Nuptial Sacrifice Read online

  Righty, that was the afterwards covered. He knew Honey would look beautiful and he would be OK. He also knew that Carmichael would look even more ridiculous than usual in morning dress, so his only worry now was some of the guests. Honey’s parents he had not met before, but he didn’t’ foresee any problems there. They had spoken on Skype and on the phone, and he felt like he knew them already.

  His own parents were a totally different kettle of fish. He had never been very close to them and, although his father was a fairly quiet and unassuming man, his mother was outspoken and very abrupt, never being afraid to speak her mind. He had not been in touch with them for some time, and he just hoped they took to Honey the way he had. How could they wish for a more beautiful daughter-in-law? Or intelligent, or kind, or tasteful? Still smitten, or what?

  There was no packing to do, as they weren’t going on honeymoon immediately. The week after the wedding they were staying put, he and Honey in his house, her parents in her flat, and they would meet every day to get to know each other a bit better, then all four of them would fly west so that he could meet the rest of her large family.

  Right, he supposed he’d better go and check the flowers in the church and that the right hymn numbers had been put up, then there was really nothing for him to do until it was time for him and Carmichael to go to the church. He’d make sure that everything was going all right at the Carmichael end with a phone call, once he got back home. He wouldn’t put it past Carmichael to have forgotten that this was the Saturday of the wedding, even though they’d only had the rehearsal on Wednesday.

  The church had huge bunches of exotic lilies and fern on display, and the pew ends were hung with posies of roses, so that seemed alright. And the hymn numbers were correct. So, that was it. Home and phone Carmichael, now.

  In Castle Farthing, Kerry Carmichael answered the phone in a terrible tizzy, but she explained this away by having to get five children – six, if you counted her husband – clean and well-dressed to be ready in time to leave the house. Assuring him that Davey would be with him at least an hour before the service started, he ended the call reasonably content that everything that could be done had been done, and that everything should go on well-oiled wheels, come the time.

  Carmichael arrived at precisely one o’clock, hiccoughing and belching terribly, explaining that he’d had to bolt his rather early lunch, and Falconer noticed that the end of his cravat, where it entered his waistcoat, was slightly damp. ‘What happened there?’ he demanded of his sergeant, pointing accusingly at this stain on his day.

  ‘Got some ketchup on it from my bacon butty,’ he replied with a rueful grin, but Kerry managed to sponge it out.’

  Falconer sighed in resignation. Who but Carmichael would get dressed for a wedding before they ate a messy sandwich? ‘I simply don’t understand how anybody could look like an over-sized scarecrow in a morning suit,’ he huffed. ‘Carmichael, you really are ‘special’’

  ‘That’s what Kerry says, sir’ replied the hapless sergeant, and then made a swerving motion as Falconer bawled out,

  ‘And don’t sit on your top hat!’

  ‘Then I could pretend to be playing the concertina,’ Carmichael said as a joke to cover his surprise that he had been about to commit such a heinous crime. Had he really just put it down on a chair where it was a ‘sitting’ target?

  ‘Then you could make the joke at the A&E Department after I’d knocked your front teeth out.’ Falconer was really getting on edge now, and it was reflected in his mood.

  ‘OK, sir, calm down. Everything’s going to be just perfect.’

  ‘There’s no earthly reason why it shouldn’t be,’ replied Falconer, now really waving a red rag at the bull of fate.

  The taxi tooted outside in the road but, as they left the house, there was a blinding white flash of light, a clap of thunder like the crack of doom and the heavens opened, causing them both to hold their top hats over their heads as they made for the vehicle. ‘I hope this passes before Honey has to leave home. She’ll be spitting fire if her wedding dress gets soaked.’

  ‘Have you seen it yet?’ asked Carmichael, leaving himself right open.

  ‘Of course not. It’s unlucky for the groom to see the dress before the day,’ Falconer snapped. ‘Any fool knows that.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were superstitious, sir.’

