Married to Murder: The Verity Long Mysteries, #4

Married to Murder

by

Lynda Wilcox

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Copyright Notice

Married to Murder © 2014 Lynda Wilcox. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without the expressed written permission of the Author.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 1

Please answer the question, Miss Long.

Detective Inspector Jeremy Farish's jaw clenched. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

You want to know what I think?

Yes.

His liquid brown eyes flashed with impatience as I looked around me, again.

I like it, Jerry. It has real character, but it's going to take a lot of work.

Could you live here?

Me? I thought we were buying a house for you?

It had once been a fine Victorian vicarage, home to countless clergymen and their boisterous broods. As well as a kitchen, scullery, dining and living rooms, it had a study that overlooked the front drive and five bedrooms on the upper floor, although one was no bigger than an outsize shoe box. It also possessed two bathrooms, one of which, surprising for the time, was en-suite to the master bedroom. It would need a major overhaul to bring the kitchen up to modern standards and any plumber asked to fix the Victorian pipework would soon be planning a Caribbean cruise on the proceeds, but some paint and wallpaper would quickly transform the rest of the place.

Well?

It will cost a fortune to do the kitchen and install proper heating, I said, looking down at the estate agent's details again. And the garden's like a wilderness.

Yes, but dammit woman, could you live here?

I took another look around the living room with its vast bay windows and cosy fireplace. All things considered, I thought I probably would enjoy living here once the place had been done up. It had a good location on the main London Road, spacious rooms, plenty of parking, and a sun-trap area outside the dining room just begging for a paved patio and raised flower beds.

I looked up into the handsome face of Detective Inspector Jeremy Farish and noticed again the silver hairs among the brown at his temples, and soft eyes that alternately glared and smiled at me. Was he about to ask the question that sent most women into a fit of the vapours?

Yes. I could live here.

He put his arms around my waist and pulled me close.

Then do so. Come live with me and be my love.

Personally, I think ten o'clock on a Sunday morning is a little too early for poetry, and whilst it would be nice to 'all the pleasures prove', I wasn't sure what he was asking.

Well...

Marry me, Verity. Come and live here with me.

But I've got a perfectly good flat.

Be sensible.

He wanted me sensible? Why should I change the habit of a lifetime? Still, maybe we should get married. I was thirty-three years old and Jerry two years older. I had known him for over fourteen months, ever since I'd met him last June during the Star Steps case. Twice he’d saved my life when, against all advice to the contrary from him and my boss, curiosity had got the better of me and I'd started investigating murders on my own and uncovered too much of the truth for a killer's liking. I knew he loved me and I'd kept him waiting long enough, but did I love him? Love him enough to give up my single life, my modern flat in the centre of Crofterton, my independence? There was only one answer to that.

Yes, Jerry. I'll marry you.

The kiss that followed was long, lingering, and so full of sweet tenderness it removed all doubt. I let him fold me in his arms, treasuring the moment.

Of course, I said when we broke apart, I may need to ask KD for a rise in order to pay for all this. I swept a hand around the empty room. As well as the kitchen and central heating, there's furniture to think about, and the mortgage.

Ah. He blushed, a guilty look appearing on his face.

What? Please don't ask me to give up my job. It pays well and I enjoy working. Besides, I'm not cut out to be a housewife.

As researcher-cum-secretary to Kathleen Davenport, a famous crime writer, I had a varied and interesting job, working hours to suit myself, although at busy times I'd gladly done overtime. To be honest, for all the twenty-five year difference in our ages, I'd also become good friends with my employer and I certainly wouldn't want to lose that.

So what has she got you doing at the moment?

I'm researching poisons for her next but one book. It's a fascinating subject, Jerry.

Hmm. He took a step back. I can see I'm going to have to be careful not to upset you. You might serve me cyanide curry, for supper.

Don't be daft. You know I don't cook curries.

Oh, that's all right, then.

We shared a laugh until I said, I really do like working for KD, you know. Are you sure you want me to hand in my notice?

No, of course I don't want you to stop working for Ms Davenport. It's just...

Yes?

I have a confession to make. Now he looked sheepish. I own the house. We don't need to worry about getting or paying a mortgage.

But... but...

I looked again at the sheet of details in my hand. Fernbank, London Road, Crofterton was definitely for sale, for an asking price of four hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. I pursed my lips in a silent whistle.

Look. Come with me, will you?

