??The Wedding-Dress Mystery

An early-summer entry in my mini-mystery series set in the fictional English village of Little Avalon.

I first wrote such stories, "5-minute mysteries," for a newspaper decades ago. Lately I've been expanding story ideas into 15-minute mysteries.

BTW, these are gentle/'cosy' mysteries, a little Agatha Christie-ish (I hope!) but with no murders or blood, and a bit tongue-in-cheek...set c. 1950, in a changing post-war world, and as observed by amateur detective Miss Rudwell-Horace...

??*??*??*??*??*?? .

The Wedding-Dress Mystery by Winnie Czulinski

...As a rule, Miss Sharp did not conduct her sewing, drapery and dressmaking business in the community centre in full view of any Little Avalon resident who wanted to see it. But her cottage was being renovated, and construction and dust were not good for fine fabrics – especially a wedding dress.

As well, bride-to-be Amabel Murgatroyd (delighted to soon to be ''Tate") was more than happy to be on display – as long as her husband-to-be didn't catch a glimpse of all the preparations, and the gown. That, everyone knew, was bad luck.?

"I'm so bloody tired of make-do-and-mend!" she also said, referring to wartime's thrift. "I'm jolly well going to be the most glamorous bride..."

And the roses were out in glory, representing the best of Little Avalon gardens – and none too soon, as the local florist had had some problems getting its usual supply from beyond. It was June, the full flush of early summer. Even when dark clouds threatened (which was often in England), there was always a prettiness at this time of year, all the more precious after the grimness and privations of war.

Miss Sharp was in her element, mouth full of pins, hands smoothing the silken fabric as though she'd spun it herself, unwinding yards of lustrous ribbon, digging through her tins of beads, small pearls and glittery stones.

“I do love to work on a wedding,” she said to Miss Rudwell-Horace. "As good as theatre, it is. Yet one might think Amabel would aim for London in all this."

Both women, though, knew the bride-to-be enjoyed being a large fish in a small sea. "She highly respects your talents," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "And theatre stories." After all, Miss Sharp had once worked with stars like Laurence Olivier! And all Little Avalon, England really, knew how he'd raised the morale of a war-weary nation with his magnificent 1944 production of Henry V.

Miss Rudwell-Horace was privy to everything, working as she did at the centre, on helping organize the July/mid-summer fête and celebration of the village, with a bid to turn it more into a tourist destination. Here resided a wealth of village artwork, dubious sculpture, crafts of all kinds, and here soon would be baked goods, jams and other toothsome offerings.

"The pulse of the village," mused Jilly Bury, new lady photographer-reporter at the Big Avalon Courier, hitching up her trousers. She seemed to be debating how much she'd include in her series on post-war weddings, five years later, at the 1950 mark.

“I see it as a community matter,” she said to Miss Rudwell-Horace. “That’s what weddings in small towns are. Half the people are part of the wedding party, the rest crowded near the lych-gates, looking on – “ Every so often, she’d break off and scribble quickly in her notebook, giving every appearance that she was writing to deadline.

Miss Rudwell-Horace hid a smile. One might think the sophisticated Jilly was from London, commenting on a rural scene, but she was small-village herself.

And not surprisingly, the female villagers of Little Avalon had plenty to talk about, with this wedding and others. In the Majestic Tearoom later that day, Miss Rudwell-Horace poured herself another cup, and listened to the chatter.

?“Oh, it’s grand to have a wedding, and still so nice to have a bit of fanciness," said Mrs. Littlebrim the milliner. "Remember when Princess Elizabeth married Philip Mountbatten? Had to have a grand gown. And all that sewing, all those flowers and things stitched into that veil...the longest I ever saw! Course, the King and Queen could likely afford it, but couldn’t be seen to be extravagant.”

?“And so…yes, we all sent our ration coupons!” put in Miss Treadwell. "Hundreds, she needed."

"Had to send them back," said Mrs. Littlebrim. “'No exchange of coupons between households'. The government provided the coupons for her instead." She sighed a little. "Some lovely hats she'll need when she becomes queen. Wouldn't I just..." She coloured a little, and shrugged, sipping her tea.

