Page 11 of A Village Theatre Murder

‘Well, that’s better than…Does she blame me, do you think? I blame myself, of course. It was madness. Amateur dramatics! The stage! And Jane. Poor Jane. The situation. What was I thinking?Quelle horreur.’

Julia was worried about Oscar, who was clearly (if understandably) distraught, and quite all over the place. His sentences seemed to emerge unrelated. And now in French.

‘Do you have someone to fetch you, Oscar? You’ve been through a lot: the accident, and the interview with the police. Wouldn’t it be best if you weren’t alone? Is there someone we could phone?’

He didn’t answer her direct questions, instead continuing his rambling. ‘I was at school with Jane, you know. We were friends then. We lost touch when I went to law school, but reconnected when I came back. And now look what I’ve done to them.’

Tabitha put an arm around him. ‘I know how you feel, Oscar. I share your feelings of culpability. I wrote the stupid play. And I was the one who put the gun in your pocket. I didn’t sleep last night because of it. But neither of us is to blame. It was a prop. It was supposed to be safe.’

Tabitha’s words and her acknowledgement of their shared experience seemed to calm him. ‘Do you think so, really?’ he asked, tentatively. ‘Maybe, I mean, you could be right. But the thing is, I…’

‘You can’t blame yourself. It was no one’s fault,’ Tabitha said. It was almost as if she was convincing herself.

‘Neither of you is to blame,’ Julia said, firmly. ‘Somebody put that bullet in the gun, and it wasn’t either of you.’

The door flew open before Julia could say anything more, almost hitting Oscar as it slammed back against the wall. All three of them stepped back as Regional Superintendent Roger Grave burst out of the station, his face a tortured grimace.

‘Out of the way,’ he snapped. His thumb pressed down forcefully and repeatedly on his electronic car key, causing a hystericalbeep beep beepand a concurrentflash flash flashof lights from a smart grey BMW parked a few spaces from Julia’s little Fiat. He strode over to it, opened the door and got in, slamming the car door behind him. The BMW took off with a roar that tore the Sunday-morning quiet of the Berrywick high street.

‘Someone’s not happy,’ said Oscar. ‘He probably feels guilty too.’

‘Well, hedidsource the prop gun,’ said Julia. ‘And he said that he checked it.’

‘Yes, that. But I meant he must feel bad because he had words with Graham before the performance last night.’

‘Words?’ Tabitha asked.

‘Yes. I suppose you would call it “creative differences”.’ Oscar made air quotes with his fingers around the last phrase. ‘Graham wasnothappy with some of Roger’s last-minute direction. And Roger wasnothappy with Graham’s sudden new tweaks for the character. There was a tension between the two of them these last few weeks, to be honest. Words were had at the last rehearsal. Roger probably feels bad. I mean, we all do, don’t we? Who of us is truly innocent in this blighted world? Not me, that’s for sure.’

Oscar’s manner was a little concerning. Julia realised she knew nothing about his life, or his family. She hoped he was going home to someone supportive and calming.

The door opened again, more gently this time, and Walter Farmer’s head appeared. ‘Are you coming in?’ he asked. ‘It’s 11.05. DI Gibson is ready for you.’

‘Yes, sorry. I didn’t notice the time. I’m ready,’ said Julia, who hated to be late, even by five minutes. ‘Goodbye, Oscar. Take care of yourself. If you need a cup of tea and a chat, give me a ring.’

The two women followed Walter Farmer into the police station. They went straight through to DI Hayley Gibson’s office.

‘Right, hello, sit down.’ Hayley was all business, barely pausing for such niceties as a greeting. ‘I’m waiting on forensics; it’s been fast-tracked, obviously, given the circumstances. You two were responsible for the props. I need you to take me through where the gun was at all times in the last few days.’

Julia looked at Tabitha and gave her a nod, deferring to her as the chief prop master.

‘We went through all the props and accessories on Wednesday,’ said Tabitha.

‘Back up a bit,’ said Hayley. ‘When did you get the gun?’

‘It must have been Monday. Roger Grave got it from a place that supplies prop guns, and he got all the licences and stood as the registered prop master for the gun.’

‘What did Roger Grave say when he gave it to you? Did he say he had checked it for bullets?’

Tabitha nodded. ‘He did, actually. He mentioned that, just in passing. I picked it up a bit nervously. I’m not used to guns. And he said something about it just being a chunk of metal designed to look like a gun, but not actually shoot. And then he said that there was no bullet because he’d looked in the chamber and that’s what police are trained to do.’

‘And did he say anything about how you should handle it? Anything like that?’

‘No. He didn’t have to. It was just a prop. It wasn’t in use. Not forshooting. He just handed it over.’

‘And what did you do with it?’ Hayley was taking notes as Tabitha spoke.

‘I put it in the props cupboard backstage, with all the other accessories.’

---