Murder at the Wedding

Book 0: A Maisie Cooper Mystery

by Greg Mosse

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Don't miss the sixth installment in the Maisie Cooper Mystery Series, Murder at the Wedding, available to pre-order now!

Catch up on the rest of the series, which can also be read as standalones:
Murder at Church Lodge
Murder at Bunting Manor
Murder at the Theatre
Murder at the Fair
Murder at Sunny View

Everyone is gripped by the Maisie Cooper Mysteries:

'Maisie Cooper is a brilliant main character, an everyday Miss Marple!... I love cosy crime and I loved this book!' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Fans of Osman are in for a treat!' Peter James

'Fabulous, full of wit, mystery, romance and small town politics... The characters are witty, quirky... The plot is twisty and engaging with lots of red herrings' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'I loved the way that I was pulled into the mystery... I found myself constantly looking for potential clues which made it feel like a real puzzle to get stuck into. I had a lot of fun reading this book' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'I was addicted from the first page' Fern Britton

'Mixes classic whodunnit with cozy mystery elements... Kept me guessing... I thoroughly enjoyed it' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: September 2, 2025

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

Prologue

On the last Friday in September in the year 1972, in St Mary’s church in the village of Framlington, the brass of the ­candlesticks and the carved timber of the pulpit were being polished by practised hands. Flowers had been ­delivered. Other hands – equally expert – were arranging them in bunches, plunging them into vases full of the chalk-rich water of the Sussex Downs.

The squat house of worship stood at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac, Church Lane. The building had no special architectural features, no historical oddities, but it had served sixty generations of local people in their weekly devotions and important life-changing ceremonies. Their births, marriages and deaths – hatch, match and despatch.

The following day, the last day of the month, Saturday the 30th of September 1972, would be match. Maisie Cooper was to marry Sergeant Jack Wingard of the Chichester police and – perhaps – the cycle of Maisie’s accidental murder investigations would thereby come to an end.

The wedding flowers came from the glasshouses and the gardens at West Dean House, gifted by its noble owner, Edward James, to a foundation that bore his name, an extraordinary stately home converted into an ‘Eden for the arts’. West Dean produced blooms year-round, tended by a team of devoted horticulturalists, many of them volunteers, including Florence Wingard, the grandmother of the groom.

Florence and Jack Wingard lived in a small but pleasant bungalow on Parklands Road, Chichester. The wedding would be the culmination, for Florence, of months of hoping and impotent scheming, while the murders at Church Lodge, Bunting Manor, the theatre, the fair and Sunny View slowly played out, with Florence wondering why her grandson was taking so long to seize the glorious opportunity life had presented to him in the person of Maisie Cooper.

Today, Florence was busy helping the Edward James Foundation’s chief florist, a small woman of similar age, of Japanese descent, called Kinori Osaka. Kinori, by a quirk of twentieth-century history, after a lifetime buffeted by oppression and war, had found a haven in south-west Sussex. And it was she – an expert in such things – who had chosen and designed the floral displays, selecting them for their symbolic meanings, as well as their appearance and scent.

The other ladies, those armed with Brasso and Mr Sheen furniture polish, drifted away, leaving Kinori and Florence alone in the vestry, a private space, conducive to shared secrets. Arranging a bouquet of peonies, Florence prompted: ‘Your family were farmers in California. It’s astonishing to me that you’ve washed up here, in south-west Sussex.’

‘We were happy on the West Coast, integrated. But, with the attack on Pearl Harbor, everything changed. My ­parents and I were removed from our land, leaving our crops to wither and die, and placed in an internment camp.’

‘How awful.’

‘I was quite fluent in American English, as well as my ­parents’ mother tongue, able to speak, read and write in both languages. Some weeks later, I was recruited from the awful detention centre for the ATIS, the Allied Translator and Interpreter Section, a subdivision of the American military intelligence service.’

‘What happened to your parents?’

‘They remained in captivity.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘After some basic tests and training, I was shipped out to the Pacific Ocean theatre of war, translating sensitive ­Japanese military communications, intercepted or captured by the US and Australian forces. Each week, I was allowed to send a bland, heavily censored letter to my parents, wishing them well, reassuring them that I was safe. I never received a reply.’

‘Not knowing how they were getting on must have been very hard.’

‘It was, and time passed extremely slowly.’

Kinori snipped an inch or two from several stems to help them draw up water.

‘What did your intelligence work comprise?’

