Today, apart from Libby and Ben, who had brought Guy and Fran with them, Hetty’s brother Lenny and his partner Flo were attending, Flo having provided the wine, being somewhat of an expert thanks to her late husband, a bit of a wine buff. They were also surprised to find Edward Hall, a historian whom Libby and Fran had managed to involve in more than one adventure so far, chatting companionably to Chief Detective Inspector Ian Connell, a family friend and firm favourite of Hetty’s.
‘What are you doing here?’ Libby asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve finally found a house?’
‘Soul of tact as usual, Libby,’ said Ian. ‘As it happens, he has.’
This surprised the entire company into silence, except for Hetty, who placidly went on pouring Yorkshire pudding mixture into baking tins.
‘I’ll pour the wine,’ said Ben.
‘No you won’t,’ said Flo. ‘You sit down and leave it to me. Young Ian’s going to explain.’
Young Ian, looking faintly disconcerted, cleared his throat.
‘There’s no great mystery,’ he said. ‘It just happened that Edward found a property and asked my opinion on it.’
‘Why didn’t he ask us?’ demanded Libby.
‘I am here, you know,’ said Edward, white teeth flashing in his endearing grin. ‘Ian had put me on to a previous property, so it was natural that I should ask him about this one.’
‘So he came down to see it,’ said Ian.
Both Edward and Ian now sat grinning smugly at the rest of the company.
‘So what have you done?’ asked Libby. ‘Bought the Manor from under us?’
‘Lovely though it is,’ said Edward, ‘no. Have you come across Grove House?’
Fran, Guy and Libby shook their heads.
‘Isn’t it somewhere near Shott? That one?’ asked Ben.
‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘Almost within walking distance of The Poacher. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Libby and Fran together.
‘They always know pubs,’ muttered Guy.
‘Well that’s it. Not all of it, of course. It was divided some years ago.’
‘How did you know it was for sale?’ Libby asked, turning to Ian.
‘I get to hear things,’ said Ian. ‘So I mentioned it to Edward.’
‘Did you know about this, Mum?’ asked Ben.
Hetty, with a small smile, shrugged.
‘Yes, she did,’ said Edward. ‘I came down and stayed overnight when I first viewed the property, and then again last night. I got the keys yesterday.’
‘And you kept it from us!’ said Libby.
Fran laughed. ‘They’d never have heard the last of it if they hadn’t.’
‘It don’t matter,’ said Hetty, plonking a large dish on the table. ‘Always welcome here, but it’s his own business.’
Over lunch, Edward was persuaded to describe his new home, until Ian changed the subject by asking what Libby was nosing into at the moment.
‘That’s not very nice,’ she countered.
‘But you are,’ said Ben. ‘Although you were asked.’
Ian raised his eyebrows and looked at Fran, who sighed.
‘It’s true,’ she said, and told him what had been going on at The Alexandria.
‘At least it’s unlikely to involve the police,’ said Libby, with a sniff.
After lunch, when Hetty had retired to her sitting room and Flo and Lenny had returned to Maltby Close, Ian and Edward accompanied Libby, Ben, Fran ,and Guy to the Pink Geranium, the restaurant owned by Ben’s cousin Peter and Peter’s partner Harry, the chef patron. It was traditional for them to gather at Peter and Harry’s cottage on a Sunday afternoon, but this was December, and Sunday lunchtimes were busier than usual.
Harry was reclining over two chairs at the big table in the window, still wearing his whites, while Peter was fetching clean glasses and bottles from the bar area. Informed of Edward’s imminent move, Peter and Harry both expressed delight, and Harry attempted to embarrass Edward by flirting with him.
‘It never works, Harry,’ said Edward, laughing.
‘So, dear heart,’ said Peter, when they were all settled with drinks - and Ian, who still had to drive back home, with coffee - ‘what have you been getting up to this week? How are panto rehearsals going?’
‘Fine,’ said Libby, ‘but the Nethergate panto is a bit of a disaster.’
Between them, Fran and Libby described the situation at The Alexandria.
Harry looked thoughtful.
‘What did you say this Puss was called?’
‘Ackroyd Lane, now,’ said Libby.
