Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Vera saw him looking at the rabbits.

  ‘I bought one, told the family I liked them, and they’ve been buying them for me ever since,’ chortled Vera.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Doherty.

  He was pretty sure that rabbits carrying tennis rackets, playing golf or dressed in ball gowns were collectible, but was no expert.

  However, the room was clean and bright and the only smell he detected was pleasant and seemed to be coming from the shopping they’d lumbered through into the kitchen.

  Leaving Vera in the kitchen making the tea, Reg half closed the door, glancing through the gap as though to check that Vera wasn’t listening.

  ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on things,’ said Reg, leaning so close Doherty could see the black hairs up his nose and smell the toothpaste on his breath. ‘Vera feels a bit embarrassed about admitting it, but we’ve been jotting down times and descriptions of visitors to number six and number eight – the two houses you visited.’

  Doherty eyed Reg wondering what had given them the impression that there was anything particularly suspicious about either of those houses.

  ‘That’s snooping, Reg.’

  Reg’s bright expression soured. ‘It ain’t illegal is it?’

  ‘No, but I bet your neighbours wouldn’t like it if they knew.’

  ‘They don’t speak to us anyways – well not numbers six and eight anyways. Funny buggers both of them – begging yer pardon for the language.’

  Doherty frowned. ‘So what made you decide to snoop?’

  ‘If I was a copper I’d be suspicious of Mr Brooks. Let’s face it, he’s short of a picnic is that one, the lift don’t quite go to the top floor if you know what I mean,’ said Reg whilst giving Doherty a knowing look.

  ‘I haven’t given you any reason to be suspicious of Miss Brooks – sorry – Mr Brooks.’

  ‘That you haven’t, but there’s been a stranger staying there and there’s been visitors; people calling there who we ain’t seen before.’

  Sceptical at first, Doherty now expressed interest.

  ‘Can I see your notes?’

  Reg got up just as Vera was coming in with a tray of tea and digestives.

  Doherty’s curiosity overruled his thirst. He flicked through the notes getting more and more surprised the further he flicked. There were dates and times – not many because they hadn’t long begun their quest – all the same, they made interesting reading.

  ‘And we took these,’ said Vera, passing them her tablet. ‘Got some lovely pictures.’

  Doherty put down the written notes and took the tablet, swiping one picture after another.

  Some of them he didn’t know. Nigel Brooks was there, knocking on the door of number six but receiving no response. He had a face like thunder.

  Reg enlightened him. ‘He’s always complaining to her about her scruffy house.’

  He swiped as far as the penultimate picture, swiped over it then went back. Amazed at who he was seeing, he zoomed in just to make sure. There was no doubt.

  He asked Reg and Vera if they had ever seen this person over there before.

  Both of them shook their heads.

  ‘A suspect you reckon?’ asked Reg, his eyes bright with interest.

  Doherty stared at the picture. It showed a woman wearing a pale blue dress, her hair kept back with the use of a matching pale blue Alice band.

  He apologised for not being able to stay for tea. ‘Just a sip,’ he said, grabbing the cup and drinking as much as he needed to stop his mouth from getting too dry. He needed his voice. He had a few more questions for Geraldine Evans.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Before leaving, Honey phoned the vicar on the hotel landline phone to let her know she was coming. Voicemail kicked in so she left a message, trusting that the vicar checked her messages on a regular basis.

  On her way to Mary Jane’s car she dug around in the bottom of her bag to check her phone was there.

  Halfway to where she was going, she pulled her phone out of her bag meaning to let Doherty know her whereabouts, to report in all the stuff relevant to the case that she’d found out, and also to tell him she’d decided she’d quite like a white wedding and was off to see the Reverend Constance Paxton to arrange things. That would be after she’d had another look around the church.

  ‘This phone isn’t working,’ she said to Mary Jane whilst giving her phone a thorough shake.

  ‘I’ll pull in. It might work better there.’

