Murder and the Pantomime Cat
Lesley Cookman
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018
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West Bute Street
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Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2018
The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
eISBN: 9781786156891
‘Puss is very good,’ Fran Wolfe whispered to Libby Sarjeant. ‘Is he a friend of Andrew’s?’
‘Don’t know,’ whispered back Libby. ‘Shh – I want to hear this bit.’
The auditorium of The Alexandria was almost empty, except for Libby, Fran, the pantomime director, the lighting director talking incessantly on his headset to his operatives, the wardrobe mistress, who kept darting in and out, and a couple of cast members who weren’t on yet.
‘And make way for Princess Pam!’ a small member of the chorus was declaiming in a squeaky voice.
Princess Pam, in a vaguely eighteenth-century costume, entered somewhat nervously, obviously very aware of Puss, at the side of the stage, mimicking both the announcement and her entrance. Libby felt uncomfortable. This didn’t look as though it was the director’s idea, more as if Puss was building his part. She glanced at Fran and saw that she felt the same.
The King and Queen followed her onto the stage.
‘Clemency’s nervous, too,’ whispered Fran.
‘Bloody King isn’t!’ Libby growled back. ‘Smarmy git.’
The director sent them a fulminating glare, and they shrank down in their seats.
This was the dress rehearsal for The Alexandria’s first pantomime, and due to Libby and Fran’s association with the theatre, the management company had called on them for help. They, in turn, had called on two of their professional colleagues in the world of theatre, Sir Andrew McColl and Dame Amanda Knight, to help with recruitment. Nethergate, the seaside town which was home to both Fran and The Alexandria, a former concert hall, wasn’t a big player in the resort world, and hadn’t attracted any of the larger pantomime production companies, so the management company was bravely going it alone. The cast Andrew and Amanda – or Abby, as Libby had known her in childhood – had helped assemble contained a few names well known to the public, although it remained to be seen if they would still be as popular now as in their heydays.
The most current personality in the cast - apart from the perennially popular Tom, the Miller’s Son - was the nervous Princess Pam, a reality TV star. Tom presented a weekday programme on children’s television, and Princess Pam visibly relaxed as he moved towards her, blocking her view of Puss.
The King stepped in front of the Queen and the Chamberlain and spread his arms. ‘Hello, Royal subjects!’ he declaimed, a characteristic giggle in his well-trained voice.
‘Ugh!’ said Libby, scowling at the stage. Fran dug her in the ribs.
The scene wore on, with both the King and Puss doing their best to upstage everyone else, until at last Puss led the cast in a predictable chorus number about boots and walking and the director, sounding depressed, called a halt. Libby and Fran left the auditorium and went out on to the little gallery that ran round the back of the theatre, overlooking Nethergate beach.
‘He’s going to have to put a stop to all that,’ said Libby, hunching her shoulders inside her new mock-fur trimmed cape. ‘It’s just a collection of egos and nerves up there at the moment.’
Fran leant her elbows on the railings and gazed out to sea. ‘I don’t know why he hasn’t done it already.’
‘Scared of them walking,’ said Libby. ‘Puss is notorious for bad behaviour, isn’t he?’
‘So Dame Amanda said.’
‘Oh, do stop calling her that.’ Libby frowned. ‘She’s Abby. I always called her Abby, and she asked you to, as well.’
‘It seems disrespectful, somehow.’ Fran turned her back on the sea. ‘And why is he picking on that poor little girl?’
Libby shrugged. ‘Anyone with a weakness is fair game, I suppose. And she’s not a Proper Actor, is she?’
‘Such a shame,’ said Fran. ‘She needs the support of the cast. If he’s so set against having reality stars in the show, the least he could do is simply ignore her. He’s just making her even more nervous.’
‘Which is the whole point,’ said Libby. ‘He’s hoping she loses her nerve completely and makes a fool of herself.’
‘That will upset everybody,’ said Fran.