‘But I knew him as Ackroyd Lee,’ said Fran. ‘He was a dancer when I knew him, but that was twenty-five years ago – more, probably.’
‘Only,’ said Harry, sitting forward on his chair, ‘I knew an Ackroyd when I first came to London.’ He looked at Ian. ‘You could look him up. Only he wasn’t Ackroyd anything, then. He was plain old Bill Ackroyd.’
‘There must be thousands of Ackroyds, though,’ said Guy. ‘Why should this one be the same one?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Just struck a chord, that’s all.’
‘But why?’ asked Libby. Harry shook his head.
Ian was frowning. ‘No, go on, Harry. There must have been a reason.’
‘It was when I first came to London, I said.’ Harry looked quickly at Peter and away again.
Peter reached out and touched his partner’s arm. ‘I think I know.’ He caught Ian’s eye, who nodded.
‘I’ll look him up.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘So the pantomime’s carrying on, then, Libby?’
‘Er – yes.’ Libby looked slightly confused.
‘So’s ours,’ said Ben, ‘with all the normal problems.’
‘Problems?’ said Libby sharply. ‘We haven’t got any problems!’
Fran administered her usual kick under the table. Libby scowled.
‘Well, we haven’t,’ she muttered.
The talk turned to other matters, then Ian got up to leave.
‘When are you moving in?’ asked Ben. ‘Will you want a hand? And what about you, Edward?’
‘I’ve booked a removal company for this week,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll let you know when.’
‘So what was that all about?’ said Libby to Ben, as they walked back to Allhallow’s Lane. ‘With Harry? Why did Fran shut me up?’
‘Libby, my love,’ said Ben, draping his arm round her shoulders, ‘you really aren’t that thick. You, of all people, should remember what Harry’s told you about his life when he first went to London. He’s not proud of it.’
‘Oh!’ Light dawned. ‘You mean this Whatsisname Ackroyd was part of that scene?’
‘Yes, dear.’ Ben administered a congratulatory pat. ‘And a not very savoury one, either, I suspect.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘It was very brave of Hal, wasn’t it? He hates talking about it.’
‘Exactly. So don’t you go and start trying to winkle it out of him. If Ian wants to look this person up, let him and leave it at that.’
‘What? You mean I can’t even use it to blackmail Puss?’ Libby giggled and ducked an imaginary blow. ‘Come on, race you back.’
The following morning, Libby found the name and number of the vice-chair of The Alexandria Management Committee and rang her.
‘Mrs Flowers? Libby Sarjeant here. As you probably know, Fran Wolfe and I accompanied Dame Amanda Knight and Sir Andrew McColl to see Puss in Boots on Saturday.’
‘Er – yes?’ Mrs Flowers sounded nervous.
‘Well, I’m afraid we weren’t impressed.’
‘Oh, dear! But -’
‘It isn’t that it’s a bad production, Mrs Flowers,’ said Libby hastily, ‘but the behaviour of one of the principals is very unprofessional and is damaging the rest of the cast.’
‘Oh…’ Now Mrs Flowers sounded puzzled. ‘But I don’t – I mean, I can’t – well, I don’t know anything about it.’
‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘But we think something needs to be said, or at least one of the cast will walk out. The director needs to put his foot down, which so far, he hasn’t.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Flowers again. ‘Which cast person is it?’
‘Puss.’
‘Puss?’ This came out as a shriek. ‘But he’s the star!’
Libby rolled her eyes. ‘The children think far more of young Holly, the Princess, and Mark, who plays Tom, and it’s Holly Puss seems to be targeting.’
‘Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do! I’m afraid Roland isn’t here.’
‘No, we know that. But I think if you could come down to the theatre with me and Fran Wolfe – today, if possible – and have a word with the director, it would help.’
‘I don’t know… what time? I mean, I’ve got… well, er, things to do…’
‘This afternoon, sometime? Before the evening performance, anyway.’
‘About five, then?’ suggested Mrs Flowers.
‘That’s fine. I’ll get hold of the director and make sure he’s there. We’ll meet you in the lobby, shall we? Or would you like us to pick you up?’
‘No, no! It’s fine. I’ll see you there.’ Mrs Flowers cut the connection. Libby shook her head at the phone, then rang Fran to tell her, before calling Sam the director, who gloomily assented without even asking what it was about.
