Wedding Rows Read online

  Wedding Rows

  Kate Kingsbury

  Sitting Marsh, a World War II town threatened by invasion, is overdue for a celebration. But when a stranger appears at a wedding-and is stabbed-sleuth Lady Elizabeth is on the case, and there's no shortage of suspects.

  Kate Kingsbury

  Wedding Rows

  The eighth book in the Manor House series, 2006

  CHAPTER 1

  Seated in the second row of the centuries-old church, Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton folded her hands in her lap and gazed with satisfaction at the guests slowly filing into the narrow pews. There was something about a wedding that brought out the best in people.

  Getting married in wartime presented a unique set of problems. On top of the usual flurry of preparations, there was the huge problem of securing gowns for the bride and her attendants. With clothes being on ration, finding enough coupons was daunting.

  Once news of Priscilla Pierce’s upcoming springtime nuptials to Captain Wally Carbunkle had spread throughout the village, however, some of the most surprising people came forward.

  Rita Crumm, for instance, who coveted her belongings as zealously as a squirrel hoarding nuts, was the first to present Priscilla with five precious coupons. Lilly, her daughter, followed soon after, though Elizabeth suspected that the young girl had responded to a certain amount of wrathful pressure from her mother.

  One by one the offers had drifted in. Priscilla had given Elizabeth a full and tearful accounting during a visit to Wally’s cottage shortly before the much-anticipated invitations were sent out.

  According to the prospective and exceedingly nervous bride, Bessie from the Bake Shop had offered to make the wedding cake, with donations of egg rations from her staff.

  Following Rita Crumm’s example, or more likely her orders, the members of the Housewives League each pledged to bring food for the reception, to be held in the village hall. Florrie Evans, who turned out to be an adept seamstress, worked day and night to sew gowns not only for the bride, but also for the maid of honor and two bridesmaids.

  Elizabeth herself had donated flowers from her gardens, while Earl Monroe, the American AAF major billeted in her mansion, offered to scrounge a silk parachute from the base for the wedding gown.

  Priscilla and Wally issued an invitation to everyone who had contributed, and right now the tiny church seemed to be bursting at the seams. The vicar, Elizabeth reflected, would be most pleased to have such a bountiful attendance for a change.

  Having given up most of her own coupons, she had elected to wear an elegant peach silk gown for the occasion. It had been in her possession for several years but was seldom worn. Her peaches-and-cream hat and gloves were new, but she’d made do with a pair of cream shoes that Desmond, her gardener and jack-of-all-trades, had made presentable by repairing the heels.

  Seated next to her on the slim bench, Major Earl Monroe looked resplendent in his uniform. Elizabeth was hard put not to keep staring at him. She’d been afraid he might not be able to attend the wedding. For the last few weeks his absences had grown more frequent. Although he hadn’t admitted as much, Elizabeth knew he was flying missions over France and Germany. Dangerous missions that, according to reports in the newspaper, were taking a toll on the airplanes and the courageous men who flew in them.

  The sight of him these days brought a small measure of relief, only to be replaced by terror every time he said good-bye again. She had learned to put her fear on hold while she was with him and concentrate instead in making the most of every second in his company.

  Each time they met, the moment she set eyes on him she wanted to melt into his arms. Definitely unbecoming for the lady of the manor and quite out of the question. Then again, a lot of what went on in her mind was most unfitting for her position. Fortunately, few people were aware of her great passion for the handsome major, and she intended to keep it that way. It was enough to know he shared her affection, even if protocol demanded that they hide it under a guise of mutual friendship.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous and discordant blast of chords from the organ. Since Priscilla was the church organist, a replacement had to be found for the occasion. An elderly woman had been brought in from North Horsham to oblige, and it was obvious that her competence on the organ was only slighter better than Priscilla’s often agonizing performances.

