Page 1 of A Village Theatre Murder

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‘Arranging the props and accessories for the village play reminds me of playing with the dressing-up box I had as a child,’ said Julia Bird, dipping her hand into the bulging bag that sat between her and Tabitha on the kitchen table. ‘We had a trunk full of clothes and bits and pieces. It was my favourite pastime.’

She pulled a hooked pirate hand out of the bag and tried it on, modelling it for Tabitha. ‘I didn’t have one of these, sadly. I’d have loved one.’

‘Very cool. Although I can’t see how we can incorporate it into a 1950s murder mystery drama that takes place entirely on dry land, and features precisely zero pirates,’ said Tabitha.

‘We can’t. A tragic waste of an excellent prop,’ Julia said, tossing it back into the bag with the scarves and hats and some stranger items – a doctor’s stethoscope, a crown made of plastic flowers, a fold-up walking stick.

‘I loved dressing up too,’ said Tabitha. She took a pair of huge Jackie O sunglasses out of the bag, examined them, and dropped them back in with a shake of her head, saying, ‘Wrong era. Anyway, it’s a pity we didn’t know each other when wewere children. We could have played at dress-up together. What was your preferred character?’

‘Bossy schoolteacher.’ Julia pulled a yellow pillbox hat from the bag and put it on her head.

‘Are you serious? Me too! I had all the toys sitting up straight, to attention, while I lectured them on important topics. I called myself Madame Madeleine. I was French – not that I could speak French, but that didn’t put me off.’

‘I like to think I was strict but kind,’ Julia said. ‘I wanted the dolls and teddies to put their best feet, or paws, forward. To work hard and do well. For their own good.’

Tabitha smiled. ‘I had literary ambitions for my pupils. I insisted that they learn the words to all the A.at A. Milne poems, Christopher Robin, and so on. I can still recite most of them, if you’d like to hear one.’

The two women laughed at the pleasure of their shared childhood experience, and in unvoiced recognition that they still both had something of the bossy schoolteacher in them. Julia had had a successful and fulfilling career in social work, from which she was now retired, and Tabitha was the librarian at the Berrywick Library. They hadn’t strayed too far from their childhood personas.

The two old friends went back to the job at hand, which was finalising the props and accessories for the annual performance of the South Cotswolds Players, the region’s amateur dramatics society. Tabitha had in fact written the play – ‘in the style of Agatha Christie’, she had told Julia, blushing slightly at comparing herself to the Queen of Crime. Thefinal dress rehearsal was to take place on Friday, and then four more performances would take place over the coming weekend and week.Somewhat to Julia’s surprise, the tickets were almost all sold out. While neither Julia nor Tabitha had any desire to be on the stage themselves, they had volunteered to help with the costumes and props, and had enjoyed themselves greatly.

‘This yellow pillbox for the Dorothy character, do you think?’ Julia turned her head side to side in an exaggerated way, modelling the hat for Tabitha. ‘Or shall we go with the beret?’

Tabitha picked up the red beret and put it back down. ‘The yellow. I know Nicky would love to wear the beret, but it’s too artsy for the role. Too flamboyant. Her character, Dorothy, is a Shy Young Lass, remember, not an Artsy Parisian Chatterbox.’

They both grinned. Nicky was anythingbuta shy young lass. On the contrary, she was a contender for the title of the most talkative woman in Berrywick – an extremely broad and hotly contested field, comprising dozens of candidates.

‘Okay, that’s decided.’ Julia took off the hat, and placed it to her right, on the ‘yes’ pile. She made a note in her notebook, saying the words as she wrote them. ‘Dorothy. Yellow hat. Actor’s own jewellery. Modest jewellery. Flat pumps.’ She paused and reread the list, checking that she hadn’t missed anything. ‘Done. Next up, Dylan, or should I say, Julian, the Dashing Young Rogue?’

‘Dylan’s no more a rogue than Nicky is a shy young thing,’ said Tabitha.

‘That’s acting for you,’ said Julia. ‘I saw him at one of the rehearsals, and I couldn’t believe it was the same sweet young chap who wooed my Jess. Striding about, preening. It was quite unnerving to watch, actually.’

‘I can imagine. Not that Jess would have fallen for the charming rogue persona. Your daughter’s too sensible for that, it seems to me. How about this?’ Tabitha held up a red silk scarf, spotted with pink. ‘Nothing says Dashing Young Rogue like a silk cravat, I say.’

Their work was interrupted by the sudden thumping of Jake’s tail against the wooden floor. Julia knew the rhythm of that tail thumping. It was nervous tail thumping. She turned to see Chaplin, the black and white cat, who had jumped in at thewindow next to the sink and was gazing imperiously down his nose at the dog.

‘It’s okay, Jakey boy,’ Julia said, reaching down to give him a pat. He looked up at her gratefully, knowing she would protect him from the terrifying feline, which seemed poised to pounce from its great height at any moment and rip him limb from limb.

‘How are the pets getting along?’ Tabitha asked, surveying the interaction.

It was odd to have ‘pets’, plural. Julia had had a pet, singular, in the form of Jake, as her constant companion for a couple of years. And now there was Chaplin.

Julia sighed. ‘It’s been nearly three months since Chaplin came to live with us. Thecat’sfine, not in the least scared of Jake. I suppose that Jake has settled down quite a bit, but he doesn’t like to walk past Chaplin in a confined space, especially if the cat is above him. He still behaves as if he is in mortal danger half the time.’

‘From a cat. Who weighs about a twentieth of what he does.’

‘Yes. But he’s always been nervous of cats. And to be fair to Jake, Chaplin has got The Stare.’

They both looked at the cat, who had fixed its wide green eyes on the dog like lasers.

‘I see what you mean, Julia. It’s quite intimidating, actually. I’m feeling a bit antsy myself.’

‘He’s a sweet cat. It’s just The Stare. And of course The Moustache.’

Tabitha snorted. The cat did in fact have a neat little black moustache on his upper lip, a perfect black rectangle which, together with his round eyes, made him a dead ringer for Charlie Chaplin – hence the name. It was a little disconcerting, until you got used to it.

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