At five o’clock, Libby and Fran walked down the slope to The Alexandria. Victoria Place, in honour of the season, was lit up, and the dome on top of The Alexandria was floodlit. Outside the double doors waited a small, plump woman wearing unfortunate jeans and a pink anorak.
‘Mrs Flowers?’ asked Libby, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Libby Sarjeant.’
‘And I’m Fran Wolfe.’ Fran held out hers.
Mrs Flowers shook them both in an unresisting manner, and Libby pushed open the doors. Inside, they found Sam in the box office with the box office manager, both of them staring at the computer screen. He saw the deputation and reluctantly left the office.
‘Sam,’ Libby began, ‘we on the management committee aren’t very happy about some aspects of this production.’
Sam shook his head mournfully. ‘Neither are we.’ He looked between the three women. ‘It’s Puss, isn’t it?’
‘We were in the audience Saturday night,’ Fran reminded him.
‘I know.’ Sam sighed. ‘And you didn’t stay behind afterwards.’
‘Well, we were all so disappointed,’ said Libby. ‘And I’m afraid we reported to the rest of the management committee.’ She indicated Mrs Flowers. ‘Mrs Flowers is the Deputy Chair.’
‘It’s Puss, isn’t it?’ said Sam.
‘Principally,’ said Fran, ‘although Cooper and Sheila could both do with toning down a bit. Otherwise it’s a decent production. But they aren’t pulling together, and certainly Mark Jones, Holly Westcott, and Clemency Knight are very unhappy.’
‘I know.’ Sam looked ready to break down. ‘If only Ackroyd would calm down, I think the rest would be all right, but I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Mrs Flowers?’ Libby turned to the deputy Chair, who looked horrified.
‘Me? I – er -’
‘Threaten him with the sack,’ said Fran bluntly.
‘I can’t,’ said Sam, equally bluntly. ‘He said to me on Saturday that I couldn’t sack him, or I knew what would happen.’
‘And what did that mean?’ asked Libby.
‘I – er – don’t know,’ said Sam, looking furtive.
‘Well,’ said Libby, ‘he can’t threaten us, so I suggest you ask him to come here now, and we’ll threaten him. It doesn’t matter what he says to us, it can’t hurt us.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ muttered Sam. However he pulled a mobile out of his pocket and found what was presumably Ackroyd’s number. After a long silent wait, he shook his head. ‘Voicemail,’ he said.
‘ What time is he supposed to be here?’ asked Fran.
‘Well, by the half, obviously, but he’s usually early to get into costume and make-up. Usually between six and six thirty. They’re all in by six thirty.’
‘Clemency said he has a flat?’ said Libby.
‘Yes, in that converted hotel along Victoria Place. None of us have ever been there.’
‘Well, he won’t be en route yet,’ said Fran. ‘It’s less than five minutes’ walk.’
‘Excuse me,’ the box office manager called through her window, ‘but if you’re looking for Puss, he went up to wardrobe earlier. Said he was meeting someone who was going to mend his costume.’
‘Who?’ Sam was frowning.
Box Office shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘How much earlier?’ asked Libby.
‘Just after shift change in here. Ooh, say about half two?’
‘Why would he be up there all that time?’ asked Sam.
‘Did you know about his costume needing mending?’ asked Fran.
‘No. It was fine at the walk down yesterday afternoon.’ He shook his head. ‘But he was that fussy.’
‘Did he go up the front staircase?’ Libby asked Box Office, who nodded. ‘Well, he could have come out the back way and gone to the dressing rooms. Perhaps he decided to stay here until the costume was ready and have a nap?’
‘Shall I go up and look?’ said Sam.
‘Try Wardrobe first,’ said Fran. ‘See if his costume is really there.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Libby.
‘I’ll be quicker on my own,’ said Sam, and made for the ornate staircase. ‘If he’s not there I’ll go down to the dressing rooms.’
‘What about me?’ A quavery voice reminded them that Mrs Flowers was still with them.
‘We need you to back us up,’ said Libby, wondering privately if the Deputy Chair could back anyone up.
The door at the top of the staircase crashed back on its hinges and Sam catapulted through, grasping at the gallery rail and making inarticulate noises.
