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

by Debbie Young

  Hector’s reassuring tones were muffled by his mask. “Don’t worry, Sophie, you’re safe with me. The local wildlife won’t risk the wrath of a lion.”

  I wished I too had a full-head mask to stop the damp night air turning my hair frizzy. I was glad to arrive in the halo of light that spilled out of the open barn door.

  “Ooh, proper lighting, that’s good,” I said to Hector. “Do you think there’ll be heating too?”

  “I hardly think so. They’ll have had to bring in a generator for the lights and the disco kit as it is.”

  I still had so much to learn about country life.

  The trailer we had used as our carnival float stood on the far side of the room, transformed into a makeshift bar. Some of its decorations were still on board, such as the backdrop lined with wrapping paper bought from Hector’s House, showing the spines of antique books. Replacing the chairs were a couple of shiny metal beer kegs, chunky wine boxes, and small plastic bottles of soft drinks. Stacks of plastic cups meant no-one had to worry about breakages. As at the Village Show, bales of hay provided prickly but sturdy seating, and in every spare space against the wall stood pairs of wellies of all shapes, colours and sizes. I wish I’d thought to carry my dancing shoes and walk down in wellies instead.

  Although, thanks to Hector, we arrived on the dot of the official start time, some of the partygoers had already made significant inroads into the supplies of drink, perhaps having started when they were setting up the bar. The only access to the disco floor, from which the “Macarena” was escaping at high volume, was through a low stable door in the partition between the two rooms. The average height of those on the dance floor suggested they were of trick-or-treating age. Hector took one look and led me by the hand to the trailer to buy us drinks.

  “Do you want a straw with that, Hector?” asked Stanley, serving him a pint of bitter, noting that the mouth opening in his mask provided enough space to breath but not to sup from a glass.

  “How did you know it was Hector?”

  No visible part of Hector’s body was recognisably his. Stanley nodded indulgently at our still clasped hands. “Of course it’s Hector. Who else would it be?”

  I’d forgotten about the village grapevine. Billy, who’d interrupted our first kiss, was second only to Carol as a source of gossip. I grinned feebly.

  “Well, I’m rather hoping it’s Hector in there, anyway.” I wondered whether all of Carol’s costumes were unique. I’d hate to find myself dancing later with the wrong Beast.

  We carried our drinks to an empty bale and sat down to survey the scene. The assembly made an impressive sight, and I was relieved that most of them were not at all scary. Carol seemed to favour the Halloween values of Disney rather than the Brothers Grimm. Even her vampires looked friendly.

  Several bookshop regulars stopped to make small talk with us, saying pointedly how glad they were to see me and Hector out together. Clearly none of them considered that the masked man now sitting with one hand on my thigh might be anyone other than him.

  I was just starting to bask in the general acceptance of us as an item when I spotted Carol emerging from the dance floor. Slightly breathless, she had “let it go” with the little girls to the popular song of that name from Frozen. She sported a long, thick, white, plaited wig and the most beautiful Elsa costume, covered in sequins that twinkled at her every turn. I couldn’t help but smile, she looked so happy.

  She gave us a cheerful wave and made a beeline for us. Hector, doing a shameful impression of the Cowardly Lion, drained his pint as an excuse to escape to the bar. Carol, unbowed by his action, gratefully threw herself down on to the bale next to me and stretched out her legs.

  “Phew, I’m exhorbitant already. I’ve been dancing non-stop so far.”

  I smiled. “And so you should be. You are the real Belle of the ball, Carol. Your costume is gorgeous. No wonder you’re up on the dance floor showing it off.” Now she was closer, I was able to take in the incredible detail of her gown. “That must have taken you weeks.”

  “Yes, it did. All sewn by hand, too. No effort spared. And the kids love it.”

  “Well, you’re worth every last sequin, Carol.”

  She slipped off an immaculate pointed shoe, sparkling beneath the disco lights, and bent to rub her toes. She must have walked down in wellies. “That’s kind of you to say so, Sophie. I just wish someone else was here to see it.”

