Murder in the Manger

by Debbie Young

  I had no answer to that.

  After the read-through, Damian ordered everyone to take their starting places. In our new venue, we wouldn’t have a stage with wings, so everyone would have to be concealed about the set from the start, ready to make their entrance.

  We made good progress, and the three kings were just processing up the aisle to join the stable scene when the hall door swung open and crashed closed. Damian, busy giving directions to the kings on how to deport themselves on arrival at their destination, ignored the interruption, but I looked round to see Tommy Crowe, wielding a battered video camera. He sidled up to me, agog to see his former primary school teachers kneeling before the village lollipop man and the lady from the pet shop.

  “What on earth are they playing at?” Tommy could have taught the teachers a thing or two about voice projection. I shushed him.

  “We’re rehearsing for the nativity play, Tommy. That’s the stable scene.”

  He glanced briefly at the stable, then turned round to survey the hall.

  “You’ve made a right mess with all these chairs. You’d better clear those away when you’ve finished or you’ll be in big trouble with the Hall Committee.”

  He started to dismantle the chairs representing the font, stacking them noisily.

  “Tommy, no!” I hissed. “I know you’re only trying to be helpful, but we need those there for now. They’re showing us where to go. We’re pretending we’re in the church.”

  He looked dubiously at the chairs. “Well, if you say so, miss.”

  I could see he was restless and would benefit from being given something constructive to do, but asking Tommy for help was not without risks. I wondered what I could safely ask him to do, then glanced at the camera in his hand.

  “Perhaps you’d like to film the rehearsal, then you could show it to Damian and the cast afterwards so they can see the play from where the audience would be sitting. I think that would be ever so helpful.”

  Gratified that I’d noticed his new toy and found a constructive use for it, Tommy immediately set to work. I sat in the font, or rather one of the chairs representing the font, and settled down to watch the rehearsal.

  “So far, so good,” I said to Damian in a congratulatory tone. “Now all we need to do is weave in a hundred children, and we’re there.”

  Tommy bounded up to show Damian his recording. “I’ve been your cameraman. Miss told me it would help you.”

  To my relief, Damian seemed receptive. “Let’s see it, then.”

  Leaving the rest of us to tidy away the tables and chairs, Damian stood watching Tommy’s replay, and by the time they were done, everyone else but me had gone home.

  “Very helpful, Tommy, thank you,” Damian was saying as I rejoined them. I was glad Damian was being kind to Tommy. We didn’t want to alienate Tommy, with his reputation for pranks. “Can you come and do the same on Saturday at two o’clock for the children’s rehearsal?”

  Tommy couldn’t have looked more pleased if he’d been offered a Hollywood contract. “Yeah, sure, if you like.”

  I was pleased too. “That’s great, Tommy. Could you bring it over to Hector’s House to show me afterwards? I’ll have to work Saturday afternoon, so I won’t be able to watch it live.”

  “You leave it to me, miss,” said Tommy. “You can count on me.”

  26 All Quiet

  “Do you think it’s the American influence?”

  The previous Thursday had been Thanksgiving in the USA, followed by Black Friday, when people start Christmas shopping with their last pay packets before the Christmas holiday. I hadn’t expected it to trigger a rush on the shops in sleepy Wendlebury.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s even the British influence. It’s more likely something else is happening in the village this afternoon that’s squeezing all our business into the morning. A sudden rush of children like this is usually a clue to an imminent birthday party.”

  I clapped my hand to my forehead. “Of course! The children’s nativity play rehearsal starts in ten minutes, so they’re all on their way there.”

  Jemima came up to the counter and handed me a slim pink paperback and ten fifty-pence coins. “I’ve been saving my pocket money.”

  I was thrilled to see her buying a book much more challenging than her previous choices. The extra lessons I was giving her must have been boosting her confidence and ambition, as well as her ability. I scanned the book’s barcode, slipped the money in the till, and slid one of our free bookmarks inside the pages before handing it back to her.

