Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (13 page)

“I may have another chat with Alan,” Christopher said. “Just the two of us.”

Pru’s eyes grew large. “To say what?”

Christopher raised his eyebrows. “Just to get to know him a bit better. Discuss the ceremony—the usual.”

“You don’t want me there? I’d be happy to arrange something.” And monitor the proceedings.

“No need for that. Just a talk—vicar to groom.” Pru giggled. “And now,” Christopher said, “shouldn’t we find a place to be married?”

She nodded. They could not trust this to an Internet search. “Yes. We have all day tomorrow to look. We’ll take a church tour of New Town. I’m sure we can find something.”

That night, long after Christopher’s breathing had become deep and regular, Pru stared at the ceiling—a screen showing the movie of their wedding. The setting was an exquisite eighteenth-century chapel designed by some famous architect and unchanged for over three centuries except to painstakingly restore the intricate stained-glass windows, which took on the likeness of those at Sainte-Chapelle in Paris—a place she’d seen only in pictures. The sun shone through the glass—morning sun or afternoon light?—casting a saturated patchwork of color onto the stone floor. More light came from a riot of candles that covered the altar and reflected a warm glow in the faces of their family and friends, who sat clustered in the first two or three rows of pews.

Alan stood up at the altar, his arms outstretched, and on his left, Christopher waited for her. God, he looked gorgeous in his tuxedo or—she changed the picture—one of those cutaway coats. Was that proper attire for the groom? If only she could see what she had on as Simon walked her up the aisle. The scene melted away as she drifted off to sleep, but before it disappeared completely, she heard Madame Fiona say, “Lady Anne of Cragganmore was honored that you agreed to wear her dress…”

The carved wooden doors, bleached from sun and bloated from rain, were locked tight. Pru rattled them a third time, speaking to the wood. “We just want to look inside.” She sighed and turned to Christopher. “Do you know how to pick a lock?”

“Would you like to be married in a jail cell?” he asked, looking up at the bell tower as if he considered scaling the wall.

Pru expended what little energy she had left on a small laugh. This visit to St. Bartholomew’s-of-the-locked-doors, the sixth stop of the day, looked to be just as successful as the others. They had walked into St. Andrew’s, Church of Scotland, first, and Pru’s heart lifted. Light, airy—no stained glass and a bit modern, but welcoming nonetheless. The minister stood in the pulpit practicing his Sunday message, but didn’t seem to mind the intrusion. So very sorry, he informed them—only members of the church were married there. Did they happen to have a church home yet?

At St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s—one church, two saints—the minister shook his head sadly. They were taking a year off weddings in order to raise the money to rebuild the parish hall, which had burned down when a fight broke out at a wedding reception the previous August. No one was injured, thank God.

Pru and Christopher continued their journey, their steps getting heavier as they worked their way south through New Town toward the city center. Two more churches that married members only, and one—St. Maelrubha of Applecross—had a dodgy 1970s look about it. They peered in the grimy windows and saw a false ceiling—acoustic tile—and a drum set in the corner of the sanctuary. That had led them to St. Bartholomew’s.

“Well, I realize it’s a Saturday, but don’t you think someone might be around?” she asked Christopher, who had already walked round the corner of the gray stone building.

She followed to find him standing at an open door, talking to a tall, gray-haired man wearing all black with a white clerical collar. “We’re getting married in June, Father,” Christopher said, taking her hand as she walked up, “and we’re looking for a church to hold the ceremony.”

“Delightful!” the reverend said, opening the door wide. “Come in now, and I’ll pull out next year’s diary.”

“Oh, not next year,” Pru said. “We’re getting married this June.”

The minister’s face fell. “Oh, I am sorry. St. Bart’s is always completely booked up for weddings at least a year in advance. We hold three every Saturday in high season. We’ve only two booked today, but I expect the second wedding party to begin arriving at any moment.”

They thanked him and walked away as he closed the door, but neither could get farther than the edge of the yard, dragged down by the inertia of failure. Edinburgh must have many more churches than they had seen, but Pru didn’t think she could face another rejection.

Christopher put his arms around her, and she rested her head on his chest. “We haven’t been there, have we?” he asked.

She lifted her head and followed his gaze to a steeple on the next street. “All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “One more time.”

The Blessed Church of the Holy Footsteps of Our Lord. At least the door was unlocked. A dust mote danced around in the last ray of sunshine that streamed in through plain glass windows set into the stone walls. Each of the deep sills held fresh arrangements of daffodils, evergreens, and stems of forced cherry blossoms ready for the Sunday service. Pru and Christopher stood at the back of the sanctuary, and heard a tiny rustling from the nave.

