Best Murder in Show (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries Book 1)

by Debbie Young

Finally we had a dress rehearsal to try out our proposed costumes and practise our hairstyles to suit our characters.

  This flurry of activity was all handy for me, because it postponed the day when I had to bring some of my own writing for the group to critique. I was hoping I could get away with it until I’d actually written something worth sharing.

  The night before the show I barely slept at all, fearful of oversleeping and missing the start of the procession. I also wanted to make sure I had plenty of time to arrange my hair in Virginia Woolf’s characteristic style and practise my pose. I drank plenty of water and ate a good breakfast at the insistence of Barbara Cartland, who reminded me that if the weather continued to be so hot, it could become a strain on the system. Standing around on a hot float waiting for the judging, we could too easily, she said, become dehydrated or weak with hunger.

  Little did I know that food and drink would be the least of my Show Day problems.

  21 Best Day of the Year

  I could hardly eat my breakfast for excitement. Posing before the wardrobe mirror in my Virginia Woolf costume, I looped my hair into a low bun, then walked carefully in my kitten-heeled shoes up to the Village Green to take my place on our float.

  Hector had already arrived, having towed the float up from Stanley’s barn with his Land Rover, but I hardly recognised him. I hadn’t expected him to dress up too. He wore a white toga, baring one taut shoulder and downy calves. His flesh was firmer and more muscular than one might expect for someone who spent his working days sitting behind a desk, tapping at a keyboard. In the sunshine instead of our shady shop, with its small windows fronting on to the High Street, he looked fresher faced and more energised.

  He caught me looking. “Homer. No, not Simpson, before you ask. The proper one.”

  He certainly looked at home as Homer. I was glad he never wore his toga to work, or I’d not get any work done. I wished I’d picked a more flattering costume. With my plain hairstyle, no make-up, and a dress that flattened rather than enhanced any curves, I looked like a charmless bluestocking.

  But of course, after what Carol had told me, I knew he could never be interested in me as anything other than an employee, or, best case, as a friend. What with him and Damian, I berated myself, I really was very bad at picking men.

  I was surprised he hadn’t said he was going to dress up when I’d told him the characters the rest of the group were playing. Speaking of which, these were all now gravitating towards us from the different directions of their homes around the village.

  Hector offered his hand to help us balance as we climbed aboard to take our seats, starting with Barbara Cartland. Resplendent in pink chiffon, she took her place in a high-backed velveteen armchair. Although still in her thirties, Karen didn’t need to put much thought into her costume, because she usually wore pink anyway. Far prettier than the real Barbara Cartland, she’d had the good sense not to cover up her classic English rose complexion with Cartlandesque pancake make-up. She looked like the innocent heroine of one of her own romantic stories, published by the kind of women’s magazines that never mention sex. They were the perfect antidote to an overdose of Cosmopolitan.

  We had just taken our places on the float when Trevor dashed over to remind us to register our presence at the judges’ table. We all climbed down again and trooped over to sign the list.

  “You were meant to collect your float number last night too,” said Trevor, handing a numbered card to Hector to put on his windscreen. “If you don’t have it, you won’t know which order to line up in. You don’t want to confuse the judges.”

  “Honestly, it’s not as if anyone could get any of our floats mixed up,” huffed Dinah, casting a withering glance at the Gardening Club’s array of human scarecrows.

  When we returned to the float no more than five minutes later, we were horrified to discover that in our absence some anonymous joker had sneaked onto our float to execute a string of practical jokes. Agatha Christie (Louisa) discovered a sticker on the back of her cane chair saying “The butler did it”. On the long tail of Charles Dickens’s black coat, draped over her high bentwood stool, was a pink Post-it note enquiring “Who the Dickens is she meant to be?” Admittedly Jacky, the local dentist, a slim and feminine figure, did look a little unlikely in her false beard.

