George. Some of us have homes to go to, you know.”
George gave her a baleful glare. “I won’t keep anyone longer than I have to. Now, first, I need the name of the unfortunate victim.”
“I don’t see how we can tell you that,” Rita retorted, “seeing as how we don’t know who’s been killed.”
“It’s the tall gentleman,” Elizabeth said helpfully. “He has blond hair and is wearing a dark gray suit with a blue silk tie.”
“Oo, I remember ’im,” Nellie Smith piped up. “Handsome bugger, he was. Who would want to kill a nice-looking bloke like that? What a bloomin’ waste.”
Rita turned on her at once. “Is that all you can think about? How handsome he was? He’s lying down there with a knife in his chest. Have you no respect for the dead, Nellie Smith?”
“Of course I do,” Nellie said hotly. “I only meant-”
“And how did you know he had a knife in his chest?” George demanded.
Rita tossed her head. “It happens to be my knife, doesn’t it. Bessie told me where it was.” Her voice lost some of its bravado when she added, “I’ll never use that knife again to cut another wedding cake. Not after knowing where it’s been.”
“I just can’t believe he’s dead,” Bessie said, her voice still quivering. “I was just talking to him in the kitchen an hour or so ago. What a dreadful thing to happen. Thank the Lord Wally and Priscilla got away before I found the body.”
George looked around. “Seems as if a lot of people got away,” he said darkly. “What I want to know is, what’s the name of the deceased? Someone’s got to know who he is.”
Neville Carbunkle, who had been hovering around in the background, stepped forward. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” he said. “Wally didn’t know him. I heard him asking someone who he was.”
George pulled a notepad from his top pocket, then spent an agonizing minute or two hunting for a pencil. Having found one in his trousers pocket, he licked the end of it and started scribbling.
“The chap he asked didn’t know the bloke, either,” Neville added, “but I did see the… er… deceased having nasty words with the photographer earlier.”
Bessie smothered a gasp with her hand.
George turned to her. “Got something to say, Bessie?”
Bessie fanned her face with her hand. “Well, it’s just… when I spoke to the dead man… well, he wasn’t dead when I spoke to him, of course, but you know what I mean…”
George loudly cleared his throat. “Just refer to the deceased as the deceased, then we’ll all know what you mean.”
Bessie nodded, gulped, then said in a rush, “Well, the deceased, who wasn’t deceased yet, asked me for some confetti and I said, What for? ’cause I wasn’t ready to bring it up yet and I told him I was going to bring it up right before the wedding couple left and he said he wanted it to play a joke on Dickie, so I said what sort of joke and he said it was just a bit of fun and I said as how Dickie didn’t like jokes very much and he said he’d like this one and I said-”
“Hold on, hold on,” George butted in, sounding irritable. “I can’t write all that down when you’re rattling on so fast, can I.”
Bessie drew a breath. “I just wanted to tell you-”
“Wait a minute.” George looked over his notes, mumbling, “Wanted to play a joke.” He looked up again. “Who’s Dickie?”
“The photographer,” Bessie explained. “Dickie Muggins. He lives in North Horsham and his mother comes into my tea shop all the time. I told Priscilla about him and she asked him to take the photographs for the wedding.”
“Bit of a nance that one, if you ask me,” Neville muttered.
George ignored him. “So what was this joke all about, then?”
Bessie frowned. “Well, he wouldn’t tell me, would he. I told him the confetti was in the cellar and it were staying there until I was ready to bring it up.”
George went on writing. “Is this Dickie Muggins still here?” he asked, when he lifted his head again.
“No,” Elizabeth told him. “I saw him leave right after Wally and Priscilla left.”
George nodded. “Thank you, m’m.” He looked at Neville. “You said you heard Mr. Muggins arguing with the deceased?”
“I didn’t hear them. I saw them.” Neville gestured toward the kitchen. “I was dancing by the door and I saw the photographer shake his fist in the victim’s face and I could tell he was worked up about something.”
“When was this, then?”
“It was before they cut the cake and made all those speeches. I know that, because I was dancing with Marge at the time.”
Everyone looked at Marge, who blushed and giggled like a young girl.
The sight reminded Elizabeth of the way Violet looked in Charlie Gibbons’s arms. Elizabeth looked around for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Has anyone seen Violet and Martin?” she asked, interrupting whatever George was saying.
He frowned in disapproval but waited for someone to answer her.
“I think they went home with the Winterhalters,” Nellie offered. “They were riding in that big black motorcar.”
“Lucky buggers,” Marge Gunther muttered. “We all have to walk home.”
“Well, it’s not as far as the Manor House, is it,” Nellie said.
George loudly cleared his throat. “If I may have your attention, would someone please tell me who invited the deceased to the wedding and what his name is?”
“Well I should think,” Elizabeth said mildly, “that if Wally didn’t know him, he couldn’t have invited him, so he must be a friend of Priscilla’s.”
“No,” a voice declared from the back of the group. “Prissy didn’t invite him either.” Priscilla’s flamboyant schoolfriend pushed to the front of the group. “She never set eyes on him until today.”
George gazed up at Fiona with obvious admiration for a full second, then coughed and looked down at his notepad. “And you are?”
“Mrs. Fiona Farnsworth. I’m an old friend of the bride.”
George scribbled again. “Well now, if Captain Carbunkle didn’t invite the deceased, and Miss Pierce-or I should say Mrs. Carbunkle now-didn’t invite him, then who in blue blazes did invite him?”
“Maybe you should ask the other bridesmaid.” Fiona’s companion had stepped up behind her. “I understand they knew each other very well.”
Fiona stared at her escort. “Tess? How’d you know that?”
Malcolm’s smile was indulgent as he laid an arm across Fiona’s shoulders. “I heard them talking, my love. Actually,
His last remark had been directed at George, who was furiously scribbling on his notepad. “And you are?”
“Malcolm Ludwig, old chap. I’m engaged to be married to this lovely lady here.”
“Well, that’s two people already who didn’t like the bloke,” George muttered. “I’ll need to have the photographer’s address and phone number, and I’ll have a word with that young lady. What’s her name?”
“Tess Winterhalter,” Elizabeth answered him. “I understand she went down to the Tudor Arms with some of the other guests. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. If you like, you can come up to the manor later and talk to her. Her parents will be there, as well.”
Her concern was for the young girl, who would no doubt feel more secure in being questioned by the police if her parents were present.
George, however, murmured, “Good idea, your ladyship. I should like to question the young lady’s parents, anyhow, seeing as how the deceased was a friend of their daughter.”
“Does that mean we can all go home now?” Rita demanded peevishly.
“Not so fast,” George declared, as the ladies made a general movement to disperse. “I want to know if anyone saw anything unusual.”
“We saw Marge’s knickers,” Nellie said, with a wicked leer.
Marge gasped above the titters from the group. “You did not!”
