Murder Dancing

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Is Chattox another witch?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Demdike and Chattox, as they were known, were the two most famous, along with Anne Redferne, Chattox’s daughter, so they are my three principals. Demdike and Chattox are the main two, of course.’

  ‘Was it the same?’ asked Libby. ‘Messages and frogs?’

  ‘At first. But what came next was really shocking.’

  ‘What?’ Fran asked.

  ‘He found a disembowelled cockerel in his locker.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘That’s serious stuff, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘You said “he”. Who did you mean? The new Demdike?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Sorry, no. My Chattox.’ Max sighed. ‘And of course, the whole troupe got the wind up.’

  ‘They would,’ said Ben. ‘I’m surprised they didn’t walk out en masse.’

  ‘I think they would have, but Chattox happens to be a very strong, no-nonsense, unsuperstitious person. Not at all the sort who would give in to this sort of pressure. In fact it made him rather …’ he paused.

  ‘Bolshie?’ suggested Libby.

  Max smiled at her. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Sort of “no one’s going to push me out of this part” feeling?’

  ‘Spot on.’ Max turned to Andrew. ‘You told me she was good.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell her that,’ said Adam, appearing with their first course. Max once more looked startled.

  ‘That’s my son,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t take any notice.’

  ‘So what happened next?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I called them together after a rehearsal and asked them what they thought about it. If any of them wanted to pull out, or if they thought we should stop altogether.’ Max thoughtfully selected a cheese-smothered nacho from the plate. ‘They all wanted to carry on.’

  ‘All of them?’ Libby raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Well, there were a couple who didn’t look too keen, but when they realised that everyone else was all for carrying on

  they agreed to do so, too. I’m pleased about that, as one of them is playing Roger Nowell, who was the chief prosecutor.’

  ‘Has anything else happened since then?’ asked Guy.

  ‘No. That was when Andrew and I came up with the plan to – well, to enlist your support,’ Max finished lamely.

  ‘Rehearsals are quite advanced, are they?’ asked Libby.

  ‘They are. Which is just as well, because we haven’t given you very much notice, have we?’

  ‘When exactly are you coming?’ asked Fran.

  ‘The weekend after next. We’ll have a week rehearsing in the theatre, then four or five days culminating in a final Halloween performance on the Saturday. We’ll clear out on the Sunday. Some of the boys have got panto this season, but they won’t need to start that for a few weeks.’

  ‘You don’t have to go on the Sunday,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve got nothing booked in until the end of the week, and that’s only a one-nighter. Unless you have another venue to get to, of course.’

  ‘No, because this will be a trial. I’m getting a few people down to have a look, and we’ll see where we go from there.’

  The conversation turned to more general aspects of theatre, and particularly pantomime, until Harry emerged from the kitchen to join them, carrying a bottle of brandy and followed by Peter, who was introduced to Max.

  ‘I can see I shall have to keep an eye on my boys if they’re going to be eating here,’ said Max, eyeing the brandy with amusement.

  ‘Oh, I don’t dish this out to everyone,’ said Harry, swinging a chair around and sitting astride it. ‘Only favoured guests.’ He bent a darkling glance on Libby. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Exactly how many of you will be coming?’ asked Ben. ‘I’ll have to warn my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Ben and his mother own the theatre and the Manor, where you’ll all be staying,’ said Andrew. ‘If there’s room for you all. If not, the pub, as you know, has a couple of rooms, and there’s always Anderson Place if you want to be really exclusive.’

  ‘There are ten dancers, me, the composer/pianist and our stage manager. We could bring our own stage crew, unless the theatre can provide them?’

  ‘What about lighting?’ asked Peter, who specialised in what was known as FX, or sound and lighting effects.

  ‘We can supply our own techies, unless you’re prepared to do that, too,’ said Max. ‘It’s a question of how many you can actually accommodate.’

  Peter and Ben looked at each other.

  ‘We’ve got twelve rooms in the Manor,’ said Ben, ‘and there are a couple of rooms here at the pub if they’re free.’

