The Widow's Seating Plan

How it begins

Six women requested a seat beside the same husband.

Frances checked the guest list.

The husband had not replied.

She called the bride.

"Small question about table nine."

"Can it wait?"

"Potentially until the police arrive."

The bride stopped talking.

Frances regretted the phrasing. Wedding planners were supposed to reduce uncertainty, preferably with flowers.

She spread the six request cards across her desk.

Each named a different woman.

Each described her as a widow.

Each asked to sit beside a man called Edward Vale.

Same spelling.

Same dietary requirement.

No shellfish.

Frances had managed a reception where both fathers of the bride believed they were giving the only speech. She had survived a peacock in a marquee and a groom allergic to his own buttonhole.

This felt less manageable.

A knock sounded at the office door.

Arthur Moss stood outside holding a place card.

He was the bride's uncle, a retired registrar and a man who treated folded paper with unnecessary suspicion.

"Where did you get these?"

"The guests."

"All of them?"

"Do you have a professional objection to place cards?"

"To this name."

Frances let him in.

He examined the six requests without sitting down.

Outside, the first cars began arriving along the gravel drive. A violinist practiced a cheerful phrase repeatedly, missing the same note each time.

Arthur placed his card beside the others.

Edward Vale.

Widower.

Frances looked at him.

"That makes seven."

Before he could answer, the house alarm sounded.

Not the fire alarm.

The security shutters began descending over the reception-room windows.

From the hallway came a woman's voice.

Calm. Clear. Familiar with being obeyed.

"Nobody leaves until he explains."

Frances looked at the seating plan.

For the first time in her career, she wished she had left every table blank.

Arthur folded the place card in half.

"We may," he said, "need more chairs."