A Fete Worse Than Death

by Liz Hedgecock

  Simon whistled. ‘Do they know who did it? Are the police involved?’

  ‘PC Horsley’s down there with Norm, checking swords and taking names.’ Pippa sighed. ‘He’s told everyone to keep quiet, though, so at least that’s something. And we can still do the second day tomorrow. I’m hoping the baking competition will be a big draw.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ Simon said absently. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Pippa considered. ‘Not really. I haven’t eaten all day, but this has kind of put me off.’

  ‘That won’t do you any good. Tell you what, let’s order a takeaway. I’m too tired to cook, and I’m guessing you are as well.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Pippa rubbed her face with the palms of her hands to try and wake herself up. ‘How were the kids?’

  ‘They were OK. A bit antsy. I thought about bringing them to the fete, but they’d have wanted to see you, and I thought you’d be too busy.’

  ‘You were right there. I’ve spent the whole day running round, and I probably made things worse.’

  ‘Oh stop it. Let’s go downstairs, browse takeaway menus, and watch rubbish on TV. It’ll take your mind off things.’ He held his hand out, and when Pippa took it, pulled her gently into his arms. ‘Or there are alternatives…’

  ‘I thought you were hungry,’ she said, stiffening a little. It just didn’t feel right.

  ‘I am.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I don’t like seeing you all stressed and upset. I’ll be glad when tomorrow’s over.’

  ‘So shall I.’

  Simon put the TV on, then went to the kitchen for the menus. ‘Fancy a beer?’

  ‘I’d love one, thanks.’ Pippa glanced at the TV screen. A teenager was texting someone. That was another thing she should have done — posted on social media throughout the day. She’d been so busy troubleshooting that she hadn’t taken one photo. Rubbish. Hopefully the stallholders or her friends had remembered to post updates — she had asked them to — but she had a funny feeling it would have slipped their minds. Oh well, there was always tomorrow, and maybe some of the reporters she’d seen around had featured the fete.

  Pippa reached for her phone, and brought up the event page. There were a few photos, mostly blurry ones of Dev, but a couple of the Gadding Players in full arm-waving glory. Imogen had taken a nice picture of the hall, and, oh yes, Lila had uploaded a few of Short Back and Sides performing (what a surprise). Still, warm snuggly gratitude spread through her. Thank you, everyone.

  She refreshed the page, and a new post appeared. A link, captioned Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Posted by Sam.

  Pippa froze. The picture was fine — the actors doing their thing, with a few heads in the front row to show they had had an audience. It was the headline that was the problem. Mayhem at Much Gadding as swordplay turns sour.

  ‘Here you go.’ Simon put a bottle of beer on the coffee table. ‘D’you want a glass?’

  ‘I want to shoot myself.’ Her finger hovered over the link. She couldn’t bear to click. But she had to. It was an article from the Chronicle. The most widely-read newspaper in Gadcestershire. She skimmed the few short paragraphs, then read the article again.

  By Harry Poynter, Theatre Reviewer

  There was more drama than expected at Much Gadding Summer Fete after it emerged that a real sword had been substituted for a wooden one in the matinee performance of the Gadding Players’ production of Macbeth. To their credit the cast kept going, albeit with extreme caution. Tim Selby, playing the lead, suffered a cut to the hand, but fortunately first aid were on standby to patch up. No other casualties occurred — real-life ones, at least.

  I attended the evening performance, and can testify that the introduction of a real sword in the earlier show definitely added to the atmosphere of tension and fear in the later one. Mr Selby’s performance, in particular, and that of Madeleine Dewsbury as Lady Macbeth, exhibited what I can only describe as fully-realised terror. However, one must question the event security which permitted such a thing to take place. We understand the fete is raising money to repair the spire of St Saviour’s church, a landmark in Much Gadding, but it would be a terrible shame if lax event organisation also contributed new residents for the church graveyard.

  The fete organiser was unavailable for comment.

  ‘Yes she bloody was unavailable!’ Pippa shouted. ‘Because no-one was supposed to talk about it!’

  ‘I take it it isn’t good news,’ said Simon. ‘I thought it was a cut finger. You look as if someone’s died.’

