Quite a transformation.
When he’d first arrived in the village the old building had been boarded up, its windows shuttered. A forgotten remnant of a time when villagers went out to films, shows, and plays. A casualty of the arrival of TV and then broadband.
But now it seemed people wanted the live experience back again. There was a demand for real. So, money had been raised, the builders had gone in, staff had been hired — and now, as he’d read in the local paper, Cherringham was just a month away from having a working theatre again.
The Cherringham Players were putting on an inaugural drama and the posters were plastered across the front of the building: The Purloined Pearl — a Classic Mystery — guest director — internationally renowned Jez Kramer!
Of course, in the last year Jack had seen plays, even a spot of opera in the village hall — but that didn’t count. This was the real thing. This was show business come to the Cotswolds!
He pushed open the smart new doors and went in to the foyer. The place seemed empty.
Then he saw the tall double doors into what must be the auditorium swing open and Sarah and her mother Helen came towards him.
“Hi, Jack,” said Sarah.
“Sarah.”
Helen gave him a kiss on both cheeks.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Jack, you are an absolute brick.”
Over Helen’s shoulder Jack could see Sarah smiling at him. She’d often teased him about how much closer Jack was in age to her mother — and hey, maybe you two should be the detectives?
But age didn’t come into it. He liked Helen. But with her polite Englishness she was a different generation from him. Whereas with Sarah — he just felt … comfortable.
And now they’d worked more than a few cases together, they knew each other well.
“Glad to help, Helen,” he said. “And I have to say — the theatre looks amazing.”
“Doesn’t it just? Let’s do the grand tour,” she said, taking his arm through hers and then lowering her voice, “Then we can get down to the nitty-gritty before the others turn up.”
And into the theatre they went…
*
Jack stirred his tea and leaned back in the battered leather club armchair by the side of the prop fireplace.
Hmm, could do with a chair like this on the Grey Goose, he thought.
He smiled at Helen and Sarah who sat next to each other on a deep cushioned sofa. Helen had switched on just a few of the lights, so the stage had a cosy feel — not too different from the country house sitting room he supposed it represented.
“So…” he said. “Can’t wait to see the first show. And I promise I’ll buy tickets.”
He saw Helen nod and smile.
“But — just what is the nitty-gritty we need to talk about, Helen? Sarah wouldn’t tell me — said I should hear it—”
“From the horse’s mouth, eh?” said Helen, laughing.
“Something like that,” said Jack, sipping his tea.
He watched as Helen scanned the stage dramatically, making sure they were still alone. Then she started:
“We’re under attack, Jack.”
“We?”
“The Cherringham Players! Someone wants us out — and I think they’ll stop at nothing to achieve their aims.”
Jack glanced at Sarah: this for real?
He saw her nod, her face serious. Much as Helen could be a little … extravagant … in her storytelling, Sarah clearly thought this was on the level.
“Since we started rehearsing The Pearl, it’s been one calamity after another. Food poisoning, breakages, illness, thefts, accidents — I’ve never known a production like it. And now — well, I’m sure you’ve heard all about it — dear Graham Jones up to his neck in plaster. Literally!”
“And you don’t think this is accidental?”
“How can a lantern fall on someone’s head?”
“Lantern?” said Jack.
“Stage light, you know — spotlight — those things!”
She pointed above her head and Jack followed her gaze. Seeing the size of the lights up there he could understand why Graham was still in hospital.
The guy’s lucky he’s not dead.
“That must have been pretty bad,” he said. “Were you here?”
“On stage with the poor chap. It was awful. Luckily the paramedics got here quickly and gave him some morphine.”
“You saw it happen?” said Jack.
“We all did,” said Helen. “Not that there was anything really to see. It just … fell.”
Helen continued:
“But here’s the thing. That whole lighting rig is brand new, top of the range — how can a big spotlight like that just fall?”
Jack shrugged: “Maybe that’s the problem. New installation, teething problems, workers chasing a schedule. Wouldn’t be the first time—”
“Nonsense!”
Jack paused.
“Well how about the police — what do they say?”
“Oh, we haven’t bothered with the police,” said Helen. “Alan Rivers, our intrepid local bobby? Good God, I used to hold his hand at playgroup when the older girls frightened him—”
“I think that’s still happening, Mum,” said Sarah and Jack saw her wink at him.
Helen laughed.
Nice timing, Sarah, thought Jack. A little humour to calm Mom down a little.
“Okay — nobody’s called in the police. What about all the other incidents?”
“Taken one at a time, up until the light fell, they just don’t seem that major,” said Helen. “It’s only when you add them all up, it doesn’t make sense. To me, at least.”
Jack looked at the two women sitting opposite. If it had just been Helen, he might have been sceptical. But Sarah clearly thought this was worth him hearing.
Then, as if she could read his thoughts:
“Something that Mum hasn’t mentioned, Jack—”
He saw Sarah look at her mother — for permission? — and waited…
“Sarah, you know what I think about all that,” said Helen. “Gossip. Tittle tattle.”