“Hello?” Pru said.

A head popped up from behind the pulpit. An elastic band barely contained his thick, carrot-colored hair; his bushy eyebrows faded into his pale skin.

“God bless you,” the man boomed, coming out from behind the pulpit and walking down the aisle with his hand extended. He wore jeans and a fisherman’s sweater. “You’re very welcome. Dugald Fergusson.”

“Reverend Fergusson,” Christopher began.

“Dugald—please call me Dugald. How can I help? Are you looking for a new congregation, by any chance? We are a welcoming community here at Holy Footsteps.”

They introduced themselves, and Pru glanced around at the highly polished wooden pews with vines and oak leaves carved at the ends. “You have a lovely church,” she said.

Christopher said, “We’re getting married in June—of this year—and we’re looking for a place to hold the ceremony. Do you allow weddings here?”

“Indeed we do!” Dugald turned up toward the organ, which sat like an enormous, sleeping beast in the corner of the sanctuary. “Mother! Mother, are you there? We’ve an engaged couple asking if we do weddings.”

Perhaps she had been polishing her pedals, because from the floor near the organ appeared a woman with round eyes, shoulder-length black hair that was so thin her ears stuck through, and a big smile that revealed a mouthful of teeth. “Lovely!” she called and came out to them. She stood beside Dugald, half a head taller than he, and adjusted a crocheted shawl—more holes than wool—around her shoulders.

“My wife, Sheena,” Dugald said to them. He turned back to his wife. “Mother, would you like to give them a sample of your wares?” As Sheena scampered back to the organ, hitting a stray note when she climbed up onto the bench, Dugald produced a bright red folder with a large sticker in the middle that shouted “God Bless Your Wedding!” and opened it. Pru could see stacks of them in each pew.

“Now,” Dugald said, as he rested a hand on each of their shoulders, “do I detect both an English and an American accent?”

Pru nodded. “I’m from the States originally, but I live here now. I mean—I’ll move to London after we’re married.”

Dugald smiled. “A mixed marriage, is it? It’s wondrous how our lives become a rich tapestry of all that God has presented us.”

“We’re mixed as well,” Sheena called from her perch. “Dugald’s from Inverness, and I’m a Weegie.”

“Sheena is from Glasgow,” Dugald said when he saw the look on Pru’s face. He opened the red folder. “As neither of you is Scottish, perhaps you’d like a bit of our country to remember your wedding by. You may be interested in our Highland package.” He nodded to his wife. Her hands hung suspended over the keyboard for a moment, before easing down onto the keys. The first few measures of Brigadoon floated on the air currents, after which Sheena segued into “Almost Like Being in Love.” Christopher cut his eyes at Pru, who pressed her lips together.

Dugald returned his attention to the happy couple. “The package includes a piper, of course, and a demonstration of the sword dance, fully accompanied.” A few sharp notes of a reel rang through the air. “We set the mood for a joyous uniting of two people’s lives as they meet in front of God and family to…”

Sheena struck up a jaunty but overpowering rendition of “I’ll Go Home with Bonnie Jean” that drowned out Dugald’s promise of the perfect wedding. She stopped after a few bars, but the sound continued to reverberate in Pru’s ears. She began a coughing jag to cover up an explosion of laughter.

Christopher took the folder from Dugald and began ushering Pru down the aisle at a speedy clip. “Thanks very much for your time, and we will certainly consider this. As it turns out, we do already have our own minister chosen, so it might not fit in with our plans, but if our plans change, we’ll…let you know.”

Out the door they went and into the yard with Dugald calling after them, “You know where to find us. God bless!”

With her face screwed up from laughter—or tears, she wasn’t sure—Pru couldn’t see to walk a straight line, but Christopher glanced over his shoulder. “Keep moving,” he said. “He’s still there.”

Once around the corner, they leaned against a wall until the fits of laughter subsided. “Oh God,” Pru said and took a few deep breaths. She looked around and saw that they had reached the west end of George Street, near Charlotte Square. “I need a drink.”

“We could get married at the Pickled Egg,” Pru said, hunched over what was left of her double whisky. She shook out the last few crumbs from a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps. They sat in the back room of the Oxford Bar, a place she’d read about but had never visited. The bar was quite small and the back room not much bigger. Dark, creaky old wood and a smattering of customers that looked as if they’d been there since the place opened. It suited her mood just fine.

