A Killer Wedding Read online

  I watched Patrick slip his arm around Amelia’s waist. Nathan stepped over to take what looked like the perfect photograph: the beautiful couple admiring the view from within the magnificent State Dining Room, looking every inch the lord and lady of the manor. As Patrick turned and saw Nathan, his expression darkened.

  ‘Do you have to?’ he muttered, loud enough for both Nathan and me to hear. Nathan lowered his camera, apologised and backed off, although he didn’t look sorry, more exasperated. I was surprised by Patrick’s annoyance, but I knew that many people hated being in front of a camera, and as discreet as Nathan was managing to be, it was a large room with a small group of people in it, and limited places for him to secrete himself and remain out of sight, especially if he wanted to capture some intimate photos of the couple and their guests.

  Eventually Yeshim called everyone to dinner and the group took their places. They were seated at a large round table, which made it feel like an intimate family meal. Patrick and Amelia sat side by side, talking quietly, but now she didn’t look quite so happy. She appeared to snap a remark at Patrick, then took a swig of champagne. Looking steadfastly across the table, she ignored whatever he was muttering through gritted teeth. It seemed Craig was right about them. I hoped that marriage would indeed introduce a little bliss into their lives.

  Next to Amelia was her mother with a neat and tidy blonde bob. She was sitting with a round man in a dark suit who reminded me of Oliver Hardy, only without the bowler hat and toothbrush moustache. Beside him was Craig, who looked decidedly uncomfortable behind his forced smile. Amelia’s mother was trying to get his attention and show him something on her phone, leaning across the rotund man as if he wasn’t there. He didn’t seem to mind and kept chatting across the table with a young brunette woman, who was laughing at all his jokes.

  The brunette finished laughing at his latest comment and stood up, clinking a spoon against her champagne glass.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ she clinked the glass again, ‘ladies and gentleman.’ Her voice was firm and clear; I guessed she was used to public speaking. The chatter turned into whispers, someone ‘shushed’ the table, and eventually silence settled. ‘Welcome to glorious Charleton House, the perfect setting for the wedding of such a beautiful couple. Amelia, Patrick, it’s wonderful to be able to spend this evening together, a much more intimate prelude to tomorrow’s celebrations. I’m honoured to take on the perhaps unusual role of best woman for Patrick, and although I have prepared the obligatory embarrassing speech for tomorrow…’ there were cheers and whoops from some of the guests ‘…I would like to say just a few words this evening…’

  Everything seemed to be running like clockwork and I quietly stepped out of the room. I made my way down some back stairs to the kitchen where the smell of lamb made my mouth water. Gregg was serving the locally farmed lamb with a broad bean ragù, goats’ cheese, pomme purée and lemon jam. I’d been lucky enough to experience it first hand when he’d been exploring ideas and trying things out months earlier.

  I loved the cacophony of sound in a working kitchen; it was like being on the footplate of a steam train and just as exciting to me. Gregg’s height and bearing made him the perfect engine driver and he delivered his instructions with clarity, and everyone who worked with him respected both his culinary and organisational skills. He wasn’t one of those awful stereotypes of the angry chef; he was firm and in control, but respectful. It was very difficult to imagine him losing his temper.

  Servers were collecting the prepared plates and heading upstairs.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ I shouted over at Gregg.

  ‘Sure, can you grab another basket of bread? Apparently they want more.’

  I returned to the dining room and placed the bread on the table.

  ‘What a beautiful blouse.’

  I looked at my shirt. It was made from cream-coloured cotton with tiny stag heads dotted all over it. It was also five years old and fraying at the cuffs, but I loved it and hoped no one would notice the signs of wear and tear.

  ‘Just perfect. In fact, your whole ensemble is really quite lovely.’

  My ‘ensemble’ was, I knew, nothing special, and the owner of the slightly syrupy voice was clearly a lunatic. I looked at my admirer. He was the only person dressed in a dinner jacket and looked like a butler who had accidentally sat down for dinner. From where I stood, I was able to look down onto his shiny bald patch.

  ‘I’m going to assume, from your attire and bearing, that you’re management, and I have to say everyone appears to be doing a splendid job, with few exceptions. I’m used to attending some rather fine dinners and this compares very favourably.’ His eyes were fixed on mine and I could have sworn I saw him lick his lips, slowly.

  ‘Umm, thanks,’ I responded, unsure how else to reply to his condescendingly delivered remarks.

  ‘Levi Moreland.’ He offered me his hand, but I noticed he didn’t bother standing. ‘I was able to fit this wedding in between acting jobs; I’ve just completed a stint on the West End and am about to head off to LA. My agent has a number of auditions lined up for me – all just going through the motions, of course. There are numerous directors who have been trying to fit their filming schedules around my recent engagements. It seems my experience and talent at accents are very much in demand.’

  The only thing I could imagine him being in demand for was the role of ‘gruesomely murdered victim on a gurney’, and even that would probably get cut in the edits. I smiled and nodded, not wanting to encourage him.

  ‘I’ve taken a week off and am staying at a pub down the road. A lovely inn – The Grey Duck or something…’

  ‘The Black Swan,’ I interrupted.