Miss Rudwell-Horace nodded and smiled at her. "Your talents may equal those of a royal designer, but we are fortunate to have you in our village."

Mrs. Littlebrim brightened. “Sold two hats last week. ‘Course, I don’t have the supply I once did. Where Ina Sharp gets all that rich fabric...must have squirreled it away during the war. Not for service parachutes, her material! But I’m a dab hand at taking something plain and making it fancy.” She half-turned and then nodded at Mr. Gemm the jeweller's new assistant, at the next table.

It might as well have been spoken aloud. Who knew anything about him? And, Miss Rudwell-Horace knew, that was not the only unknown element in town.

There was a pause, and then Miss Pettigrew, co-owner of the Majestic Tearoom, proudly deposited a plate of cakes. Because rationing was still "on," these were not fearfully-iced butter-rich morsels, but still fancies of a sort, decorated with genuine flower petals, crystallized into perfect sweets. Her partner Miss Burton-Crabbe excelled at the large solid scones and rock cakes, but it was the dainties for Miss Pettigrew, and she did what she could.

"Truly beautiful and detailed," said Miss Rudwell-Horace with a smile. "Roses, violets...you are an artist, my dear."

Miss Pettigrew preened a little. “As fine as any you’d find in London, I hope.”

The tearoom was full today, from the ever-gossipy Miss Treadwell with her flask-containing reticule, to Mary Ginch, a stolid tall girl with a rather plain face, who nibbled at a dainty, while her younger brother Clement ate three scones in short order.

Mrs. Littlebrim shook her head, and lowered her voice. "Dear May and that brother of hers. Came over so oddly after their parents died, and tails her like a puppy. Can't bear to be parted from her."

"She works very hard," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "Not only is she a kind carer, but a strong one." Indeed, it was said Mary, tall and muscular, could turn a mattress and the elderly man in it with one hand.

"And then there's Bert Baines, working down at the train station," said the milliner. "Will he ever marry her? Did you know Hiram is making book on it? Before June is out, is the word."

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled at the mention of the village's pigeon-keeper and cooper, who also liked to stir up a little competition on important or trivial matters (with Constable Bland seemingly turning a blind eye to it).

She continued to watch Mary's brother Clement, who now was carefully writing something on a slip of paper, then going through his pockets as if looking for coins. His rucksack rested against his chair.

“Never you mind,” said Mary, patting his hand. “I’m treating you.”

His face reddened. “No, you shan’t!”

Mrs. Littlebrim tsk-tsked. “Poor lad. Trying to do for her. It's difficult, and she trying to work to support them both. And he still carries that rucksack everywhere. It’s the war that’s done it. Afraid to be without, as if he’s got all their worldly goods, to be prepared for the air-raid sirens."

"And have you seen all the little notes he writes?" said Miss Treadwell. "Done enough of them to do a book. No matter what the occasion. He's a writer, that one. And explains himself well that way."

"And some become writers because they're not good at speaking," said Mrs. Littlebrim wisely. "Met an author, once. Ten, twelve books he'd done. Yet could hardly keep up a conversation for five minutes."

There was a hush, as Amabel Murgatroyd-nearly-Trent suddenly swept into the tearoom, her silk headscarf floating out behind her like a little veil.

Miss Pettigrew stared, as if she had forgotten all about her little flower-petal cakes. There was what looked like jealousy on the face of the older woman, Miss Rudwell-Horace thought. Then, almost on instinct, she turned slightly to see the face of Mary Ginch, plain, stolid, flushed, mouth open a little, eyes riveted on the pretty young woman. The contrast could not have been greater.

Her brother Clement was looking, too – as was Mr. Gemm’s London assistant, and everyone in the tearoom, a baker's dozen or two. Amabel created that kind of effect.

??????????