  Mary Jane accordingly pulled into a lay by, pulled out her phone and.battery had ran out.

  She blew the blasted thing a big raspberry, threw it over her shoulder onto the back seat.

  Mary Jane told her all that she’d found out about her family.

  ‘They owned a lot of land around here. There were a lot of descendants.’

  Honey half listened. She still needed to phone Doherty. Perhaps the vicar would let her phone from the vicarage – if she could remember Doherty’s mobile phone number that is. There was no question of it, when it came to remembering numbers she was painfully dyslexic at times.

  Mary Jane drove carefully along the narrow alley leading to the apron of parking in front of the lyche-gate. The sun had travelled with them as far as here but the weather was changing. There was a blue sky behind her back in the High Street. In front of her a cloud the colour of severe bruising hung over the church roof.

  Apart from weddings on Saturdays, the church was best attended on Sundays. Today was Tuesday so there was nobody around.

  She toyed with the idea that the ladies of the flower arranging committee might be inside.

  Mary Jane dropped her off and turned the car round. The vicarage was at the other end of the village, a semi detached that somebody thought more efficient than the stone built Gothic revival place with its grand rooms and many bedrooms.

  Honey decided she would try the church first then drive up to the vicarage. She might have walked up, but the dark grey bruise was swiftly swallowing up the blue sky.

  Those areas of the churchyard that had been bright faded into shadow. A sudden breeze shifted the long grass and sent late flowering apple blossom directly into the church porch.

  It didn’t deserve to be trodden on so Honey did her best not to do so.

  Using her foot to move the blossom to one side, she stepped onto stone and reached for the cast iron handle even though it was likely to be locked. To her surprise it was not.

  The flower committee were probably responsible for that.

  The smell of old dust, old polish and perhaps even old prayers, came out to greet her. So did the sweet smell of summer roses and lilies. The flower ladies had already done their stuff.

  The floral decorations were the brightest spots in the church, though not enough to lift the gloom.

  ‘Is anyone here?’

  Nobody answered. She wished somebody would. She wished for a sound, any sound, with the notable exception of the scurrying of a mouse. Or a bat. Bats were lovely creatures at a distance, but not close up and personal. Especially if they got tangled in your hair.

  Wishing she’d brought a hat or maybe an umbrella, Honey tucked her hair behind her ears.

  ‘Reverend Paxton?’

  She waited, listening for the slightest sound.

  This whole thing, hunting a murderer, arranging a wedding and worrying about her mother, was very tiring. That was besides running a hotel.

  ‘Thank God for Lindsey,’ she whispered into the silence. If God was going to be listening, this was the place to voice exactly what was on your mind.

  Rain suddenly began beating against the window. No point in going yet. She yawned. Yes, things were certainly catching up with her. Might as well get comfortable, she thought, leaning her head against an adjacent pillar. The pillar stood between where she sat and the aisle. Whoever happened to gain this seat during a service couldn’t see a bloody thing! On the other hand, the vicar in the pulpit or anyone else in the church, couldn’
t see them either, handy during a boring sermon especially if you’d been out on the tiles the night before.

  Just until the rain stops, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. Despite the rain, the air was warm. Her eyes began to close.

  Whilst she dozed she dreamed about Marietta when she’d been younger. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there had been something different about the woman married to Harold Clinker from the schoolgirl she remembered. Her hair for a start used to be mousy, dead easy to change to blonde. She also used to squint because she was short sighted, nothing that a pair of contact lenses couldn’t sort out. But what else was it? What else had changed?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Before retracing his steps up the garden path of number six, Doherty contacted the Wizard at Manvers Street.

  ‘Any joy on the handbags?’

  ‘All stolen. Do you know, guv, some of those bags are worth a couple of thousand? You wouldn’t credit it would you. Looks just like handbags to me.’