  Heads had turned toward the rear of the church in eager expectation. Wally, looking like a nervous, aging penguin in his black coattails, peeked over his shoulder for the first sight of his bride. His brother, whom Elizabeth had yet to meet, stood at his side. Neville Carbunkle was a fatter, shorter version of Wally, and he lacked the abundance of winter-white hair and beard sported by the retired sea captain.

  Elizabeth was intrigued to notice that Neville seemed to be paying more attention than was appropriate to the gray-haired woman at the organ. Wally was fast approaching sixty and had mentioned that his brother was older by two years. Obviously the elder of the Carbunkle brothers was not going to be outdone by the romantic achievements of his younger sibling.

  Turning her head, Elizabeth watched the procession move slowly down the long aisle, headed by an elegant middle-aged woman dressed in dark blue satin.

  Earl leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Is that Priscilla’s sister?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth whispered back. “That’s Daphne Winterhalter.”

  “Doesn’t look at all like Priscilla.”

  “Daphne’s quite a bit younger. Not yet forty, I believe.”

  “And a heck of a lot more glamorous.”

  Elizabeth inclined her head. “That’s her husband, Rodney. The tall, gray-haired man in the first row. He’s a well-known surgeon in Cambridge. Her daughter, Tess, is one of the bridesmaids. Priscilla’s friend, Fiona Farnsworth, is the other one.”

  Watching the bridesmaids follow sedately behind the maid of honor, Elizabeth had to admire Florrie’s handiwork. The satin gowns were the same color as that worn by the maid of honor, but with shorter skirts and more daring necklines.

  Priscilla’s niece, Tess, looked magnificent. Shorter than her mother by several inches, she had nevertheless inherited Daphne’s high cheekbones and dark, expressive eyes. Unlike Daphne’s tinted auburn hair, however, the young bridesmaid’s soft curls gleamed as black as a moonless sky. The slender woman at her side was closer to Priscilla’s age, mid forties, but striving to look younger judging by the heavily painted lips and eyes. Her shining mane of red hair was far too startling to be natural.

  “You’ll meet them all later,” Elizabeth whispered to Earl, as the procession halted in front of the vicar. “The Winterhalters are staying at the manor. Priscilla has only one bedroom in her flat, and she’s sharing that with Fiona. They haven’t seen each other for about thirty years, but-” She broke off as the organist crashed out the chords to the “Wedding March,” and all heads turned again to the rear of the church.

  Priscilla’s white silk dress clung to her gaunt figure, making her look even more frail than usual. Her face was pale beneath the veil, and the bouquet of pink carnations and yellow freesia shook in her hand, but her smile blazed at Wally in glorious excitement and seemed to bathe the ancient walls in its glow.

  She clung to the arm of a stocky, bald-headed man with a bumpy nose, who seemed uncomfortable with his appointed task. His black suit was too large for him-the sleeves of the jacket swallowed up his free hand. His bow tie hung at a dismal angle as if wishing it were anywhere but at his throat.

  “Charlie Gibbons,” Elizabeth murmured, in answer to Earl’s raised eyebrows. “He’s an old friend of Wally’s. I believe they were at sea together years ago. Priscilla’s parents are dead, so she asked him to give her away. He’s staying with Neville
in the empty cottage next door to Wally.”

  Earl’s expression would have been comical if it hadn’t been prompted by the fact that Number One, Sandhill Lane, bore a sinister reputation for being the site of two murders, as well as a very close call for Elizabeth herself. She’d been unable to rent it out for that very reason.

  “It was Wally’s idea,” she said, with a defensive shrug. “It was either there or the Tudor Arms, and Wally didn’t like the idea of them staying at the pub.”

  The discordant thundering of the organ mercifully ceased as the bride reached Wally’s side. The service was brief and quite charming, causing Elizabeth to blink back tears as the happy couple joined hands as man and wife. They appeared to float down the aisle together, and Priscilla managed to look quite radiant, while Wally beamed brighter than a lighthouse.

  His smile persisted throughout the arduous process of posing for the photographs. Indeed, there were smirks on many of the faces as the fussy photographer minced around on his toes and constantly waved a languid hand at the restless group of people lined up in his lens. He wore a rather outlandish outfit of black-and-white checkered trousers, a pale blue velvet jacket, and a long, black silk scarf, drawing some irreverent comments from the male guests.