  I cast an urgent glance across to Hector, now deep in conversation with a silver-faced wizard at the bar. Surely she wasn’t still carrying a torch for him? She followed my look and shook her head.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t mean your Hector. I gave up on him a long time ago. Even before I realised that you’d converted him.”

  My mouth dropped open but she continued before I could think of something politically correct to say.

  “No, I mean someone who isn’t likely to even consider coming here. And to be honest, I’m half hoping he doesn’t.”

  “Not Mr Neep, surely?”

  Our conversation was cut short by cries of “Come in, vicar!” near the barn door, accompanied by horrified gasps from those who could not see who it was, and a squeal of enthusiasm from Carol.

  Billy, glad as ever to be the centre of attention, came striding into the bar wearing a black jacket and black shirt over his usual corduroy trousers, and a white plastic clerical dog collar. He took the collar off to demonstrate its origins – an old bleach bottle – to the admiring crowd that had gathered around him.

  “See, anyone can be a vicar if they want, even me!”

  Only Carol seemed disappointed that it wasn’t Mr Neep. She sat back and looked pointedly in the opposite direction as Billy did a circuit of the room, high-fiving anyone who cared to admire his home-made costume. Unlike everyone else, he kept his wellies on.

  I saw Hector buy Billy his first pint and suspected Billy wouldn’t have to pay for any of his own drinks that night.

  Billy came over to raise his glass to me, looking smug. “There, young miss, I told you I’d do it. And I didn’t even need to buy one of Carol’s fancy costumes either.”

  Carol looked even more deflated, and Billy, sensitive for once, tried to make it up to her.

  “But you’ve both scrubbed up very well tonight, if I may say so.” Carol looked only a little consoled. Billy turned his back on us to survey the room. “So, when are they going to turf these kiddiewinks out so the real party can get started?”

  Carol explained the usual rules to me. “Generally the children stay till about nine o’clock, dancing to the kind of music they like, then the parents take them home and we move on to more grown-up stuff. You know, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s – all the nostalgic records that take people back to their prime.”

  I thought better than to remind her that, in the 90s, my main source of music was nursery rhymes.

  A song that I recognised vaguely as the theme music to a children’s television programme struck up in the next room.

  “But some of us can waltz to anything. In fact, I think I will.” And with that, Carol was gone again, waltzing across the room as a warm-up.

  Billy took her place on the bale next to me, noisily slurping on his beer, and told me about the exploits he’d got up to in this barn when he was a lad. These mainly involved a girl called Veronica of whom everybody’s parents disapproved, which for Billy counted as a recommendation. I shot an anxious look across to Hector, wondering whether he had abandoned me for the night. Now a shaggy gorilla had buttonholed him at the bar, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. So much for my high hopes of a night like Cinderella’s, only without the midnight dash.

  Making excuses to Billy, I decided to take a tip from Carol. I refused to be downhearted, instead throwing myself into the action. Why wait for the action to come to me, when I could go to it? A bone-chilling gust of air from outside made me shiver, confirming my decision to hit the dance floor, and I headed through the stable door into the heat and light of th
e disco.

  21 Trouble at the Barn

  Dancing with Carol was hardly how I’d expected to spend the evening, but with Dutch courage from a second large glass of wine, thrust into my hand by a generous vampire at the edge of the dance floor, I found myself rushing up to join her. Rewarded with her companionable smile, I shimmied about to various childish songs for over an hour before the lights came up and the DJ, one of the dads, announced that it was bedtime. Startled, I wondered whether Wendlebury was a secret haven for wife-swapping until I realised he meant just for the children.

  A brief pause in the music followed while they found their coats and their parents. Still buzzing after all the exercise, they were despatched into the cold night air with faces glowing like Rudolph’s nose, escorted by either parents or babysitters. The short break in the music prompted any adults still on the dance floor to head to the bar for a much-needed drink.

