Wedding Rows

Marge looked at Florrie’s feet. “I’m not surprised. Where on earth did you get those shoes? The rag bag?”

Florrie looked offended. “They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve got. I’ve had them for years.”

“Bloomin’ looks like it, too.” Marge started walking again, impatient for the search to be over so she could get back to the tea room and have a currant bun and a nice hot cup of tea. They weren’t going to find Nellie in the woods. She was sure of that. It was too easy to get lost in all the trees unless you stuck to the trails, and if she were tied up somewhere, as Rita seemed to think, they’d have surely found her by now.

“Wait for me!” Florrie whined behind her.

Marge stomped on. She wouldn’t put it past Nellie to be messing about with them musketeers, having a good time with them, instead of in danger like Rita said. Somehow Nellie being in danger didn’t seem real.

War was real. Bombs falling and soldiers fighting and planes going down in the ocean. All that was real. People just didn’t go around kidnapping strangers in wartime. There was too much else to worry about. Them musketeers had taken Nellie for a lark, and she was probably back in Bessie’s tea room, telling everyone what a good time she had.

Having salved her conscience, Marge was prepared to make straight for the lane that would lead them back to the main road. To heck with plodding through the rest of the woods. Nellie wasn’t here, and that was that.

“Come on, Florrie,” she called out. “We’re going back home.” Judging whereabouts the lane would be, she veered off the trail to the right and headed in that direction. It took longer than she thought, and she had to struggle up and down banks, squeeze through shrubbery, and climb over fallen logs before she finally sighted the clearing up ahead.

Lost in her thoughts, she’d forgotten about Florrie, until she turned around and saw no sign of her. “Florrie?” She waited, expecting to hear Florrie’s whine, but only the birds twittering in the trees answered her.

“Florrie? Florrie!” Cursing under her breath, Marge climbed back up the bank she’d just slid down. Stupid woman. Now she’d have to go back and get her.

It was even harder going back than it had been coming. She had to hunt for the signs of her tracks to make sure she was going in the right direction. All the time she called out Florrie’s name, until her voice was hoarse. Squirrels chattered at her, sparrows fluttered out of branches, and crows screeched at her, but no sound of a human voice answered her cries.

It didn’t seem possible that the woods were full of people searching for Nellie, and not one of them could hear her. To make matters worse, a faint rumbling of thunder in the distance warned of a storm approaching.

Marge was almost in tears by the time she reached the trail again. Still no sign of Florrie. Stumbling and running, Marge hurried along the trail in the hopes that the silly woman had continued along it. At the pace Florrie was walking, Marge should easily catch up with her. The trail ended, however, without Marge ever seeing another living soul. Thoroughly fed up, she reached the lane and set off for the village.

Either Florrie had gone back the way they’d come, or something bad had happened to her. Now Marge no longer thought Nellie was having a good time with the musketeers. In fact, she was beginning to really worry about her. She was also worried as to how she would explain to Rita that she’d lost Florrie somewhere in the woods.

Elizabeth arrived in North Horsham just before noon. She hadn’t rung Dickie Muggins to let him know she was coming. She’d learned that when people are taken by surprise, they reveal much more if they haven’t had time to prepare their answers.

To her relief, Dickie was in his studios when she called on him. His assistant, a freckled-faced redheaded woman with the unlikely name of Frenchie, ushered her into a waiting room and handed her a tattered copy of a film magazine.

Elizabeth, preferring live theater to the cinema, thumbed through it without paying much attention. She was relieved when Dickie came bustling in, wearing a gaudy orange silk shirt with baggy brown trousers. His black scarf floated behind him as he surged forward, his hand extended as if he meant to shake hers.

Holding firmly onto the magazine, Elizabeth rose smoothly to her feet. Now that she knew the truth about the photographer, she found it rather difficult to meet his gaze. “It was kind of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. Muggins,” she murmured, as he led her into a tiny office.

The walls were covered with photographs, some in color, most in black-and-white. Weddings, birthday parties, horse races, boating regattas, there seemed no end to the functions this weird little man had attended as official photographer.

“I’m so glad you paid me a visit today,” Dickie said, ushering her onto a chair. “I have the proofs of the wedding. I was going to take them into Sitting Marsh, but as long as you’re here, would you mind taking them with you? It would save me a trip.”

“I’ll be happy to take them.” Elizabeth waited until he’d handed her the package before saying, “I don’t know if you’ve heard the sad news, but shortly after you left the wedding on Saturday, Brian Sutcliffe was found dead in the cellar of the Sitting Marsh village hall.”

Dickie’s hand fluttered in front of his face as he uttered a shocked, “Oh, my goodness! Oh, how perfectly dreadful. The poor, poor man. Whatever happened?”

“He was stabbed through the heart,” Elizabeth said bluntly.

Dickie staggered, felt for a chair, and sat down on it. “Are you telling me someone murdered him? But that’s simply ghastly. Oh, dear, oh, dear! Whatever next?”

Elizabeth was far too astute to be swayed by this show of false emotion. “I understand you and Mr. Sutcliffe had a difference of opinion at the Tudor Arms last Friday night.”

The photographer’s eyes narrowed, and his voice sounded deeper when he answered. “Who told you that, may I ask?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

Dickie made a pretense of brushing something from his sleeve. “We had an altercation, yes. Nothing major. It was all resolved rather quickly.”

“I was told you gave Mr. Sutcliffe a warning. I also heard that you were arguing with him in the kitchen shortly before his death.”

Dickie’s mouth hardened. “If you’re suggesting that I killed the man, you couldn’t be more wrong. I am well used to intolerant, misinformed people like Brian Sutcliffe. His attacks were nothing new to me. I assure you, if I went around killing everyone who insulted me I’d have an army of deaths on my hands. I am many things, Lady Elizabeth. I’d be the first to tell you that my lifestyle may be controversial, but a murderer? No, indeed not.”

“Not even if your lifestyle is threatened?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

Dickie Muggins looked her straight in the eye. “Not even then.”

For some reason, she believed him. Picking up her handbag, she said briskly, “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Muggins.”

She was about to depart when he spoke again. “I’m not the only one who argued with Sutcliffe, you know. If I were you, I’d have a chat with that bridesmaid. The tall one. I had the room next to Sutcliffe, and I heard her cursing him on the landing. Not nice language for a lady to use at all.”

Elizabeth paused. “You mean Fiona Farnsworth?”

“I believe that’s her name, yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Muggins. I appreciate your time.” She left, frowning. Of course, Fiona had gone to Brian Sutcliffe’s room. She had forgotten about that. Goodness, she was letting her worries about Earl and Nellie cloud her brain. It wasn’t like her at all to forget something so important during an investigation. Though what Fiona might have to do with Brian Sutcliffe’s death was hard to imagine.

“You did what?” Rita’s yell was even more terrible than Marge had expected. “How could you possibly lose Florrie? She’s not a dog, you know. She didn’t just run off.”

Marge explained as best she could, while the women who had made it back to the tea shop sat looking at her as if she’d deliberately got Florrie lost. “I went all the way back,” she said, looking longingly at the plate of Chelsea buns on Rita’s table. “I even went down the trail after her. She just disappeared.”

“The musketeers got her,” Joan Plumstone muttered.

A chorus of shocked cries turned the heads of nearby customers.

“Shh!” Rita warned. “We don’t want to start a panic, for heaven’s sake. Florrie just got lost, that’s all. Let’s