‘The Japanese military commanders presumed that the Allies would be unable to read the contents of their orders and strategic documents. They worried little when, inevitably, some were lost or captured. At first, they were right. Only three bilingual Americans were known to US military intelligence before they came recruiting in the internment camps. Then the focus shifted. The Japanese forces began to retreat and I had to devise devious anti-Japanese propaganda to be dropped as leaflets or to be broadcast by radio, part of a programme of psychological warfare that only came to an end with the dropping of the atomic bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima.’ Kinori’s busy hands became still. ‘But I don’t want to talk about that.’

‘No, Kinori, I quite understand.’ Then, stripping the lower leaves from some magnificent white roses, Florence asked: ‘Were you ever in danger yourself?’

‘There were ATIS linguists attached to every assault force. Many of my friends died.’

‘How distressing.’

‘Some of them worked under duress, motivated by the promise of preferential treatment for their interned families.’

‘Did those promises turn out to be true?’

‘Not in every case,’ said Kinori.

‘You must have felt conflicted, yourself, working for the war effort of an adopted country that had, effectively, rejected your family, destroyed your livelihood and then exploited you?’

Kinori sighed then told her: ‘Yes, I did feel conflicted, not least because my parents died before they were released – but that might have happened in any case. I mean, they might have died young on the farm . . .’

Kinori’s voice drifted off and Florence regretted probing her friend for details of her traumatic past. She racked her brain for a more neutral subject of conversation to accompany their work.

‘Can you show me how to write your name?’

‘In Japanese characters?’

‘Yes. I expect it’s very beautiful.’

Kinori looked round for something to write with. There was a pad of Basildon Bond writing paper on the vestry desk and a Paper Mate felt-tip pen.

Florence said: ‘Write them big because I don’t have my reading glasses.’

The nib of the felt-tip pen flexed a little in Kinori’s grip, meaning each stroke narrowed as she lifted the pressure in a clumsy imitation of brushstroke calligraphy.

希紀

‘So, it’s made up of two characters?’ asked Florence. ‘Or is that three?’

‘That’s two but it can be written in other ways.’

Kinori drew another example.

季乃凛

‘How complicated,’ said Florence, ‘but, I suppose, English must seem so if one isn’t used to it. Does your name have a meaning of any kind?’

‘It’s very boring. It means something like “the wish for regulation” or “the hope for order”,’ said Kinori with a self-deprecating smile.

‘No, that isn’t very poetic,’ said Florence with a laugh. ‘Languages are such fascinating things.’ She gestured to the roses that she had finished preparing for the display. ‘There’s a language to flowers, too. You know all about that.’

‘There is,’ said Kinori. ‘A symbolic language. But symbols are slippery. The “language of flowers” isn’t fixed and universal. For example, peonies are a beloved wedding flower in England today but, historically, they used to denote anger and resentment. Meanwhile, in Japanese culture, they signify bravery, courage and good fortune.’

‘How fascinating,’ said Florence, a little unnerved at the idea that the wedding of her grandson, Jack Wingard, to his childhood sweetheart, Maisie Cooper, might be decorated with a flower with such negative connotations. ‘What about the others?’

‘It’s often a question of colour. Red roses are a symbol of love, of course. White roses are for purity. Yellow roses imply jealousy or infidelity.’

‘I think I knew that.’

‘Peonies are supposed to soothe and encourage relaxation, but they have been used to represent resentment and anger. Were we earlier in the year, we might have had daffodils for “respect”, but they also signify unrequited love.’

‘It’s an unexpected minefield,’ said Florence, intending to change the subject because she was beginning to feel an odd disquiet. ‘Do you—?’

‘Lotus flowers can symbolise estranged love,’ persisted Kinori. ‘They are marvellous. I have a small artificial pond at West Dean devoted to their cultivation. You know about their daily cycle of life, death and rebirth? They come, like me – by descent, at least – from the East. The white ones represent purity and beauty, serenity and self-knowledge. The yellow lotus suggests spiritual ascension and a pink one evokes the essence of Buddha.’

Florence indicated her glass vase of white roses.

‘Is this satisfactory?’

‘Beautifully done,’ said Kinori. Then she frowned. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘What is it?’ Florence asked.

‘You remember, in the design we discussed in your kitchen, we decided we would have bunches of red carnations by the door because, in the greetings cards and so on, they mean “I love you”?’

‘Of course.’

‘When I arrived here, the delivery from West Dean was waiting for me in the shelter of the porch, outside the south door of the church, including some lovely sheaves of wheat for contrast. But there was a bunch of yellow carnations in there as well.’

‘Is that important?’

‘They shouldn’t have been there.’

‘You didn’t request them?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Perhaps someone added them from their own garden,’ said Florence. ‘Maybe a kindly neighbour who meant well? Will they upset the balance of the design?’