  There had recently been a spate of muggings where handbags had been snatched. Most of them were late at night and in some pretty up market areas. The fact that the handbags had been bundled on Geraldine’s sideboard with nothing in them had been a good indication that she was fencing them. Muggers took the contents; Geraldine took the handbags and sold them, either to personal contacts or on EBay.

  Geraldine looked surprised to see him. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Another word.’

  ‘I ain’t got time!’

  She tried to close the door but Doherty’s foot was too far inside, the door ramming his leg.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Alice Flynn. I also need to talk to you about Hermione Thompson.’

  ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘You already told me you knew Alice and that she was staying with you. Didn’t tell me about Hermione though, did you?’

  ‘Look. I’ve got a job to go to. Come back tomorrow.’

  Doherty hissed through pursed lips and shook his head. ‘Naughty, naughty, Geraldine. If I leave things until tomorrow all those bags piled up there on your sideboard will be gone. I couldn’t possibly allow that. Now, in view of the handbags and your involvement in this murder, I think you can spare me some time. Right?’

  The hard faced woman with her heavily made up eyes and figure beginning to go to seed, looked totally deflated, her complexion turning pale despite the tan coloured makeup.

  She opened the door wider so he could go in and stand in the middle of the scruffy front room just as he had before.

  ‘Well,’ she said, folding her arms protectively across her chest. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  Before he had chance to answer, he heard the sound of heels tip tapping up the garden path and the sound of a key in the front door.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting anything?’

  The woman was about forty-five and might have looked pretty good if it hadn’t been for her dress sense. She was wearing tight jeans and an equally tight top, both in black. A studded belt hung low around her hips and her hair was dyed black. Her face was very white. She looked ridiculous wearing that kind of outfit at her age.

  Doherty addressed her. ‘Are you Alice Flynn?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She looked from him to Geraldine and back again. ‘Are you a copper?’

  Doherty nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you found my Nan’s killer yet?’

  ‘Your Nan?’

  Alice smiled. ‘Yeah. She told everyone she was my mother, but she was really my Nan – my grandmother. That’s what comes of having a mother who died of a drug overdose. Nan brought us up.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and my sister.’

  ‘Hermione Thompson.’

  ‘Yeah. Done all right for herself, she ‘as. Don’t want anyone to know though. Nan kept an eye on her just to make sure nobody put on her. That’s what she told me. Nan was a bit of a card, though I suppose you already know that.’

  Although not invited, Doherty sat down on the settee. It seemed that unlike Geraldine Evans, Alice Flynn liked to talk.

  ‘So how do you two know each other,’ Doherty asked, indicating the two women in turn.

  It was obviously Alice who answered. ‘Used to work the same nightclubs, that was before I got hitched and had the kids. Worse days work I ever did marrying that git. My Nan told me he was no good before I married ‘im, but there, I thought I was in love. I love the kids though. Must say that.’

  ‘Are you still married?’

  ‘Never married ‘im, did I. My Nan told me not to, so I didn’t.’

  ‘I thought you said you got hitched.’

  Alice laughed. ‘Not in the accepted sense. We took the modern approach. My Nan’s advice that was. She reckoned that marriage should be approached like a business, and she certainly knew about all that, though...’ She paused and eyed him speculatively. ‘You probably know all that already.’

  Doherty was intrigued. ‘A little. Would you like to elaborate?’

  Quite frankly he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. It might be something. It might just as easily be nothing at all.

  Alice Flynn struck him as an open and honest person. The moment she began relating facts about her grandmother, the more he liked her.

  ‘She used to be a marriage broker, finding brides for foreigners in need of a British passport. It wasn’t such a crowded marketplace back when she was doing it around fifteen years ago. Not like now. Nan said she could see the writing on the wall so got out of it, told her partner that she wanted to spend more time with me and the kids. She was speaking the truth there. The kids were young back then and I needed the help. Made a load of money and bought that cottage of hers. Loved that cottage she did.’ Alice paused to wipe a tear from her eye. Doherty was in no doubt that it was genuine.