  ‘And we would have had the flat upstairs if Adam hadn’t moved back in,’ said Harry.

  ‘He could move back in with us for the fortnight,’ said Libby with resignation.

  ‘Are you only using piano for the performances?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, we’re having the music recorded by a small orchestra,’ said Max, ‘so technically, our composer needn’t be here for the run, but we’ll need him for some of the rehearsals, and he rather regards it as his baby.’

  ‘So that’s thirteen essentials,’ said Ben.

  ‘Unlucky,’ said Libby, pulling a face.

  ‘Oh, Lib, really,’ said Harry.

  ‘How many rooms are there at the pub?’ asked Guy. ‘Is it really only two?’

  Andrew stood up. ‘I’ll pop next door and ask. Shall I book whatever they’ve got free at the time?’

  ‘I think we can provide backstage and tech crew,’ said Peter after he’d gone, ‘as long as your stage manager doesn’t mind. And I’m happy to do lighting design and operate.’ He gazed at Max thoughtfully. ‘In fact, I shall look forward to it. At least it’s different from lighting one-nighters and pantomime.’

  Andrew re-appeared. ‘Three!’ he said triumphantly. ‘I’ve booked them all.’

  ‘There!’ Libby looked round the table delightedly. ‘The ten boys in the Manor and three top bods in the pub.’

  ‘Top bods is putting it a bit high,’ said Max, with a laugh, ‘but yes, it works. And the boys, as you call them, will probably be happier with me staying somewhere else.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll tell Mum tomorrow.’

  ‘And we’ll organise a work party to get the rooms ready,’ said Libby.

  ‘It’s all very informal.’ Max looked at Ben and Libby. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are we a bit too informal?’ Libby asked Ben later as they got ready for bed. ‘As far as the theatre goes, I mean.’

  ‘I suppose we are a bit. But I’ll issue Max with a contract tomorrow, and do all the paperwork. After all, there’s no one looking over our shoulders, is there? The theatre belongs to us, lock, stock and barrel. As long as we comply with health and safety and council regulations, we’re fine.’

  ‘And declare it to the tax people.’ Libby climbed into bed. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to do any of that.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Ben. ‘I’d never hear the last of it.’

  By the time Max arrived, a day ahead of his company, Ben had discovered he needed no extra backstage support and Libby had helped Hetty and a small army of village ladies give all the rooms at the Manor a good airing. The whole place smelt of lavender polish and pine disinfectant.

  ‘Never mind, gal, it’ll go off,’ said Hetty, casting a gimlet eye over the seldom-used large sitting-room, which she was turning over to the guests for the duration of their stay. ‘Now you get off and see to this Max.’

  Ben was showing Max over the theatre, which he had prepared according to the instructions sent down by the stage manager. As Libby entered the foyer, Peter appeared at the top of the spiral staircase which led to the sound and lighting box.

  ‘Our musical genius is here. Want to meet him?’

  ‘Ssh!’ Libby looked round frantically. ‘Where is he?’

  Peter grinned. ‘Sitting in there with headphone
s on. Completely oblivious.’

  Libby climbed the staircase and squeezed into the lighting box behind Peter. The young man sitting hunched over the control desk didn’t move.

  ‘Damian,’ said Peter. The young man still didn’t move. Peter tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Eh? What? Oh!’ The young man swung round and re-focused large, blue eyes on Libby.

  ‘This is Libby Sarjeant,’ said Peter, ‘one of the joint owners of the theatre.’

  Libby sent him a startled look.

  The young man removed his headphones, swept thick, straight, pale hair off his forehead and gave Libby a singularly sweet smile.

  ‘Hi – I’m Damian Singleton.’

  Libby shook the proffered hand. ‘And you’re the composer?’

  ‘Well …’ Damian looked awkward. ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘That’s how Max put it,’ said Libby, amused.

  ‘That was nice of him,’ mumbled Damian, looking at his feet.

  Libby and Peter looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘Were you listening to your music?’ asked Libby. ‘How does our sound system stand up?’