Miss Rudwell-Horace poured a glass of currant wine for Mr. Trotter. As often, he relinquished His Majesty's Post bag as though to unburden himself of all the secrets, affairs, familial ties, upsets and business concerns of one small village. He happily accepted a slice of shortbread. "Like it plain, myself," he said. "Not the Pettigrew's frills and fancies."

"Mind you," he went on, "I can see others enjoying those things. Like Percival Gemm and his new assistant. Who knows anything about him? Furtive. Oh, seems to know his thing, all right. Has a jeweller’s fingers, if you know what I mean. Took my dad’s old watch there for him to look at.”

"From London, I understand," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. “I have noticed him too.”

"A bit odd, that. But there's no accounting for people after the war. They'll always be looking for work." He sipped again. "A few newcomers, though. Not only Gemm's assistant. An out-of-town fellow at the Balls and Meadow. But not just any."

"Something about his appearance?" probed Miss Rudwell-Horace, who herself had seen the man in question

Mr. Trotter snorted a little. "Stagey, that's what. Little dark beard, goatee they call it. Shifty eyes. A bit like Gemm's new man...Looks a bit like a – a ferret, both of them, or a... " He shook his head.

Like a spy, Miss Rudwell-Horace knew he wanted to say. But it would not be the first time a stranger staying in post-war Little Avalon caused some unrest.

“And his name. Montague Marchmont, I understand! Like I said, stagey.” He sipped his tea. “Funny about names. Gemm, now – someone overhead him being called, and thought it was ‘Jim.’ Thought he’d have a fit.”