‘No, that’s not it. Florence, the yellow carnations represent a slight, you know – taking umbrage. Or, worse, a desire for revenge.’

‘Oh.’

‘I felt . . . odd, on seeing them, you know?’

‘But do people know that?’ asked Florence. ‘Generally, I mean?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Kinori, sounding unconvinced.

‘And who could possibly bear a grudge against Jack or Maisie? Everyone likes and respects them. They are universally well thought of.’

‘Are they?’ asked Kinori. ‘Even by the people they’ve brought to justice?’

‘That’s absurd,’ said Florence, more abruptly than she meant.

A little stiffly, the two women completed their preparations, placing the last displays in their niches and checking that all the vases contained sufficient water to sustain the blooms until the following morning at eleven, sharp, when the cele­brated tune by Mendelssohn would accompany Maisie up the aisle. Florence thought once more about the murders at Church Lodge, Bunting Manor, the theatre and the fair.

And at Sunny View, the Devon guest house – Maisie was actually summoned by the owners to look into it.

*

Kinori had not been offended by the sharpness of Florence’s tone. Her life had been sufficiently filled with drama to know that taking umbrage at the slightest impertinence was foolish in the extreme. Their work done, they stepped outside into the lovely autumn afternoon. The leaves on the beech hedge at the far side of the graveyard, beyond the ancient yew tree, were just beginning to turn from green to gold.

This is a lovely place, thought Kinori, and I don’t want to spoil things by telling Florence what happened when I met Maisie here. She’s already on edge.

‘Forget I mentioned it,’ Kinori told her friend. ‘After all, what importance should we attach to symbolic meanings?’

*

Lost in her own thoughts, Florence was too distracted to reply. She knew that Jack and Maisie were both worried and she was uncomfortable that they hadn’t shared their reasons with her, presumably in order not to spoil her own pleasurable anticipation of their big day.

But their unhappy silence is spoiling it anyway. They have no reason to keep their secrets. I’m not a hot-house flower, am I?

Florence and her friend walked down the gravel path to the lychgate.

And it’s not just against Maisie that people might bear a grudge. There’s Jack, too, and the enemies any police officer inevitably makes.

Kinori was carrying a large cardboard box of damp paper wrappings, multiple lengths of string, secateurs and so on. Florence held the gate open and told her: ‘I have to make a repair to Maisie’s wedding dress. She stepped on the hem, trying it on. Do you still have time to give me a lift home?’

‘Of course.’

Once her friend had passed through, Florence looked back at the squat Norman church, its grey stonework mellowed by the lowish sun.

All will be well, she told herself. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day, the start of a new chapter in Jack’s and Maisie’s lives – the first chapter of their shared life.

*

In one way Florence was right. In another, she was very, very wrong. But there was no reason for her to know that, not far away, at the edge of the village, there was a dead body lying on damp, straw-strewn concrete, the disgusting processes of putrefaction already under way.

More than a week before the celebratory bells were to begin pealing, there had already been a murder at the wedding.

One

One week earlier, on Friday the 22nd of September 1972, Maisie found herself on a rickety slam-door British Rail train, her small travel suitcase in the net luggage rack above her head, heading north up the east side of England, watching the towns and cities, fields and rivers go by through smudged and dusty windows. It reminded her of Philip Larkin’s poem ‘The Whitsun Weddings’, in which lots of passengers, all packed in together on a holiday-weekend service, travelled with a single destination but many purposes.

I wonder how many of my fellow travellers are lucky enough to be as happy as I am?

At the conclusion of her investigation into the murder at Sunny View, back in July, the events all packed into just a couple of days as the schools broke up for the long summer holidays, she had taken a decision. It had seemed easy at the time.

I’m not going to wait for months and months of engagement and dress fittings and banns and preparations. I’ve decided that I’m going to marry Jack Wingard before this summer is out.

Having no sisters or female cousins – and only a dissipated murdered brother – Maisie had no experience of the multiple complications of planning a wedding. And she had underestimated Jack’s grandmother Florence’s determination that ‘if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right’. At every step, she felt, there had been hindrances and hiccups.

Not least among these had been the availability of the church. It turned out that September – like May – was a prime month in the seasonal cycle of marriages. She, of course, had wanted to celebrate the occasion in the village where she grew up, walking up the aisle of St Mary’s, Framlington, with her parents lying patiently under the ground outside, in eternal rest in the millennial churchyard.

