Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She’d admired that profile in a similar light, outlined by the window in her bedroom.

  ‘Why did they think that?’

  He shrugged. ‘We don’t know. We had no chance to ask questions. Whoever it was rang off without giving a name.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  The operator wasn’t sure. Could have been either.’

  Honey sighed. ‘So that’s one reason for thinking it’s murder – the murderer themselves phoning it in?’

  ‘Perhaps. We don’t know for sure it was the murderer. And until then we’re bound to stand back and await developments.’

  ‘How boring.’

  ‘Excuse me. Have you finished in here?’

  The forthright voice came from a female figure standing in the arched doorway. The brightness of day surrounded her until she stepped into the church and it fell away.

  The vicar had dark hair cut so that it clung around her face like tulip petals. Her deep-set eyes flickered from one to the other.

  ‘I hate to intrude. I know you have a job to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry to upset your schedule, vicar. Rest assured we’ll be as quick as we can. I’ll get one of our constables to let you know when we’re finished.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, inspector...?’

  ‘Doherty. Detective Inspector Doherty.’

  ‘Constance. Reverend Constance Paxton. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And this is Hannah Driver. You may recall we were here last night when you took the hit over the head. We were thinking of getting married here. Do you remember that?’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course! Sorry. I’m still a little groggy.’ As if to emphasise the point, the vicar gripped the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. ‘It was quite an experience, one I have no wish to repeat. I’m just not with it yet. Not with it at all.’

  ‘We understand. Are you up to answering some questions, or do you prefer to wait until you feel better?’

  ‘I sense you’d prefer me to ask me questions now. I know time is of the essence, at least that’s what it says on the TV crime shows.’

  Doherty thanked her.

  ‘Can you tell me when you last saw Mrs Flynn?’

  ‘Yes.’ The vicar clasped her hands in front of her as if in prayer, her whole body-jerking forward in one confirming nod. ‘Last night. I left there at nine to come down and meet you as arranged. She’d summoned me to hear her out on the matter of outside florists decorating the church for weddings. She was quite convinced that it should be the prerogative of our own flower arranging committee and nobody else.’

  ‘That was all you talked about?’

  ‘Yes. I knew even before I went what I would hear. But that was Mrs Flynn for you. Focused I suppose is the most polite word, though the less charitable might have called her overbearing.’

  ‘Did she seem agitated at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Worried about anything?’

  The vicar smiled. ‘No. Unless you count the prospect of outside florists upsetting your routine.’

  ‘How bad were her legs?’

  ‘She had good days and bad days. It was a cartilage problem more so than a joint problem. Sometimes she was quite spry.’

  On hearing this, Honey’s thoughts went back to the vision she’d seen running across the village green. Could it have been Mrs Flynn?

  ‘And Mrs Flynn was quite happy when she saw you out?’

  ‘I let myself out.’

  ‘Did Mrs Flynn ever speak about her family?’

  ‘Not if she could help it. In fact she used to get quite angry if her daughter was mentioned.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  The vicar cupped her right cheek as though it were suddenly aching. ‘I heard that they had a falling out. I don’t know what about.’

  ‘And her husband is dead?’

  ‘Years ago. I used to think he was buried here in the churchyard of St Michael’s, but if he is his grave is well hidden, though she did take me to task when I suggested the wild patch of grass over by the east wall should be cut so the headstones were more easily seen.’

  ‘When was the last time you came into the church today?’

  ‘About four o’clock. Because of what happened, I hadn’t been in here all day. I’m still feeling groggy, but thought I should make the effort.’

  Doherty thanked the vicar for her help and shook her hand.

  Honey did the same. ‘Once things have settled down, we’ll be back to carry on where we left off. We’ve still got it in mind to get married here.’

  ‘Ah yes. As soon as you’re ready, do give me a ring.’

  ‘I’ll get somebody to let you know as soon as we’ve finished,’ Doherty repeated.

  The vicar flapped her hand in a parting wave before exiting into the vestry where her robes were kept.

  Just as the men in suits – white polythene ones that is – arrived to take away the body, Doherty’s phone rang.

  ‘OK,’ he said after listening to whatever was being said.

  ‘Mrs Flynn does have a daughter. Her name’s Alice. We’re trying to locate her.’

  ‘OK. Back to business. We’ll go to the deceased’s cottage next,’ he said, taking hold of her shoulder and turning her away. ‘It’s within walking distance. On the way there we can stop by the village green and perhaps you can take a look and think again on who or what you saw running over the green in a wedding dress.

  Honey paused beneath the canopy of the lychgate. ‘A thought’s just struck me.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The vicar never asked who had been killed and whether it was murder. Strange don’t you think?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  On the way to look at Mrs Flynn’s cottage, they paused to take a look at the village green.

  ‘Right. Let me think. I’ll do the camera shutter thing.’

  Honey shut her eyelids then opened them swiftly. The theory was for her brain to tie up a snapshot of the scene with her memories of the night before.

  Nothing happened. Memory, she decided, was unreliable. There was nothing except the vision of someone wearing a wedding dress sprinting through the village.

  The snapshot hadn’t worked. She had to admit defeat.