  As I queued to be served, I realised I had no money on me and used this excuse to abandon Carol for Hector. My guilty conscience was assuaged when she was quickly swept up by a couple of other villagers whose costumes bore the hallmark of her handiwork.

  To my surprise, Hector was sitting alone on the bale where he’d left me, his mask removed and on his lap. He gave me a slightly sheepish smile as I came towards him.

  “What happened to you?”

  If he had been Damian, I’d have retorted, “I could ask you the same thing,” and we’d have descended into a row. I discarded that option and instead smiled what I hoped was winningly.

  “I’ve been dancing with Carol. I’m puffed.” I sat down beside him and gratefully accepted the glass of wine he had waiting for me. “Is it always like this, the Halloween Disco?”

  “It’s not usually held down here, obviously. It’s more civilised in the school hall, warmer and less muddy. But to be fair, the barn has more atmosphere, being surrounded by dark fields and trees rather than the school playground with its security lights. Nor is the barn lined with children’s paintings and other school accoutrements at odds with the Halloween theme. But there are the same faces, same tunes, and many of the same costumes.”

  I took a long draught from my glass. “I’m amazed at how many people I recognise even when they’re heavily made up or wearing wigs and masks.”

  “Sherlock Holmes did say you can never disguise a back, and I think he’s right.” Hector pointed to a green-haired witch who was drinking beer from a small black cauldron, a plastic snake entwined round its handle. “That’s Dinah, for sure. And over there is Ella Berry.” He indicated a slim figure completely enveloped in a fluorescent skeleton suit, who turned, waved to me, and gave me an enthusiastic double thumbs-up when she spotted who I was with. “See that mummy propping up the bar? That’s the Chair of the PTA, chatting to the Chair of the Board of Governors, Tutankhamen. They must have got together to plan that double act.”

  “They’re not at all scary when you know who they all are, not even the really hideous ones.” I motioned to one of the undead, whose face was covered in green slime. “That’s the postman, isn’t it?”

  Hector nodded. “Yes, the only thing to fear is if you see someone you don’t recognise at all. Because then—” he leaned closer for effect “—that means real monsters have risen from the bushes around us. We’re not that far from the church graveyard, you know. It’s only just over that hill.”

  I hoped he thought I squealed purely for comic effect.

  At that point, the lights dimmed in the other room, and the sound system struck up again with the “Monster Mash” – not a tune to entice Hector to the dance floor. Nor me, either. To be honest, I didn’t mind if we sat for a while without dancing, because it gave us the chance to talk to each other away from the restrictions of the shop.

  Once the gimmicky songs were out of the way, some lively dance tracks came on, harvested, as Carol had predicted, from decades gone by. I don’t know why I was being so traditional and old-fashioned, waiting for Hector to ask me to dance. I should have just grabbed his hand when a song I liked came on and refused to accept no for an answer. As it was, we carried on chatting and drinking till about eleven, when the music started to slow down.

  Finally he stood up, set his mask on the bale to save our place, and held out his hand to lead me to the dance floor. I was prickling all over with excitement as we passed through the stable door into the other room, and he deftly swung me into his arms. As we turned around, the Wendlebury Players’ float on the far side of the room caught my eye. The chairs had all been borrowed from and returned to the church, but for some unfathomable reason, the chopping blocks on which Ann Boleyn and Catherine Howard had met their execution were still in place, the cardboard axe, now limp with damp, leaning against the backdrop. I hadn’t paid much attention to it when I was dancing earlier with Carol, but now I remembered with horror the sight of my first dead body on that float back in August as Ann Boleyn’s costume was peeled back to reveal Linda’s lifeless scarlet face.

  Hector pulled me closer to him so that I could hear what he said over the music. “Are you OK, Sophie?”