“I think it’s relevant,” said Sarah.
“Oh, all right, go on then,” said Helen.
“Well,” said Sarah, “Word around the village is that the freeholder of the theatre — a local builder called Andy Parkes — thinks he’s made a big mistake letting the refurbishment go ahead. Feels that — with the current market — he should have knocked the place down for flats.”
“That happens,” said Jack. “But now there isn’t much he can do?”
“That’s it; apparently there is,” said Sarah. “If the theatre can’t demonstrate in year one that it has ‘a credible business plan’, then he can rescind the lease and take the building back.”
“Wow, that’s some small print,” said Jack. “Who let that one through?”
“I don’t like to name names, Jack,” said Helen, “but unfortunately it’s our Chair, Ambrose Goode. Ran the place for years, produced, directed, starred — but recently, well…”
“Ambrose is getting on a bit, Jack, and it turns out he’s been rather in denial about his ability to keep on top of things,” said Sarah.
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Helen.
“He insisted on negotiating the lease and only after it was signed did the other trustees see the sell-back clause,” said Sarah.
“Ah,” said Jack. “So if Ambrose is a little … flaky … I guess that’s why you’ve got the celebrity director on the case — Jez Kramer?”
“Hmmph,” said Helen. “It was the Board’s decision. In my opinion, the less said about him the better.”
“Ambrose and Jez don’t quite see eye to eye,” said Sarah.
“The man’s poisoned the whole production,” said Helen. “Him, and his ego. And he can be positively nasty, too!”
“Some of the cast have even walked out,” said Sarah.
“Those who’ve been well enough,�
�� said her mother. “And the rest are at each other’s throats as a result.”
No fans of Jez Kramer here then, thought Jack.
“But anyway — he can’t possibly be responsible,” said Helen.
“No?”
“Well, it’s hardly in his interest, is it?” said Helen. “He’s being well-paid for his star-turn as director.”
“Okay. So let’s go back to the property guy — Andy Parkes. You think he could be sabotaging the show so the Players fail and he can get the building back?”
He watched Helen look pleadingly at Sarah. She clearly didn’t want to say the words.
“I think Mum believes — it’s possible,” said Sarah.
“Not that I have any evidence. Still…” Helen said.
“Okay,” said Jack. “Well, it’s a theory. A motive — if nothing else.”
“You think?” said Sarah.
“Sure.”
“So what happens now?” said Helen.
Jack shrugged: “I like this little theatre. As a relatively new resident in Cherringham, I want it to succeed.”
Helen beamed.
“Thank you.”
“To start: we look for a modus operandi. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened — and show me how that lighting rig works?”
And Jack got up from his oh-so-comfy chair and walked into the wings.
*
Sarah sat on the sofa and worked on her laptop while Jack investigated backstage.
She’d spent all of yesterday afternoon getting feedback from a client on a website she’d built, and now she had to try and make sense of it all.
Plus — she’d never had a head for heights and she had no intention of climbing up the little ladder into the lighting rig with Jack.
Once she’d made sure he was safety-clipped properly, she was happy to leave him to his devices.
For the last half hour she’d been able to hear him backstage, tapping away at metal, going up and down the ladder, moving chains around.
Had he ever investigated a crime in a Broadway theatre, on — what did they call it? — The Great White Way?
He certainly seemed comfortable in the theatre.
But apart from Jack’s banging around, checking things, the building was silent. A haven. Her mother had been called home too, so in fact now — sitting in the middle of Lord and Lady Blake’s faux drawing room — she felt quite at home.
I should come here more often, she thought. Like working in Downton Abbey.
She heard Jack coming down the ladder again and she watched as he emerged on to the stage wiping his hands with an old cloth.
“You find anything?” she said.
“Maybe,” he said.
Sarah had learned to be patient when Jack was slowly working things out, but it did test her when he seemed to do it on purpose.
Almost teasing…
She watched as he stood in the middle of the stage and peered up into the darkness above.
“Yep, should work,” he said, as if to himself.
Then he turned to her.
“Here’s the thing. I want to try something out.”
Sarah waited.
“And it could be dangerous. I might have got it wrong. I could cause a lot of damage. God — it might cost a thousand bucks. Maybe more. An experiment that might tell us something.”
“Then let’s do it,” she said. “Whatever it is you want to do.”
“Such trust! Terrific,” he said. “Now what I need you to do is hop off the stage now and head over there into the seats, just a few rows back.”
“You’re not kidding, Jack, are you?”
“Nope.”
She went down the little steps at the front of the stage, walked up to row D then turned and faced him.
“Now — don’t move. And if anyone comes into the theatre — shout out. Loud. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Because we don’t want any more accidents.”
She watched Jack disappear backstage for a few seconds then emerge again in the wings. He stood with his arms folded.
“Okay…” he said, speaking very slowly. “What I want you to do now is tell me exactly when you’d like one of those heavy lights to fall on to the stage.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You sure?”