I followed him out of the living room and down the passage to the dining room where a double set of French doors opened out into the sunny garden. He fished out a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the doors, stepped through, and pulled me with him across the slabbed path.

Sit down.

I perched beside him on a low stone wall edging the unkempt raised lawn beyond which apple and pear trees drooped their fruit-heavy branches toward the ground. Straggly climbers ran riot over the large stone wall that surrounded the property, separating it from its neighbours as if protective of its privacy and wanting to keep an aloof distance.

So, how come you own this place, then?

It's been in the family since my grandfather's day, and I’ve inherited it from my aunt. When we were children I used to come here with my brothers and sister to play with my cousin, Martin, her only child. You can see how big the garden is, plenty of space for kids to run around in. There was an aged horse chestnut over there by the wall, with a rope wrapped around one of its branches for us to swing from, and there's a pond somewhere where we watched tadpoles. The house itself was brilliant for hide and seek. I loved the place and never made any secret of the fact.

It was seldom that Jerry reminisced and I knew next to nothing of his childhood, though he had once told me he came from a large family. I listened with an interest bordering on fascination as his words brought to life the sort of childhood I'd never had and could only dream about.

Is that why she left the house to you?

Yes, I think so. That and the fact that Martin pre-deceased her. He was killed in Afghanistan three years ago.

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.

He shrugged. I barely knew the man, but I knew the boy and have fond memories of him. He was brilliant with a catapult.

And your aunt? Is that why the house is on the market?

Yes. My aunt died about six months ago and I spent some time clearing out the place. I put it up for sale thinking that it was too big for me on my own, but it's hardly a seller's market at the moment, and it occurred to me that if we were married we could keep it and live here ourselves.

So, let me get this straight. You've asked me to marry you because it isn't a seller's market and you've a house on your hands.

Well, yes, of course. Don't all men do that? He grinned.

Beast!

I punched him playfully on the arm and joined in with his laughter. His arm came around my shoulder.

Seriously, are you sure you'd be happy here?

I'll be happy anywhere. As long as I'm with you.

Oh, my dear girl.

Time passed. The August air was warm and filled with bees and butterflies that dipped and soared behind us. A blackbird on the top of the wall let out its joyful tune loud and clear while, by comparison, the rumble of traffic along the London Road reached us but faintly. It felt like a moment stolen in time.

So when would you like to get married? I asked, eventually.

Tomorrow.

Now who's not being sensible?

He laughed. Well, as soon as we can, as soon as you please.

I thought of all the things people normally have to do to arrange a wedding and decided there and then I didn't want all that fuss. So, we sat there in the garden talking it through between us, agreeing on most things, which is always a good start, and planning a September wedding. Our wedding.

Now, I just had to tell my boss — and Valentino.

* * * * *

Did you know, said KD when I walked into the office next morning, that research shows that if you are afraid of spiders, you are more likely to find one in the bedroom.

I somehow doubt it. I helped myself to coffee.

Oh? Why’s that?

I’m terrified of Johnny Depp.

KD roared with laughter.

Good morning, Verity. You’re on good form, I see.

Good morning.

The sun poured like liquid radiance through the conservatory windows and into the office, forming a nimbus around the dark head of my employer as she sat at her desk. She reminded me of a little, round cherub – or is it a seraph? I never did know which was which – with her rosy apple cheeks, and glowing, light-filled face.

I grinned, I couldn't help it, and gave her my news.

Oh, my dear! That's marvellous! Congratulations. She came round the desk toward me and gave me a hug, enveloping me in folds of chiffon and a faint waft of lavender. I'm so pleased for you. Never mind coffee; this calls for Buck's Fizz for breakfast.

No, really, I'm fine. I gulped my coffee, desperate for more caffeine.

Nonsense! I've had the champagne in the fridge for months, hoping for just this eventuality.

Well, perhaps a glass at lunchtime, I said, ignoring the comment. She'd been trying to marry me off to Jerry since almost the day we'd met.

All right, but bring your coffee over here then,  and tell me all about it.

Many years ago when KD first moved into Bishop Lea, one of its downstairs rooms had been turned into a light and airy office by removing the outer wall and replacing it with a semi-circular conservatory, whose double French doors opened onto the side garden. The extra space had been furnished with a round coffee table and four modern easy chairs with high backs, where we would decamp to thrash out her stories, or entertain her few visitors. I took my coffee with me and plonked myself down in the sun. Hands clasped around her knees, she leaned forward.