"I wonder..." said Miss Rudwell-Horace, running a finger along the bottle neck, "whether Mr. Marchmont knows our seamstress. I've seen them talking, though it may have been merely politeness."

~~~

Next day in the community centre, she dropped in on Miss Sharp, surrounded by wedding fabric. The seamstress smiled briefly, but seemed a little edgy. They chatted, Miss Rudwell-Horace then asking, "You have seen we have a few strangers in town. Perhaps not unusual for summer."

"Really?" said Miss Sharp, biting off a piece of thread. "You could be right." The colour rose in her cheeks a little.

At that moment there was a thump and crash from the kitchen. Miss Sharp jumped, and a book suddenly slipped from under a pile of fabric to the floor. "...Codebreaking and Secret Messages...," Miss Rudwell-Horace saw as part of the title, before she rose and went to the source of the sound.

She turned back once. Miss Sharp seemed still flustered, gathering things together, folding up fabric. The upset in the kitchen proved to be young Gladsy, who was helping out at the centre as a break from ongoing near-destruction at the Majestic Tearoom. Miss Rudwell-Horace sorted things out, all the while thinking of Miss Sharp and Mr. Marchmont.

??????????

As she walked home, Miss Rudwell-Horace found herself musing at how Mr. Wise the chemist had chatted with such enthusiasm about how the ‘new penicillin’ was making a difference. It had the ability to attack infection like nothing before. “And, like many of these things, discovered quite by accident!"

She passed Miss Pettigrew, in her garden, carefully plucking flower petals, an almost grim smile on her face. They exchanged greetings, the tearoom co-owner stammering a little as she said, "Rose and nasturtium, Miss Rudwell-Horace. My new combination. And the pansies, with their little faces."

Next to The Balls and Meadow pub, near the butcher, the door of an old Bentley stood open, held by chauffeur Humphrey. The imposing figure of Dame Prudence Benham entered, just as Miss Rudwell-Horace passed the pub. For some unaccountable reason, old Mr. Oddie was actually outside, not at the bar. His bleary eyes fixed upon Miss Rudwell-Horace, and he grumbled, “Too much bloody royalty in this village...Lady Beamish, Lady Colleen with her lunch place, Dame Prudence lording it over the peasants. Thought the war'd do away with all that. If she'd been married, now..."

"How are you, Mr. Oddie? And yes, Dame Prudence has a title and manservant. No doubt he is pleased to have steady occupation." The perhaps long-suffering Humphrey, apparently paid well for his work, kept to himself. Village gossip even occasionally mused on the "relationship" between dame and driver.

Walking on, Miss Rudwell-Horace?narrowed her eyes as she looked outside Miss Sharp’s cottage. The seamstress seemed to be having an animated, even vehement conversation with Mr. Marchmont. They were of a kind – small, wiry, with quick sharp movements. Hand gestures worthy of a stage. Yet Miss Sharp had never been in the spotlight.

“My dear lady – “ he was saying. “If it’s hidden, perhaps it’s meant to remain so.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a short laugh. “Yet I often think, perhaps it’s not too late!”

“Of course – with what you were involved in.”

Too late for what? wondered Miss Rudwell-Horace. And involved in what?

That book of hers, about codebreaking, slipping out. Gesticulating with this new, dark little man who Mr. Trotter likened to a spy, as well as stagey. Miss Rudwell-Horace was well aware there had been many places where people did secret work during the war.

??????????

The community centre could hardly be fuller than it was, with amateur artists poring over their pieces. Even Mr. Gemm's assistant, unaccountably, seemed to be part of the event. For some reason he also seemed interested in the small room where Amabel's wedding gown was hung.

There also was the tall, sweeping figure of Dame Prudence, with her imposing eyes. Montague Marchmont seemed to be soaking up every inch of atmosphere. Or was he, as Americans in cinema said, casing the joint? Miss Marple watched Clement Ginch pull a painting, with splashes of colour, out of his rucksack as proudly as if it was a da Vinci.

"Took it home, I did, but there's more I want to do on it!"

“How are you getting along with our new visitor? Mr. Marchmont?” said Miss Rudwell-Horace to Miss Sharp.

"Montague Marchmont?" she said a little shrilly. "He's nothing to me. Odd man!" Her cheeks reddened.

Miss Rudwell-Horace said soothingly. "Amabel's gown is looking wonderful. Finer than anything in London."

Miss Sharp took a deep breath, smiled a little and said, "It's the stitching of the messages, sewing in the pearls, that's what makes a wedding gown so special. 'May you have a long and happy life...' That sort of thing...Of course, it's nothing like what we did during the w – " She stopped, as though appalled.

And as Miss Sharp determinedly went on about weddings, Miss Rudwell-Horace thought of the book slipping out from under the fabric, and the seamstress's vehement exchange of words with Mr. Marchmont, who Mr. Trotter said looked like a spy.