  ‘That’s the one. You know, it would be marvellous to have a local guide to show me some of the highlights of the area; perhaps you have a day off and could show me around. I’m sure your knowledge of the house is second to none.’

  ‘Thank you, but we have some very good tour guides who would be more than happy to take you around.’ I could easily think of one it would be fun to inflict Mr Hollywood on.

  ‘Oh, but I can’t imagine they would be such delightful company.’ He dug a business card out of his pocket. ‘Please, call me anytime. I can have a bottle of Dom Pérignon put on ice in my room for when you’ve finished showing me around and you can tell me all about yourself.’

  Making a show of inspecting his card and then tucking it in the waistband of my skirt, I attempted to smile sweetly, although I probably looked as if I had constipation, and backed away. On my way out of the room, I turned and saw him cast a lingering eye over the legs of a young female server.

  I passed Mark as I returned to the kitchen. Between courses he would deliver witty talks about the history of the house, weaving in wedding themes here and there.

  ‘Mark, there’s a guy in a tuxedo. I’m sure he’d appreciate some of your time.’

  ‘On it,’ he replied. I chuckled to myself as I walked away.

  Regardless of my desire to avoid the winner of the Oscar for most skin-crawling attempt at chatting me up, there really was no need for me to stay for the whole evening. I’d shown my face and Gregg had seen that his boss was interested in what was going on. The food looked and smelt wonderful, and the occasional mouthful that Gregg had passed my way had been superb.

  When I made my way back up to the State Dining Room to say goodbye to Yeshim, happy that my team was – as ever – doing the department proud, I was surprised to see Joyce. I thought she had long since left the house. I leant over the table of gift bags to see what she was doing.

  ‘I finished a pile of paperwork and was putting on my coat when I spotted a box of cufflinks on my desk. I must have been distracted. Now I need to find which blasted bag is missing a pair.’ It was remarkable how, with nails like the blades on a Swiss army knife, she was able to untie the ribbons and fasten them back up again at such speed. ‘Got it. Right, I’m going home.’

  She let out a sigh
of relief.

  ‘Cookie?’

  Until he spoke, I hadn’t noticed an older gentleman watching Joyce, his eyes practically out on stalks. Initially I put that down to her rather conspicuous outfit, but it wasn’t just that. In fact, he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her outfit. His eyes were firmly set on her face.

  ‘Cookie?’ he asked again.

  I looked at Joyce. Despite the solid layer of makeup that she wouldn’t have been seen dead without, I could tell that she had gone pale. Frozen to the spot, she resembled the proverbial rabbit in the headlights, and after a few seconds I was starting to get worried. I’d never seen her speechless; I hadn’t thought it possible.

  I was about to rest a hand on her arm to try to stir her when she finally spoke.

  ‘Harold? Harry? It can’t be.’ A smile spread across the man’s face. ‘But it’s been almost forty years.’

  ‘It’s me, Cookie, and you’re as beautiful as you were all those years ago.’

  Now I was speechless.

  Chapter 5

  I pulled the duvet up higher and rolled onto my side; I would have sworn that every morning was colder than the last. Hearing a grumble from the bottom of the bed, I realised that Pumpkin, my oversized tabby, must be curled up by my feet. I could feel her weight shift as she stood, stretched, and then resettled herself in behind the crook of my knee.

  She was out of luck if she thought I’d be in this position for long, especially as I’d caught a glimpse of the clock. As blind as I was without my glasses, I could see enough to know that I was two minutes away from my alarm going off. I reached out to turn it off and sat up. Pumpkin gave a tired meow and jumped off the bed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I shouted after her. ‘Put the kettle on, will you?’ I briefly considered taking a shower before I made my first coffee of the day, but reconsidered when I realised that might result in me drowning or flooding the flat. I shouldn’t do anything without a cup of coffee in me, and that included making decisions about whether or not I need a cup of coffee.

  I was grateful for the rich smell of my espresso. I’d spent the last few weeks painting my sitting room and the smell of fresh paint lingered, so coffee aromas were a welcome alternative. It had taken me well over a year to choose a colour, and a month to complete the job, which for such a small room was, I realised, ridiculous and a perfect illustration of how lazy I could be without a work-imposed deadline.

  I held the cup to my nose and took a deep breath. Pumpkin was eating and purring simultaneously, and I had a couple of eggs in the pan. As far as I was concerned, breakfast was a distraction I could do without, but to my eternal frustration, I was not one of those people who could start the day on coffee alone.

  My walk to work was a two-mile stroll through the rolling hills of the estate and I made the effort to do it far less often than I should. My path took me across fields and eventually along the banks of a river that passed in front of the house. The morning mist was still covering the tops of the trees. Sheep had their noses to the ground and were resolutely ignoring me. In the distance a herd of deer gathered under some trees, and just beyond them a stag stood alone, head up, antlers on full display.

  I stopped to look at the house. It too was still shrouded in mist, looking eerily quiet as I was too far away to see any signs of life. I was used to seeing it through the eyes of many of our visitors; it was everything they’d be likely to expect from a historic British house, with the romantic characters and polished displays of wealth and generosity that go with that. Sometimes, however, I got a peek at the other side. At night, or on days like this, it wasn’t difficult to turn my mind to the darker side of life at Charleton.

