Page 17 of A Village Theatre Murder

‘Yes. I was thinking about the investigation, of course. Graham’s death. I suppose it’s on everyone’s minds.’

‘Not mine, right this instant. I’ve popped out to buy a sandwich, and was hoping to clear my head of that just for a minute.’

‘It does help sometimes, doesn’t it? To not think about something for a while? You sometimes get a fresh perspective, instead of going round and round on the same route. I was just thinking, though, that Oscar…’

Hayley fixed her with a serious look. ‘I can’t discuss this investigation with you, Julia.’

‘I know, of course you can’t.’ Julia paused. Before she could stop herself, she added, ‘It’s just that I heard something. Something about Oscar. Did you know that he and Jane had a history? A romantic history? It seems that they were involved at school. Jane broke his heart, apparently. I was just wondering…’

Hayley kept her face as expressionless as the sphinx. She gave nothing away, no indication of whether what Julia was saying was news to her or not. ‘Again, Julia, I’m not going to discuss the details of this case, or what I do and do not know, with you.’

‘I know, Hayley, and I wouldn’t expect you to. I just wanted to give you a heads-up on Oscar and Jane. Not that I think there’s anything to it, necessarily. And the village grapevine being what it is, you’ve probably heard already in any case, so it really…’

‘Julia.’

Hayley’s forceful tone stopped Julia mid-sentence. Even Jake looked up nervously. He hated raised voices and any hint of conflict.

‘I don’t think you are hearing me, Julia. You aretoo close to this case. Not just close, actively involved in the crime scene! You were working with the props. Your best friend wrote the script that led to the shooting. Not to mention that you yourself handled the gun. In fact, along with Tabitha, you are theoretically one of the potential suspects in this investigation. So, hear me when I tell you that: You. Can. Not. Get. Involved.’

Julia barely heard the last few words. Her brain was stuck on the phrase ‘one of the potential suspects’, like a needle on an old vinyl record.

Hayley was talking again. Julia heard ‘…none of your usual shenanigans…And DC Farmer will be in touch to have you come in again to go over your statement.’

‘Right, of course. Whatever you need, Hayley. I’ll tell you whatever I know.’

Hayley’s voice softened a little. ‘Thank you, Julia. There’s quite a list, a lot to get through, but we will talk in the next day or two. You can tell me everything you know. Now, I’d best be getting on.’

Hayley gave Jake one last pat and walked away, crossing the road, heading to the shops.

Julia was rooted to the spot, unable to move, the phrase ringing through her head:

One of the potential suspects…

One of the potential suspects…

One of the potential suspects…

11

Julia had been coaxed, guilted, and perhaps even manipulated into accepting Chaplin into the family, but on one issue she had stood firm. The cat would not sleep on her bed. She was absolutely resolute on that. She had made a mistake with Jake, occasionally allowing him onto the bed, but for reasons of comfort, hygiene and allergy avoidance, she was determined that there would be no cat on her bed. To make this clear to her new lodger, she had purchased a horrifyingly pricey cat bed, along with a cat scratch post and a cat food bowl. The cat bed lived in the sitting room, to further reinforce the point.

So, why was her neck at that improbable angle? And why was there a soft paw lodged in her ear?

Because Chaplin was stretched out, sleeping comfortably on Julia’s pillow, that’s why. Not just her bed, her pillow! Julia’s head, which should by rights be resting comfortably on the soft-but-just-firm-enough down pillow, was positioned awkwardly between the pillow and the mattress. She opened her eyes and moved her head tenderly, so as not to stress her neck further, and gently got up.

‘Come on you, that’s not your place,’ she said, lifting thesleeping cat from the bed. He opened his eyes with a lazy blink, but didn’t move. He just lay heavily across her hands, his legs hanging down. Jake watched nervously from his position on the floor next to the bed. He winced as the cat passed over him in Julia’s arms.

‘Don’t worry, Jakey, I promise I’m not going to drop the cat on you,’ she said. Jake got up and followed at a safe distance while Julia transported Chaplin down the passage and into the sitting room.

‘You’ve got your own bed, kitty cat,’ she said, popping him into his bed, which was shaped like an igloo and made of some sort of super-soft fluffy material that just made you want to crawl into it yourself and curl up for the remainder of the day.

Chaplin didn’t feel the same enthusiasm for his bed. When she plonked him in it, he would usually sit for a minute looking mildly pained, and then stalk off to the sofa, or to a rectangle of sunlight on the carpet or, yes, to Julia’s own bed. She left Chaplin in the cat bed, wondering how long he’d stay this time.

In the kitchen, she flicked on the kettle and donned the long shapeless cardigan and slip-on gardening shoes that she kept by the door. She popped a doggy treat in her pocket and picked up a bowl of kitchen scraps in her hands for the chicks. Jake shot out of the door, and sat down waiting for the treat that Julia tossed up in the air. He snapped it, swallowed it and was off round the garden, greeting the day with his usual enthusiasm. The fresh air! The smells! The grass beneath one’s feet! Oh, hello, Henny Penny!

Julia massaged the crick in her neck as she watched him gambol, and thought about the day ahead. She was going to take it easy after the busy and stressful weekend. She had not a thing in the diary. She would potter in the garden, perhaps do some cooking for the week, take Jake for a walk, and treat herself to lunch at the Buttered Scone. But first, tea and herword games and a few pages of her book, all of which she planned to enjoy in bed.

She held the tea tray carefully as she walked to the bedroom and sat down on the bed, then propped it against a cushion while she swung her legs up and settled against the headboard. The gentle sense of anticipation she usually had at the thought of an hour or so of such a mild indulgence was marred by a flutter of worries. She couldn’t unhear Hayley’s words – ‘one of the potential suspects’. As much as Julia knew that she and Tabitha were not responsible for the fatal accident with the gun, and as confident as she felt that DI Gibson would clear her, she didn’t at all like the idea of being on a list of possible suspects. She thought of all those true crime shows, in which some poor fellow had sat fifteen years in prison before being cleared by DNA evidence and sent off with a: ‘Sorry! My mistake!’

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