The afternoon wore on, and cups of tea were served. "I'll be in a little later tomorrow," Miss Rudwell-Horace heard Miss Sharp say. "The workmen –? I must wait for them."

??????????

It was mid-next morning, when the community centre was again full, that the cry came from Amabel's throat. "My gown! My wedding gown! It’s gone!”

There was a collective gasp, a chair overturned. Miss Sharp was not there, but Miss Rudwell-Horace telephoned her.

Twenty minutes later the seamstress arrived. She was gabbling, "No, my dear, my dear Lord, I didn't move it..."

“My beautiful dress!” cried Amabel. “Where could it be?”

There was frenzied chattering, people dashing about, looking under boxes, in closets…and at each other. Miss Rudwell-Horace, as bothered as any of them, also noticed Courier photographer Jilly, looking concerned…but with bright eyes. Here was an unexpected development in the village-wedding feature she was doing. This was front-page material.

Miss Rudwell-Horace also thought of all the eyes she had noticed in the past week. The seemingly shifty eyes of both Montague Marchmont and Mr. Gemm’s London assistant. Miss Sharp, with a book on secret messages, and what seemed like a spat with Mr. Marchmont.

The seemingly jealous eyes of Miss Pettigrew, perhaps thwarted in love and a wedding gown, and channeling that longing into feverishly creating fancy cakes, however she could under rationing. The gun-metal-grey eyes of Dame Prudence, who had a past no one was quite sure of – and who, one was sure, got what she wanted. The longing eyes of Mary Ginch, who lacked Amabel's petite prettiness.

And Amabel herself, and her constant eye for sensation – could she possibly have something to do with this drama?

It was also known Millie Clapperton had cleaned last night, but she was home ill. Was there something to investigate there?

Constable Bland arrived soon after, and began questioning everyone. Miss Rudwell-Horace's sharp eyes also saw Miss Sharp cornering Miss Treadwell, the latter taking her flask from her reticule and giving it to the seamstress to take a good swallow. As for Jilly Bury, trying not to look too eager, the newspaper series looked to be getting better and better. The mystery of the missing wedding dress!

??????????

That afternoon as she packed and wrapped some of her old china, Miss Rudwell-Horace opened a newspaper, dividing the pages...idly she looked through them. Items about the post-war Labour government. The despair of cities that were still bombsites. The difficulty of borrowing money. The sports games, something that always went on....

Her eyes stopped, and narrowed. A London feature. Perhaps fanciful? An article about “the jacket with the secret message" could hardly help but draw the eye. She began to read...and soon had absorbed an account of an entire industry of wartime messages and codes stitched into garments. There had been many ways the Resistance and other fighters spread their plans and connected with comrades.

?She put the newspaper down, and frowned, thinking of the careful beading of a wedding gown. In full view? Perhaps that was part of the disguise. But why on earth encode a villager's wedding dress? Or steal it?

Who could it have been, and why? It was like trying to fit a picture, a face, into an old picture frame, or one of the pieces of village art being readied for the July event.

?~~~~~~~~~~~~~

?Miss Rudwell-Horace rapped on the door of the cottage Millie Clapperton shared with another woman. She smiled at the charlady, and held up a trio of perfect roses. "Just passing by," she said, "and thought you would like these. The pink suits your complexion."

"Awww...lovely, Miss RH! Thanks ever so!" the woman twittered, flushing. "Never could grow them like you do." She held the roses like a blushing bride.

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled. "I wondered also, Miss Clapperton, how your excellent work is going. Do you have any availability, in case I hear?"

"Quite busy as it is. 'Doing' for five houses just now, and of course the Centre."

"That is a regular job for you," said Miss Rudwell-Horace reassuringly.

"Oh, aye. All except last night, as I'd said. Had a bit of tummy upset. I was there for a time, but had to leave. Still feeling poorly."

"Dear, dear. I am so sorry... rest up." A pause. "Of course you locked up, as you always do."

"Indeed," said Millie Clapperton. "Not at first, as I went in and out. But turned the key, last thing, when I left."

Miss Rudwell-Horace took her leave. She frowned in deep thought. The wedding dress had disappeared, been stolen, on a night when the cleaning lady, usually there, was not there for half the time. What had happened? Who was the culprit?

??????????

?Miss Rudwell-Horace lay awake, tossing and turning in a way she rarely did unless she had a mystery to solve. She pictured the wedding dress, with its careful beading and stitches...and words. But was there a message beyond that? Her thoughts turned to the war past, with its desperate years-long need for secrecy and tight lips, and with, no doubt, secret messages.