  Throughout the centuries, the family had had their fair share of scandal and shady dealings. There were ancestors who had brought shame on the Fitzwilliam-Scott name, and others who had managed to keep their secrets locked away, but they were there. It was impossible that everything could be known from centuries of history. The current Duke was well known for being prepared to discuss every story, no matter how dark or disturbing. He often said that the best way to avoid scandal was to air your dirty linen before anyone had the chance to steal it from your laundry basket and air it for you.

  And those stories were added to day by day, even now. In the short time I had worked there, there had been two murders, both of which I’d found myself caught up in investigating. For a while they had thrown confusion and sadness over the house, but now they were just the most recent additions building on the history of those who had gone before. They were a part of the lies and the intrigue, the gossip and the pain that a family of this kind could never avoid.

  The house looked so calm, as if it was still sleeping, the past forgotten and the future not yet known. I was excited by the thought that I was now a part of its history, and although I wasn’t a historian and my role had more to do with cupcakes than revealing the stories of the past, I was curious to know more. The sleeping house was a source of excitement and possibilities for me, although I knew that in reality today was going to be more about sore feet and paperwork piling up in the office as I hadn’t been able to get all the staff I needed.

  I turned towards the house, watching the pediments and urn-like finials on the roof slowly revealing themselves from within the mist. I could have been the only person around for miles. In the summer months, it was easy to find excuses to get out of the office and take a long route to meetings or explore the gardens with a coffee in my hand. In the winter, it was far too easy to stay indoors and forget that we had access to most of the estate. It didn’t take much to remain at my desk or close to the ovens and stay warm and dry, and it became a hard habit to break out of as the months slid by. This morning I was determined to enjoy the chill that crept in under my jacket and breathe in the ice-cold air, knowing that I might not get out of the café for hours now that I was a supervisor down.

  I was disturbed from my thoughts by the rustle of leaves and the snap of branches on the hillside above me. A runner was heading in my direction. They half ran, half slid, allowing the gathering momentum to propel them down, but with enough control to be able to come to a stop in front of me. The woman was familiar, although I couldn’t be 100 per cent sure as her face was partly obscured by a baseball cap.

  ‘Morning. On your way to work?’ she asked as she took hold of her foot and brought it up under her bum, stretching out her toned thigh. She was barely out of breath.

  ‘I am. I’m sorry, do I know you?’

  ‘I was at the dinner last night; I’m Suzanne, the best woman. I made one of the speeches.’ I nodded as I remembered. It wasn’t the first time I’d known a groom choose a woman as his best person.

  I looked down at her running shoes. ‘I’m impressed. I’d love to be the kind of person who could get up early for a run, but somehow the snooze button always gets another hit.’

  Suzanne laughed. ‘My father was in the military and he extended the routine to home life. I can count on one hand the number of lie-ins I had as a teenager. Now it’s so ingrained in me, I couldn’t stay in bed if I wanted to.’

  I laughed too, remembering the mornings I’d spent in bed in my youth, driving my parents crazy. ‘Are you ready for this afternoon?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely. In fact, I’ll probably be short of things to do today. I’m glad I’m responsible for Patrick; he’s so easy to organise. We’re very alike so everything’s been finalised for days.’ She started running on the spot. ‘I might even fit in another run before the ceremony.’

  Suzanne beamed a smile at me and set off down the hill, disappearing along a path that would take her up and around the back of the house into woodland. I shook my head in wonder and strode off, a little faster than before, inspired by her boundless energy.

  Boundless energy was not what I had when I arrived in the Library Café. It was still dark and there was little natural light in the room at the best of times. I tossed my coat and bag onto one of the armchairs that sat in
front of the fireplace, switched on the lights and illuminated the rows of books. Hundreds and hundreds of books around the walls recreated the feel of the Duke’s library.

  I fetched my favourite Kenyan coffee beans and started to prepare a mug of drip coffee. This was my quiet time – an opportunity to enjoy the café before staff and visitors arrived, and get my thoughts in order. I enjoyed watching the water soak through the coffee grounds, it was the closest I got to meditation.

  I had spent my entire career working with the public and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but I loved it when I had the place to myself. Before we opened or after we closed, it didn’t matter; there was something soothing about a public space without the public in it. I took a mouthful of coffee and closed my eyes.

  I heard the door to the café open. There was never any need to lock it; with the house not being open to the public for another couple of hours, the only people who could reach it were staff members. I opened my eyes and saw Joyce standing in front of me.

  ‘Any chance you could make another of those?’ She looked different, but I couldn’t explain why. She also sounded a little flustered and her northern accent was more apparent than usual. When I worked in London and returned from a visit home, my colleagues would say they could immediately tell where I had been for the weekend as they could hear my Derbyshire accent coming through. I wondered if this was an early morning thing for Joyce and she just hadn’t warmed up her faux upper-class speech patterns.

  I pushed my mug over the table for her to finish off; I’d meant it as a joke, expecting her to be horrified, but she took a long drink while I got up to make another cup. I decided it would be easier just to get the big espresso machine going.