Now, tell me. Have you set a date yet?

Yes, Saturday, September 3rd.

So soon? Still, I suppose the Inspector was impatient to make you his bride. How romantic.

The look on my face at this Victorian nonsense stopped her for a moment. Sorry. Anyway, go on.

She wanted everything and I did my best to satisfy her, a task made more difficult by her constantly interrupting to ask questions.

Did he go down on one knee?

No, of course he didn't.

I always think that's so romantic.

Whereas I found it faintly ridiculous, but held my peace. My boss is as entitled to her dreams as the rest of us.

Did he give you a ring?

I showed her my bare hands. Not yet.

So, how are you planning the wedding?

It will be a quiet affair. Just a few close friends, as they say.

She looked disappointed for a moment, before brightening. Probably wise, at your age.

Despite the sun, the temperature in the conservatory dropped several notches. I raised my eyebrows at her and she hurried to extricate herself.

Civil service or church?

Oh, definitely civil. We'll hold it at the Register Office.

Well, there are plenty of more exciting and attractive places to get married, these days. Hotels, country clubs, even the grandstand at Crofterton Racecourse has a licence.

I shook my head. No, that's not what we want. But I'll have to look around for somewhere to hold the reception.

What about bridesmaids?

No. There'll just be Jerry, his best man and some of his team, me, you, and Val and Jacques.

No relatives? What about your mother?

I hadn't thought of inviting them, no.

Neither my mother nor my brother and his family had played much part in my life since I'd turned sixteen and I certainly didn't want them showing up, expecting to be fed and accommodated, on my wedding day. I was determined to keep it simple and special.

Oh! Well, in that case... She raised a hand in the air. May I volunteer to be Mother of the Bride?

I laughed. Of course you can. I'd be delighted.

It could have been a great deal worse. The thought of my fifty-eight year old boss as my bridesmaid was not one to dwell on.

I refreshed our coffees while KD went to the bathroom. When she returned we dropped the subject of my nuptials and, resuming her seat at the desk, she asked me to make a couple of phone calls and research natural poisons.

You mean those from plants?

Yes, so far you've looked at the chemical ones, and I'm looking for something different, something unlikely, so that my heroine can solve the case in spectacular fashion.

The character in question is the ever popular amateur sleuth, Agnes Merryweather, a Church of England vicar in a rural English parish. So far, KD has written thirty-five books about the lady minister with a nose for crime, and her legion of fans are always demanding more. I know; it's my job to open the fan mail.

You can forget about belladonna, monkshood or digitalis, they've been overdone, my boss went on. Find me a surprising one.

Easier said than done but, never one to refuse a challenge, I threw myself into my task with such enthusiasm that she almost had to drag me away from the screen at one o'clock.

Come on, Verity. Lunch is ready.

At the scrubbed pine table in Bishop Lea's vast kitchen, she removed the fizz from the fridge and poured a generous glass for herself and, at my insistence because I had to drive home, a smaller one for me. She had already set out a selection of cold meats, cheeses, and salad items so, as Victorian writers were wont to say, we made a hearty repast.

Have you thought, she said, spearing a tomato and staring at it, about hiring a wedding planner?

Are you asking me or the tomato?

Oh, sorry. I was just thinking that it's also called love apple.

I see, I said, though I didn't. And its stem and leaves are toxic. Using the leaves as a tea have resulted in at least one fatality. I gave her the benefit of my morning's reading. Sorry, that's changing the subject. What's a wedding planner?

Oh, they're all the rage. These days everyone uses them. Companies that help you plan your wedding.

But I want to plan my own, thank you. It's really not going to be or a large or grand affair, you know.

Not if I had anything to do with it, anyway. The idea of letting someone else plan the small, quiet celebration Jerry and I had talked about, seemed frankly ludicrous. Once I'd found somewhere for the reception there'd be little or no planning to do. KD, however, thought differently.

There's a lot to do, Verity. Photographers, the Register Office, and cars to book, guest lists and invites to arrange, flowers, a reception venue to find and caterers to hire. Oh! Don't forget the wedding cake. Then there's the entertainment to sort out and the video —

Video? What video?

She shook her head at my ignorance.

People have videos taken of the ceremony and the reception.

They do? How ghastly.

"Well, it's quite the fashion, I understand. Anyway, a member of my Ladies' Business Club who's also a friend of mine, has set up just such a planning service. I can let you have her phone number,