Bones in the Belfry Read Online Free PDF Page A

threat of the cigar all might possibly be well … It wasn’t of course.
    As we neared the apex of the ceremony my attention was caught by the white face of Mavis Briggs at the back of the church. As far as I knew, Mavis had no connection with either the bride or the groom, but she is one of those parishioners who contrive to be everywhere and always. From bible classes to bazaars, wakes to enthronements, Mavis is invariably there; and should I ever be required to conduct an exorcism I am convinced she would somehow get in on the act. It would have been less bad were she not given to reciting execrable poetry at the drop of a hat. Much of this is of her own penning which makes it all the worse. Funerals are her speciality, and at such times it takes enormous skill to pre-empt some maundering and pious recitation. Seeing her now increased my gloom as I wondered vaguely what bits of doggerel lay in store for us at the reception. But it soon became clear that it was not doggerel that she had on her mind.
    She stared at me fixedly and then started to make the most peculiar movements – contorting her features, opening and shutting her mouth, and gesturing with upturned thumb towards the door behind her. Naturally I took no notice and tried to concentrate on what I was saying. However, out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the gestures were getting increasingly frenzied, and fearing that she might be drunk or worse, I speeded as fast as decorum permitted to the crucial exchange of vows. I never got there.
    Suddenly, pandemonium was loosed. The door Mavis was standing in front of burst open, and the sidesman Davies and the churchwarden Colonel Dawlish came crashing in grappling with two young men. ‘Young men’ is perhaps a rather charitable term, for they looked distinctly ruffianly and were emitting shouts and words not usual to wedding guests. Felling Davies and thrusting the Colonel to one side, the larger one began to advance grimly down the aisle. For one dreadful moment I thought he was making a beeline for me (Elizabeth Fotherington’s avenging angel?) but his eyes were on one quite other: the girl in red satin. The startling nature of the intrusion had brought cries of alarm, but as the youth got nearer to the bride the noise was replaced by a stunned silence. Madeline, though still patently unsure on her pins, regarded him with calm and indulgent eye.
    ‘So you’ve come then, Fred, have you? Not before time neither.’
    He muttered something incomprehensible, and grabbing her by the wrist proceeded to drag her away from the chancel steps and back up the aisle. In fact the only reason she needed dragging seemed less to do with reluctance than with her footwear. Hitching up her voluminous frock, and with much stumbling and giggling, she followed him past the gawping pews.
    And then the air was rent with banshee shrieks as Mum and Gran, furiously puce and pink, started to make their position clear. Clutching the hapless Trev they thrust him after the departing couple, exhorting him to honourable retrieval. He seemed disinclined and hung back twitching. Not so his father, who with a bellow of rage lunged forward in pursuit, tripped, and was then promptly given a black eye by the kidnapper’s henchman. From that moment chaos reigned.
    Among the congregation were the boyfriends of the bridesmaids (presumably dragged along to admire their girls’ finery). These seemed divided re the merits of Trev and Fred, and their lack of consensus led to a mêlée of unfortunate size and intensity. I looked on in horror as fists flailed and hassocks hurtled. Collars were discarded, hats cast aside, hymn books lobbed, and handbags wielded with practised ease. The wedding party was in its element.
    The chief protagonists appeared to be Mum and Gran who were fighting with a zest I had never previously witnessed in anyone, but it was difficult to discern their particular affiliation as each seemed ready to take on whoever happened