  A vulgar limerick had been tucked under the collar of the toy dog that was waiting to go on Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s lap. It didn’t have to be very near the knuckle to offend our sweet and gentle poetess, Jessica. Robert Frost (Bella, Parish Clerk) found on her seat a plastic rose, to which was sellotaped a note saying “A pose is a pose and is always a pose”. Receiving a rose in any other context would have been a compliment, but this felt like a threat.

  Julia, the high school history teacher, found a message on Jean Plaidy’s stool saying “You’re history, sweetheart”. She admitted to being the victim of worse jokes in the classroom. The joke played on Sylvia Plath, aka Dinah, was more erudite, and crueller. The caption “It’s a gas” had been sellotaped to her plastic kitchen chair.

  But it was my own fate that most upset me. When I picked up Virginia Woolf’s long cardigan from my low leather pouffe, its pockets were full of stones.

  Dinah refused to let us dwell on the matter, briskly tearing up the notes and handing the scraps of paper to me to dispose of.

  “There’s no time to discuss this now. Places, ladies.”

  Not wanting to miss the off, I stuffed the paper into the copious pockets of my dress, then returned the stones from my cardigan pockets to the drive from which they’d clearly been taken. Then we took our seats and assumed our planned literary poses. While we awaited the arrival of the judges, I couldn’t help but wonder who the joker was.

  The only one of our group to be left unscathed was Barbara Cartland, who in literary terms was arguably the most deserving of disdain. Could Karen have been the culprit? Was some weird Jekyll-and-Hyde character hiding beneath her sweet and gentle exterior?

  Whoever the perpetrator, he or she had more than a passing knowledge of our authors’ lives, including the fact that Sylvia Plath had committed suicide by putting her head in a gas oven and Virginia Woolf by filling her pockets with rocks and drowning herself in a river. I noticed Dinah glaring accusingly, first at the scarecrows then at Rex, smug as Henry VIII on the Wendlebury Players’ float. But Dinah looks daggers at most men, most of the time, so I didn’t read anything into it.

  Surely it had not been Hector? He was meant to be on our side. Besides, his sense of humour was more mature. He might have had the opportunity to slip these items into place, having accessed the float before our arrival, but what could his motive have been? Revenge for being volunteered as our driver? He’d seemed happy enough to get involved when I suggested it. He’d even entered into the spirit by dressing up.

  I glanced across to where he was standing by the Land Rover, putting off the moment of getting back into the hot cab. His toga was an enviably cool and comfortable outfit for this scorcher of a day, and it showed off his shapely legs a treat. I found myself wondering whether the ancient Greeks took the same approach to underwear as kilted Scotsmen.

  The judges were approaching.

  “Don’t be put off,” hissed Dinah to the rest of us. “That’s exactly what the wretched prankster wants. Hold your positions, ladies!”

  The judging complete, the vehicles revved their engines, ready to progress to the Show Ground where the winners would be announced. As our float bumped slowly down the High Street behind the Players’, we tried to look as if we were contemplating the muse, undistracted by less noble thoughts.

  In front of the procession of floats walked dozens of children and adults in fancy dress costume. Leading them was Joshua, who’d performed this duty for more than forty years. When he first told me about it, I’d queried the need to have a navigator for the carnival when it only travelled a few hundred metres from the Village Green to the recreation ground on a straight road with no junctions, bu
t I’d regretted asking as soon as I’d understood how much the position meant to him. Everyone had their favourite role to play on Show Day. The sense of community that bound us was almost palpable. There was so much to observe and take in. Like any aspiring writer, I’m a natural people watcher, but I quickly reached sensory overload.

  The High Street was lined three or four people deep on either side. Their enjoyment as they watched us trundle past helped abate the bitter taste of the pranks. After all, the perpetrator hadn’t done us physical harm, just taken the edge off our excitement.

  When we reached the showground’s arena, delineated by bales of straw on which the crowds following us now made themselves comfortable, our drivers lined our floats up next to each other ready for the announcement of the winners. We parked alongside the Wendlebury Players’ float, and the WI’s pulled up alongside us. The nail-biting wait began to see which carnival floats had won prizes.

  Little did we know that within a quarter of an hour, the announcement of the winners would be eclipsed by the news that Henry VIII was down to five wives.

