Trick or Murder?: A Sophie Sayers Village Mystery (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries Book 2)

by Debbie Young

  Billy was undaunted. “Abstinence? That’s that green French drink that makes you go blind, isn’t it?” There was raucous laughter from his corner of the room.

  The vicar ignored the jibe, or perhaps he didn’t understand it. “There will also be an All Souls’ service on the morning of the second of November. In the meantime, I suggest you spend the rest of the evening in the bosom of your family, where you belong.”

  “There ain’t no bosoms in my house, vicar.” That was Billy again, of course. “Though it’s not for want of trying.”

  At that, Mr Neep left as abruptly as he’d entered. As the door slammed shut behind him, an indignant chorus of “Ooo-ooo-oooh!” went around the room.

  “Don’t you worry, young Donald,” Billy called out, raising his glass of stout. “The vicar will have to work harder than that to make us give up the demon drink.”

  As Ella and I left at closing time, Donald told us his takings had doubled that evening, as everyone pledged their support to The Bluebird in kind. It seemed Mr Neep was making enemies wherever he went in Wendlebury.

  9 Fancy Dress

  I don’t usually bother with Halloween, but Mr Neep’s ruling made me keen to celebrate it this year as much as possible. I couldn’t wait to call in at the village shop on the way to work next day to see what Halloween costumes Hector and I might hire to wear in the bookshop on the day itself.

  “How about a nice pair of zombies?” said Carol. “I’ve got plenty of grisly face-paint to match.”

  I didn’t like to explain that I wanted something more alluring.

  “Or an undead bride and groom?”

  That would have seemed a little forward when we’d not even had our first date. “Hector said it shouldn’t be scary. Do you have anything to do with children’s fairy stories?”

  “Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf?”

  “The wolf might frighten the little ones. And their grandmothers.”

  “I’ve got it! Beauty and the Beast!”

  She flicked through the clothes rack and pulled out a shiny yellow nylon ballgown, weighed down by flounces from top to bottom. I held it against myself over my coat. It hung beautifully.

  “Thanks, Carol, you’re too kind. Though I’m not sure how Hector will take to the idea.”

  “I don’t know, I think men probably like to be thought of as a bit of a beast.” She giggled. “Even Hector.”

  From a nearby box full of masks and headdresses, she pulled out a lion’s head with a magnificent mane and a noble expression. Her skill with a needle was truly remarkable.

  “That’s amazing, Carol. Do you make all these outfits from scratch every year?”

  “Oh no, some people bring them back when they’re done, so I can sell them again next year. You know what they’re like about recycling round here.”

  The kind villagers probably did this to bolster Carol’s meagre profits. I couldn’t see that happening in Tesco.

  Carol lovingly folded the two costumes, slipped them carefully into separate carrier bags, and handed them to me.

  “Shall I put them on the Hector’s House account, as you’re wearing them for work?”

  I nodded. “Perfect. Now all I have to do is break it to Hector he’s going to be a beast.”

  “Gosh,” said Carol wistfully, at which point I thought it best to take my leave.

  As I entered the shop, Hector pressed “play” on his music app to greet me with “Hello, Dolly”. Just right: not too serious at this early stage in our relationship, but chosen carefully and with affection.

  “I’ve got our costumes.” I held up the two bulging carrier bags. “I love my frock. I hope you’ll like yours.”

  “My frock? We’re not going to be Cinderella’s Ugly Sisters, are we?”

  I pulled a face as if I was offended. “No, but you do get to wear a frock-coat. It’s very dapper.”

  Hector looked relieved. “Good. I wouldn’t want to scare you away.”

  Once I’d left the bags in the store-room and started setting up for the post-school-run morning coffees, I decided it was time to drop a subtle hint that he might invite me to the PTA Halloween Disco.

  “Tell me about the PTA Halloween Disco, then.” I lifted the day’s delivery of Eat My Words cakes out of their boxes and arranged them on the pressed glass cake stands. “Is it only for children or do adults go too?”

