Patricia Wentworth - Poison In The Pen

As it was, everything that could go wrong did seem to have gone wrong. Miss Eccles said so in one of those pointed, piercing whispers which can be relied upon to carry into the farthest corner. It certainly reached Colonel Repton standing at the chancel steps. Connie Brooke, deputizing for the bridesmaid who had so inopportunely developed German measles, saw him look over his shoulder with one of those frowns which had always frightened her. Whether the whisper reached Valentine Grey or not it was really quite impossible to tell. She stood beside the cousin who was her guardian, very tall and straight and pale, with her chin lifted and her eyes on the old jewelled glass in the east window. It made the chancel dark, but the colours were lovely. And it had been old already when Giles Deverell had it taken down piece by piece and buried it to save it from Cromwell’s men.

Valentine looked at the crimson and violet and sapphire above the altar. The chancel was darkening already, but the colours were bright against the autumn light outside. Her own dress was dark. A dark blue, but it looked black down here in the shadows. She thought, “There are things that you can save if you bury them deep enough,” and heard Maggie Repton say for perhaps the twentieth time, “Oh dear, oh dear, whatever can have kept him?” She did not have to turn her head to be aware of Aunt Maggie sitting in the front pew on the bride’s side of the aisle, fidgeting with her prayer-book, her gloves, the long cut-steel chain which was looped twice about her neck and was constantly getting too tight and having to be eased.

Mettie Eccles in the pew behind had all she could do not to put out a restraining hand. Maggie always did lose her head when anything happened. And what an odd pair she and Scilla Repton made. No one who didn’t know would have taken them for sisters-in-law. But then Roger Repton had made a perfect fool of himself by marrying a girl who was less than half his age. Miss Eccles had had plenty to say about it at the time, and she had plenty to say about it still.

“It’s not as if it was just the difference in their ages. One must be broad-minded, and I have known some really quite successful marriages where the man was a good deal the elder. It doesn’t always answer of course, but I would be the first to admit that it can be quite successful. Only no one can possibly pretend that Scilla Repton is a domestic type. Far from it. I don’t suppose she is prepared to do a hand’s turn in the house, and like everyone else they are terribly understaffed-daily girls from the village. And how much of that will they be able to afford once Valentine has gone? It’s really no use pretending we don’t all know that it is only her money that has made it possible for Roger to hang on at the Manor.”

And now-how much longer would they be able to hang on? Every fibre of Mettie Eccles’ slim body quivered with impatience to know the answer to that. And not to that only.

She was so constituted that ignorance upon any point, so far from being bliss, was really a minor form of torture. She was at this moment quite devoured with curiosity as to why the bridegroom had not turned up. They were going on with the rehearsal without him. Why? One would have thought that they would have waited for more than the ten minutes or so which was all that Roger Repton had conceded. Did they know that it would be no use to wait? But in that case there must have been some message-a wire, a telephone call. But no, there had been no sign of any such thing. Valentine had not been out of her sight for a moment. And nor had Roger, or Maggie, or Scilla. There had been no message. Gilbert Earle was quite definitely and inexplicably absent from his wedding rehearsal. He and his best man were to have driven down from town. They had rooms booked at the George. They were dining at the Manor. The wedding was set for half past two next day. And no sign of Gilbert Earle.

Scilla Repton turned her graceful neck and said in her languid voice,

“Bear up, Maggie. It will be all right on the night.”

Maggie Repton pulled on the steel chain. She had a dreadful feeling that she might be going to burst into tears at any moment, and Roger would be quite dreadfully angry if she did. She met Scilla’s amused glance with a frightened one and said with a catch in her breath,

“Oh, do you think so?”

“My dear, of course! You don’t suppose he’s got stage fright and is backing out, do you?”

There was amusement, even enjoyment behind the words. Mettie Eccles was perfectly aware of it. Not at all the way to talk in church. And not the way to dress either-she felt no doubt about that. She did not approve of people being casual, though as it was only a rehearsal and not the wedding itself, Maggie really needn’t have put on her purple. She knew for certain that it was what she was going to wear at the wedding.

She was having a new hat, but definitely nothing more. The purple should have been kept for tomorrow. Now she herself was wearing just what she always wore at a week-day service. Not in any sense of the word a wedding garment, but perfectly suited to one of the minor church occasions. If Maggie was too dressed up, Scilla, she considered, had gone to the opposite extreme-a tweed skirt, a scarlet cardigan, a black beret pulled on over shining golden hair, a scarf with all the colours of the rainbow. Not suitable-not suitable at all! And Connie copying her in that absurd way! Someone ought to speak to her about it. She would make a point of doing so herself. Scilla’s clothes cost money. A skirt run up at home and a badly knitted jumper were not going to turn poor Connie Brooke into either a beauty or a fashion-plate. To the end of the chapter she would go on being a washed-out copy of somebody else, with her colourless hair, her pale round face, and the poking figure which she really might have done something about if she could ever have remembered to hold herself up.

Miss Eccles felt justifiably pleased with her own neat, upright carriage, in fact with her whole appearance. She might be fifty-five, but she had a complexion, and there was no more than a sprinkling of grey to soften the waves of her hair. Her eyes were still quite startlingly bright and blue. She really had every reason to be pleased with herself.

No one could have felt less pleased with herself than Connie Brooke. If things had been different, it would have been wonderful to be Valentine’s bridesmaid. She had never dreamed of such a thing-how could she? It was only the chance of Lexie Merridew going down with German measles and the dress fitting her. It would have been marvellous if only-if only-

That sick feeling came up in her throat again. It would be awful if she were to be sick in church. She couldn’t be sick with Mrs. Repton looking on. If only she knew what to do-

Tommy had been sweet, but he hadn’t told her what to do. She had meant to tell him everything, but when it came to the point she couldn’t do it. Suppose he didn’t believe her. There were times when she couldn’t believe herself. She didn’t know what to do.

Up at the chancel steps the Reverend Thomas Martin, a large untidy man in the bulging garments familiar to everyone in the village as the more elderly of his two known suits, was understood to say that he thought that would do nicely- very nicely indeed. Since he used a subterranean whisper, no one could be quite sure of the words. He beamed upon Valentine in very much the same way as he had done at her christening, and added more or less audibly,

“You won’t care to be walking up to the altar rails by yourself, so that’s about as far as we can go. He’ll be turning up any time now, and you’ll be laughing at whatever it is that has kept him. Anyhow it’s all quite foolproof, my dear, so you needn’t fret yourself. I’ve married too many couples to let either of you put a foot wrong, so never give it another thought.”