But it was simpler than that. The cleaning lady's actions, she knew, had some bearing on the case. As did a fragment of overheard conversation, a strong key to this case. In fact, about the most important. And now, of all the people in the tearoom and the community centre, she knew who had taken the dress. It was time to talk with Constable Bland.

??????????

?...Later, they sat together in the village-square pavilion. "Yes," he said. "You were right, Miss RH. That's who took the gown. And when I spoke about it to the person concerned...there was this great cry, like a wounded animal, the kind you'd want to put out of its misery."

Miss Rudwell-Horace shook her head in sympathy.

"Went on about it," said the policeman. "'Here now,' I said. 'It's going to be all right.' But then calmed down and seemed to understand. And after all...with what was found...Trying to do it 'right,' a damn sight more than most who'd nick something would do." And Constable Bland shook his head.

"Indeed. So it may have been even before Millie Clapperton locked up."'

"Yes. A quick one, that one. And no doubt, like the Americans say, 'casing the joint' beforehand."

"And you spoke with Amabel Murgatroyd?"

"I did. Nice young lady. She agrees we needn't press charges. Couldn't do it, she says. She has her dress back, and she's happy, though it needed a bit of fluffing up again." One eye flickered a little, like a wink. "I dare say she even likes the excitement. A new chapter in the story Jilly Bury's doing on her with the Courier. Can just see the headline. And Miss Sharp...well, you can understand she's relieved. A bit of a nightmare for her, that."

"Goodness, yes. What a dreadful worry for her. And she takes such pride in her sewing. Doing Amabel's gown is a joy for her."

"And sure enough," said Constable Bland, "We found those two things you mentioned, right enough, just as you thought they'd be. Had slipped down and got hidden. Millie Clapperton might have found 'em if she'd been there all evening. But they were obviously meant to be found. Just took a day longer."

Miss Rudwell-Horace closed her eyes a moment, and sighed with satisfaction, but also with a little sorrow. A case of much emotion. She would discuss the denouement with Mr. Trotter soon enough...

??????????

Next day Mary Ginch was there at the community centre. She seemed flustered. But she'd received a phone call requesting her presence. Soon after she arrived, so did Dame Prudence.

The elderly woman stood there a moment, like a ship in full sail, then "Stay as you are,” she commanded.?And with her voice of authority, who would have disobeyed?

She reappeared, this time with a large box, opened it, to a collective hush, and a dramatic flair. From the box, with its strong smell of mothballs and with an unearthing of reverence, came folds of gleaming satin, flower-applique lace, tiny pearls sewn into the heavy fabric. "Old-fashioned, I dare say,” said the older woman. “But we have the good Miss Sharp" – and she looked over at her – to make some adaptations. Obviously, I will not be wearing this gown... again."

Indeed, the speechless Miss Sharp looked dazzled, was gazing almost hungrily at the vintage gown, as though envisioning what she could do to update it, yet keep its classic elegance.

Dame Prudence turned back to Mary Ginch. “ You are tall like me. I am sure it will fit you, perhaps with a little adjustment."

And then Dame Prudence reached into her reticule. She brought out a lipstick in a gold case, a packet of hairpins. “All new, my dear,” she said. "I have my sources."

Before anyone quite knew what was what, the older woman had carefully painted a red mouth on Mary Ginch, and rearranged her fair hair. Mary Ginch was transfixed. It took only moments. The flush on the young woman’s face was like careful rouge, and she seemed almost transformed, blue eyes sparkling, hair swept up in smooth waves.. Who could ever have thought her plain?

Miss Rudwell-Horace, looking on, thought that the girl had changed beyond the obvious adornment. She stood straighter, seemed to have a strength to her. With such faces, such women, such carriage, perhaps, history was made. There was a place for the Amabels, born petite and pretty, always pretty – but perhaps the greater place was for the Mary Ginches of the world.

'"But...but, Lady, Dame Prudence..." the young woman stammered, "I do not know if I will be getting..."

Dame Prudence made a dismissive motion with her hand, and turned to stare at the young man nearby.

"Damn it all," burst out a red-faced Bert Baines, coming forward. "I don't know how we'll manage it...but..." and he stumbled on to one knee, nearly tumbling backwards, "May...will you marry me?" And, as if to make the offer sweeter, said quickly, “I have a rail special, working on the trains…we can go for a bit of a...h-honeymoon,” he gulped.

And the villagers in the Centre, after a shocked moment, erupted in cries of congratulation...

