A Killer Wedding Read online

  ‘You can’t have those in here, you’ll need to leave.’

  I turned to face Harriet Smedley, who was examining the takeout coffee cup and paper bag containing a slice of cake through half closed eyes.

  ‘They’re for Father Craig, I…’

  ‘Food and drink is not allowed in the chapel, you’ll need to leave immediately.’ She was shorter than me, which bearing in mind I’m five foot nothing is saying something, and still wore the ridiculous looking tea-cosy hat, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt quite so intimidated. She was clearly not a woman to be messed with.

  ‘Harriet, it’s quite alright.’ Craig’s soothing baritone voice flowed over my shoulder. I closed my eyes. Thank you, God, I muttered to myself; I might not be a believer, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘But, Father, you know the rules…’

  ‘Yes, Harriet, I do, but Sophie has been kind enough to bring me refreshments and I will immediately escort her to my office and remove any risk to the chapel.’

  ‘But visitors…’

  ‘She’s not a visitor, Harriet, this is Sophie Lockwood. She’s the Head of Catering for the house.’ He looked over at me, nodding slightly; I nodded in return, confirming my title.

  I offered Harriet my hand; I figured it might go some way to placating her if I treated her like a colleague rather than a faintly irritating barrier between a hungover member of the clergy and his caffeine. She stared at my outstretched hand as if I’d offered her a wet fish, then looked up at Craig, her lips now a flat line.

  ‘As you wish, Father.’ She didn’t move and I had to step around her in order to follow Craig up the aisle.

  Once we were round the corner, he leaned over and whispered, ‘I’m absolutely terrified of her.’

  I followed him through a small wooden door and down a flight of concrete steps. I was a little concerned that we might end up in some haunted catacombs – not that I’d ever been told the chapel had any – but instead we stepped out of the stairwell and into a wide low-ceilinged corridor.

  ‘This way,’ Craig called over his shoulder. He stopped in front of an open door and spread an arm wide. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  Bearing in mind it was a windowless space in the bowels of a chapel well over 400 years old, he’d done a decent job of making his office feel homely with a large green rug on the floor and an array of plastic plants that could survive without a drop of natural light. It was considerably bigger than my own matchbox-sized office, but other than that I’d yet to see anything that would make me want to swap. I made myself comfortable while he tore open the bag and started on the wedge of chocolate cake.

  ‘What was the problem this morning? I thought Harriet was going to burst a blood vessel when she appeared in the café.’

  Craig shook his head. ‘She’s a one-woman crusade against all of humankind. In her mind, no one is innocent, ever. I’ll admit she’s the hardest working volunteer I’ve ever had, but if she had her way, everyone who entered the chapel doors would be put in some sort of hazmat suit and made to levitate in order to prevent them coming into contact with anything. Great cake, by the way.’

  ‘This morning?’ I asked again.

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. The photographer for tomorrow’s wedding had been in. He knows he’s not allowed to take pictures in the chapel, but he can take them through the door as the wedding party leaves at the end of the service, so he was outside, reminding himself of lighting and angles – that sort of thing. He hadn’t set foot through the door, but Harriet read him the riot act.

  ‘A little while later, he came into the chapel, just to look around. Unfortunately he had his camera slung over his shoulder so Harriet assumed the worst, tore strips off the poor guy, and then came to fetch me. He’s returning tonight to shoot the pre-wedding dinner – that’s if he’s not too afraid to set foot anywhere near the building ever again. I’m almost tempted to offer to pay for any therapy he needs.’

  Weddings at Charleton are usually a dream for photographers – and the couples, of course. Charleton House is a palatial sandstone jewel in the Derbyshire countryside. Catch it at the right time of day and the light can make the whole building gleam like an enormous bar of gold. It is a baroque dream fit for royalty, and every corner and every courtyard makes for the perfect wedding photo. The gardens too present the ideal backdrop: manicured lawns; streams cascading through rock gardens; magnificent water features; delicately formed topiary; exotic glass houses; rose gardens… the list goes on and on. If anything about the grounds presents a problem for photographers, it’s too much choice, and that’s before they’ve even got inside the house and seen the lavish furnishings and artwork that could move you to tears with the beauty they have captured.

  Craig took an enormous mouthful of coffee and sat back in his chair. The electric razor and comb on his desk explained his much improved appearance. He’d also changed his shirt since he’d crawled into the café this morning and the colour was returning to his cheeks – he looked like a respectable member of the clergy again.

  He lives onsite in a small flat that forms part of the converted stable block, so he must have been late getting up if he hadn’t had time to shave at home. He’s a much-loved part of the Charleton community and carries out services in the house chapel and a local church on the estate. Although Church of England, he prefers to be called ‘Father’; he views it as a healthy equaliser.

  Suddenly there was the most horrendous noise, somewhere between a crash and a deep growl. I quickly clamped my hands to my ears and ducked; I could feel the vibrations through my seat. I looked at Craig, hoping he knew what was going on and could lead me to safety, and was confused when I saw the laughter etched on his face. He raised a finger as if to say ‘Just a minute’ and picked up his phone; he didn’t say a word, but when the sound came to an abrupt stop, he was still laughing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, that happens from time to time. This office is immediately below the church organ. The organist is in to practise for tomorrow’s service. He sometimes forgets to check if I’m down here. My usual office has been out of commission for what feels like forever and this was the best we could come up with. I’m hoping to be back above ground by Christmas. Mind you,’ he winked conspiratorially, ‘every cloud has a silver lining. Harriet hates it down here.’

