Free Wexford 22 - The Monster In The Box by Ruth Rendell Page A

she thought he should give and she suggested bedlinen, a sensible practical gift. She was a sensible practical girl and he took her to the wedding with him.
       He had handed the ring to the bridegroom and was turning round to take his seat in the front pew when a glance at the congregation on the other side nearly made him drop the little box the ring had been in. Sitting in a pew about halfway down was the girl in the red dress. Or a girl who looked a lot like her, a twin if not quite the same girl. And, no, it wasn't the same girl. But even prettier than the one in the red dress. The quintessence of his type, the type he now knew was his. Not a red dress but a pale pink suit with a tight top and full skirt and matching hat. Women habitually wore hats then and no woman would have gone to a wedding without a hat. Hers looked as if it were made of pale pink mist in which a rose half hid itself.
       I shall speak to her as soon as we get out of here, Wexford said to himself. I'll start some sort of conversation with her at the reception. I shall think of something to say. Helen forgotten, he tried to think of what that something might be while the inimitable words of the Book of Common Prayer marriage service passed over him unheard and the congregation rose to sing 'Praise My Soul the King of Heaven'. It didn't occur to him then that, pretty as she might be, well dressed and elegant, she could be even less similar to himself in temperament, even less congenial, than Alison had proved to be. His mind was never crossed by the thought, as he sang a hymn in that church, that she might be anything other than as charming as she looked.
       In the event he never got to speak to her. When the bride and groom emerged from the vestry they soon began the procession down the aisle followed by the four bridesmaids, her parents and his parents. Wexford found himself paired up with a girl who seemed to be Roger Phillips's sister and though he saw the girl in the pink hat as he passed her pew, she was whispering to an older woman who had sat beside her and he could do no more than cast her an imploring glance. Outside the photographs began – in a bitter east wind and spitting rain – and no groups included the girl in pink. She had gone, and the people she was with had gone. He would see her at the reception but there were even more people than at the church and he did catch sight of her but only in the distance. Seeking her out was almost impossible with Helen on his arm. Besides, he had his speech to make and other speeches to listen to. But he managed to make his enquiries while Helen and a bevy of girls had accompanied Pauline to the room set aside for her to change into her 'going-away' clothes.
       'Oh, that girl,' Roger's mother said. 'I've never seen her before. She was staying with some old friends of Pauline's parents but they've gone now. She was a friend of their daughter's but the daughter wasn't well and they asked if they could bring this girl with them. Someone said her name was Medora. Very unusual, I thought.'
       Byron, he thought. Byron had a character in a poem called Medora. The Giaour? And wasn't the daughter of Augusta Leigh, his half-sister, that someone or other said was his child, wasn't she called it too? Strange choice for one's own daughter. But beautiful and romantic. Which parent was the Byron reader? He would ask her when they met – in the unlikely event of his ever getting to meet her.
       Still, he mustn't be feeble for he knew that faint heart never won. Now for a way, once they came back from their honeymoon, to find out from Roger's new wife the name of her parents' friends and find it out without arousing suspicions. Even if he hadn't been going about with Helen, he would still have disliked the idea of himself and the girl in the rose-pink hat becoming the subject of teasing. He couldn't forget her and once or twice he dreamt about her. In the cold light of day he told himself what a