  “Good choice.”

  With her hand in her mum’s, she was just about to go out of the door when she turned and called over her shoulder to me, “Aren’t you coming to the practice, miss? I thought it was your play.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. I have to work here this afternoon. But have fun!”

  Hector, who had just finished helping an older boy to find a Tintin book he hadn’t already read, came to stand by me at the counter as the shop started to empty. Together we watched our young customers, the smallest ones accompanied by their parents, cross the road to the Village Hall.

  “I assumed you’d be going to the rehearsal too, Sophie. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen out with Damian?”

  I busied myself with tidying the bookmarks on the counter. “Actually, I hadn’t fallen in with him. This is purely a professional arrangement that’s been thrust upon me.”

  Hector winced, making me wish I’d phrased it differently. “Anyway, I thought you’d need me here on a busy Saturday in the run-up to Christmas.”

  Hector replied quickly. “Oh, I do, Sophie. I’m glad you didn’t ask for the time off, to spare me the awkwardness of having to say no.” He coughed and walked over to the central display table to add to the stacks of books. With no customers in the shop now, I pulled the duster out from under the counter and headed for the nearest bookshelves. “I expect there’ll be a rush on when the rehearsal is over, so I’ll just clean and lay up all the tearoom tables while I’ve got a moment.”

  “Could you put some more flyers on the tea tables please, Sophie?”

  I hadn’t really looked at the flyers he’d been printing, but when I read them I got a shock. “I thought you were only opening on Sundays during Advent? It says here that you’re starting tomorrow, but it’s not even December yet.”

  Hector flattened the cardboard box from which he’d just replenished the cookery section. “That’s right. There are four Sundays in Advent, and the fourth is the one before Christmas Day. This year December the twenty-fifth falls on a Sunday, so if you look at the calendar and work backwards, the first Sunday of Advent is tomorrow.”

  “But Advent calendars always start on the first of December.”

  “If you want to change the church calendar, you’ll have to take it up with the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sophie. And the new vicar. He’s been moving back into the vicarage today, ready to take the first Advent service at St Bride’s tomorrow. Shall you go?”

  I pondered.

  “I wasn’t planning to, but maybe I should, given that I want to use his church for my play. I know Kate’s given permission on his behalf, but I ought to keep in with him. But won’t the shop be open at the same time as the service?” I hoped I’d have an excuse not to go.

  Hector shook his head. “We’re only open a couple of hours in the afternoon, two till four, so that’s no excuse to skip church.”

  “So you’ll go too?”

  The door creaked open and Billy walked in. “Who’s going where?” He trudged past the display table and sat down heavily on a tearoom chair. “And can I come with you? I’m bored.”

  I crossed to the tearoom and flicked the switch on the kettle. “Church, Billy. We’re talking about going to church tomorrow to welcome Mr Murray.”

  Billy perked up. “What, both of you? You having your banns read?” He aimed a lascivious wink at Hector. “About time too.”

  I avoided Hector’s eye.


  “If I were you, young Hector, I wouldn’t kick Sophie out of bed either.”

  He laughed out of all proportion to his joke.

  “Billy, you are a complete reprobate,” I said, wondering why Hector wasn’t leaping to defend my honour.

  Billy helped himself to a mince pie from the plate on the tearoom counter without using the serving tongs.

  “You think so, girlie? My old ma wouldn’t have said so. I was her golden boy, I was, compared to my big brother at least. Dirty Bertie, they used to call him.”

  Hector confirmed Billy’s claim with a nod.

  “Hard to believe, I know,” said Hector. “But we don’t talk about Bertie, do we, Billy?”

  He fixed Billy with a meaningful glare. Billy’s face fell, and for once I felt sorry for him.

  “And what did they call you?” I asked Billy, to change the subject.

  Billy sat up straight, looking pleased with himself.