???????????

Miss Rudwell-Horace smoothed the fabric with a weathered hand. It was from a vanished era, Boer War or Great War, a very different style. And with Miss Sharp's eager expertise it would, she did not doubt, look well on May Ginch, who seemed to have grown in beauty in the last hour.

Her fingers touched smooth tiny pearls woven into the silk, in sections, long and short…Long and short, in different arrangements. Her fingers traced them, her lips moved. Her eyes came up to meet those of Dame Prudence. The other woman stood tall and straight as she always did, stern as ever, but with a certain sheen to those formidable grey eyes.

"That gown was my canvas," she said. "And yes, I knew how to work with..."

Code, Miss Rudwell-Horace guessed..

"In the Great War, I had a supervisor, a woman – I can say that much – a strong woman, who smoked a cigar to relax. A habit I never picked up, though I allow it for Humphrey, a good man. As it turned out, I would not be married after all...it doesn't matter why. My supervisor was a hard woman, but she had some sympathy. She advised me to leave a message in my gown, and then to say goodbye to it. I could do one, but not the other."

Dame Prudence was silent a moment, remembering. "And then, 'why not keep the gown?' I thought," she said in that level voice. "It might have a use one day."

The coded message in the fabric, Miss Rudwell-Horace's fingers had worked out, was one of love. But as it revealed no names, it was a message Mary Ginch could now make her own.

??????????

This time, Miss Rudwell-Horace sat with Mr. Trotter in the garden. The roses nodded and stirred, each petal as perfect as if carved. In Miss Rudwell-Horace's garden, it could never have been otherwise.

The little postman shook his head, but smiled. "The world loves a wedding. So now this one is 'on' again, with another on its heel! And our mystery is solved. But what of Miss Sharp? Doing secret code work during the war?”

“Quite possibly. We may never know what she did."

“And Montague Marchmont – could he be some sort of spy, in cahoots with someone, like Miss Sharp? He looked like a spy if I ever did see one. I did think that."

"And perhaps would have made a fine stage villain," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "In the end, Mr. Marchmont showed himself to be working in the theatre world, but, like Miss Sharp, never on the stage itself. They found each other – and ended up reassuring each other in their choices. Yet yes, they each had the fascination with costume, style, messages…all part of the world of drama.

"Both from the world of theatre, and Mr. Marchmont a rather disillusioned leaver of the world of London. As a dig, though, he gave himself the name of a character in an upcoming production. You were so correct when you said 'stagey.' Still, Miss Sharp, it seems, has found a kind of love!

"There was also Mr. Gemm's new assistant who, as it turns out, is just shy, and not to be blamed for a rather villainous appearance. As well, Miss Pettigrew perhaps longed for the romance of a wedding and gown, but as I determined, she thrives on being co-owner and fancy baker of the Majestic Tearoom. People can be 'married' in other ways; in Miss Pettigrew's case, to the life she has, a rewarding one for her."

"And then...our two brides."

"Yes," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "The fair little Amabel, delighted to be the centre of village and newspaper attention."

"There was the idea she might have stolen it herself, to create more excitement and mystery?"

"It was possible," Miss Rudwell-Horace said. "And Mary Ginch, hoping to be married but likely unable to afford a gown. As she was much larger than Amabel, she would not steal it for herself, unless she was not thinking rationally. Did she feel jealousy and want Amabel to suffer? Perhaps. But no, it was not May Ginch..."

A lark landed nearby, to look at them with bright dark eyes.

??????

"...Instead, it was her brother, Clement."

Mr. Trotter stared at her. "Young Clement...dear Lord."

?Miss Rudwell Horace smiled a little sadly. “Yes – a boy with some problems, perhaps, but with a great love for his elder sister. She ought to, should be, married, with a beautiful gown…and he had thought the phrase ‘May you…’ as in “”May you have a long and happy union,’ or some such, was for her, his older sister, May. He overheard Miss Sharp say it, about the gown, and it made sense in his mind, that the gown should be for his sister Mary...May."

“He took the gown..." said Mr. Trotter. "And no doubt stuffed it in his rucksack, which he took everywhere with him.”

"Yes." She smiled briefly. "I hope the gown was not much the worse for wear, for all that. He got in to the Centre when Millie Clapperton was there, and got out again when she was occupied elsewhere, or after she'd left. And he left a note and the money, a few pounds, all he had. He has a penchant for writing notes. And what little money he has, he tries to use for his sister, and to pay for what he takes. For all his problems thinking clearly, he had a conscience, a sense of what was right.

