We present an extract from Nice Weather For A Killing, the new thriller by Seymour Cresswell.
On a cold, miserably wet Irish morning, Arthur Cummins arrives absurdly early for his wedding to his well-off fiancé Hilary Fenton. He practically breaks into the chapel to escape the incessant rain. As he stumbles in the half light, he trips and falls over an unmoving body in the apse of the church...
I sat on the nearest bench and tried to gather myself. My heart was racing and I was panting for air. I thought for a moment that I might pass out, but I drew a deep breath and steadied myself as best I could.
At that moment, I took in the fact that the wedding flowers had already been put in place. They surrounded the corpse like funeral tributes. Jesus, I thought, the murderer had managed to dump the body in the time between the florist's team leaving the church and my arrival. Had the killer been disturbed, or was it their intention to have the body discovered where it lay? I looked at my watch. Eight thirty.
It was beyond doubt a murdered corpse, left in the church by the murderer – perhaps to make a point? I had no phone, so I couldn’t react to my first instinct, which was to phone for the police. Having abandoned that idea, I was forced to think of another plan. Run to get help? But where? And what would happen next? The police would arrive with an ambulance, crime-scene investigators, forensics teams, the whole doings. I imagined the wedding guests arriving to find the church sealed off as a crime scene, striped Garda tape stretched across the gate to the little gravelled car park, uniformed Gardaí warding off guests, all decked out in their wedding regalia. Distraught people turning away shocked. The wedding postponed or cancelled.
We had taken out wedding insurance but I was fairly sure that we were not insured for a murdered body in the church. If I called the Guards, the wedding would be called off and everything would go down the toilet. Furthermore, I was afraid that our relationship wouldn’t survive a blow like that.
And then there was the Gizzard Man, who had been messaging me that morning. He wasn’t going to wait.
I had invested nearly seven years in my relationship with Hilary. Seven years during which I had been more-or-less faithful. We had been together for so long that I couldn’t imagine what life without her would be like. We were Arthur- and-Hilary, in alphabetical order, A&H: a team. Who the hell was this guy with the crushed skull in his plastic winding sheet? What right did he have to gatecrash our wedding, to spoil it all? In the heat of the moment, all I wanted was to be rid of the dreadful corpse, brush it under the carpet, pop it in the oubliette, flush it away, hide it, so that the wedding could go ahead. I hadn’t killed him; I didn’t know who had done it; it was nothing to do with me. I should have walked away and called the Guards, but I didn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of Hilary crying in her wedding dress. I was afraid of the consequences of losing the lifeline of her daddy’s wedding gift. I acted on impulse; it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.
I gathered up the plastic sheeting at the feet of the corpse and dragged it over the carpet back through the vestry and out the door. The rain had continued unrelentingly, and it pelted down on me as I laboured to drag the corpse to the steps of the basement. Here I paused and had a quick check to make sure that no-one was watching, then dashed back to the vestry to look for the keys to the iron gate that barred the basement doorway. I found a key-rack and silently blessed the thoroughness of the church organisation when the key labelled 'Crypt’ fell to my hand. I ran back to the sunken entrance, descended the four shallow steps, unlocked the gate and swung it open. Its hinges were silent with rain. The door itself was unlocked. I took hold of the plastic-shrouded feet of the dead man and dragged his body down the steps. I inwardly apologised for the unceremonious bashing of his poor ruined head on each of the steps. I didn’t bother turning on any lights or checking the state of the basement. I just put him in, slammed the door, locked the gate and ran back through the rain into the church.
I had left my stout little candle burning on the floor where I had found the body. I quickly found the light switches by the front door and turned on all the lights I could find. I checked the time again: twenty to nine. I sat in the front pew, head bowed as I gasped for air, and forced myself to think. Gradually my surroundings made themselves known to me: the long narrow windows with the gothic arches, marble plaques on the walls remembering the dead, the The killer must have intended the body to be found when the church was opened up for the wedding that morning. I had scuppered that plan. Was the killer likely to cause a scene because I had moved the body? Would they report the theft to the police? When the Reverend Karen asked the congregation if any person present knew of any reason why Hilary and I should not be wed, was the killer likely to step forward with an objection? No.
There was no longer any doubt in my mind about the wedding. Nothing would stop me from marrying Hilary. She was the only girl for me. I felt exalted.
The murder wasn’t my problem. I couldn’t have prevented it. I didn’t cause it. Eventually the corpse would be found and the murder investigation would kick off. All hell would break loose, but by then me and my bride would be long gone, joined and blessed by the lady priestess, Daddy Fenton’s largesse safely in the bag.
Nice Weather For A Killing is published by Poolbeg Press
Disclaimer: The copyright of this article belongs to the original author. Reposting this article is solely for the purpose of information dissemination and does not constitute any investment advice. If there is any infringement, please contact us immediately. We will make corrections or deletions as necessary. Thank you.