‘Except the avuncular King.’ Libby pondered. ‘That would give him the opportunity to be all kind and protective and “look what a lovely guy I am” in front of the audience.’
Fran nodded. ‘He’s not giving Clemency much of a chance, is he?’
Clemency, playing the Queen, was coming back to the stage after a few years’ ‘finding herself’. As Dame Amanda’s daughter, she had always felt overshadowed by her mother, but had accepted the part despite Dame Amanda having been instrumental in putting it her way.
‘No – he’s playing up to the image he’s been cultivating for the last ten or fifteen years. Lovely, cuddly Cooper – the ladies all love him.’ Libby struck an attitude. ‘And hasn’t he got a lovely voice?’ She dropped the falsetto and growled, ‘Have you heard his radio show? It’s nauseating!’
‘Don’t hold back, will you?’ Fran was amused. ‘At least young what’s-his-name – Tom – seems a nice bloke.’
‘Apparently he is. Both Andrew and Abby know him. RADA-trained apparently, and quite content to play Shakespeare secondaries until someone spotted him as TV material. The kids love him.’
Fran cocked an eyebrow. ‘Too good to be true?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Libby sighed. ‘Shall we go in and see if they’re starting again?’
‘I think I’d rather leave it and come and see it when it’s running. You go in if you want to.’
‘No, I think I agree with you.’ Libby settled the cape round her neck. ‘I’ll give Andrew a ring and tell him. He can tell Abby.’
‘When are we supposed to be going?’ asked Fran as they walked up the slope to Victoria Place.
‘Officially, with Abby and Andrew on Saturday. We can go in whenever we like after that. If they haven’t sold out.’
‘Will they? Sell out, I mean.’
Libby shrugged. ‘It’s selling well so far. After all, they’ve got young Holly Westcott, Cooper Fallon, and whosit playing Tom.’
‘Mark Jones,’ said Fran. ‘And old Richard Brandon playing the Ogre. He was in that soap for years, wasn’t he? He’s popular.’
‘Well, there you are. And they’ve got Sheila Bernard as the fairy, Gawd ’elp ‘em. Diva of Divas.’
‘She’s killing it, isn’t she?’ said Fran. ‘It’s supposed to be a comedy part.’
‘And she’s making it into high drama,’ said Libby. ‘Ah, well. Nowt to do with us, is it, chuck? Let’s just hope they can sort out their differences and stagger on until after Christmas.’
Libby scoured the internet after the first night of Puss in Boots, but found nothing. Eventually, tracking down the social media accounts of some of the cast members, she was ab
le to get a sense of the atmosphere, which didn’t seem as positive as she would have hoped.
Young Holly had said nothing, Cooper Fallon had been self-congratulatory, Clemency was brightly humorous, Sheila Bernard had been dramatic, and the rest had sensibly kept quiet. Libby phoned Fran.
‘Yes, I looked, too. Doesn’t look too good, does it?’
‘Perhaps it’ll settle in,’ said Libby, without much hope. ‘Only two weeks’ rehearsal, after all…’
‘They’re professionals,’ said Fran. ‘That’s all they ever get for panto.’
‘I know.’ Libby heaved a sigh. ‘And I’ve got just over that left for mine.’
Libby’s own production of Sleeping Beauty at the Oast Theatre in Steeple Martin was trundling along in a much happier atmosphere.
‘But everyone knows what they’re doing, and how it’s going to run,’ said Fran. ‘After all – how many years have you been doing it? And so have most of the cast.’
‘Mmm. Anyway – did you find any mention anywhere of the cast?’
‘No. But do they actually do reviews anywhere? The Stage?’
Libby thought for a moment. ‘Well, they do, but not straight away, unless it’s top-flight West End. There must be online sites, though. I’m just not well up on them.’
‘Ask Jane?’ suggested Fran. Jane Baker was the Deputy Editor of the now mostly online Nethergate Mercury, and a longstanding friend.
‘Oh, I don’t like to bother her,’ said Libby.
‘Send her a text. She can answer or not.’