  22 The Show Must Go On

  Poor Linda. I may not have liked her much, but I wouldn’t have wished her dead. Nor would I have thought her a likely candidate to die a premature death. A more aged actress might have been pleased to die treading the boards on a mobile stage, but Linda was only in her forties. She had seemed perfectly healthy when I’d first met her a few weeks before. Surely no-one terminally ill would have had enough energy to be so cross all the time?

  Intimidated by the crowd of people gathering around her, I climbed back up onto our float. From there I could see the St John Ambulance edging its way towards us from the other end of the field. Aware of my responsibilities as the newest member of the Show Committee, I called out in my best teacher’s voice: “Please stand back. Make way for the paramedics.”

  Several heads swivelled angrily towards me.

  “She’s my neighbour.”

  “I’m her husband.”

  “She’s my mum.”

  I was mortified. I was so used to living at a distance from my family that it hadn’t occurred to me that Linda’s would be in the crowd. Even her estranged husband had returned to the village for Show Day. For a moment, his look of distress was supplanted by rage, as if I’d just struck Linda down dead myself. Then he turned back to her body, stroking her face, murmuring, “My darling, I’m so sorry.”

  Hector appeared quietly beside me and grasped my elbow. I jumped at his unexpected touch.

  “Come on, you. Listen to the wise words of Homer. Let’s go and get a cup of tea.”

  My knight in shining toga. When I leaned heavily against him, he put his arm around me and led me down the steps off the float. As we wove through the crowd, I wished my face, now scarlet with embarrassment, had been covered by my costume, like Anne Boleyn’s. By the time we reached the Village Hall, I was sobbing with a mixture of vicarious grief for Linda’s family and remorse for piling on the hurt with my misplaced remark. I concluded that I’d have to leave the village as rapidly as I’d arrived. Surely they’d all hate me now. How could I have been so stupid?

  Then a Keystone Kop pushed past me, heading down to the arena. I wiped my eyes, wondering whether the shock was making me hallucinate, and turned to Hector for an explanation.

  “Didn’t you recognise Bob?” asked Hector. “You know, from the Show Committee? He always dresses like that on Show Day.”

  “What Bob the bobby? Yes, of course.” I blinked to focus through my tears, thankful for a nanosecond of comic relief. But then a dreadful thought occurred to me for the first time. I wasn’t just dreadfully embarrassed, I was guilty of cold-blooded murder.

  “Wait, Hector! I think you should call Bob back.” I waved my arms in the direction of the Keystone Kop. “I’ve just realised, I have a confession to make.”

  Hector stopped abruptly in the middle of the busy thoroughfare and stared at me in surprise. “He’s a policeman, not a priest. Whatever do you want to confess?”

  I put my hands over my face and bowed my head. “It’s a policeman that I need, Hector. Because, don’t you see? I killed Linda Absolom!”

  He grabbed my arm and steered me across to stand by the wall, where it was marginally quieter.

  “Whatever do you mean, Sophie?”

  I dropped my hands and gazed at him, my eyes full of tears. “I killed Linda. It’s all my fault that she went on that wretched float, because I asked the Wendlebury Players to join the carnival. If I hadn’t persuaded Rex that it was a good idea, Linda would still be alive. Don’t you see that?”

  Hector gave a wry smile and drew me into his arms for a comforting hug – the hug of a friend. Platonic. I suppose I should call it Homeric really.

  “It’s not your fault at all, you daft thing. It’s not as if you made her take up skydiving. Sitting on a carnival float is a very, very safe activity. She did it of her own free will, and no-one in their wildest dreams would blame you that she happened to die on it. You’ve just had a nasty shock, and you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Come and have a cup of tea, and once I’ve moved our float out of the arena, I’ll meet you down in the beer tent and buy you a glass of something stronger.”

  With one arm still around me, Hector guided me into the hall and over to a table where Sylvia Plath was filling enough mismatched china cups for all our group from a large aluminium teapot.

  “I’ll leave you in Dinah’s capable hands.”