Discovering that St Mary’s was already booked for another happy couple’s ‘special day’, she had got in touch with her fiancé at his police posting in Newcastle. To her surprise, Jack had suggested Chichester’s enormous cathedral, home to a choir school, a bishop and any number of important ceremonial priests.

‘Surely that will be more difficult still?’

‘Maybe, but if it’s already booked for the matinée,’ he told her, with a smile in his voice, ‘we can make ours a morning wedding and be done in time for the more important people to have the afternoon.’

‘Is that even possible?’

‘I’m sure I can swing it. Other officers have done the same. Fred’s organised a guard of honour from the lads at the station, all polished up and in white gloves.’ Jack was referring to his colleague and best man, Inspector Fred Nairn, with whom Maisie was also friends. ‘The cathedral loves that sort of thing. And you’re famous in the city.’

‘But I’m an orphan,’ she had objected. ‘And I’ve been living abroad. There’ll be hardly anyone there on my side. It will look ridiculous – a sea of empty chairs.’

‘Then we won’t use the nave. We’ll make it a small wedding on both sides. Everyone can sit in the choir stalls up close to the altar, all mixed in together. My people are your people, now.’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘Or we can simply go to the registrar’s office in North Street,’ Jack had insisted, ‘like in those pictures in your Aunt Phyl’s wartime photo album. We just need two witnesses and an official to say it’s legal.’

Maisie had taken Jack’s call early one morning in the front hall of Phyl Pascal’s ugly Jacobean manor house in Bunting, with the front door open onto the gravel drive, the sun poking its way through the small leaded windows either side, filtered by the close-looming trees. At Jack’s end, the pips had begun sounding. When they stopped, in the tiny gap before his money ran out, he had quickly told her: ‘I’m at the hostel where they’ve been putting me up for the duration. I don’t have another tuppence. I’ll call you again this evening.’

The connection had cut, leaving Maisie alone with the receiver in her hand, hearing the distant continuous whine of the ‘disconnected’ tone, feeling foolish and abandoned. After she had hung up, however, the telephone had immediately launched into a second raucous metallic ring. Picking up, Maisie had announced: ‘Bunting Manor.’

The news had been as good as it was unexpected – from Reverend Millns of St Mary’s, Framlington.

‘The couple in possession of Saturday 30th have cancelled.’

‘Really? Do you know why?’

‘In the course of our interviews – a normal practice in the Church of England in preparation for their spiritual and legal commitment to one another – they say that they have discovered that their desires are not so tightly aligned as they previously thought.’ Reverend Millns’ tone had been wry and she had heard him strike a match to light one of the crafty cigarettes of which he seemed ashamed. ‘But, perhaps, you have made other arrangements, Miss Cooper?’

‘No, I haven’t – not yet.’

‘Shall I pencil you in?’

‘Ink us in, please. How marvellous. But there is one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t know precisely the form, but I wonder if another priest might be empowered to conduct the service?’

After a pause, Millns had replied: ‘It is not entirely unheard of.’

‘I have a close connection to the church – once a cathedral – in Kirton in Devon. I would very much like the minister there, Canon Greig, to conduct my marriage service. Would that be possible?’

Millns had left another pause before replying. Bunting was only a few miles from Framlington, tucked into a little-frequented valley in the Downs – a place people only went to if they had business there – but the distance had seemed to stretch out further, along with the empty seconds of silence.

I wonder if, somehow, he knows that Canon Greig isn’t really a ‘close connection’.

‘It would be possible,’ Millns had finally replied, with an icy formality. ‘Perhaps you would care to drop in and provide me with his address.’

‘I will, later today,’ Maisie had promised.

That had been two weeks before and ought to have forced Maisie into more concentrated action. But, she judged, the small wedding both she and Jack desired didn’t demand enormous preparation. Instead of thinking about a choir or flowers to decorate the nave or a reception, she had chosen to slip away from Sussex for a couple of days of solitary gallery- and theatre-going in London. And, now, she was on her way to visit her fiancé, the rickety northbound train meandering through the suburbs of Durham, interrupting her thoughts with a series of glimpses of historical stone buildings, including ancient colleges and an impressive Gothic cathedral.

They came to a stop. Outside, on the station platform, a guard cried out, promising a ‘four-minute halt’. Maisie opened the door of her six-person compartment – shared with two mature men who looked like travelling salesmen, and three younger ones wearing overalls spattered with white plaster who clearly worked in the building trade.

Maisie climbed down. She was wearing quite a narrow jacket and skirt in powder-blue wool because she wanted to make a good impression, should she be introduced to Jack’s superior officers. She had to take care, therefore, descending the high step, finding it a relief to be outside in the fresh air. Despite the fact that the warm day allowed them to travel with the window down a few inches, the compartment was very close and choked with a fug of smoke from several of the men’s cigarettes.