Christopher downed the last few drops of his own double, and looked solemnly into the empty glass. A snort of laughter escaped him, setting Pru off into another brief bout. They’d been alternating between gloom and hysteria since they arrived at the Ox—it was taking a while to come down from their encounter at the Holy Footsteps.

“They seemed very nice, so sincere,” she said about Dugald and Sheena. “But,” she tried to keep her voice even, “aren’t you a little glad we already have Alan?”

“More than a little,” Christopher said. He took their glasses up and returned with two more whiskies—singles this time—and two more packets of crisps.

Pru sat up, drawing on the energy and determination that a good slug of whisky can provide. “I’ll keep looking, all right? I’ll ask around the garden. And send you photos. We’ll find a place.”

“You don’t want to get married at the Botanics?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if they do garden weddings, but really, it’s too iffy. We’d need a marquee in case it rains. June—it’s still a bit on the chilly side. Everyone would have to put on long underwear. People would be watching us.”

He grinned. “People will be watching us—it’s our wedding day.”

“Yes, but we’ll know those people. I don’t want to gather a crowd of strangers.”

Packets of crisps served as a stopgap measure only, so they walked back to Stockbridge and stopped at the Chinese takeaway to get dinner. They left the subject of a venue for their wedding ceremony where they had found it that morning.

At least the day ended well. They ate out of the takeaway boxes while sitting on the sofa and watching the quiz show
Mastermind
. Pru held her own against the contestant whose subject was
The Waltons
—she was a dab hand at American television—while Christopher kept up with the details of John le Carré spy novels. They abandoned the general-knowledge round for a more participatory activity in bed.

Pru snuggled up against Christopher. He put an arm around her.

“Where would you like to live after we’re married?” he asked.

She turned onto her back and could see his face in the pale light shining through the window. “Is this a trick question?” He gave her a squeeze. “With you,” she said.

“Yes. But where?”

“With you in London?”

“We wouldn’t have to live in London, would we?” He watched her.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to live too far out—you’d have such a long commute. And what about all those late nights you work? Weekends?”

“Indeed,” he said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “What about them. Perhaps I won’t work for the Met after we’re married.”

“I was right—they did threaten to fire you. I don’t want to be the cause of—”

She got no further before he kissed her. “They will not fire me. But if you found a position outside of London, perhaps I could, too.”

He wanted her to take advantage of her situation. She would soon be a noted historical researcher with a published paper—well, published eventually—on Menzies. And Christopher would follow her. But where did she want to go? She’d orchestrated big changes in her life the past couple of years—moving to London from Dallas, restoring the garden at Primrose House in Sussex, saying yes to Christopher. She had certainly wanted to try her hand at historical research, but now, if presented with the choice between a desk job or being in the garden…oh good, another decision to make. She settled back against him.

“We’ll see,” she said. “But wherever we land, I’d like to stay put for a while.”

No chance for sleep now, she thought, but she was wrong. She drifted off without any trouble, and dreamed that she was head gardener for a famous artist who had sculpted acres and acres of land into giant cubes and pyramids, stairs, and beehives—and planted all of it in lawn. Pru’s entire job consisted of cutting the grass—there was so much of it and the artist insisted that it be cut to such perfection that once she finished, she had to start all over again. “My husband works in London,” she said to a faceless visitor, “but this is a very prestigious position, so how could I refuse?”

As Christopher buttoned his coat Sunday evening and kept an eye out for the taxi he’d called, Pru readied herself for his departure. “I’ll miss you,” she said, “but I have a busy week ahead, so that’ll help.”

He gave her a narrow look. “Let the police do their job,” he said. She didn’t reply, but reached up to straighten his collar. The corner of his mouth turned up. “I see that statement made quite an impression.”

“I’m going to ask a few questions, that’s all. Why was I taken into the station? Maybe Saskia wasn’t the only one who told them I argued with Iain.”

“The police know you were with Madame Fiona—they’ve confirmed that. And you’ve heard nothing else from them.”

Madame Fiona—when would she have her next dress fitting? “Still,” she said, returning to the issue at hand, “Alastair. He won’t slip out of my grip this time.”

Christopher took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Be careful.” His lips were soft and warm. This could be their last kiss before the wedding—she must take advantage of her opportunities. “And keep an eye on Murdo,” he said, as the taxi pulled up at the curb.

“Murdo.” She had lost her train of thought. “That won’t be hard—he’s everywhere. But why?” she asked. “Do you think he’s up to something?”

“It’s just as you say—he’s everywhere.”