  He took so long posing everyone that Elizabeth felt quite chilly standing about in her flimsy frock, in spite of the balmy May afternoon. At long last the tiresome man seemed satisfied, and with Earl at her side, Elizabeth followed the crowd wandering down to the village hall.

  Wally’s grin continued to stretch from ear to ear during the rather rowdy reception that followed. The organist played the piano with even more gusto than she had attacked the church organ. Accompanied by the members of Priscilla’s musical group, which included Wilf White on the mouth organ and a trumpeter who had earned the well-deserved stage name of Awful Ernie, the music was lively if somewhat less than harmonious.

  The guests didn’t seem to mind, even when Wally’s brother, Neville, leapt to the stage and bellowed out a bawdy version of ‘Run, Rabbit, Run.’ In fact, everyone took to the dance floor and cavorted around like spring lambs. Everyone except Rita Crumm, who stood in the corner with her nose pointed at the ceiling and a look on her face that suggested she’d just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk.

  The rest of her faithful followers, the devoted and often misled members of the Housewives League, having dispensed with their duties of laying out the delightfully diverse banquet, kicked up their heels with reckless abandon.

  Marge Gunther, who had obviously consumed more than her share of scrumpy, got so carried away she displayed a scandalous expanse of chubby leg, giving everyone a glimpse of her corset suspenders. The sight was apparently too enticing to ignore for Neville, who leapt from the stage to join her.

  Earl quietly chuckled at Elizabeth’s side as he watched the antics of the revelers. “That scrumpy sure packs a punch. I can’t believe plain old apple cider could have twice the alcohol of American beer. No wonder our boys get plastered when they drink it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Alfie tells me that some of them don’t realize it’s intoxicating until too late. He warns them all now. Apparently our cider is quite different from the cider you serve in America.”

  “Just as well, or we’d have kids reeling all over the school yard.”

  “In the fourteenth century, English children were baptized with cider. It was considered cleaner than water.”

  Earl looked surprised. “It’s been around that long?”

  “Much longer. Since before the Norman Conquest I believe. The English climate isn’t suitable for grapes, so cider became more popular than wine. Captain Cook carried it on his ship to prevent scurvy, and I understand that in the last century it was widely proclaimed as a cure for gout.”

  Earl lifted his beer. “Maybe I’m drinking the wrong poison.”

  “I’d stay with the beer if I were you. It’s more predictable.” Elizabeth frowned. “I wonder who that gentleman is over there.” She pointed to a tall, blond man who looked to be in his late thirties. “I don’t recognize him.”

  “Beats me.” Earl took a gulp of his beer. “Probably a friend of the happy couple.”

  “I don’t think so.” She watched the man thread his way through the crowd and pause in front of Tess. “As far as I know, other than the villagers, Wally invited only two men-his brother Neville and Charlie Gibbons. Priscilla invited her sister Daphne and family, and Fiona, who brought along a gentleman friend. Priscilla did tell me his name.” She wrinkled her brow. “Malcolm Ludwick, that was it.”

  “So maybe that guy is Ludwick.”

  “No, he’s over there, dancing with Fiona.” Elizabeth nodded at the vibrant redhead, whose athletic ability was quite impressive as she writhed, spun, and leapt on her long, spindly legs in a wild jitterbug. Her partner, a tall, burly man with graying hair, seemed awkward and uncomfortable as he tried to keep up with her excessive energy.

  “Wow,” Earl murmured. “Not bad for an old broad.”

  Elizabeth decided to ignore the impertinent remark. “I saw the wedding list. Priscilla asked me if I thought she’d left anyone off it who should have been invited. I’m quite sure there was no one else on it with whom I’m not familiar.”

  “Could have been a last-minute decision.”

