Murder in Midwinter (10 page)

‘Perhaps because it’s near Christmas?’ suggested Libby, as the car began to climb a steep lane between high hedges.

‘No, Christmas is very popular for weddings,’ said Harry. ‘I think they must have had a cancellation. They only offered us the one date.’

‘Is this it?’ said Libby as a pair of huge gateposts appeared on their right. ‘It’s not very far, is it?’

‘That’s what so good about it,’ said Harry. ‘Right on our own doorstep.’

He drove between the gateposts and up a wide drive bordered with enormous trees. Libby, not the best horticulturist in the world, had no idea what they were, as they hadn’t even got their leaves on, but naked as they were, they were still impressive.

The drive opened out on to a wide forecourt. Discreet signposts pointed to “Shop”, “Visitor’s Car Park” and “Spa”, while the building itself sported a colonnaded entrance approached by sweeping twin staircases.

‘Wow!’ said Libby. ‘Are you going to lose your glass slipper on those steps?’

‘Funny you should say that. They filmed a telly Cinders here, apparently. Out you get.’

‘But it says the car park’s round there,’ said Libby.

‘Only for open days or functions,’ said Harry, holding the door for her. ‘Come on, there’s only so long I can go on being a gent.’

He led the way up the stone steps, which did indeed look like something in a fairy tale. Inside the huge double doors, all was gold and cream, but somehow understated, which couldn’t be said for the girl who came towards them with a welcoming smile on her iridescent pink lips.

‘Hi,’ she said, her stripy pink and red hair nodding towards them Medusa-like.

‘Hi,’ said Libby nervously.

‘Hi, Mel,’ said Harry, leaning forward to plant a kiss somewhere between the nose and eyebrow rings. ‘This is Libby. She’s our bridesmaid.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ giggled Mel, holding out her hand. ‘He’s a case, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, not realising her offer of attendant had been taken seriously. ‘Am I?’

‘We said, didn’t we. I think you’re actually sort of best woman. You know, holding the rings. What normally happens, Mel?’

‘Oh, well, it depends on the couple. Anything goes really. Long as the celebrant is happy.’ Mel was leading them down a corridor lit by amazing chandeliers and lined with superior-looking console tables. She made a sudden left turn and ushered them into a tiny office labelled “Melanie Phelps, Events”. Libby viewed the spiky stripes with more respect.

‘Right, Harry,’ she said, going behind an efficient-looking desk. ‘Take a seat and let’s go through what we’ve got so far.’

Libby’s mind wandered as Harry and Mel went through menu options, seating arrangements and floral decorations.

‘What do you reckon, Lib,’ said Harry, ‘gold and cream or pink and gold?’

‘What?’

‘Flowers,’ said Harry. ‘You’re supposed to be here to help. Gold and cream or pink and gold?’

‘They both sound a bit naff to me,’ said Libby. Melanie giggled.

Harry sighed theatrically. ‘All right, O Arbiter of Style. What do you suggest?’

‘Where are they coming from?’ asked Libby. ‘Do you supply them?’

‘We can do,’ said Mel. ‘It depends on how much involvement the client wants.’

‘Why not Christmas flowers? White, with holly and mistletoe and fir-coney things. Not too feminine.’

‘Oh, get you, ducky,’ said Harry. ‘Sounds good, though. What do you think, Mel?’

‘Yes, we’ve done that sort of thing before. I like it better than the obvious stuff.’ She turned to Libby. ‘Do you want to take charge of the floral arrangements, then?

Libby recoiled in horror. ‘Oh, no, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m no good at that sort of thing.’

‘Poor old dear,’ said Harry, patting her arm. ‘You’ve only got to look at her immaculate dress sense, haven’t you?’

‘Oi,’ said Libby.

‘No, you take charge, Mel. We might as well let you do the lot, then we haven’t got to worry.’

‘Do you want our florist to send you pictures of examples?’ said Mel, making a note.

‘Please, or Pete will go spare, and we can’t have him getting his knickers in a knot. Now, can we show Lib the room?’

‘Sure.’ Mel stood up and led the way out of the office.

The room designated for the celebration of marriages, civil partnerships and, surprisingly, baby welcoming ceremonies, (for the modern atheist, Libby assumed) was just to the right of the imposing front reception hall. Double doors led into what must have once been a formal drawing room, with a large marble fireplace on the left-hand wall and enormous french doors leading on to a balcony, which in turn led on to the imposing front steps.