  ‘Oh, it’s excellent.’ Damian looked up, now enthusiastic. ‘I was actually wondering if I could be up here during the run.’

  ‘You can, of course, but there won’t be anything to do. It’ll be switched on and then run on its own,’ said Peter.

  ‘Well, in case, you know, something happens …’ Damian turned and looked wistfully at the desk.

  ‘Like someone falls over and they have to start again?’ suggested Libby.

  Damian turned back, shocked. ‘Oh, no! That would never happen.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it does,’ said Peter. ‘What happens if someone twists an ankle or lands badly after a jump?’

  ‘They carry on. As far as they can, of course.’ Damian looked back at the control desk. ‘Do you mind if I …?’

  ‘No, you carry on,’ said Peter, and watched with amusement as Damian resumed his headphones and sat down again, once more oblivious to the outside world.

  ‘Is he listening to his score?’ asked Libby, as she and Peter descended the spiral staircase.

  ‘Yes. They only finished recording it the day before yesterday, and he hasn’t heard it through a proper sound system until now. He’s in a state of high excitement – and very nervous.’

  ‘Where are Ben and Max?’

  ‘Somewhere backstage.’ Peter pushed open the auditorium doors. ‘Go and have a look.’

  The stage was hung with shaded grey gauze, which drifted slightly in an undefinable breeze in front of an impressionistic depiction of Pendle Hill, also in shades of grey. The company stage manager had sent them down and all Ben had to do was hang them from barrels in the flies. There were no changes of scene, merely changes of lighting, which Peter was to work out with Max and the stage manager that afternoon.

  Ben appeared on the stage and peered into the auditorium. ‘That you, Lib?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby advanced to the edge of the stage. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Fine. Everything meets with approval. Apparently the SM is driving the company bus down with costumes and props and should be here soon. Then he’ll take it to meet the dancers at the station tomorrow.’

  ‘Any more incidents since we last heard?’

  Ben turned and called over his shoulder. ‘Max! Libby’s here.’ He turned back. ‘I haven’t asked. And he hasn’t said.’

  Max appeared looking far more workmanlike than he had last time Libby had seen him. He grinned and came down to the front of the stage.

  ‘Your old man’s done us proud,’ he said, squatting down on his haunches. ‘The boys are going to love it. I’m going across to the Manor in a minute to meet Hetty.’

  ‘Good,’ said Libby. ‘Are the boys looking forward to coming down?’

  ‘Yes.’ Max looked doubtful for a moment. ‘Well, mostly. Some of them do have a rather London-centric attitude, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Think it’s the next thing to death here in the sticks?’ said Ben.

  Max grinned ruefully. ‘I’m afraid so. But they’re all up for the piece, so that’s all right.’

  ‘And no more incidents?’ said Libby lightly.

  ‘Except for one of the witches ending up in hospital, no.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘What?’ Libby gasped.

  ‘Hospital?’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing sinister.’ Max stood up. ‘Over-indulgence more likely. Although the hospital did suggest food poisoning.’

  ‘Poor thing. Is he better now?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Pale and complaining, but a lot better and inclined not to eat seafood for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘So nothing to do with the other incidents?’ said Ben.

  ‘Not unless someone coerced the restaurant staff.’ Max looked up into the flies. ‘Did you manage the robotics and the Kabuki?’

  ‘The what?’ Libby peered upwards. ‘What are they?’

  Ben looked down at her and grinned. ‘Aha! You wait till you see!’

  ‘FX?’ Libby looked over her shoulder at Peter. ‘Are you in on this?’

  ‘Of course. You just wait and see.’

  ‘When do you want to try it out, Max?’ asked Ben.

  ‘We won’t rehearse tomorrow, they’ll be too tired. Or fractious. So on Monday, if that’s all right? And I’ll warn them it’s a tech. They’ve never worked with this before, although they obviously know it’s going to happen –’

  ‘But what’s going to happen?’ Libby broke in.

  The three men laughed.

  ‘Just an effect, Libby,’ said Max. ‘Honestly, it would be better to wait and see.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled Libby.

  The auditorium doors crashed open.