‘OK, I’ll do that. It’s not really important, is it?’ said Libby, while feeling that somehow, it probably was.
But even before Libby had laboriously sent Jane a text, not being as handy with her thumbs as some, her mobile rang.
‘Libby? It’s Clemency – Clemency Knight.’
‘Clemency!’ Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘How lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you? I’m coming to see you on Saturday.’
‘Yes, I know, with Mum and Andrew,’ said Clemency, sounding depressed.
Libby was stumped. From Clemency’s tone, the right question would not be ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fran and I saw some of the dress,’ she said eventually.
‘Yes.’ The word came out on a sigh. ‘Actually, Libby, it was the show I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh?’ said Libby warily.
‘Well, you had something to do with the show, didn’t you? Casting and so on?’
‘A bit. We’re on the management committee, Fran and me. An honorary position, really.’ This wasn’t the time to go into the reasons they were there, she felt.
‘You see, I don’t know who else to talk to. I don’t want to tell Mum, so…’
‘You thought you’d tell us? Me and Fran?’
‘Yes.’ Clemency sounded grateful.
Libby stifled a sigh. This didn’t bode well. ‘OK – where are you lodging? Shall we come there?’
‘No, no,’ said Clemency hastily. ‘I’m staying with Mum and Coolidge. I’ll meet you in Nethergate somewhere, shall I? As long as it’s not near where the others are staying.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Cooper Fallon and Holly Westcott are at Anderson Place – do you know it? – and Brandon, Sheila, and Tom are at The Swan.’
‘What about Puss?’
‘Ackroyd? He’s got digs.’ Libby heard a snort. ‘He likes to keep up the myth of the old time performer. Except that it’s a luxury service flat.’
‘Right.’ The more Libby got to know about Puss the less she liked him. ‘Well, probably best to meet at Fran’s house, if she’s agreeable. I’ll ask and ring you back, shall I?’
‘Yes…’ Clemency hesitated. ‘When? I mean when could we meet?’
‘When have you got matinees?’
‘Tomorrow. I could come in the morning.’
‘OK. I’ll ring you back as soon as I can.’
Fran was quite happy for Clemency to come for coffee the following morning, if slightly puzzled. ‘You’ll be here before she arrives, though, won’t you? About quarter to eleven?’
‘Yes – and I don’t know what it is she wants to talk about, either. She doesn’t like Puss, though. Ackroyd something his name is.’
‘Ah, yes. Ackroyd Lee, I remember now. I did something with him years ago. I don’t suppose he’d remember me.’
‘Was he doing skin parts then?’
‘No – he was lowly chorus! A good dancer, though. I was second juve.’
‘Ooh, tell me more.’
‘No fear. Makes me feel very, very old. Let me know if she’s coming.’
Clemency was indeed coming and sounded very pleased to be doing so.
‘I wonder what’s up?’ Libby asked Sidney the cat, as she wandered into the conservatory to stare at the unfinished landscape on her easel. ‘Why us?’
Sidney came to stare at the landscape too, just in case he got an extra treat for appreciation.
Then Libby remembered she had been going to send Jane Baker a text, and decided to phone her instead. Sidney left in a huff.
‘Sorry if I’m disturbing you,’ she said.
‘You aren’t. I’m at home,’ said Jane. ‘You know I do a lot of work at home now. What can I do for you?’
‘I don’t always want a favour,’ said Libby, a little put out.
‘What, then?’ said Jane, sounding amused. ‘Asking after my health?’
‘I just wondered if you or someone else was going to see Puss in Boots at The Alexandria.’
‘We’ve got comps, why?’
‘When for?’
‘Look, Lib, what is this? Why are you interested?’
‘I just wondered. Fran and I are going with Sir Andrew and Dame Amanda on Saturday.’
‘Oh, of course – you helped with casting, didn’t you?’
‘Not really, Andrew and Abby did, but we got them involved.’
‘And you’re still on the steering committee, too, aren’t you? Or whatever it’s called.’