  ‘So she gave up the business about fifteen years ago.’

  Alice nodded. ‘Yep. She’d made her pile and nobody came after her. But then, knowing my Nan she was careful. A bit of an old dragon, but not stupid.’

  ‘Did she marry any of these men herself?’

  Alice smiled sadly. ‘No. She was jilted at the altar you know. She never got over it. What with that and me mum ruined by drugs. She blamed my granddad for that, for not honouring his promise and all that. I didn’t think it mattered that much, but as she said to me, it did back then.’

  ‘So he never came back?’

  Alice frowned. ‘I don’t think so, but sometimes I wondered whether he did. Sometimes she seemed to get the timeline a bit muddled, especially as she got older.’

  ‘How about Hermione. Does she know all this?’

  ‘Oh yes, but you won’t tell her husband will you? Nan made sure that nobody knew they were related. She went out of her way to make people think that. Hermione moved to the village to keep an eye on her you see. But they kept it a secret. Even Hermione’s husband didn’t know. Hermione got him to put in for a job in the area and chose where they were going to live. He didn’t mind that. He loves her. Besotted with her he is, not like my old man. Right bugger he was.’

  Doherty laughed with her. He could understand her being popular with the men in a nightclub. Never mind the sex, she made them feel at ease and she was so incredibly open.

  ‘So these marriages were arranged in order for people from abroad could get a British passport.’

  ‘That’s right, but only men. She had a partner you see. It was the partner who played the part of the bride. They had heaps of names they used on the marriage certificate and for the upfront paperwork. Don’t ask me how it worked, but Nan told me. I promised not to tell until she was dead and gone, and I wouldn’t now except that it might help capture her murderer. You see Nan did a runner with the lion’s share of the money they earned. They used to dib out what they called ‘running money’, by way of a weekly wage really, but the bulk of it was stashed away in a bank account in my Nan’s name.’

  ‘Do you know the n
ame of this partner?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘No. She never told us that. She said that they never revealed their true names to each other. The only thing she did say was that her partner sometimes wore glasses and sometimes had a black mole on her cheek. The mole changed shape and so did the glasses. It was all part of the business, adapting disguises and never revealing their true selves. So there you are.’

  Her head drooped and she looked sad again before raising her head and looking him straight in the eyes.

  ‘I know my Nan wasn’t the most perfect person in the world, but you will find her murderer won’t you? You will find whoever did it?’

  What was that?

  Honey’s eyes flicked open. The storm outside was still raging, the rain lashing the arched windows and an angry draught blowing around her ankles.

  She moved slowly. The hospitality trade had served her well. Don’t let on that you’re there, not if you wish to avoid hotel guests that you didn’t like, especially serial complainers. People who went out of their way to find something to complain about were rife in the hotel and catering industry. From experience it was the homegrown customers who did the most complaining. Honey blamed the consumer programmes on national television and some wretched presenter who stated the British didn’t complain enough. Obviously said presenter had never run a hotel. If they had they wouldn’t have said it.

  Anyway, she knew instinctively when to keep her head down.

  The voices were hushed but intense, one slightly colder than the other.

  ‘I’ve brought you a wedding dress.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Why don’t you put it on?’

  ‘I haven’t come here to try on a wedding dress. I’ve come here with fresh blooms.’

  ‘Fresh blooms!’ The tone was mocking. Honey tried to remember where she’d heard that tone before.

  ‘I know you don’t I?’ The voice was that of Janet Glencannon. ‘I’ve seen you before...I know! You were with your father that day...’

  ‘HE WAS NOT MY FATHER! Let me enlighten you, lady. That man was my husband. I was thirteen years old. By marrying him he got the passport he wanted. Unfortunately I was tied to him in marriage. He told me that if I complained to the authorities, I would be put in prison because he had the proper passport and I did not! I was thirteen! Thirteen! Can you imagine what he put me through?’