Page 3 of A Village Theatre Murder

‘Yes. I expected him to be bossy and self-important, which is how he is in his professional life. But he has turned out to be cooperative and quite surprisingly pleasant.’

‘Maybe his move to Edgeley has improved his mood. All that fresh air. The sheep grazing in the meadow, and so on. Calmed him down.’

‘I suspect the poor man’s a frustrated thespian, and is happier in the theatre than in the police station.’

‘A would-be director trapped in the life of a police superintendent. Tragic, it is!’ Tabitha uttered her analysis dramatically, hands clasped together.

Julia laughed at Tabitha’s delivery. ‘I suppose I’m pleased for him that he’s fulfilling a life’s dream of directing a play. And bringing your wonderful writing to life.’

If Julia was a little grudging in her enthusiasm, it was because she herself had brought out the worst in Roger Grave. She had had a series of run-ins with him in the past. In addition to his supercilious manner, he had taken an extremely dim view of her unofficial ‘helping’ on a couple of recent crime cases. Or ‘interference’, as he would call it. But that was a separate matter. He’d been on his best behaviour in the six weeks of rehearsal, and particularly polite to Julia. So much so that now she felt guilty for her judgemental response to Grave, and even a little sorry for him, if he was indeed a reluctant copper with a hankering for the stage. She said, in a conciliatory tone, ‘Thetheatre does seem to make him happy and bring out the best in him. Fortunately for all concerned, we will be seeing the director side, not the regional superintendent side, of Roger this weekend.’

The whistling of the kettle called them back into the kitchen, where Julia made a pot of Earl Grey tea. She took out the last quarter of the carrot cake she had baked at the weekend.

‘Oooh, I shouldn’t. I’ve got that five pounds to lose,’ said Tabitha, who had been threatening to lose five pounds since they were in their third year at university. Whether they were the same five pounds or different ones was a brain teaser that Julia could never quite crack. But same or different, she didn’t think Tabitha needed to lose them then, or now. She suspected Tabitha didn’t think so either, and mentioned them only out of habit. A suspicion that was reinforced by Tabitha saying, after barely a moment’s hesitation, ‘Ah, all right then, I can’t resist that cream-cheese icing you make, Julia. But just a sliver. For the taste.’

They sorted out the last few accessories over tea and cake. There was a spotted silk cravat and a rakish fake moustache for Graham Powell, who was playing the Charming Good-for-Nothing. For Gina, playing the Friendly Barmaid, there was a frilly apron to wear with a revealingly low-cut and tight-waisted dress that she’d supplied herself. Julia suspected she’d had it specially made to show off her figure – which was indeed quite admirable – and wasn’t admitting it. Tabitha offered to take a policeman’s cap home and repurpose it for Guy, who would be playing the Postman.

‘Good work, team,’ Julia said, snapping her notebook shut.

‘That was fun,’ said Tabitha. ‘I’ll get the cap sorted in time for the dress rehearsal, and I’ll see you on Saturday, for the opening. Is Sean coming?’

‘Yes indeed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” was hisresponse. Am-dram isn’t usually his cup of tea, but he’s excited to see the play that you wrote.’

‘I hope he’ll enjoy it. It think it really is rather well done for an amateur production.’

‘That it is. I’m sure it will be a fun night out for everyone.’

3

Occasional bumps and lumps appeared in the stage curtain. Most of the audience members were far too busy greeting friends and exchanging news to pay them any attention, but Julia, already in her seat, with Sean next to her and his hand in hers, watched the bumps and lumps appear and vanish and wondered what was what – elbows and knees, bits of furniture? The chatter swelled and seemed to bounce off the high vaulted ceiling.

The hall was full to bursting. Julia waved at a few people she knew – there were a lot. She was surprised to spot Jim McEnroe in the audience, and wondered if he was perhaps going to review the show for the newspaper. But no, this appeared to be a social rather than a business visit – his new girlfriend Moira was leaning into him in an intimate way. He put his hand on her knee. He must have felt Julia’s gaze because at that moment he looked up and caught her eye. He gave her a little nod and a sheepish grin in greeting.

The last few stragglers came in, craning their heads to find free seats. Julia caught sight of Tabitha amongst them. She had been backstage, doing a last check on the props. Julia hopedshe’d remembered to take the gun from the cupboard, where Julia had put it that afternoon, and put it in the pocket of the coat, and the coat on a hatstand, ready for Oscar to wear. Knowing Tabitha, everything was in its place. On top of Tabitha’s wild grey curls was the red beret that had been rejected as too dramatic for Nicky to wear. Unlike the Shy Young Lass, Tabitha could carry off absolutely anything, no matter how bold.

Julia stood up and waved, catching Tabitha’s eye and gesturing to the empty seat next to her. Julia had saved it by plonking her handbag and jacket on it in a proprietary manner. As the hall filled up, it had been mildly awkward. People had come over looking for an empty seat, and she’d had to shoo them politely away, sometimes to head-shaking or tutting. So she was pleased when she could remove her territorial markers, and let Tabitha sit down.

Tabitha squeezed Julia’s arm. ‘Thanks for saving the seat; I know you hate doing it.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind!’ Julia said, untruthfully. They both laughed.

‘Hello, Sean. Gosh, isn’t it full! Half of Berrywick and most of Edgeley must have come to see the play. Anyway, here we are. Warm, isn’t it?’

‘Certainly is. I’m overdressed in my warm jacket, that’s for sure.’

Tabitha fanned herself with the programme which had been made up by Guy’s daughter, who was doing Art for A levels. She’d created it on her laptop, and printed it off on Guy’s small home printer.

‘Is it time?’

Julia looked at her watch. Sixp.m. on the dot. Hector, the prompt, slipped his head and shoulders through the curtains, frowned earnestly into the hall, and retreated. He must have reported back to the director that the village hall was full, andthe audience ready for the show, because no sooner had he disappeared than Roger Grave appeared from the same spot between the curtains. It still seemed strange to see him dressed not in his sombre superintendent suit and shiny black shoes, but in slim black jeans, a dark grey polo neck pullover and thick-soled black trainers. He was tall and slim and the clothes sat well on him. His sandy hair, which was usually combed sternly into place over his head, left to right, was now gently and stylishly tousled – had it been gelled, Julia wondered?

He addressed the audience, his voice warm and confident, his face relaxed.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the South Cotswolds Players’ performance. Everyone involved – the actors, wardrobe people and other helpers – are amateurs who love theatre, as indeed am I, the play’s director. They have worked very hard and put their hearts and souls into this play,A Night to Remember. Written by our very own Tabitha Fullergood, and performed by a cast of talented local folk – I thank them all. I have no doubt that, as promised by the play’s title, they will give you a night you won’t easily forget.’

Roger took one last, satisfied look at the full hall before him, gave a small bow in acknowledgement of the enthusiastic applause, and disappeared back from whence he had come. Minutes later, the curtains opened to reveal a well-furnished sitting room. Julia recognised the props that she had arranged for the Players to borrow from Second Chances, the charity shop where she worked – a rather ugly but dramatic oil painting of a ship at sea in the sunset, a few side tables, striking red cushions on the sofa, a mantel clock, and, below it, a firescreen in front of a non-existent fire.

‘Well, I must say, the stage set is rather good,’ whispered Sean. ‘Well done.’

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