  ‘I’m not, but Honey is, and she wouldn’t do anything that might threaten to jinx our marriage.’

  ‘How’s she getting to the church?’

  ‘She’s booked a white Rolls-Royce. She thought it would suit the occasion. Very bridal.’

  ‘Are you staying at the hotel tonight, sir?’

  ‘Yes, we are booked in. We thought it would be easier, so that we can say goodbye to the last guests to leave the celebration.’

  ‘Very considerate.’

  ‘It seemed the least we could do, considering that we’re not dashing off to catch a flight or a train.’

  ‘What about her parents?’ Carmichael was more than usually garrulous, due to nerves about his forthcoming speech.

  ‘They’ve got a taxi booked. They’ll go back to her flat and she’ll join them tomorrow to pack some clothes before moving in with me.’

  When they arrived at the church, the sky was still black and the rain was coming down in torrents, as they bustled into the building to await the bride and her attendants. Honey had chosen both of Carmichael’s older sons to be pageboys and little Harriet to be a flower girl. Kerry must have been up to her eyes, getting three children ready in their wedding gear as well as chivvying along her husband.

  As the two men sat nervously in the front pew, Falconer asked, ‘How exactly did you get ketchup on your cravat?’

  ‘I told you, I was eating my lunch,’ he replied nonchalantly.

  ‘But, in your morning suit?’

  ‘Well, there wouldn’t have been time to get into all this gear afterwards, what with having to be at yours at one.’ Again, it would have made sense to Carmichael.

  ‘Lean forward and let me have a look at it.’ The anxiety was really coming out in the groom now.

  ‘It should be fine. Kerry sponged it out for me.’

  Falconer peered anxiously at his best man’s cravat. There wasn’t anything visible now, so she must have done a good job. ‘Just as well. I can’t have you appearing at the top table with sauce all down your front.’

  ‘It wasn’t all down my front,’ retorted Carmichael, stung by the accusation.

  As he finished speaking, the first notes of the bridal march sounded out, and everybody rose and all eyes faced to the rear, where Honey and the three children were just making their grand entrance. None of them seemed any the worse for the weather, but the ushers - Tomlinson and the force’s forensic pathologist, Doc Philip Christmas - could be seen behind them shaking off two enormous golf umbrellas, while Kerry ditched a third and got her children into position before slipping past them to join the sleeping twins in her pew.

  Both groom’s and best man’s eyes filled with tears, Falconer’s at how stunning his bride looked on her father’s arm, and Carmichael’s with pride at the prominence of his three children at this service. Kerry had taken her seat in the rear pew with the twins still happily snoozing in their double pushchair, ready to make a hasty exit should they wake up and start babbling.

  Falconer noticed nobody but Honey, whose beauty shone through the modesty of her veil, and his heart turned over. Her dress was breathtaking, being in white satin with little beads and crystals sewn all over it, the whole in a figure-hugging style that really showed off her curves to their best advantage. In less than an hour she would be his wife! He loved the sound of Mrs Honey Falconer – Doctor, of course.

  Their whole future lay before them, and he wondered soppily how many children they would have and who they would take after. It really was a lucky dip with genetics.

  At this point Honey arrived beside him and he disappeared off into a mist of pure ecsta
sy, which wasn’t like him at all.

  The service went without a hitch, and when they came out of the church for the photographs to be taken, the sky had cleared to a miraculous cerulean blue and a warm breeze was blowing. Soon they were in the back of the white Rolls-Royce, the storm now abated, covered in confetti and grinning at each other as if they’d just won the lottery – which of course they had: life’s lottery, in being lucky enough to meet each other and get over their silly spat that had broken them apart in the past. That seemed as nothing now compared with the fact that she was now officially Mrs Falconer.

  At The Manse, Jefferson Grammaticus met them with the smuggest of expressions, as if he, personally, had ordered the wind to drop, the storm to pass over, and the sun to come out, and led them into the foyer where they were provided with flutes of champagne, then brought into the entrance of the banqueting hall from where they would greet their guests as they arrived.