  “All ages are welcome, whether or not they’ve got kids. It starts at 7.30pm, and it goes on till midnight, though the families with small children generally leave earlier.”

  “What’s the music like? Is it children’s party songs or a proper disco?”

  “It gets more grown-up as the evening goes by, so the little ones have some they recognise, with lots of actions to join in with. It’s more ‘Macarena’ than minuets, I’m afraid. I hope you weren’t anticipating some sedate Jane Austen style salon.”

  I smiled. “No, that’s the last thing I’d be expecting in Wendlebury. Although that would be a better match for our costumes.”

  “They usually throw in a few slow numbers around midnight.” He gave me a knowing look. “So I hope you’re not planning to turn into a pumpkin on me.”

  I felt a rush of warmth run through me. He was already assuming we’d be going there together.

  After the mums and toddlers had gone, I brought out our costumes from the stockroom and produced them with a flourish from their bags – first mine, then Hector’s. I held the ballgown up against me, and gave a little twirl to demonstrate how it would flare out while I was dancing.

  “Lovely,” said Hector.

  Gratified, I handed him his azure frock coat and he slipped off his fleece to try it on over his t-shirt.

  “It’s a good fit.” He stretched out his arms to demonstrate. “I’ve just realised I forgot to tell you my size. You guessed well.”

  “No, Carol did.” She must have spent enough time gazing longingly at him to make an accurate assessment.

  I reached in the bag to pull out navy velveteen trousers and a lace-fronted shirt, which he wasn’t quite so keen on. When I produced the lion’s head (it was a very capacious bag), Hector let out a cry of alarm.

  “A severed head? What am I meant to be, a big game hunter on a night out?”

  “No, silly, we’re Beauty and the Beast. Like the fairy tale. You said you wanted a storybook-related theme, and that one’s perfect.”

  “Can’t I be Beauty?”

  “No, you’re definitely more of a Beast,” I laughed as the shop door creaked open.

  “You bring out the beast in me too, girlie,” said Billy, sidling up to slip his arm round my waist. I wriggled out of his grasp and moved swiftly away.

  “Will you be going to the PTA Halloween Disco, Billy?” Somehow I couldn’t picture him on the dance floor. Or at least, I didn’t want to.

  “I might wander up once I’ve wet my whistle at The Bluebird with their Halloween guest beers. Pale as a Ghost Ale, Evil Critter Bitter, and all that. But you’ll have to wait and see what I’ll be wearing. I’m saving it as a surprise.”

  “Just coming as you are will be enough, Billy.” Hector winked at me. “The undead, unadorned.”

  “I’m in my seventy-seventh year,” said Billy proudly. “And I’ve every intention of living to be a hundred.”

  Reprobate as he was, I’d grown fond enough of Billy to wish he might achieve his ambition. I hoped the special cream in his tea might act as a preservative rather than hasten his end.

  10 Frightening Writers

  I’d been so carried away with the plans for Halloween that I’d almost forgotten about the Wendlebury Barrow Big Read. This was an event organised in the Village Hall by the Wendlebury Writers a few weeks into every new school term. Each member would read to the audience something they’d written since the last one.

  I’d had a sudden panic when first hearing about this venture, having nothing in my ragbag of scribbles that would withstand a public airing. Fortunately Dina
h, the Chair of the Writers’ Group, unwittingly came to my rescue by suggesting that this time we should each read a passage by the author we’d posed as on our Village Show float. Although that got me off one hook, it hung me from another, because I’d never read a word by Virginia Woolf. I’d only chosen her as my literary hero for the float to try to impress Hector and my new writer friends.

  Tuesday evening, therefore, found me in my front room poring over May’s copies of Virginia Woolf’s books. To my surprise, I found myself mesmerised by her writing, staying up into the early hours to finish reading Mrs Dalloway. Having been feeling a fraud, I turned up to the Big Read event feeling validated, like someone who’d just got religion.