  “Please, Hector, can’t you stay with me for a bit?”

  Even though I knew he wasn’t interested in women, I’d been enjoying the feel of his arm around me, the edge of his toga brushing against my bare arm. Despite my distress, I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d made his toga out of his bedsheets.

  “No, I really must get our float out of the arena now the judging’s been done. They’ll be wanting the space for the entertainments programme. I think the sheepdog demonstration is due to begin any minute now.”

  “What? Won’t they cordon off the arena for forensic investigations?”

  “I don’t think so, Sophie. It’s clearly natural causes. It’s not as if blood has been spilled, or there are murder weapons about the place. Well, not real ones, anyway. Ian’s axe is only cardboard.” He looked up at the sky. “Good thing it didn’t rain.”

  “But won’t they at least cancel the rest of the Show out of respect for the dead?”

  “’Fraid not. Miss Plath will explain, won’t you, Dinah?”

  As if I were a baton she’d been handed, Dinah, strangely unmoved by Linda’s demise, took charge of me, and Hector strode out of the Hall.

  “The Show must go on, Sophie, as Linda would have been the first to insist. There are too many people with too much riding on today to cancel the event when it’s barely begun. There’d be a riot. Just think of all those stallholders, the dog trainers and the dancers waiting to perform in the arena, not to mention the kids who look forward to Show Day all year round. Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you might think. They’ll name a cup in her honour next year, you wait and see.”

  “A cup? What for? Best Murder in Show?” I asked.

  Louisa busy removing hairpins and side combs to let down her Agatha Christie curls, paused for a moment.. “Of course not. Whatever makes you think it was murder? It’s not as if there was any blood or obvious murder weapons on the scene. She’s just died of natural causes. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped dead at the Show. We all have to die sometime, and when we have so many people in one place, it’s a statistical fact that sooner or later it’ll coincide with somebody’s last day on earth.. It’ll turn out to be heatstroke, I expect, poor soul.”

  She shook her head hard, like a wet dog, releasing the talcum powder with which she’d turned her hair grey. A cloud of lily of the valley rose up around her, settling over the Bourbon biscuits.

  “Like with cruise ships,” put in Julia, offering me the biscuit plate. �
��You always expect a few dead bodies by the end of a cruise, because they carry so many old people. They even have purpose-built morgues in modern cruise ships.”

  “Ugh, I think I’ll stick to camping,” said Bella, wiping Robert Frost’s five o’clock shadow off on a paper serviette “Anyway, Sophie, we’re not being as disrespectful as you might think. It’s a real honour to have a cup named after you. Makes you immortal, as it gets your name mentioned on Show Day for ever more.

  I clasped my hands around my teacup for comfort before venturing a question. “Weren’t any of you friends with Linda? Didn’t you at least like her?”

  They briefly exchanged glances, as if wondering who should be the first to confess. Inevitably it was Dinah.

  “Nope. I’m not sure she had close friends. She never really worked at actual friendship. Tried to force herself on lots of people by sucking up to them, or bossing them about, pushing things on them, moulding them to herself, but it didn’t cut both ways. Offered me a fashion makeover, for example. Tried to persuade me to dye my hair and start wearing make-up. I ask you!” She tutted.

  “And she gave me a diet book,” said Jessica, whose eyeliner was smudged with tears as she reached for another slice of Victoria sponge. “And she tried to make me adopt one of her unwanted kittens. She didn’t consider for a moment that my Charlie wouldn’t have liked it at all.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met your husband,” I said. “I didn’t know you were married.”

  “Charlie’s not my husband. He’s my King Charles Spaniel.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she meant well, Dinah,” put in Karen. “Poor Linda. Perhaps her intentions were of the best.”

  “You always were an optimist. That’s how you can write romance without throwing up,” said Dinah. “I’m more of a realist. Now, let’s put this unpleasantness behind us. Carpe diem. Because Show Diem only comes once a year.”

  After that, we barely talked about the pranks, for which I was truly grateful, though Dinah made a damning observation before the subject was dropped.