  Mr and Mrs Dubois were with the first wave, and greeted him as cordially as they did their daughter. When his parents approached, Falconer leaned over to kiss his mother on the cheek only for her to hiss in his ear, ‘You didn’t say you were marrying a “coloured”.’ Falconer was too overcome with rage to speak, and his face glowed bright red as he received his father’s handshake of congratulations, his assurance that Honey was the loveliest of brides and told him not to take any notice of his mother.

  ‘You know what a vindictive old bag she can be when something confronts her for which she wasn’t prepared. Just ignore her, my boy. I always do!’ With a chuckle the old man was off, and a flurry of greeting began as all their friends and relatives filed by with wishes of good luck for their married life.

  When Carmichael arrived he was looking decidedly rumpled, probably from having been crammed into a people carrier – he’d had to get something bigger for when his growing family all wanted to go out together, but he would still take his battered old Skoda to work – with his wife and five children. The Carmichaels really were turning into a bit of a clan, now starting to resemble the generation in which the DS himself had grown up.

  When everyone was seated, the toastmaster stood and banged his gavel for silence. ‘Would you please raise your glasses in a toast to the bride and groom,’ he intoned in a deep bass rumble. When everyone had mumbled ‘The bride and groom’, and taken a deep draught of bubbles, there was a scraping of chairs on the parquet floor as everyone sat again, and the toastmaster announced the father of the bride’s speech.

  Mr Dubois’ lilting Caribbean tones gave a musical character to what he said, and the guests were charmed by his words about his ‘little Honey’.

  Falconer’s speech was announced next and he rose with a frozen face, with a sudden attack of anxiety. Starting with, ‘My wife and I would like to thank you all for coming today…’ but after the first phrase, his voice was drowned by a round of applause, whistles and catcalls along the lines of ‘About time!’, and ‘finally gone and done it’. Fortunately, he made a fair fist of it, even getting a few more chuckles and catcalls along the way. Then the toastmaster banged his gavel again and announced, ‘And now the best man will speak.’

  Carmichael’s face froze in a mask of horror as he took in those words. His hair was standing on end from where he’d been running his fingers through it in his anxiety, his jacket hung awry, and his cravat had escaped from his waistcoat. He really did look like a scarecrow, now, and not a particularly posh one. Falconer stared at him in despair, his only consolation, small though it was, was that there was no sign of ketchup on his attire.

  Carmichael’s arms flung themselves about all over the place as he searched through every pocket he had, including a couple that were only imaginary in his panic to find his notes and, as this progressed to a kind of manic search, a child in the room began to cry because the nasty man had frightened her.

  Finally giving up in despair, he set out to wing it. ‘Er, um, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for coming here today. Ah, er, the attendants and the bride look an absolute dream.’ His voice suddenly went very quiet as he hissed, ‘Sir, I don’t know what to say next. What should I say next?’

  Falconer blushed again and hissed back, ‘Just read out what passes for a telegram these days, and what the cards say. That should take enough time.’

  Carmichael cleared his throat with embarrassment. ‘Er, ah, I’m now going to read out the messages for a happy life from a lot of kind people, and then I’ll do the cards,’ he intoned in an alarmingly serous manner, and proceeded to do just that.

  At least he could still read: his nerves hadn’t paralysed his eye muscles. His voice went alarmingly from falsetto to bass, but he got through them all in the end, and then just sat down abruptly, dropping his face into his hands in despair, then rising up in a panic because he realised that he had put his hat on his chair when he stood up. There was no reason for this. It was just something that he did to delay the evil moment when he would have to speak in public.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Falconer chided him quite audibly as Carmichael held the now condensed piece of headgear in his hands and almost burst into tears. The inspector decided to let his sergeant off the hook as he was feeling generous. ‘Don’t worry. It’s covered by insurance.’