  As a surprise for the audience, we’d be wearing our carnival costumes. I was looking forward to wearing Auntie May’s drop-waisted silk dress again, although this time with a thermal vest underneath for warmth. I’d also once more be donning my kitten-heeled shoes and putting my usually loose long hair up in a soft bun at the nape of my neck.

  The point of the Big Read wasn’t just for the Wendlebury Writers to show off their work – or, in this case, someone else’s work. It also involved other villagers, who were welcome to bring pieces to read as well as to provide an audience. The group usually gained one or two new members this way each term.

  We advertised the event in the October parish magazine and put notices up in the village shop, on the telegraph poles throughout the village (standard practice, it seemed, to spread the word about Wendlebury events), and at Hector’s House.

  The weather continued to be mild dry, though chilly, so we expected a good turn-out. The Wendlebury Writers arrived at the Village Hall early as we all had specific tasks to do before the event could start. I opened the stage curtains and moved the oak lectern up onto the stage, while Dinah switched on the stage lighting and Bella tested the microphone. On a long table at the back of the hall, Julia and Louisa set out wine glasses and bottles of sparkling wine and mineral water. Karen found a basket for donations for the refreshments and added a float. Jessica set up a whiteboard on an easel at the bottom of the stage steps, and wrote at the top the running order of the authors whose work we’d be reading. She left the marker pen in place so members of the audience who wanted to perform could add their chosen authors’ names after ours. Then we all set out rows of chairs for the audience.

  By the time the first reading was due to start, the list was a dozen authors long. I was pleased to see most of the Wendlebury Players in the audience. A couple of them were planning to read, and I hoped this evening’s event would provide a nice, gentle way for them to get back on the acting bicycle after falling off, so to speak, following Linda’s murder.

  At work during the day, I’d tried to persuade Hector to take a turn. After all, he was very good at recommending authors and books for people to read. But he declined, saying he’d prefer to swell the numbers in the audience.

  “‘They also serve who only stand and wait’,” he pronounced, in a manner that made me think it might be a famous quote. I was glad I thought to Google it on my phone when he wasn’t looking, thus saving myself the embarrassment of replying that it was kind of him to volunteer to be our wine waiter. As it turned out, it was me who did the waiting, as he was one of the last to arrive.

  The Wendlebury Writers sat in the front row, and as I turned to look for Hector, I spotted another familiar face in the audience – the Reverend Neep, sitting offputtingly close to the stage at the end of the row behind me. This row was otherwise empty, although the seats behind were almost all taken. What normal person ever sits right at the front of an event, given the choice?

  When Hector finally arrived, I saw him notice Neep, and sit in the back row to be as far from him as possible.

  The Writers had decided to perform in chronological order by author’s date of birth, which put me in fourth place on the bill, after Jessica’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Jacky’s Charles Dickens and Bella’s Robert Frost. I had eight years on Louisa as Agatha Christie. After my reading of the passage from Mrs Dalloway of Clarissa choosing flowers in Miss Pym’s florist’s shop (“There were flowers: delphiniums, sweet peas, bunches of lilac; and carnations, masses of carnations…”), I sneaked back to sit by Hector, and was glad when he smiled and reached for my hand to give it an approving squeeze. I needn’t have been so nervous.

  After Dinah, the last of the Writers to perform, had delivered her Sylvia Plath piece, we had a brief interval for drinks. Hector fetched us each a glass of sparkling wine. He raised his in a toast to me.

  “The drinks may not be up to the standard they had at Mrs Dalloway’s party,” he said, “but then she wasn’t partying in Wendlebury Village Hall.”

  Then it was the turn of the six guest readers to perform their chosen pieces in the order they’d written their authors’ names on the board. While we were waiting for everyone to settle back in their seats, Hector appraised the second half of the programme.

  “I see Shakespeare’s rubbing shoulders with Jerome K Jerome, but I don’t think either of them would mind. P G Wodehouse, Jane Austen – all a bit predictable. Ian Rankin – no surprise there. But Goethe? How interesting. I wonder who’s chosen him?”