‘For summer weddings,’ said Melanie, ‘the couple can come straight in from the balcony. Lovely,’ she added, looking misty.

‘We won’t, though,’ said Harry, shuddering. ‘And anyway, don’t we have to see the celebrant first?’

‘Just through here,’ said Melanie, indicating a little room just outside the double doors on the right. ‘Then the celebrant comes in and takes her place –’

‘Her?’ said Libby.

‘Oh, yes. Most of them are, these days,’ said Mel.

‘Hey, I like the sound of that. Could I do it?’ asked Libby.

Mel looked taken aback. ‘No idea,’ she said.

‘Oh, shut up, you old trout,’ said Harry. Mel looked even more taken aback.

‘It’s all right,’ Harry assured her sweetly. ‘It’s our pet name for her.’

Libby shrugged. ‘I don’t notice it any more,’ she said to Mel. ‘Sad, isn’t it?’

‘Anyway, our celebrant is a bloke,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve ordered him.’

‘Ordered him?’ said Libby.

‘There’s a company who can guide you through this sort of thing and supply sympathetic celebrants and scripts and stuff,’ said Harry. ‘All we did was find the venue.’

‘And that’s all right with you, is it, Mel?’ asked Libby.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mel. ‘It’s exactly the same as having a wedding planner. Better in fact, because they don’t try to interfere with our own arrangements.’

‘Oh.’ What a lot she didn’t know, thought Libby. ‘Scripts?’

‘Oh, Lib,’ said Harry, ‘of course. There aren’t special words or services written down for CPs. They’re not legal.’

‘What?’

‘No, what I mean is, the ceremony isn’t the legal part. The signing of the register is the legal part. So you can design the ceremony yourselves, and this company will send you scripts to help you.’

‘Oh,’ said Libby again. ‘Golly.’

Harry laughed and gave her a hug. ‘So you can write in your own part, dear heart. Best Person.’

Libby made a face. ‘I’m so old and out of touch.’

‘You’re not,’ said Mel. ‘You should see the ages of some the CPs. They’ve probably been living together for years and years, and finally they can make it legal. We’ve had several couples in their seventies. Mostly men. The women are usually young or middle-aged.’

‘Wow.’ Libby was round-eyed. ‘And all this just in a year.’

‘December 5th 2005,’ said Mel.

‘And since then you wouldn’t believe how many “specialists” have appeared,’ said Harry.

‘Good job, I’d have thought,’ said Libby. ‘You’ve just said it’s good to have someone guiding you through the whole thing.’

‘But specialist photographers? Ring makers? Tailors? What were they doing before?’ Harry made a disgusted sound.

‘They were wedding photographers, ringmakers and morning-suit suppliers,’ said Mel, with a grin. ‘They’re all the same people. They have to make themselves appear sympathetic to same sex couples. You’ve no idea how many of the traditional wedding industry practitioners
aren’t
sympathetic.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ said Harry. ‘I went to a Wedding Fair in September, and in some places you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.’

‘
You
went to a Wedding Fair?’ Libby said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Well, I did,’ said Harry, colouring. ‘Not long after Pete asked me.’

‘And I meant to look up civil partnerships as soon as I had my computer, but things sort of put it out of my head,’ said Libby, remembering the day in her garden when Harry had told her about the forthcoming wedding.

‘They would, seeing as you were out and about solving murders,’ said Harry.

Mel’s face was a study.

‘Harry!’ said Libby. ‘He doesn’t mean it, Mel. He’s just making fun of me.’

They completed their tour of the venue with a visit to the garden room, where the reception was to be held.

‘Are you having vegetarian food?’ asked Libby.

‘No. Pete’s not veggie, only me, and not many of the guests are. There’ll be enough for me to eat.’

Libby stood looking out at the garden, growing dark now, and the view across to a lake in the distance, bare-branched trees creating a lace-like pattern against the sky. What would it feel like to be getting married again, she wondered.

‘Won’t Pete want James to be Best Person?’ she asked in the car on the way home.

‘I think we can have as many attendants as we want,’ said Harry, ‘and you two can be the witnesses. After all, I’ve got nobody on my side.’

‘Nobody?’ Libby turned in her seat and looked at him, realising how little she knew of Harry’s background except that Peter had met him in the rather exclusive private club where he had been assistant chef.

‘Well,’ said Harry, shifting uncomfortably, ‘not family.’

‘Oh?’ Libby wanted to know, but sensed that perhaps Harry didn’t want to tell her.

‘Pete’s got enough for both of us,’ said Harry firmly. ‘Think of all the relatives I’m going to have!’