Libby started running up the stairs.
‘Oh, no,’ muttered Fran.
‘What?’ whispered Mrs Flowers.
‘I think this means that Puss is dead.’
Box Office was already on the phone. ‘Which service?’ she mouthed at Fran.
‘Police and ambulance,’ Fran mouthed back, and started up the stairs after Libby.
By the time she reached the top, Sam had slid to a sitting position on the gallery floor and Libby had disappeared through the door.
‘Ackroyd,’ muttered Sam.
‘I gathered that,’ said Fran. ‘The police will be here soon.’
‘P-p-police?’
‘Yes. And ambulance.’
‘B-b-but he’s dead!’
‘Quite,’ said Fran.
Just then Libby came out of the doors looking pale. ‘Throat,’ she said succinctly.
‘Police and ambulance are on their way,’ said Fran. ‘Shall we go down?’
‘I’d better stay here,’ said Libby. ‘Can you take Sam down?’
‘I’ll try.’ Fran looked at Sam dubiously.
‘Mrs F looks a bit dodgy, too,’ said Libby, peering over the gallery rail.
‘You don’t look so hot yourself,’ muttered Fran, hauling the director to his feet. ‘Come on, feller.’
Fran and Sam had barely arrived at the bottom of the staircase when the sound of sirens preceded the entry of two uniformed police officers and an ambulance crew, all of whom raced up the stairs. Libby waved them through the doors and descended herself.
Box Office, a seemingly unflappable and efficient young woman, had caused chairs to materialise, and Libby, Fran, Sam, and Mrs Flowers collapsed on to them with relief.
‘Could I go home now?’ asked Mrs Flowers, after a moment.
‘Not until the police have spoken to us,’ said Libby. ‘I’m sorry we seem to have got you involved with this, but the management committee would have been anyway, even if you hadn’t been here.’
Mrs Flowers gl
ared at her. ‘Why? Nothing to do with us.’
Sam, Fran, Libby, and Box Office all stared at her in amazement. Under their combined scrutiny she began to turn a pretty shade of red.
One of the policemen came down the stairs looking grim.
‘Who found the body, please?’
Sam muttered a barely audible, ‘I did.’
‘And you are, sir?’ The officer took out the inevitable notebook.
‘Sam Washburn, director.’
‘Director? Company director?’
‘No, officer,’ said Libby, ‘director of the pantomime currently running in this theatre.’
‘And your name, madam?’ The officer fixed her with a stare.
‘Mrs Libby Sarjeant,’ said Libby. ‘With a J.’
The officer’s pencil stopped in mid-air.
‘That’s done it,’ muttered Fran. He fastened his gimlet eye on her.
‘And you, madam?’
Fran told him. He turned to Mrs Flowers.
‘Jennifer Flowers. I’m nothing to do with it,’ she quavered. The officer raised his eyebrows.
‘Mrs Flowers,’ said Libby, gazing on the pink anorak with dislike, is on the management committee of the theatre. ‘Mrs Wolfe and I are consultants.’
‘Mrs Sarjeant and Mrs Wolfe are well known to us, Ted.’ Box Office popped her head out of her window. He turned to her in relief.
‘OK, Bryony,’ he said. ‘Tell us what happened this afternoon.’
‘Earlier on, Puss came in -’
‘That was…?’ Ted gestured upstairs.
‘That’s him. Bad mood as usual. Then, later, Mr Washburn came in. Then Mrs Sarjeant, Mrs Wolfe, and Mrs Flowers. Don’t often see Mrs Flowers round here. Mr Washburn went up to see if Puss was in Wardrobe.’
‘Wardrobe? Is that…?’
‘Where he was found, officer, yes,’ said Libby. ‘Where all the costumes are kept.’
‘Why did you go up there?’ Officer Ted turned back to Sam.
‘To look for him.’
‘That’s why we were here,’ said Fran. ‘He was going to be reprimanded.’
‘Torn off a strip,’ confirmed Libby, with a nod.
‘So there was bad feeling?’ Officer Ted’s eyes lit up.
Libby sighed.
‘No more than in any office,’ said Fran.
Murder and the Pantomime Cat Page 3