  ‘She was running. That was the main thing about her. She was running across the grass late at night in a wedding dress. That’s it.’ She shrugged. ‘Just running. Not like an old lady with dodgy knees would run. She was running fast like somebody younger. Just...running...’

  She felt the intensity of Doherty’s gaze, the penetrating eyes looking down at her as though she had indeed said something very important. She knew what it was.

  ‘She was running!’

  Doherty had that cool, authoritative look about him. God, he looked so hot when he did that.

  ‘In what direction?’

  She waved her right hand. ‘From right to left. She was running in the direction of the church.’

  ‘Who was she running from?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone. Perhaps she was running towards someone.’

  ‘Come on, Honey. That’s hardly very likely. She was running towards the church.’

  ‘Perhaps her legs weren’t as bad as she made out.’

  ‘Possibly. Or perhaps in a past life she’d been an Olympic athlete.’

  ‘That’s down to you searching the records.’

  ‘It is, but my instinct...’

  ‘The Hercule moment...’

  ‘...tells me she is not and never has been an Olympic athlete. Anyway, we’ve already heard from those that knew her best that she did have dickey knees and was in fact waiting for a replacement knee operation – both knees if my memory serves me right.’

  ‘OK. So she was more likely being chased than chasing.’

  ‘You spotted her before I did.’

  ‘She was hard to miss, running in a long dress on a dark night.’

  ‘Now think. Did you see anyone c
hasing her?’

  No matter how intensely he looked at her, it didn’t stir her own grey matter. A few other things responded, but personal feelings and libido had nothing to do with the mystery and had to be saved until they were alone together.

  Try as she might, all she could recall was the white dress running and a backdrop of lights shining from cottage windows and various trees waving like a line of can-can skirts behind the running figure.

  ‘I wasn’t concentrating,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I was thinking of Marietta and that creep she married.’

  When Doherty shoved his hands deep into his pockets she knew he was disappointed.

  ‘Oh well. Onwards to Rockery Cottage. Let’s see what we can learn from the old girl’s homestead.’

  Mrs Flynn’s home lived up to its name. There was no front lawn, just rock plants with mean leaves growing amongst scattered stones of odd shapes and sizes.

  Both the cottage and the garden had a neglected and old-fashioned air, plants tangled together and the smell of lavender and dusty green leaves.

  Honey formed an instant impression; if the outside was like this, the inside was likely to be much the same.

  Correct, she thought as she followed Doherty into a square room of china dogs, brown leaves on pale beige wallpaper and a tiled fireplace which had probably been the pride of the Ideal Home Show at the same time as Bill Haley and the Comets were Rocking Around the Clock.

  A glossy radiogram – circa 1960 – sat on splayed black metal legs beneath a three tier shelving system. The shelves were crammed with long playing albums, not a cd in sight. There was everything from Jim Reeves and backwards into the fifties with crooners like Johnnie Rae, Harry Belafonte and Frank Sinatra.

  Honey ran her fingers over the row that was easiest to reach. These singers had been hot stuff when Mrs Flynn was young. Jim Reeves turned out to be the most modern album there and recorded some time before the advent of the wedding dress Mrs Flynn had been wearing.

  Her thoughts kept going back to that dress. It definitely wasn’t a fifties model, unless Mrs Flynn had planned to marry or had indeed married later than most women of her generation.

  The chirping of Doherty’s mobile phone disturbed her thoughts. She listened as he commented on what was being told him by whoever was on the other end.

  ‘You’re a doll.’ He disconnected. Honey wondered who the ‘doll’ was.

  He slid his phone back into his inside pocket.

  ‘The records checked out. She was married to a Thomas Flynn. He died some thirty years ago. There was a daughter, but she dropped out of the scene some time ago. There was some speculation that she got married, but nobody seems to know who to and where the wedding took place. There’s also no word on how Mrs Flynn felt about it.’

  ‘Oh, I expect there is,’ said Honey. ‘She might have confided in somebody. Another woman most likely. Women quite usually confide secrets to other women. I wonder if she belonged to the WI – the Women’s Institute. I bet she did.’

  They fell to silence as they thought through which woman she was most likely to confide in. They both reached the same conclusion and went in search of the vicar.

  ‘I can’t believe you think that I was the most likely person Mrs Flynn would confide in.’

  ‘Nobody else seemed to like her very much.’

  ‘Neither did I – though, a woman of my calling shouldn’t really say that of course.’

  ‘Is there a WI in the village?’

  ‘There used to be, but what with the influx of people commuting to Bath and London, it faded away.’

  ‘How sad,’ remarked Honey.

  ‘Sign of the times.’

  ‘How long has this been the vicarage,’ Honey asked her.

  ‘Quite a while now. Serviceable and cheap to run, but certainly not so palatial. The old vicarage had five bedrooms, attic rooms and even a nursery. Neither myself nor the vicar before me had need of such a large establishment, especially once the village school was sold off. Hence the box we’re in now. More tea?’