  ‘Not yet, they haven’t,’ Pippa growled. ‘But if I find out who’s leaked this to the press —’ She stared at her phone in horror as comment after comment pinged into existence beneath the link. ‘Oh no. Oh no.’ She put the phone face-down on the table, and tried to ignore the buzz of notifications. Then she picked it up and called Suze. ‘Suze will know what to do. Suze will help.’

  The phone went to voicemail, and Pippa waited for Suze to shut up and get to the beep. ‘Suze, it’s me, Pippa. I’m having a crisis. Someone switched a sword round and there was an injury, only a small one, but someone’s told the papers and all hell’s letting loose around me and I don’t know what to do —’

  Beep.

  Pippa stared at the phone, the stupid useless phone, and put it down. ‘Well, that’s that,’ she said. ‘There goes my career. Everyone will think I’m a complete idiot.’

  ‘At least they didn’t name you in the article,’ said Simon, who, she saw, had it open on his own phone.

  ‘They didn’t,’ said Pippa. ‘Everyone will know, though. Sam will see to that. And everyone else I’ve crossed in the process of organising the damn thing.’

  ‘It’s hard luck, Pippa, but there isn’t much you can do except not respond. It’ll blow over. I’m going to get a Chinese, we’ll eat, and we’ll sleep on it.’ Simon gave her a brisk squeeze, then got up, taking a menu with him. She heard him putting his shoes on, picking up keys, closing the front door. He’d have a beer while he waited for the order. Her hand strayed to the phone, and she read a couple of comments:

  Hahaha what a mess!

  Lucky no-one got run through!

  Pippa’s heart tightened, as if it were making a fist. She found the Off button, and held it until the display went black. But she didn’t put the phone down. She imagined the horrible things people were typing about the event, about her, scrolling on and on and on. Her phone should have been swelling to bursting point, but it looked the same as always. That was worse than being able to see it, because people were like phones. They could be full of mean thoughts and ill-wishes towards her, but they’d put on a fake smile, and look just the same. She cried quietly, burying her face in a cushion, so that she wouldn’t wake the children she hadn’t seen all day.

  CHAPTER 12

  Pippa surveyed the bustling stalls, the green lawn, and the blue sky, and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Simon had woken her at eight o’clock with a mug of tea. ‘Come on, sleepyhead. Freddie’s been up since half six, and he’s desperate to go to the fete today.’

  ‘Is he?’ Pippa murmured. Yesterday came flooding back, and she groaned. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘It won’t be as bad as you think.’

  ‘It can’t be.’ Pippa sat up and accepted the mug. ‘Sorry. I did mean to get up, but —’

  ‘I switched your alarm off,’ said Simon. ‘It doesn’t start till ten, does it?’

  ‘No, but I should —’

  ‘All right. If someone rings you in desperate need, you can dash over. If not, I’m sure nine fifteen will do.’

  And nine fifteen it had been. The whole marquee could have fallen down a sinkhole, she thought sourly, and they wouldn’t want me to help. But when she arrived, everything seemed to be going swimmingly. People were stocking their stalls, including Marge. ‘Serendipity texted me last night,’ she said, arranging a row of espresso-cup candles. ‘I thought she’d sold out, but apparently not. She keeps a load of overspill stock in a lock-up a
t Gadding Parva, and she told me where the key was. Well! I popped over this morning and it’s an Aladdin’s cave. Boxes and boxes of things. She said I could take any of it except the boxes with red tape.’ She stooped to retrieve a paper-wrapped bundle which turned out to be painted ceramic tiles. ‘Sorry I was a bit snappy yesterday. Rain gets into my knees.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Pippa watched her prop the tiles up. ‘I was probably a bit full-on.’

  ‘But it’s your event. It would be stranger if you weren’t.’ Marge stepped away and admired the stall. ‘Better text her for some prices. The grandkids were playing up yesterday, too. After half an hour I’d have paid you to let me back on the stall. Victim of my own success, you could say.’

  Pippa laughed. ‘Let’s hope it happens again today.’