“Sure.”
Now she understood why he’d wanted her to stand in the stalls. But how could he make this work?
“How about…” Sarah waited, “Now!”
And as she said it, a huge sandbag dropped like a stone from above and landed with a massive thud on the stage.
It was like magic.
She looked at Jack. He hadn’t moved an inch. He looked pretty satisfied with himself.
“Wow,” she said.
“Pretty good, huh?”
“What happened to the light?” she said. “That would have been fun.”
“I was just kidding about the light,” said Jack. “I was going to use a sandbag all along. Just as effective for a demonstration.”
She climbed back up on to the stage and stood over the sandbag. She watched Jack as he joined her.
“All right, so tell me Mr. Houdini — just how did you do that?”
“Same way the killer did,” said Jack, holding up a thin line of cord in one hand. “Unscrewed all the safety clips. Replaced the chain with this — on a slip knot. Hooked it somewhere backstage.”
“So — he could just choose the moment — then pull the cord and the light would fall?”
“Yep. And nobody would even see him do it.”
“No evidence left behind, either.”
“Clever, huh?”
“But Jack. Hang on … you said — killer. Graham Jones didn’t die.”
“But that’s it. If I’m right, I think maybe he was meant to. They got the timing wrong — or something. But whoever did it is playing hardball. And we’d better find them.”
“Before someone does die?” said Sarah.
“Exactly,” said Jack.
4. A Call on the Director
Sarah pulled her SUV into the narrow driveway of the cottage that had been rented for Jez Kramer.
Barely enough room for the vehicle to squeeze through.
Backing out was going to be interesting.
Jez had eagerly agreed to meet Sarah, especially when she said she wanted to feature a profile of him for the next Cherringham newsletter.
Her real motive in meeting would — she hoped — not be too transparent.
She parked her car, pulling up close to a small garage at the back. The cottage looked perfectly maintained; beautiful paving for the driveway, warm Cotswold stone leading up to a slate roof.
She saw a pair of metal boxes attached to the side of the house. Air conditioning, no less. In Cherringham!
Not a bad cottage for the visiting celeb.
She walked to the back door and knocked, but Jez was already there, sipping from a teacup. He flashed a broad smile. She could feel his sharp eyes probing her.
He might have an ego; he might be pompous. But as an accomplished director, he could probably read people.
Jez Kramer took her all in.
“Sar-ah, good to see you. Come in…”
Sarah followed him through the open back door. State-of-the-art kitchen, marble countertops, all the appliances … shiny stainless steel. A professional-looking Aga dwarfed the room.
No expense spared indeed.
She had to wonder if Kramer had demanded such amenities.
Air-con. Aga. Were there yellow and green M&Ms in a bowl in each room too?
Sarah realised that — since working with Jack — she had become more attentive to seeing things.
Then trying to interpret what they meant.
Like knowing that Kramer didn’t have tea in his cup, but more likely whatever Winston Churchill used to have for his mid-day constitutional.
The expensive leather loafers, perfectly polishe
d and smart. Savile Row for sure.
The shirt, from Pinks most likely. Beige, with subtle maroon stripes. Grey chinos, sharply pressed.
Altogether — Kramer very much looked the part.
Which is something he would be good at doing.
But Sarah had done her research. Kramer’s career hadn’t exactly been flourishing lately. Directing gigs like this were clearly tiding him over while the plum BBC drama projects went elsewhere.
“Come into the sitting room, Sarah. Rather a nice set up.”
And he was right about that. Matching leather sofa and armchair; a dark wood floor that gleamed; two tear-shaped end-tables; a scattering of magazines on them, all part of the perfectly designed interior.
The fireplace — gigantic. You could roast a pig in it.
She sat on the sofa.
“Get you a drink … tea?” he tilted his own cup, with a wry smile. “Something stronger?”
She smiled. “No, I’m fine thanks, Mr. Kramer.”
“Jez, please. Feel like I’m part of the Cherringham family, working with the locals, your charming mother.”
She had the feeling that Jez Kramer didn’t feel part of any Cherringham family.
Time for the interview.
She took out her pad and started asking some questions, all perfectly innocent and straightforward. To begin with, at least.
*
“Well, yes, those were golden days at the Beeb. Had my pick of projects, and the people I worked with? Absolutely the best.”
“All different now?’
Kramer grunted. “You could say that — in spades. Controllers who wouldn’t know a denouement from a divan. These young writers who don’t give a damn about plot, or—”
He caught himself.
Then, the director quickly forced a smile onto his face, making his tanned, leathery skin criss-cross with wrinkles.
“Things change,” he said, calming himself.
Decidedly unpleasant personality, Sarah thought.
Time to get closer to what she really wanted to talk about.
“And you too will take a role in the production?”
“Oh, yes, I mean the theatre board practically insisted!”
Sarah would have to check that with her mother, and see which way the “insisting” went.
Cherringham--Playing Dead Page 2