"And Millie Clapperton likely would have found it if she had been in, thorough as she was. But the paper, and the money, wasn't found until later. It had slipped down or been knocked behind a shelf."

Mr. Trotter was silent a moment. "Odd, to think of him doing all that, leaving it in the first place."

"He justified to himself he was doing it right, was buying, not stealing. Clement was protective of his sister, felt she needed his assistance," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "And also, that she should be married, if that's what she wanted. The discrepancy in size didn't make an impression when he took the gown, or perhaps he thought Miss Sharp could make it fit."

"Funny, that," mused Mr. Trotter, "In some ways he's a very sharp lad. In others, well, there's something missing."

"And sometimes, not unusual after the war," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "In any case, Constable Bland, as well as Amabel Murgatroyd, is willing to overlook what happened. Bland, because he feels sorry for the lad who doesn’t think quite right – and Amabel, mostly because the mystery and excitement have enhanced her standing as Little Avalon’s noteworthy June bride. Or at least one of them.”

A pause. "And as it happens, Mr. Gemm is going to employ Clement for certain jobs."

"What? Mr. Gemm? What jobs? I mean – “

"He's impressed with the boy's handwriting, has seen the little notes he writes. As you may know, the jeweler is expanding, with custom-made cards for purchases. He is willing to overlook the boy's... actions, understanding that what happened during the war likely still is affecting him. Who knows how it will turn out? But the kindness of people often pays great dividends."

?Mr. Trotter accepted another bit of shortbread, digging out Miss Pettigrew's crystallized flower petals. “And as it was, what happened, and with Dame Prudence, I hear, rather pushed Bert Baines into actually proposing to May Ginch."

"You hear?" said Miss Rudwell-Horace questioningly.

"At the pub. He's taking a right ribbing for being managed by Dame Prudence. Holding his own, though, he is."

"He may have held back because he felt May was too tied to her brother, but he also did not want to ‘lose’ her." Miss Rudwell-Horace added a smidgen more sugar-ration to her tea. "And no doubt May was torn, wanting to follow her heart and make a new life for herself, but attached to her brother after the parents’ death. So... now we have not one, but two weddings. And the Big Avalon Courier reporter got a double story, as well as the mystery of a missing gown, a bit of an unexpected story, not the first time this has happened!”

“Indeed.” Mr. Trotter drained his cup, and eyed the teapot. “She and her reporter friend Dermot Brashley have some good stories to exchange.” He might have added, “And they are stories we have both been involved with, mysteries we have helped solve.”

Miss Rudwell-Horace had another bite of the flower-petaled shortbread. Then she smiled broadly at who had just drawn up to her garden.

"Mr. Addington. Would you care for a cup of tea? I am just making fresh."

The little vicar’s eyes lit up. Doing God’s work was often thirsty work. "With great pleasure, Miss Rudwell-Horace!" he said, "And I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are willing to, er, and with the recent problems at the florist, to bequeath the best from your garden for the upcoming nuptials." He chattered on, every bit as much an aficionado of flowers as he was of sacred text, the sacrament of marriage, and his little stone church.

They enjoyed a few moments of spirited discussion about the benefits of Stokes's horse manure, always available at his farm. And it needed no codebreaking expert to determine the meaning of roses...

~~~

...With Mr. Addington and Mr. Trotter gone, Miss Rudwell-Horace went in, leaving her cottage door open to the early summer afternoon. A wedding coming, two weddings, with joy and photographs and modest feasting. No doubt there would be a wrapped slice of wedding cake – as rich and tasty as still-rationing could make it – to slip under her pillow in the best tradition.

...Unbidden, a vision arose, of a dark night in another wartime, decades before. Of messages and secrecy and Morse code...of work to be done. The drone and clattering of early aeroplanes, of cranked-up juddering autos. The smell of a supervisor's cigar smoke...

...The muddied triumphant face of a young aviator as he yanked his goggles off, standing there in torn breeches and tall boots. Reaching out a hand. There was only a short time before he must take to the skies again. And it was a time of messages often missing words, but speaking volumes, of patriotism, courage, and love...

Rudwell-Horace shook her head briskly, turned her mind from long ago, and began to entertain herself by imagining just how Miss Sharp would adapt Dame Prudence’s wedding gown for new bride Mary Ginch...

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