  ‘Hello?’ came a muffled voice. ‘Am I in the right place?’

  Libby spun round to see what appeared to be a mountain of fabric hovering above the back row of seats.

  ‘Stan!’ Max jumped lightly down from the stage and made his way up the central aisle. ‘Give me some of those.’

  Slowly, a small man with large glasses was revealed behind the fabric. He beamed towards the stage. ‘Hi! I’m Stan Willis. Which one of you’s Ben?’

  ‘Me.’ Ben grinned back and followed Max up the aisle.

  Max took some of the costumes and Stan was further revealed. He was younger than his name suggested, very slim and neat.

  ‘Hello,’ he said holding out a hand to Libby. ‘Are you Libby?’

  ‘I am. And this is Peter.’

  Peter shook hands. ‘I’m the one up in the box. Your composer’s up there now testing our sound system.’

  Stan rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, God. I do hope he isn’t going to interfere.’

  Peter looked amused. ‘So do I!’

  ‘I don’t know why he had to be here at all,’ said Stan testily, with a sulky glare at Max, who laughed.

  ‘It would be most unfair to deny him the chance of being at the debut of his first public piece,’ he said, ‘and anyway, he might be playing for rehearsals.’

  ‘How demeaning,’ said Stan with a sniff.

  ‘Are you moaning about me?’ a voice shouted from above.

  Everyone looked up to see Damian grinning down from the lighting box.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Max. ‘Come down here and give us a hand.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘if you don’t need me for anything, I’ll get out of your way.’

  ‘So will I,’ said Peter. ‘We can go through the lighting plot on Monday, can’t we?’

  Stan looked slightly bewildered. ‘Not tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ said Peter.

  ‘Stan,’ said Max in a warning tone.

  Peter grinned amiably. ‘We’re not pros, you see, Stan. Purely amateur set-up.’ He set off towards the back of the auditorium. ‘Coming, Lib?’

  Libby followed him outside into the little garden, where he
flung himself into one of the white, wrought-iron chairs.

  ‘I’ve never heard you claim that we’re an amateur set-up,’ she said. ‘He annoyed you, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did, rather. Strikes me as one of those stage managers who despise every other discipline in the theatre.’

  Libby sat down opposite him. ‘We had one of those once. He also did design and construction and refused to have pictures hung on the walls of his precious sets as it spoilt them. And the actors messed them up.’

  ‘Like those old-fashioned nurses who complained that the patients made their wards untidy,’ said Peter. ‘Yes, just like that. And our Stanley also strikes me as someone who expects everyone to do exactly what he wants, when he wants it.’

  ‘So do I gather we don’t offer to do anything?’ asked Libby with a grin.

  ‘Other than what we’ve agreed to. I’ve already said I’ll do lighting, so I’m stuck with that, and Ben offered to crew, although it doesn’t look as though there’s much to do backstage.’

  ‘Just that Kabuki thing, whatever it is.’

  ‘Oh, Stan can do that on his own.’ Peter shook his head. ‘And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is.’

  Libby went home.

  Ben joined her a couple of hours later.

  ‘How did it go?’ Libby moved the big kettle over to the Rayburn hotplate.

  ‘OK, I think.’ Ben sat down at the kitchen table. ‘That Stan is a bit pernickety.’

  ‘Peter thinks he’s one of those people who expect all productions to revolve around them.’

  ‘I suspect he’s right.’ Ben sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m glad I won’t have to crew for him.’

  ‘You won’t? I thought you’d offered?’

  ‘He’s got someone coming down, apparently, and there’s hardly anything to do anyway.’

  ‘Except the Kabuki thing,’ said Libby hopefully.

  Ben grinned. ‘Oh, no, you’re not getting me that way!’

  ‘So have we got room for this new person?’

  ‘He’s sharing with Stan.’

  ‘Oh?’ Libby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He didn’t strike me as someone who would welcome sharing with anyone.’

  ‘I believe they’re partners,’ said Ben. ‘That’s the impression I got. Max seems fine with it and ignores Stan’s little foibles as far as I can see.’