‘Think of Mad Millie as a mother-in-law,’ said Libby. ‘What has she said about the wedding?’

‘I don’t think Pete’s told her,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t think she’d take it in.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Libby. ‘Is she coming?’

Harry glanced sideways at her. ‘I wish I could say no, but I think Pete wants her there.’

‘But she might make trouble,’ said Libby, visions of Peter’s mother the last time she’d seen her, wild-eyed and quite mad rising before her eyes.

‘I know.’ Harry nodded and slowed down in front of Number 17. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him. You see if you can have a go.’

‘All right,’ said Libby, gathering her cape round her and preparing to climb out, ‘but I don’t see what good I can do. This is where we miss poor old David.’

They were both silent, remembering David, the doctor member of the family who had died so tragically last spring.

‘Ben might help,’ said Harry, hopefully. ‘He’s quite sensible for an old –’

‘Old?’ said Libby.

‘Sorry, Lib.’ Harry grinned. ‘Middle-aged, then.’

‘Whippersnapper,’ said Libby, and climbed out of the car. ‘I’ll talk to him. Oh, and what do I wear as Best Person? I haven’t got long to find it, have I?’

‘What you like, ducky. We’re not having themed get ups. Maybe matching ties, that’s about it.’

‘Golly,’ said Libby, trying to picture the flamboyant Harry in a formal suit.

Falling down the step in the dark as she opened the door, Libby noticed the red light winking on the answerphone. Fending off Sidney, who was loudly demanding to be fed, she pressed the button.

‘Why don’t you ever switch on your mobile?’ came the voice of an exasperated Ben. ‘Or haven’t you even taken it with you?’

Libby remembered turning it off while having lunch in The Swan.

‘How about dinner at Harry’s tonight,’ Ben went on. ‘Or can’t you face it after your meal there on Wednesday? Give me a ring.’

Libby switched on the lights and let Sidney lead her into the kitchen. After shifting the kettle on to the Rayburn’s hotplate and giving Sidney his first tea, she rang Ben.

‘I’d love to,’ she said. ‘In fact, I spent the afternoon with Harry. Are you coming round here first?’

‘Is that an invitation?’ asked Ben.

‘Not that sort of invitation,’ said Libby. ‘I’d just like to talk to you before we go to the caff.’

Ben groaned. ‘Not about this investigation, or whatever it is?’

‘No,’ said Libby, surprised that she’d actually forgotten about Bella Morleigh and the murder. ‘It’s about the wedding.’

‘Oh.’ Ben sounded relieved. ‘OK. I’ll book a table, if Harry’s got one left, of course, and I’ll come round about seven, if that’s all right?’

Libby rang off and sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the kettle to boil. Now that Ben had reminded her, she wondered whether Fran had come up with anything after their morning’s adventures. If she had, she certainly didn’t want to share them, thought Libby, reaching an idle hand for the teapot.

With a mug of tea in hand, Libby wandered in to light the fire in the living room, which she did, with the help of Sidney, who insisted on walking through her arms and sticking his bottom in her face. Then, with a little trepidation, she phoned Fran.

‘Sorry if I’m intruding,’ she said, crossing her fingers, ‘but I wondered if there was anything you could tell me about this morning. I know you wanted to think about it on your own.’

Fran sighed. ‘Well, yes. I’m not entirely sure what I could see, or feel, but there’s something, and I’m trying to make sense of it.’

‘Would it help to talk about it?’ asked Libby.

‘Maybe, but not yet,’ said Fran. ‘Let me wrestle with it for a bit first.’

‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘Ben and I are going to the Geranium tonight, so tomorrow, maybe?’

‘I must do some Christmas shopping tomorrow,’ said Fran. ‘You haven’t done yours, yet, have you?’

‘Oh, God, no!’ Libby spilt some of her tea. ‘What with the panto and the wedding I’d forgotten all about it. Shall we go into Canterbury together? We could do park and ride.’

‘Good idea,’ said Fran. ‘What time?’

After arranging to meet at ten, Libby rang off and finished her tea, before going upstairs to shower and change.

Ben arrived just after seven, while Libby was stoking up the fire, having given Sidney his second tea.

‘Pete’s right, you know,’ said Ben, watching Sidney chase his plate around the kitchen floor. ‘Sidney is a walking stomach.’

‘He’s a fine figure of a cat,’ said Libby. ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Ben, sitting in the armchair. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

Libby told him about her afternoon with Harry at Anderson Place.