  Having visited the Goethe Museum in Düsseldorf when I was working in Germany, I racked my brains as to what I could remember about him so that I could say something intelligent at the end. Then we sat back to enjoy the readings. The first five were carried out with reasonable competence and accuracy. Ian gave a surprisingly convincing impression of Bertie Wooster, and Mary’s extract from Shakespeare entranced me with its thyme and oxlips and nodding violets. I was just thinking Shakespeare might make a good alternative if my nativity play didn’t work out, when Hector reminded me this was Titania’s speech from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so I decided to keep it up my sleeve for summer use.

  I knew the first five readers by sight at least, and was wondering who the Goethe fan would be when the vicar got to his feet.

  “I would never have put him down as a lover of German poetry,” I whispered to Hector.

  “Wagner, perhaps,” he hissed back, frowning.

  In my head I tried to channel Joshua’s charitable attitude. Surely it was a good sign that Mr Neep was trying to fit in with the villagers now, listening politely to the other readers and taking his turn on an equal footing, instead of throwing his weight about.

  He stood proudly at the lectern, shoulders back, head held high, in his comfort zone, as if in the pulpit. After panning the audience to make sure he had their full attention, he drew a small black cloth-covered book from his jacket pocket, opened it at an early page, and began to read in loud, resonant tones.

  “‘The two angels arrived at Sodom in the evening, and Lot was sitting in the gateway of the city’.”

  It didn’t sound much like Goethe to me, even in translation – more like a shaggy dog story of the “two men walked in to a bar” variety. Then I realised that he was reading a passage about Sodom and Gomorrah. Even I’d heard of that Bible story. By implication, he was condemning our village, warning us against our own corruption.

  Glancing again at the whiteboard, I realised with horror that the last name on the list of authors, scrawled in a spidery hand beneath Ian Rankin, was not the poet Goethe but “God”, with rather a lot of decorative flourishes. Mr Neep was reading from the Bible.

  A consummate performer, he made constant eye contact with the audience, polling the room like a pro, before singling Hector and Dinah out for special attention. He must have picked up on the grapevine that each of them was gay. Not that Hector was, of course, but for a long time Carol had mistaken his preferences, and he’d allowed her to carry on uncorrected to deflect her affections from him. Carol’s unofficial “free gossip with every purchase” policy may have led others in the village to believe it too, and any of them could have told the vicar.

  When the vicar came to the end of his reading, he snapped the book shut with a flourish and returne
d it to his pocket. Nobody clapped, although they had for all the other performers. That didn’t upset Neep. I suppose vicars aren’t used to applause at the end of a sermon. As he descended the wooden stage steps to resume his seat in the second row, the audience sat in stunned silence.

  I glanced sideways at Hector to see how he was taking it. I knew much of the Bible counted as poetry, and wondered whether there was hidden beauty in this passage that had passed me by. In the dim auditorium light, I could see his expression was of open disdain.

  Dinah was first to gather her wits, returning to the stage to invite all the readers to take a bow, and thanking everyone for coming. After that, we all flocked towards the wine, except for the vicar, who stalked out of the door into the darkness.

  “What a shame that he had the last slot of the night, because he rather stole everyone’s thunder,” said Julia after the Writers had all clinked glasses in mutual congratulation.

  I passed around a basket of crisps. “Even so, I’m glad I didn’t have to follow him,” I said. “He killed the atmosphere stone dead. He’s like the opposite of a warm-up man.”

  Jessica looked thoughtful. “I wonder whether he’ll come back next term, when we’ll be reading pieces we’ve written ourselves? I wonder what sort of thing he might write?”

  I shuddered. “Horror stories, for sure!”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped, assuming that the vicar had returned and heard my remark. I swivelled round, wondering how to put a positive spin on what I’d just said. To my relief, it wasn’t Mr Neep at all, but Carol.

  “Well done, girls.” She stood in silence for a moment, unusually reticent, then blurted out nervously, “Doesn’t Mr Neep read well?”