  “Sorry, yes, I’m – NOOOO!” I stepped back sharply from him and screamed, raising my arm to point in the direction of the Players’ float. Emerging from the shadows came the unmistakable figure of the Grim Reaper, sheathed from top to toe in a voluminous black hooded cape concealing his face. He wielded not a cardboard axe but a sharp metal scythe.

  The music stopped abruptly and everyone turned to look in the direction that I’d pointed, frozen with horror and confusion. Moving almost in slow motion, the Grim Reaper raised his scythe over the dance floor, pointing it menacingly at every one of us in turn. As the blade glinted beneath the disco lights, there was no doubt that it was potentially a murderous weapon.

  Shouts came from the dance floor. “Oi, who the hell is that? Jim? Is it you? That’s not funny. Stop arsing about and spoiling things for everyone.” Stanley, drawing on his authority as owner of the barn, stepped forward from the back of the hall to challenge the mysterious intruder.

  “Not me, mate,” called Jim from the doorway, and everyone swivelled round to look at him to make sure. As we turned back to face the trailer, the Grim Reaper darted across the stage to the disco equipment and raised the scythe above his shoulder.

  “Look out, love!” shrieked the DJ’s wife, and then the barn went dark.

  A thundering of steps across the trailer, followed by the slamming of the back door behind it, confirmed the route of the Grim Reaper’s escape. In the ensuing pitch black, people fumbled for phones or torches or lighters – whatever they’d brought with them to light their walk down to the barn. The flickering dots of light did nothing to illuminate the culprit, only adding to the eerie atmosphere.

  Used to rounding up recalcitrant livestock, Stanley quickly took charge, flashing his penlight torch above his head so we could see where he was. “Quick, boys, after him! Sam, Ted, you go out the back; Trevor, Jim, round the side to the left. Tony, you come with me round the right. Don’t let him get away.”

  Mostly friends since distant boyhood, and therefore not the fastest runners in the room, Stanley and his team stumbled off in search of the prankster. Various younger men, dads of children at the school, followed, some of them pushed into action by their wives. The rest of us turned to each other in horror and puzzlement. Hector hadn’t joined the searchers, possibly because I had flung my arms round him and was clinging on to him as if for dear life. Feeling foolish, I let go and gave him a little push.

  “Don’t let me stop you – go with them if you like.”

  He held up his mobile phone to look at me by the light of his torch app. “No, it’s OK, more than enough have gone in his wake. I’d be miles behind by now. There was no shortage of volunteers.”

  He aimed his torch at the disco deck. The DJ was kneeling by the severed power cable, shaking his head. Now that the music had stopped, we could hear the generator was still running, but with no connection, it
was useless.

  “Sorry, folks, there’s nothing I can do to fix this now. I’m afraid we’ll have to call it a night.” He jumped down behind the trailer and switched the generator off.

  The dance floor swiftly emptied. Soon a steady trail of villagers was heading disconsolately back up through the slippery fields. Small clusters of people were talking quietly and angrily about the prankster who had spoiled our fun. The rising mist was now shot through with persistent and penetrating rain.

  “Thank goodness the kids had gone home,” I heard Ella saying to the gorilla a few metres in front of us. “It would have given them nightmares.”

  And not just the children, I thought.

  There was lively speculation as to who the prankster might have been. Perhaps a teenager, or some bored lout with a sick sense of humour who’d come out from Slate Green looking for trouble. No-one except me seemed scared or nervous. They were just cross for having had their evening’s fun curtailed.

  I had a different theory. “I bet it was the Reverend Neep,” I whispered to Hector, seeking his approval before I risked sharing my idea with the crowd.

  Hector took off his lion’s mask and gave me a quizzical look. “Neep? I hardly think so, Sophie. He may not like Halloween much, but a vicar would never behave like that. He’d get struck off, or whatever they do to disgraced vicars. Defrocked. That’s the word I’m looking for.”

  He let out a little laugh at the very thought. I was glad I hadn’t embarrassed myself by suggesting my idea to anyone else, but I wasn’t convinced by Hector’s swift denial.