  “Billy the Kid. Because I was the little brother, do you see? Always the kid brother. Which I didn’t mind one bit. I used to like those old cowboy films. John Wayne, all that sort of thing.”

  I couldn’t quite see Billy as a Wild West hero, or even a Wild West anti-hero. I wasn’t sure whether Billy the Kid was a goodie or a baddie. Before I could ask, Hector changed the subject.

  “Have you seen Mr Murray yet, Billy?” As churchwarden, Billy was a key player in the local church hierarchy. He was also an itinerant gardener employed at the incumbent vicar’s discretion. No wonder he was eager to nurture the relationship.

  “Aye,” said Billy, looking pleased with himself.

  “And what about your gardening?” Hector knew all the ways to Billy’s heart.

  “Same as usual, plus a few extra hours straight off, to make up for lost time between proper vicars. Our Reverend Murray’s a real gent.”

  Hector started rearranging the children’s Christmas books to give more prominence to the Bible stories. “And also a voracious reader, as is his wife,” he said, sounding happier now. “What’s not to love about the Murrays?”

  “I’ll let you know when I find out whether he likes my play,” I said.

  27 Candid Camera

  “Here you go, miss, I’ve got it all on film here for you to see.”

  Just as dusk was starting to fall, Tommy, video camera in hand, came charging in to the shop, flinging the door back to thud against the wall and admitting a blast of cold air. He was almost breathless with excitement.

  He strode over to one of the tearoom tables, set the camera down and opened up the small viewing window to give me a private screening.

  I sat down beside Tommy, my hopes raised by his infectious enthusiasm and obvious pride in his achievement.

  “I missed out the boring bits when your Damian and those actor people were telling everyone what to do, and I turned it off whenever any of the kids started crying.”

  “Did that happen a lot?”

  Tommy shrugged.

  “Well, that’s what kids do mostly, isn’t it?”

  That made me feel sad for his childhood.

  “But I did quite a clever thing and took a few shots in the background to create an idea of the atmoph – asthmo – what it felt like.”

  As his customer left the shop, Hector came over to stand behind me and look over my shoulder. “You’ve been reading up on this film-making business, then, Tommy?”

  Tommy gave Hector his biggest smile. “Yes, cheers, Hector, that book you gave me is brilliant. I’ve been reading it in bed till two o’clock every night this week.”

  Hector grimaced. “I’ll be in trouble with your mum.”

  Tommy shook his head reassuringly. “Oh no, don’t worry about her, she’s asleep by ten every night after her bottle of wine.”

  “Glass, I think you mean, Tommy, not bottle?” I said hopefully.

  “No, bottle. But don’t worry, it’s only bottles on weeknights. She saves the wine boxes for the weekends. Anyway…”

  He pressed a button, keen to get back on track, and the tiny screen whirred into action. The picture jolted a lot, indicating either Tommy’s enthusiasm for finding a new and interesting vantage point every minute or so, or his low boredom threshold.

  Hector looked in puzzlement at a shot that showed the tops of the infants’ heads progressing down the middle of the hall.

  “That’s a clever angle, Tommy. How did you manage that? It reminds me of the scene on the Ferris wheel in “The Third Man”, where Orson Welles describes people as ants.”

  I wasn’t familiar with the film, but I could see what he meant. I didn’t remember seeing a ladder in the Village Hall, and I couldn’t imagine any of the adults letting Tommy use one if there had been. Nor was there attic space above the Hall or a loft hatch that might have given him this bird’s-eye view.

  “I climbed up on the roof and looked down through the skylight, of course. Clever, huh?”

  The door creaked to admit a middle-aged couple, and Hector went to attend to them.

  “The roof? What, on the outside of the roof? How on earth did you get up there?”

  “Oh, the usual way.” Tommy spoke casually, as if it was something everyone did.

  This scene was followed by a blur several seconds long.

  “I forgot to pause it while I got down again.”

  There was a loud scrunch compatible with a teenage boy landing heavily in the large box of sand used to grit the Hall car park in icy weather.

