Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [74]
Angela desperately tried again and again to call Elspeth. But she was not at the television studio and she had her mobile switched off. She wondered whether to go and see Mrs. Wellington. But what proof did she have? And everyone in the village was very excited about the wedding.
She went to the church—which was never locked—sat down in a pew, and prayed that somehow, something would happen to stop the wedding.
Chapter Twelve
Behold while she before the altar stands
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks
And blesseth her with his two happy hands
—Edmund Spenser
The day of Josie’s wedding to Hamish Macbeth dawned bright and sunny. The village buzzed with anticipation. Those who were not married found the whole idea of a wedding romantic, and those who were had a feeling of schadenfreude that some other poor soul was about to be chained in holy matrimony.
Cottage bedrooms reeked of mothballs as rarely used finery was taken out to be put on. Men grumbled that their suits had shrunk and the more tactful wives refrained from pointing out that they had put on weight.
The Currie sisters, each donning a large hat, looked like a couple of small toadstools, for the hats were of brown straw topping their camel-hair coats.
Josie squeezed herself into a body stocking and took a swig of vodka to stop her hands shaking. Her mother came into her room to help her put on the wedding gown.
“Your face is all blotchy!” exclaimed Flora. “You smell bad. Have you had a bath?”
An excess of vodka sometimes does not smell like alcohol but more like a nasty body odour.
“It’s just nerves,” said Josie, spraying her armpits with deodorant. “Help me on with my dress and then I’ll make up my face.”
In the police station, Hamish stood before the wardrobe mirror in his bedroom, dressed in a rented morning suit, and surveyed himself miserably in the glass.
Jimmy came in, similarly attired. “Cheer up, Hamish. It’s your wedding day. And you’re going off on your honeymoon. Think of all that hot sun.”
If only I could win the lottery, thought Hamish. We could live in separate houses. Why on earth did I not just promise to pay maintenance for the child and remain single? But in his heart he knew that in an old-fashioned village like Lochdubh it would be looked on as a scandal. Daviot would never stand for it. Seducing a policewoman!
“I gather we don’t have a limo to take us to the kirk,” said Jimmy.
“It’s only a few yards. We walk.”
“Your ma must be pleased.”
“Aye, she’s looking forward to seeing some grandchildren,” said Hamish. He had been avoiding his family of late, frightened that that strange highland telepathy might pick up on his distress. He had not even introduced Josie to them, making excuses time after time that she was out on a job.
“Well, let’s go,” said Jimmy impatiently. “Want a drink?”
“No.” Hamish made his way to the kitchen door. He bent down and patted Lugs and Sonsie. Angela had promised to look after them while he was on honeymoon.
They walked out of the police station and on to the waterfront. It was a perfect day. Hardly a ripple disturbed the blue waters of the loch. A group of fishermen heading for the church gave a ragged cheer.
Hamish looked around himself bleakly. He felt he was saying goodbye to all the happy times he had known. “Man, you’re as white as a sheet,” said Jimmy.
The church was full to the bursting point. He took his place at the altar with Jimmy at his side and sent one last desperate prayer upwards. “Dear God, if there is a God, get me out of this!”
“You look right miserable,” hissed Jimmy.
“I’m still a bit weak,” said Hamish. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe had sent him a congratulatory message from Australia along with her apologies that she was unable to attend.
There was a murmur of anticipation. Then the choir burst into a rendering of “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” “Yuk,” murmured Jimmy. “Did you think o’ that one, Hamish?”
“Nothing to do wi’ me,” he muttered.
Then Charlotte, Josie’s bridesmaid, hurried up the aisle and said to Hamish, “You’ve got to come outside. Those