacked her on the back of the head. That screen’s in the way.’

  ‘Noted.’

  ‘So she could have died naturally.’

  ‘It was phoned in as a murder.’

  She turned to look at him. He had a very strong profile, dark against the coloured glass of the arched church window.