  Overall, almost everyone she had spoken to had been positive. The stallholders were happy, and takings were good despite the rain. Even Polly’s balls of yarn seemed brighter today. The fairground man was hoping for a good turnout. ‘Sun always helps,’ he said, wiping his forehead and resettling his cap. The queues of bakers turning up with cakes were enthusiastic, quietly confident, and looking forward to meeting Dev Hardman. Beryl Harbottle was as sour as ever when Pippa called in, but that was to be expected. ‘Mr Hardman isn’t here yet, and to be quite honest I would rather we were left alone today, after yesterday’s mayhem.’ She stood in the doorway, arms folded. ‘If Mr Hardman does come today, I shall inform him that you are on the lawn and advise him to find you there.’ The door shut smartly, and Pippa was sure she heard a bolt slide home. She wondered how Lady Higginbotham was feeling, what she thought of it all.

  Pippa wandered back to the marquee, where the baking competition entrants were arranging their cakes on stands, supervised by Imogen. There were some beautiful creations; a Victoria sponge so perfect that it didn’t look real; a three-tier cake with icing flowers spilling over its side; a shiny Dundee cake; a sticky pineapple upside-down cake; a pavlova heaped with summer fruits. The cakes kept coming, until there were at least twenty. Marge wandered across with a big plastic box. ‘Nearly forgot,’ she said, setting the box down and tugging at the lid. Inside, on a silver board, was a round cake iced in white, with stiff little peaks all over. ‘Serendipity sent it. She says it’s a rainbow cake.’ Marge pursed her lips and lifted the cake out. ‘Steady as she goes.’ She brushed imaginary crumbs from her hands. ‘I assume the rainbow’s lurking within.’

  ‘It will be. I’ve seen these in bakeries, and they cost a fortune.’ How kind of Serendipity to make such a special cake, and donate it to the fete. Pippa felt herself welling up. ‘We can charge two pounds a slice for most of these.’

  She surveyed the array of cakes before her. Two pounds a slice. Sixteen slices to a cake, minus one for Dev to taste, meant thirty pounds a cake. Twenty cakes meant six hundred pounds. And there were still people waiting with boxes. She allowed herself to smile, and then yelped as she was clapped on the back.

  ‘Got here early, didn’t I,’ grinned Dev. He was in jeans and leather jacket again today, but the T-shirt was white. ‘Specially after yesterday, oopsie.’

  ‘It’s good to see you.’

  He continued to grin, looking round the tent. ‘Loadsa cakes. Good thing I skipped breakfast.’ He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘What’s up with her at the big house?’

  ‘Mrs Harbottle, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one. She was all right yesterday, but today she barely opened the door. Said you’d want me on the field.’

  ‘Did you get a call from the police last night?’ Pippa asked. She felt embarrassed and sad to mention it, surrounded as they were by sunshine and positivity and cake.

  ‘Yeah, bloke called, whatsit, horsie?’

  ‘Horsley. PC Horsley.’

  ‘Yeah, him. Said there’d been a mix-up with a sword. I said I hadn’t seen nothing and he said fine.’ Dev mused, jaw working on some gum. ‘Is that what the old bird’s steamed up about?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Pippa. ‘To be fair, it can’t be nice having something like that happen on your doorstep.’

  Dev laughed throatily and nudged Pippa. ‘Maybe she did it,’ he whispered. ‘Maybe she wanted to bump someone off, and she’s runnin’ scared. When am I due on?’

  ‘Judging starts at ten, prizes at eleven,’ Pippa recited.

  ‘Righto. I’m gonna make myself scarce. You know what they say about too much of a good thing.’ He nudged Pippa and strode off, followed by the eyes of an army of bakers.

  Now she could breathe. Dev was here, cakes were here, and once the judging was over, the whole thing would wind down.

  Suze had phoned back at eleven thirty the night before. The phone had shrilled Pippa awake just as she was falling into an uneasy doze. ‘Whuh? Oh. Hi Suze.’

  ‘Oh, did I wake you? Sorry. I was out at an industry bash and had my phone on silent. I’m in a taxi now.’ Pippa heard Motown crooning in the background. ‘What’s happened? I got your message but I didn’t get it, if you see what I mean.’

  Simon turned over, and groaned.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll take the phone downstairs.’ Pippa reached for her dressing gown and padded out of the room. Once in the living room, with the door closed, she delivered a summary of the day’s events. It seemed ridiculous, overblown, sitting in the dark with silence all around her.

  ‘So you were told to sit on it, and someone’s leaked it?’

  ‘Yup,’ said Pippa, wishing she felt as flippant as she sounded.