  Chapter 3

  I was flagging and knew I was going to be at work for the next couple of hours at least, so at five o’clock I made myself another mug of coffee without being afraid of a sleepless night. The pre-wedding dinner was being catered by Gregg, but I wanted to show my support and be there for a while. Having drunk my coffee, I pulled on my coat for a walk down the cloisters. Autumn had hit hard and despite it only being October, the temperature drop made it feel more like January.

  I stepped out into the early evening air just as Joyce Brocklehurst walked past, her hands full of Charleton House gift bags from the shop.

  ‘Perfect timing, here you go.’ She thrust a handful of bags in my direction and I unknotted the handles from around her fingers.

  Joyce was the retail manager for the gift shops at Charleton House. She was known for being fierce and I’d heard that some of her staff called her the dragon lady, but I’d spent enough time with her to know that it was largely a front – although I still wasn’t prepared to risk getting on the wrong side of her. Joyce was also known for her mind-bending wardrobe and this evening she had opted for a bright green dress that flared out at the bottom, narrow black stripes giving it a crepe effect. The green continued down long sleeves and gave her the overall impression of a rather tall cactus, topped off with her trademark blonde bouffant, which was unlikely to make a single movement due to the large can of hairspray that I imagined her getting through each day.

  I had no idea how she was coping without a coat; I shivered as I looked at her. The black leggings she wore underneath the dress ran down to black patent wedge heels that must have been at least four inches high. The
se, however, were a huge sacrifice on Joyce’s part. She was known for her towering stilettos and refusal to wear anything else, except on the few occasions that she ventured out of her shops and into the main areas of the house. Inside the house there was a risk of her heels damaging the floors, and while the conservation team had long since accepted that controlling the footwear choice of visitors was an impossible task, staff were easier to influence. Joyce had largely avoided coming inside on a point of principle as a result, but she appeared to be softening in her old age (the amount of makeup she wore made it impossible to tell if she was in her sixties or eighties).

  As we walked side by side, I tried to peer into the bags.

  ‘Gifts for the guests,’ Joyce said. ‘The bride wants them displayed on a table for people to take when they leave. She’s spent a fortune on some of our nicest items: everything from Christmas tree decorations to little bottles of liquor. There’s earrings for the women and cufflinks for the men – some of those nice stag-antler cufflinks I started stocking this summer. Each bag is worth at least £150.’ She raised her eyebrows and I whistled.

  ‘No expense spared,’ I observed.

  ‘Not for these two. Personally I’d have a small do, but spend the money on the best champagne money can buy and a honeymoon fit for royalty, as is befitting my status and style.’ Her eyebrows headed upwards again, a challenge to contradict her that she knew no one would ever take.

  We were indoors now and I led the way through the Antler Room. More a corridor than a room, it had walls that were covered with magnificent antlers from stags, elks and antelopes. Some were from stags that had been hunted on the estate by previous Dukes and their guests, while others were gifts. One pair was so large it was impossible to comprehend the size of the animal it had once belonged to. The current Duke held no interest in hunting, but this was a fabulous display that had been added to over the centuries and each pair of antlers had its own story to tell.

  One side of the room had been closed off with a ratty piece of rope; it was ugly, but prevented anyone from walking underneath the largest pair of antlers, which I knew had been deemed unsafe. It was still waiting for someone to come and secure it. In the meantime, everyone had to remain on the far side of the room as they passed through.

  After turning a couple more corners and dodging the frantic serving staff who were setting up the table and the florists who were coming and going, we stepped into the State Dining Room. Usually a dark room with its Grinling Gibbons carvings around the doors and fireplace, and walls covered in tapestries and dark wooden panelling, it had been transformed into a warm, inviting and intimate space by cleverly placed lighting. In a room that could easily seat eighty for dinner, the small table for fifteen could have seemed like furniture from a dolls’ house. But instead, it looked like a stage set that you were drawn to and wanted to play a part in. Clusters of pink and purple hydrangea ran along the centre of the table, and hanging amaranth spilled out in between, giving a mossy backdrop and the feel of a forest floor. Crystal glasses and polished silver cutlery sparkled, and the delicately embroidered ivory fabric that covered the tables and chairs glowed in the light. It was stunning.

  ‘Pass them over,’ Joyce called from the other side of the room where a table had been set up so she could display the bags.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I commented. Joyce looked over her shoulder, and then carried on laying the bags out.

  ‘It’s not bad; not a patch on what my own table looks like when I have people over.’ I imagined leopard-print tablecloths and enormous gold candlesticks. I also imaged a lot of laughter and gallons of prosecco.

  A familiar voice disturbed my thoughts.

  ‘Thanks, Joyce, they look great. Hey, Sophie, doesn’t the table look stunning? I really hope the bride is happy; she’s been quite hard work. Now I just need the musicians and we’re set.’