  “I suppose so.” She watched the man lay a hand on Tess’s shoulder. The young girl smiled up at him and went into his arms. Elizabeth watched them dance out of sight, then forgot about them when Earl nudged her with his elbow.

  “Isn’t that Violet dancing with Wally’s friend?”

  Elizabeth stared in amazement at her sprightly housekeeper, who seemed to have shed several of her sixty-odd years as she pranced around the floor in the arms of Charlie Gibbons. “Great heavens! So it is!”

  Earl grinned. “There’s life in the old girl yet. I’d never have believed it.”

  “I wonder what Martin thinks about that.” Elizabeth scanned the room to look for her butler. She’d assumed that Violet was keeping an eye on the old gentleman. Martin was well into his eighties and was not always accountable for his actions.

  Having been a faithful servant to the Earl of Wellsborough’s household since before the turn of the century, his failing capabilities made him more of a handicap than help at times.

  Elizabeth, however, considered him part of the family, as she did Violet, the only two servants to remain with her after the misfortunes of her ex-husband had eliminated her inheritance, leaving her with a decaying old mansion and a pile of insurmountable debts.

  It was thanks to the loyalty of Martin and Violet, as well as her assistant Polly and housemaid Sadie, that her lamentable situation was not common knowledge in the village. Even Earl was not aware of the extent of her predicament, though she suspected he’d guessed as much and understood that pride prevented her from discussing such mundane and depressing matters with him.

  Indeed, had it not been for Earl Monroe these past months, the dreary existence of wartime England, magnified by the lack of revenue, would have been far harder to bear.

  “I don’t think you need worry about Martin,” Earl said, breaking into her thoughts. “He’s filling a large plate for himself at the table.”

  “Oh, heavens.” Elizabeth rose to her feet. “If I don’t stop him he’s likely to cut himself a generous slice of the wedding cake.”

  “Hurry back.” Earl’s smile dazzled her for a moment. “I’m waiting for a slow number so I can ask you to dance.”

  The thought of being held in his arms made her feel quite faint. Certain that her cheeks were burning, she said hurriedly, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “You danced with me here once before,” he reminded her.

  “Ah, yes, indeed I did.” She lifted her hand to make sure her hat was straight. “And if I remember, it ended in an ugly brawl from which I had to be rescued.”

  His grin widened. “That’s what you get for trying to mix Yanks and Limeys together
on the same dance floor.”

  She sighed. “I have to admit, it wasn’t one of my better ideas.”

  “Well, since I’m the only ‘bloody Yank’ here, as the villagers are fond of calling us, you don’t have to worry about anything upsetting this little shindig.”

  “Not unless Martin decides to sample the cake. I’d better get over there.”

  She left his side with reluctance. Her moments with Earl were all too brief lately. His duties at the base kept him busy, and what little time he could spare with her gave them scant opportunities for meaningful conversation. Which perhaps was just as well.

  With a divorce pending, Earl had promised to keep his distance until the matter was settled. Even then, so many problems regarding their relationship would still exist. His home in America and her duty to the villagers of Sitting Marsh being the most prominent.

  Elizabeth heaved a heavy sigh as she approached the rounded, frail shoulders of her butler. There were times when she heartily wished her kitchen maid mother had chosen to marry someone of her own station, instead of an earl and lord of the manor.

  Martin’s hand wavered under the weight of the food he’d piled on his plate. Fat, savory sausage rolls sat on top of delicate, crustless shrimp paste and cress sandwiches. Pickled onions neatly lined the plate’s rim, while a slice of cold pork pie balanced on top of a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese.

  “Oh, there you are, madam.” Martin looked guiltily at the loaded plate. “I thought I’d have a little refreshment while Violet makes a ghastly spectacle of herself associating with that charlatan. I was told to help myself.”

  Elizabeth eyed the mound of food. “So I see.”

  Martin wavered, then said bravely, “May I offer you a morsel or two?”

  “Thank you, Martin, but I think I’ll wait a while.” She glanced at the wedding cake, magnificent on its silver stand, and let out her breath in relief to find it untouched.