G Malliet: Death of a Cozy Writer

“Stay for a chat, then, Mrs. Romano,” said Sir Adrian, motioning her to one of the chairs opposite his desk. She settled her generous form into the upholstered chair, mentally kicking her shoes off. This, too, was a frequent part of the ritual. More than most, she knew the solitariness of Sir Adrian’s day; like no one else, she felt sorry for him.

“How are the wedding dinner preparations coming along?”

Mrs. Romano, who had been steadfastly avoiding the subject, sidestepped with a question of her own.

“I did wonder, Sir Adrian, if it wouldn’t be better for me to speak with the bride about the preparations?”

“Whatever for?”

“Er. I mean, she is the bride, and traditionally…” She trailed off. Mrs. Romano was seldom without words or an opinion, but something, as the British say, was fishy here, and she wasn’t going to venture too far without finding out first what it was.

“Tradition be damned,” said Sir Adrian. “Violet wouldn’t know a cauliflower from a pig’s brain-always too busy worrying about her figure to actually eat anything. She wouldn’t know what you were talking about.”

Not for the first time, Mrs. Romano wondered at the oddity of this proposed May-December match. Clearly it was a case of Jack Spratt and his wife in reverse, for one thing. But there was something more that bothered her. She knew Sir Adrian better than most and there was something, she felt, all wrong about all this. Violet Winthrop had emerged as a name spoken by Sir Adrian only in the past few months, and now these sudden wedding plans, with only the family invited, no friends. Of course, Sir Adrian had no friends, she reflected sadly. The ceremony was to be performed here in the library by a multidenominational pastor Sir Adrian had apparently selected from the phone listings. Why, at his age? The obvious answer of post-midlife crisis seemed out of character for Sir Adrian. There were men and there were men , after all. There was nothing Mrs. Romano felt she didn’t know about men. But she had never known Sir Adrian to face any crisis with other than blustering indifference.

And where was the blushing bride while all these preparations were going on?

“As for the refreshments after the ceremony,” she said now, “Champagne, of course. And I thought maybe a nice-”

“Too soon to worry about that now,” Sir Adrian said.

Too soon? With the wedding a few days away?

“Very well, Sir Adrian.” Long experience had taught her that there were times to ignore Sir Adrian, and this was one of them. Privately, she began listing the provisions she would order from the greengrocer and butcher in town. Raised on Italian weddings in her small village where the drunken celebrations had gone on for days, with or without the happy couple, she was having trouble paring this celebration down to the hole-in-corner affair Sir Adrian seemed to want.

She left the library some ten minutes later, following a spirited discussion with Sir Adrian as to how to prepare a traditional British roast with garlic, no easier in her mind than when she entered. Something is wrong here, she thought, pulling the massive doors, thick enough to repel an army, closed behind her.

“Something is wrong here,” she announced to Watters, having surged her way back to the kitchen more slowly than usual, lost in thought, looking more than ever like an older Sophia Loren in Two Women . She was not surprised to see Watters still sitting there at the oak refectory table, slowly sipping his highly sweetened tea. At eighty-two, his role as gardener at Waverley Court had largely been reduced to taking a few feeble swipes with the pruning sheers at the rosebushes in the formal gardens, and pulling whichever weeds yielded themselves to his ineffectual tugging. The real work of maintaining the grounds was done by a hired firm from nearby Newton Coombe, which came in twice a week and largely prevented Watters from doing more damage than he might otherwise have done.

Now he roused himself from contemplating the tea leaves in the bottom of his cup to peer enquiringly around the kitchen.

“No,” said Mrs. Romano. “I mean here, at the house, in general. This wedding. Everything about it is not right. He is up to something, you mark my words.”

“No fool like an old fool,” intoned Watters, looking pleased, as if he’d newly minted the thought.

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Romano, briskly gathering the tea things and traversing what looked, from a bird’s-eye view, like miles of stone floor to reach the stainless steel double sink. “But that is not what I meant. I do not think he is serious about this at all. We are only days away from the wedding and-has he even mentioned flowers to you?”

Watters shook his head.

“He had me bring in a couple of Christmas trees and some of them poinsettia plants for the house.”

“No, I mean flowers . You know, flower arrangements, for a wedding.”

“Nah. I thought ’twere strange, that. Can’t have a wedding without flowers, can you now?”

“Exactly. No, you can’t.”

Mrs. Romano folded her arms, strong as a ship builder’s, under her impressive bosom. A crease appeared between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“I’ll tell you what I think. What I think is I do not think there is going to be a wedding. This week or next week or any time in the future. I do not think that is what he has planned at all.”

“Eh?” Watters’ mind raced, trying to keep up with Mrs. Romano. “Don’t be daft. The family will all be here, all invited, like.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Romano. Absently, she flicked a dishcloth in the direction of a bread crumb. “Yes. The family will all be here. And I think that what Sir Adrian has planned is not a wedding, but the fireworks.”

THE DAY BEFORE THE wedding dawned with a wintry brilliance that by midday had settled into a mind-numbing, cloak-defying chill only to be found in the unprotected surrounds of Cambridgeshire. Unshielded by barriers either natural or artificial, the area was pummeled throughout the winter months by an Arctic blast that from time immemorial had driven itself directly from the north across the sea, sweeping undeterred past shore, fen, farmland, and village, straight into the bones of rich and poor alike. It was hard to imagine a more unlikely time for a wedding.

Sir Adrian, surveying the wintry scene before him from the French doors of the drawing room as he sipped a pre-dinner sherry, was pleased. Yesterday he had traveled to Cambridge to sign his newest will in the presence of witnesses, and he had the sense of accomplishment that comes mainly to those who enjoy creating unholy mischief.

If he could have seen past the slightly rolling hills of the grounds as far as to the village of Newton Coombe, he would have observed a dilapidated red sports car approaching the village, veering dangerously on the narrow road lined by stone walls that gapped unexpectedly to reveal a loose sheep or a stray car attempting to cross the fray of the main thoroughfare. The driver of the car, reaching the outskirts of the village, indicated unofficially by a smattering of tiny worker’s cottages tarted up to attract the highest bidder among fleeing suburbanites, gave a token tap on the brakes and slowed to within twenty kilometers of the speed limit before screeching to a halt in front of the Thorn and Crown. The car door opened, and the driver tumbled rather than slid out from the tiny opening thus created, just managing to escape the appearance of having landed on his hands and knees. He righted himself with elaborate dignity, and proceeded with careful steps toward the pub.

It was Albert, and Albert was very drunk.

The pub owner greeted him as a long-lost friend, as indeed he was. Albert, a generous tipper, generally well-behaved and with enormous drinking capacity, was always a welcome sight.