  Yeshim was the events manager for Charleton House and I was beginning to wonder if she breathed through hidden gills as I rarely heard her take a breath. I often ended meetings with her feeling utterly exhausted. She was always perfectly turned out in a dark skirt suit and court shoes. Her jet-black hair was tied in a neat ponytail and her bright red nails added just a drop of glamour. I always felt scruffy next to her, no matter how hard I’d tried.

  As Joyce finished her display and Yeshim had a quick peek into the bags, I heard footsteps behind us and turned to see Gregg, who stopped and smiled.

  ‘When will we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or the State Dining Room? Evening, ladies.’

  Joyce slowly turned to face him. ‘Well I’m glad you ended on “ladies”, Gregory, an improvement on calling us witches.’

  ‘I wasn’t calling you a witch. I was merely intimating,’ he teased.

  ‘Call, intimate, either way, watch yourself. I’ll start calling you a cook next.’ She wagged a finger playfully in his direction while Yeshim and I looked on.

  I knew that Joyce had a soft spot for Gregg; it was hard not to. His long, messy fringe partially covered his eyes and his strong jawline matched his long noble nose. He was thin and angular in a way that I couldn’t understand, bearing in mind how much I knew he could eat. Men and women couldn’t help but track his movements around the room.

  A loud crash and the sound of shattering glass had Gregg turning on his heels and dashing out of the door, shouting expletives. Yeshim went too. Joyce gave me a wave and mouthed ‘See you tomorrow’ before following them through the door. With the musicians now setting up in the corner, the scene was set.

  I was staring out of the window when I heard footsteps behind me. I adjusted my sightline so that instead of looking out at the gardens, I was watching the reflection of the room. The photographer had arrived and was quietly taking photographs; his ability to come into the room with a minimum of fuss was a good sign if he was to capture people enjoying themselves throughout the evening and not rely on staged photos.

  He took a few shots of the room, and close-ups of the table and its beautiful decorations, and then started looking around behind plant pots and curtains.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I offered.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. I need to stash my bag; I don’t want it in anyone’s way, but I need to be able to access my stuff. I’ve not worked in this room before.’

  ‘No problem, follow me.’ I led him back the way I’d come and into the Antler Room. ‘It’ll be safe in here; a couple of staff use it for shortcuts, but no more than that. Put it in the corner and no one will even notice it’s there.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m Nathan Wallace, the wedding photographer, but I guess you knew that.’ He glanced down at his camera and smiled. There was a confidence in the way he held himself and I guessed he could be a bit of a charmer.

  ‘Sophie Lockwood, Head of Catering. Do you have everything you need?’

  ‘Yes, I’m ready. All we need is our blushing bride and Prince Charming.’

  ‘Are you here all night?’ I asked as we walked back.

  ‘No. I’ll head outside and get some shots of them arriving, and then I’m only going to be inside for about half an hour. Make sure I get some shots of them at the table, and then I can go.’

  ‘Sophie?’ Yeshim stuck her head around the door. ‘They’ve just pulled up.’

  ‘Damn!’ Nathan exclaimed. ‘I should be out there.’

  ‘Follow me.’ Yeshim led the way and they both dashed out of the room.

  Next to me, two servers holding trays with glasses of champagne took up position by the door. The musicians began to play and I stepped into the corridor so as not to spoil the initial view of the room in all its glory.

  It was show time.

  Chapter 4

  The string quartet playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons could never have been loud enough to hide the ooohs and aaahs that came from the guests as they entered the State Dining Room. It was a common response, and another reminder that I should never get complacent about the extraordinary environment I got to work in every
day. The guests explored the room with their glasses of champagne, admiring the tapestries and the delicate carvings around the door. I always took great pleasure in telling guests that you could tell whether or not the late seventeenth-century carver, Grinling Gibbons, had actually been paid by looking at the detail in his work. The story goes that he often incorporated a peapod into his carvings of fruit and flowers. If he had been paid for his work, the peapod was open; it would be closed if he had yet to receive his money.

  I watched as the bride stood at the window, looking out into the gardens. It was pitch black except for the fountain in the Great Pond, which had been lit to show off the magnificent lions that prowled around its base. The light danced and sparkled within the bursts of water; from time to time, they’d rocket into the sky and vanish into the night.

  I helped top up the occasional glass and Nathan captured the enjoyment of the guests within the warm glow of the space. The happy couple seemed just that: happy and composed. They were both beautiful and stylish and looked very at home surrounded by so many signs of wealth; it was easy to imagine that they were the residents and hadn’t paid huge sums of money in order to hold their event here.

  The bride, Amelia, ran her own makeup company and was on her way to making a fortune. She was a classic beauty, slim with long blonde hair and perfectly tanned skin. Her husband to be, Patrick, was a lawyer and equally good looking, but he didn’t appear as relaxed as his fiancée. He had sharp features and looked as if he was continually overthinking something; I concluded that he was a man who found it hard to relax. He’d been born only a few miles outside the Charleton estate and his mother still lived in the same small village, which gave him the connection to the house that he had needed in order to get married in the Charleton House chapel.