Maisie strolled to the end of the platform, looking up the line at the rails narrowing with perspective, distantly merging in the direction she was travelling.

My entire life is narrowing down, becoming more focused. Will it open out again, after the wedding? I hope so.

Maisie had been in England since February when, quite unexpectedly, coming home to her flat on the Place des Vosges after a day’s work in Paris, her flatmate had passed on a message from her dissipated older brother, Stephen. It had asked her to drop everything – meaning her busy life as a respected and sought-after tour guide – and revisit their childhood home in Framlington. On arrival, she had discovered that she was too late, that Stephen was dead.

Later, she had learned – from Sergeant Jack Wingard himself – that Stephen had been murdered. Out of that strange and unhappy set of circumstances, she had been drawn into several murder investigations.

Each time it’s happened, there have been good reasons. I’ve not sought out tragedy. It’s not my fault there’s so much unhappiness and resentment and jealousy in the world. And it’s changed me. I hope I’m not becoming jaundiced or pessimistic.

Maisie strolled back to the open door of her compartment. She climbed aboard, pulling her narrow skirt up above her knee to the delight of her gentlemen travelling companions. She slammed the door closed, glad to be sitting next to the ­window, thinking about Reverend Millns, relieved to have found a way of sidelining him from the wedding. Trying to find out about Stephen’s death, she had discovered information much to his discredit. In the investigation into the ­murder at Church Lodge, it had emerged that ­Maisie’s brother, ­Stephen, had an affair with the barmaid at the ­Fox-in-Flight, June Strickland. When June was a little girl, Reverend Millns had done nothing to protect her from the cruelty of her father, Old Man Strickland, despite knowing all about it.

The train pulled away, heading out of Durham city centre, through the suburbs into the beautiful countryside. ­Looking forward to catching a glimpse of the penultimate stop, Chester-­Le-Street, Maisie turned her mind to the guest list for the wedding. As it turned out, despite being an orphan with no brothers or sisters with whom to ‘share her special day’, her side of the church wouldn’t be so badly attended. There was her mother’s sister, Phyl Pascal, of course, from whom Maisie and her parents had been estranged for many years.

But that’s all fixed, now.

And there was Phyl’s ward, Zoe, a sparkling young woman of just sixteen years old. Since Phyl had taken steps to ­officially become Zoe’s adoptive parent, Zoe had begun referring to Maisie proudly – though not entirely accurately – as ‘my sister’.

Maurice Ryan, Stephen’s solicitor and now her friend, would also be there with his delightful wife Charity – née Charité Clément – a vibrant and determined woman of Guadeloupian heritage. There would also be some of her charming childhood neighbours from the village of Framlington, many of whom had been helpful – knowingly or unknowingly – in solving the mystery of Stephen’s murder. And she had made a good handful of excellent new friends in Bitling, where she had been instrumental in solving the murder at Bitling Fair. Plus, there would be the small contingent travelling up from Devon on a slow train from Kirton.

There might be one or two from the theatre as well. Yes, all things considered, my side won’t look too sad.

Maisie was still hoping that her closest Paris friend, her former flatmate Sophie Labeur, might be able to attend, but that would depend on Maisie’s fierce Paris boss – now ex-boss – Madame de Rosette, who had been less than pleased when Maisie had called her to say she was not coming back to work.

‘Mais qu’est-ce que vous faites, Mademoiselle Cooper? Vous changez entièrement de trajectoire comme ça, pour un homme?’

Maisie had explained that, no, she wasn’t ‘entirely changing her life’s trajectory for a man’, but ‘in order to marry my childhood sweetheart’, continuing in her impeccable French: ‘In any case, you already have an ideal replacement. Sophie has proved invaluable in the past on temporary assignments.’

‘Mademoiselle Labeur is good,’ Madame de Rosette had allowed, ‘but – for obvious reasons – she doesn’t have your ease or charm in English.’

‘Sophie is quite competent and, with practice, her accent will improve.’

Maisie had heard a sigh at the other end, then Madame de Rosette had pulled herself together and wished her well in her new life, enjoining Maisie ‘not to forget us’.

‘Jamais, chère madame.’

Never.

Lost in these reminiscences, Chester-Le-Street went by almost without Maisie noticing and she was finally on the last leg of her journey to one of the nation’s most northerly outposts, where Jack had been working hard in preparation for his promotion from uniformed sergeant to plain-clothes inspector.

He’s been away for two months. What will he think of me? That I’ve changed? I h. . .