  ‘Best thing that could’ve happened, publicity-wise,’ Suze said, crisply. ‘People who’d never have heard about the fete otherwise will come along, and a cut finger won’t put anybody off.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ It did sound like nothing at all, in a quiet house.

  ‘Positive. You should probably thank your mole, if you find them. The trolls will troll, whatever happens.’ The line crackled. ‘Ooh, I’m losing you.’

  ‘Thanks, Suze,’ Pippa managed to say, before the phone went dead. She went upstairs feeling reassured. If Suze thought it was all right, it must be. She was the expert.

  But who had leaked the story? PC Horsley had told everyone to keep quiet, and someone must have disobeyed him. One of the Gadding Players, hoping for a mention? Or could it have been Beryl Harbottle, looking to cause trouble? Pippa remembered her defensive posture, and the closing door this morning. Then Dev’s whisper: Maybe she did it.

  Pippa shook the thought from her head. It was speculation, and it was PC Horsley’s job to follow it up, not hers. She gazed at the cakes set out all round the marquee. When this was over she would buy some cake, and reward herself for a job well done.

  ***

  Dev strolled into the marquee at a quarter past ten. ‘Better get tastin’!’ he said, rubbing his hands. He had removed his leather jacket, and his biceps bulged under his T-shirt. Someone wolf-whistled, and his grin grew broader. ‘Anyone got a knife? Gotta cut a chunk out of these bad boys!’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind keeping the slices on the small side…’ said Pippa, passing him the chef’s knife she had brought, well-wrapped, for the occasion. ‘We’ll be selling the cakes afterwards.’

  ‘Betcha will,’ he said, loudly. ‘They look magnificent.’ And he led the tent in a round of applause. ‘Right, enough chit chat, let’s get down to it.’

  Dev moved rapidly from cake to cake, cutting, tasting, and chatting to the proud owners who stood twisting their hands in place of aprons. Pippa had to give him credit, he was pretty efficient, managing to take notes and talk at the same time. Half an hour later, he had completed the circuit of cakes — or, perhaps, run the gauntlet — and beamed at the crowd, a sheaf of scribbled notes crumpled in his hand. ‘That was awesome,’ he proclaimed. ‘I’m gonna go an’ deliberate, and I’ll announce the winner at —’ He glanced across at Pippa, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Eleven,’ Pippa supplied.

  ‘Eleven. See ya!’ He waved as he strode off, grinning, an
d several people waved back. Some of the bakers looked ready to faint.

  Pippa checked her watch. Ten more minutes or so, and the main business of the fete would be over. People would stay to buy cake, of course, and perhaps eat their slices then and there, with a cup of tea or a glass of lemonade, but all the hassle would be done with. She spied Norm, standing near the blonde woman with a beautifully-tied scarf who had presented the Victoria sponge. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said Norm. ‘Pippa, this is my wife Susan, baker extraordinaire. Susan, this is Pippa, one of my best customers at the library.’

  Susan inclined her head in a regal manner. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said, giving her hand. It was cool, and dry. Pippa imagined she would be good in a crisis, and also at pastry.

  ‘That’s a beautiful cake,’ she remarked.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Susan, and the corners of her mouth quirked up a little. Pippa wondered what had to happen for her to crack a proper smile. Maybe if Susan won the baking competition she would get to see.

  ‘How did you get on last night, Norm?’ she asked. ‘Did it all go OK?’

  Norm shot her a warning look. ‘Oh, it was fine,’ he said. ‘Like clockwork. No hitches whatsoever. An excellent show.’ He turned to his wife. ‘You must be thirsty, Susan. I’ll go and get you a cup of tea.’ Without further ado, he ducked out of the tent.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Pippa, and wandered away. Which cake would win? Secretly she hoped Serendipity’s would. Everyone had oohed when Dev had cut a slice of the rainbow cake, with colours from scarlet to violet showing bright against the dazzlingly white icing. Yes, she would treat herself to a slice of that, and the publicity would do Serendipity’s business some good.

  ‘Awright! I’m back!’ Heads turned as Dev walked in. He had the usual wide grin plastered across his face, but he seemed a little tense. Perhaps the pressure of judging was getting to him. Dahlia Dean had accompanied him, and stood at the entrance to the marquee, dressed in a most unseasonal tartan miniskirt which matched her red hair, black tights, knee-high stiletto boots, and a black poloneck.