  This brought a round of applause from the floor of the banqueting hall, and the toastmaster had to bang his gavel again for silence. ‘The food will now be served,’ he informed them all, getting another slight scatter of clapping from those who had travelled further and had had to forego their lunch to get to the church on time.

  The meal was either chilli tiger prawns or gazpacho soup for the first course, followed by fillet of salmon in a wholegrain mustard sauce with mange tout and tiny new potatoes. As the main course was being served, Falconer took the opportunity to approach his mother, who just grimaced at him with disgust.

  ‘You are the most bigoted person I have ever had the displeasure to meet, and I want nothing further to do with you,’ he spat. ‘Not you, Dad, you’re alright, but Mother’s simply beyond the pale. And that’s final.’ With this he turned and stalked back to his own seat, his smile returning as he saw those seated centrally at the top table.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ asked Honey.

  ‘Nothing that an experienced sniper couldn’t solve,’ he replied, and smiled at the waitress who was approaching him.

  Dessert was a pretty confection of summer fruits with fresh cream, all covered with a basket of spun sugar, and looked very pretty indeed before spoons began to break the confectionery protection.

  As the wine flowed and the meal came to an end, two waitresses followed by the toastmaster adjourned to the adjoining room where the cake was in protective custody until it was needed. They were gone for quite some time before the toastmaster came out alone and sidled up to Falconer.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a bit of a hiccough in the proceedings,’ he whispered in the groom’s ear.

  ‘Well, out with it, man,’ Falconer replied, also sotto voce.

  ‘I’m very much afraid to say that the vicar is dead,’ he said without preamble.

  ‘But, surely you can bring in the cake?’ Falconer enquired, looking around the dining area for the clerical gentleman, and somewhat puzzled by how this could have caused the delay of the cake’s grand entrance.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, sir. The gentleman is dead, face down in the cake. He appears to have been stabbed in the back. And with the ceremonial sword with which you were to cut the cake.’

  Falconer’s alarmed cry of, ‘What?’ drew many glances at this sudden sound of outrage.

  ‘If you’d care to accompany me into the adjoining room, sir, you can see for yourself.’

  Falconer rose unsteadily to his feet, thinking, ‘I hope he hasn’t bled on the icing. I hope he hasn’t bled on the icing. I hope he hasn’t bled on the icing.’

  The vicar had done worse than that. He had completely demolished a couple of tiers of the cake. As he stood with
his hands to his face in horror, the toastmaster tried to reassure him. ‘I’ll take it through the back way to the kitchen and see what they can salvage, then we’ll enter through the main doors. You go and sit down and don’t worry about a thing.’

  When Falconer got back to his place at the top table, Honey asked him what was wrong. ‘Oh, just a little hitch. It’ll soon be sorted,’ he reassured her with a confidence he didn’t feel, knowing that he’d already broken a cardinal rule of murder investigations, and told the first lie of his marriage. Although he’d rattled off a couple of shots on his phone, he had allowed the body to be moved. And the weapon to be removed.

  He’d be for the high jump for this, but what else could he do? He couldn’t completely ruin Honey’s wedding day, and thought he’d save up the news of exactly what had happened to the wonderful cake until after the celebrations were over and they were on their own, then he’d have to lock himself somewhere safe so that she couldn’t give him a good hammering with her spiky-heeled shoes. Their romantic wedding night would be totally ruined, but what else could he do?

  And, somehow, he had to get word to both Grammaticus that none of the staff could go home at the end of the evening, and to his men who were guests. When Honey went to powder her nose, Falconer took the opportunity to buttonhole the owner and ask him if anyone had gone into the cake room before the celebrations started.

  ‘I checked the cake myself a few minutes before you arrived,’ he told him, totally pole-axed at this calamity, ‘and I’ve had someone on guard at the door to stop people wandering through before the crucial moment.’

  ‘Then how did the vicar get in? And the murderer, for this could only be suicide if he were a contortionist. And, most importantly, how’s what remains of the cake? Honey will do her nut if nothing comes out to be cut.’