  The vicar posed with the teapot at the ready. Honey and Doherty declined, though neither could resist helping themselves to a third macaroon whilst the vicar – call me Constance – regaled them with the history of the vicarage. The old vicarage was a Gothic affair dating from the nineteenth century, its twisted chimneys and timbered upper storey meant to mimic those of Tudor times. The solid grey stonework was a testament to more robust Victorian.

  The box, as Constance Paxton referred to it, was a modern detached house dating from the eighties. Its expanse of sloping roof vaguely resembled a Swiss chalet. The garden surrounding it was of normal size.

  ‘Up until it was closed down, the school used to hold their sports day in the garden,’ the vicar said wistfully. ‘Shame really, but there, that’s progress as people never tire of reminding me.’

  It was obvious that Constance would prefer to live in Gothic splendour, thought Honey as she returned her plate to the coffee table. Like the rest of the furniture, the coffee table was of period style, more suited to an old cottage than a modern house.

  As Honey let her gaze wander around the room, Doherty finished asking her general questions about how she was feeling and about Mr Clinker. She had told him everything about the dispute regarding the land.

  ‘He’s such an obnoxious man,’ she said in conclusion.

  ‘What was your opinion of Mrs Flynn?’ he asked.

  The vicar’s cup clattered as she put it back in its saucer.

  ‘She was hardly the easiest of my parishioners, especially where church flower arrangements were concerned.’ Constance Paxton took a deep breath as though trying to contain her frustration.

  ‘To hear her, you would almost think she was in sole charge of the church, especially when it came to decorating the church for weddings. Some couples prefer to use an outside contractor and have the floral decorations matching the bride’s bouquet or the bridesmaids’ dresses. Quite understandable of course, though Mrs Flynn didn’t see it that way.’

  ‘How long had she been in the village?’ Doherty asked.

  ‘Not as long as she would have had everyone believe,’ the vicar replied. A half smile curved her lips, the kind people adopt when they know a secret. ‘She was born here but left when she was about ten. Her mother died and an aunt in the Forest of Dean brought her up. She only came back here about fifteen years ago; though to hear her talk she’s been here forever. Her mother’s buried in the churchyard.’

  ‘And the daughter?’

  ‘I know very little about her, though get the impression she was either put up for adoption or they were estranged. Either way she almost denies her existence. Sad really. Disowning your own flesh and blood. I personally couldn’t do it.’

  ‘So she was widowed before she actually came to the village – or came back,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Correct. There were rumours that she had never married despite the ring on her finger; after all, anyone can wear a gold band.’

  ‘She was definitely married,’ said Honey. ‘In Bristol.’

  Doherty shot her a warning look. The information hadn’t long been confirmed. It wasn’t that there was any harm in the vicar knowing, but Doherty was in one of those moods. He got like that, playing his cards close to his chest until he knew precisely what he was dealing with; a natural death or a murder.

  They were still awaiting confirmation of a birth, that of Mrs Flynn’s daughter.

  Doherty rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. He threw the vicar one of his searching, desperately need to know looks.

  ‘Vicar...’

  ‘Constance. Call me Constance.’

  ‘Constance,’ he said, smiling warmly as though everything in the world was lovely.

  Honey felt her stomach muscles tighten. She knew that look for what it was.

  ‘I’m intrigued. You never asked me how Mrs Flynn had died. In fact you never even asked me who had died. Can you explain that?�
��

  Up until now the vicar’s expression was best described as open, but suddenly everything changed. Her eyelids flickered and a pink flush came to her cheeks.

  ‘I...I...haven’t exactly...’ She made a big effort to stop stammering, sucking in her breath before beginning again.

  ‘The truth of the matter is, I was scared. I saw her there, you see. She was sitting in the front pew in the dark. It gave me quite a start when I did see her. I thought whoever had attacked me had attacked her too and killed her. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘So it was you who phoned it in as a murder?’

  ‘Yes. I had my phone with me. I did it quickly and rushed out. You see I really believed whoever it was had come for me but got her instead. They’d lured me there, saying there was something going on in the churchyard. The sun hadn’t come up properly and it was still dark. I didn’t see anyone outside and although I had a torch, I didn’t relish the thought of walking around in the dark. It’s what I’m supposed to do, keep an eye on things. I did phone Mr Jenkins, one of our deacons, to accompany me. He said he would be right there, but he is getting on a bit. I knew it would take him some time.’

  ‘Did Mr Jenkins see Mrs Flynn at the altar?’

  The vicar shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. You see, he didn’t get to the church. He tripped on a paving slab on his way down the garden path of his cottage. Shook himself up a bit. His wife came out and got him indoors, then she phoned me to tell me what had happened. I was back here by then.’

  The vicar sucked in her lips and looked down at the floor, her fingers constantly moving backwards and forward on the chair arms.

  ‘You should have told us earlier.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course I should. It was just...well...after the other night...my nerves and my thinking isn’t quite sorted out.’

  Doherty got to his feet. Honey felt dwarfed until she too got to her feet. Time to go.

  ‘All the same. It would have been useful if you’d said something sooner,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Of course.’ The bowed head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thanks for the tea. The macaroons were lovely. Sorry I scoffed so many,’ said Honey. ‘They’re my favourite.’