‘Management committee, I think, but we don’t have to do much.’
‘So why do you want to know if the Mercury is turning up? Persuading us to give a good review?’
‘I was hoping you’d already have heard…’ Libby tailed off. Heard what? She scowled at the floor. ‘If you’d heard what anybody thought?’
‘Anybody?’ Libby heard the laugh in Jane’s voice. ‘No, I haven’t. I’ll ask in the office, if you like. Can’t be too bad, can it? They’ve got some names in there.’
‘Yes,’ said Libby dubiously. ‘Oh, well, I’ll let you know what we think after Saturday.’
‘And I’ll let you know what our official line is after someone’s seen it from here.’
‘OK. Love to Immi and Terry.’ Libby rang off. ‘Come on, Sid. Time for tea.’ Tail high, Sidney took up his station by the treats shelf.
The following morning, Libby parked almost opposite Coastguard Cottage in Harbour Street, Nethergate and waved at Balzac, Fran’s black and white cat, who was sitting in the bay window.
‘What do you suppose she wants?’ asked Libby, following Fran into the kitchen, where a very new coffee machine was standing by the sink.
‘It’s challenging me,’ said Fran, eyeing it with disfavour.
‘Why did you buy it, then?’
‘I didn’t. Sophie bought it for us as an anniversary present. Do you want to have a go?’
‘No, thank you, you know I don’t much like coffee. Will you try and make a cup for Clemency?’
‘Probably not.’ Fran threw a tea towel over the offending item. ‘Instant, it’ll be. Unless she wants tea. OK – so back to your question. What does she want?’
‘To talk to someone who isn’t her mother,’ said Libby. ‘She probably feels ungrateful because she’s not enjoying it.’
‘Did you get the sense that it was anyone in particular annoying her?’
‘She didn’t say, but she obviously doesn
’t like Ackroyd. Mind you, we saw what his behaviour was like at the dress, didn’t we?’ Libby perched on the edge of the table.
‘You don’t think she wants us to actually do something, do you?’ Fran looked nervous.
‘Do what? There isn’t anything to look into, surely?’
‘Well, she’s coming to see us about something, isn’t she?’
There was a sharp rap on the door and they both jumped.
‘That’ll be her now,’ said Libby. ‘Shall I let her in?’
Clemency stood outside looking even more nervous than Fran. She’d lost weight since they’d last met her at Mallowan Manor four years ago, and without her queenly costume she looked pale and unremarkable.
‘Come in,’ said Libby, trying not to smile too brightly.
‘Coffee?’ offered Fran, with a shifty glance towards the lurking machine.
‘I’d prefer tea, if you don’t mind,’ said Clemency hesitantly.
‘Lovely – so would I,’ said Libby. Fran made a face.
‘Now, Clemency.’ Libby indicated the squashy sofa in front of the fireplace. ‘What did you want to talk to us about?’
‘It’s rather difficult.’ Clemency looked down at her hands. ‘It’s probably just that I’ve been out of the business for a few years.’
‘What is?’
‘What’s what?’ Now Clemency looked bewildered.
‘What’s because you’ve been out of the business?’
‘The atmosphere. Well -’ she came to a halt as Fran came in with three mugs.
‘Well?’ prompted Libby.
‘Ackroyd, mostly.’
Libby and Fran exchanged glances.
‘Oh, I know Ackroyd Lee,’ said Fran, passing over a mug.
‘Lee?’ Clemency now looked startled. ‘Oh, no, his name’s Lane. Ackroyd Lane.’
‘Well, it wasn’t,’ said Fran. ‘He was chorus last time I saw him, and his name was Ackroyd Lee. I always thought it was a peculiar name – Ackroyd.’
Libby made a mental note to look into this anomaly.
‘So what’s the problem?’ she asked. ‘We saw some of his antics at the dress. Very unprofessional.’
‘He’s terrifying little Holly,’ said Clemency, ignoring the fact that she was a good three inches shorter than the principal girl.
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