  “I very nearly missed the sandbox, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had, because I’d have landed on Damian’s van.”

  I wasn’t sure Damian would have seen it that way. The film kept rolling with glimpses of Tommy brushing himself off once he’d straightened up.

  “Hang on.” I reached out to press the pause button. “I thought you said you stopped filming whenever a child started crying?”

  “Yes, that’s right, miss. It’s called editing.”

  I pressed rewind briefly, then play. “But I’m sure I heard the sound of a child crying then.”

  We both listened intently and I caught a muffled wailing that sounded as if it was coming from the inside of the van. Tommy was the first to make sense of it.

  “Oh no, miss, that’s not a child. That’s a baby. New babies make a different sort of noise to children, sort of high-pitched and miserable.”

  I shook my head.

  “No, it can’t be. Why would Damian have a baby in his van?”

  Tommy thought for a moment. “Are you sure it’s Damian’s van? There was another van like his in the car park earlier.”

  “Surely you can tell them apart? Damian’s has got loads of stickers and writing on it.”

  “Yes, but not on the roof. From above both vans look exactly the same.”

  Tommy brightened. “I know. I bet that baby’s a prop for the play. Come to think of it, they never did get out a real Baby Jesus. They were just using a Baby Annabell doll, like my little sister’s got. I guess that was just a stunt double.”

  Hector joined us for a moment while the couple continued to browse. “Jesus would be too big a star to get involved till everyone’s word perfect,” he said, deadpan. I slapped him on the thigh for his irreverence, but Tommy nodded.

  “That reminds me, I stopped filming whenever anyone couldn’t remember their lines.”

  The video immediately jumped forward to the final tableau, with everyone frozen in position for dramatic effect. Tommy tapped the Angel Gabriel. “She’s out. She was first to move.”

  For all his teenage swaggering, Tommy was not long out of primary school himself, and of an age at which he might still have enjoyed a game of musical statues at birthday parties. He probably would have liked a part in the play, too.

  I looked at the tearoom clock. By my calculation, the video had lasted about four minutes, including Tommy’s tumble from the roof. I gritted my teeth behind my smile, telling myself not to worry, this was the children’s first rehearsal.
<
br />   I coughed and tried to pull myself together, then realised Tommy was watching me hopefully for my verdict.

  “Thank you very much, Tommy,” I said. “It’s kind of you to give up your Saturday afternoon for this. I think he’s earned a free milkshake, don’t you, Hector?”

  I didn’t want to overstretch Hector’s generosity, realising he’d already given Tommy a book about film making, but Hector didn’t seem to mind. He told me later the book was another of his car boot sale bargains.

  When Tommy finally left, just in time for us to shut up shop for the night, Hector and I looked at each other in silence for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  “Orson Welles, eat your heart out,” said Hector. Although I was embarrassed to have to ask whether Orson was a boy’s name or a girl’s name, I was glad I did, because it immediately led Hector to invite me to spend the evening watching “The Third Man” on DVD in his flat. But even its jaunty zither theme music could not drown out the mysterious baby’s crying playing on a loop in my head.

  28 Welcome Back, Vicar

  “What should I wear to church?” I asked Hector next morning, throwing back the duvet.

  “A bit more than that. Though your current outfit would certainly make you stand out from the crowd.”

  “But should I wear a dress or a skirt?” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I slipped into the emerald silk dressing gown that had been hanging on the back of his bedroom door.

  Hector closed his eyes. “I’m probably not the best person to ask. You could always phone Kate for advice. She’s good with frocks.” He pointed lazily to the phone on the bedside table.

  “And have her see that I’m phoning from your flat’s landline first thing in the morning? I don’t want to encourage her.”

  Hector straightened the duvet. “Good point. But don’t worry. The Reverend Murray won’t care what you’re wearing. He won’t judge you by your clothes, any more than God would, if you believed in him.”