Murder and the Pantomime Cat

by Lesley Cookman

  The officer tucked his notebook away and glared impartially at them all.

  ‘Wait here, please,’ he said, and stamped away through the main doors.

  ‘Phoning for assistance,’ said Fran, with a sigh.

  ‘I do not see why I have to wait here.’ Mrs Flowers’ voice squeaked shrilly through the foyer, and she stood up. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Libby, as the little woman strode, slightly unsteadily, towards the doors. As she reached them, they swung inwards and she was nearly knocked flat on her back.

  Two plain clothes officers barrelled their way through and charged up the stairs. Mrs Flowers was none too gently escorted back to her seat.

  A few minutes later, one of the plain clothes officers returned and approached his witnesses. He repeated what they had told Officer Ted, took down their full names, and told the three women they could go home.

  ‘Not you, though, sir,’ said the officer with a grim smile. ‘You’re actually working here at the moment? We’d like you to stay.’

  ‘Yes, well -’ began Sam.

  ‘But, officer,’ said Libby, ‘they need to know if they can open tonight. Sam needs to let the cast know, and if they can’t open, Bryony – was it? – needs to put her plans in place to let audiences know. They’re sold out, you see.’

  The full horror of the situation hit everyone, especially Bryony.

  ‘Oh, my Gawd!’ she said and hurried into the box office.

  The officer suddenly looked out of his depth and looked beseechingly at Libby. Surprised, she smiled at him.

  ‘You are?’ she said.

  ‘DC Stan Bennett.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I worked with – ah – Inspector Maiden.’

  ‘Did we ever meet?’ Libby continued smiling.

  ‘Er – no, ma’am. Not in person.’

  ‘Who’s the SIO this time?’ she asked, aware of Sam’s and Mrs Flowers’ surprised stares.

  ‘Probably DS Morgan. He’s upstairs.’

  ‘Could you ask him, then, about tonight?’

  DC Bennett bobbed his head and went charging back up the stairs.

  ‘Are you police?’ asked Mrs Flowers.

  ‘He’ll get into trouble, now,’ said Fran.

  ‘No, he won’t. Besides, that first officer recognised our names. He should have passed it on.’

  Sam sat up straight. ‘I don’t understand. Are you police? And what’s SIO?’

  ‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’ve just had rather a lot to do with them.’

  ‘And SIO is Senior Investigating Officer,’ added Libby.

  ‘Why couldn’t you tell them to let me go, then?’ said Mrs Flowers.

  Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘Who do you think I am? I can’t tell the police what to do.’

  Mrs Flowers opened her mouth, caught Fran’s eye, and shut it again.

  DC Bennett, followed by DS Morgan, came back down the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen,’ said DS Morgan, not sounding in the least sorry, ‘you won’t be able to open tonight. I apologise for the inconvenience, but it’s not our fault, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No, it’s bloody Puss’s fault,’ said Sam, glaring up the stairs.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Libby.

  ‘It’s the murderer’s,’ said Fran.

  Sam looked somewhat abashed. ‘Oh, yes. Right.’

  ‘Is there anyone we should inform?’ asked DS Morgan.

  ‘Only the company,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll do that, if I can use the office?’

  ‘Where’s that?’ asked DC Bennett.

  ‘There.’ Sam pointed to a door under the stairs.

  ‘It was the original office,’ Libby began, ‘when this was a seaside concert hall.’

  ‘All right, Lib. They don’t want to know.’ Fran gave her friend a nudge. Libby went pink.

  ‘All right, then, you can go,’ said DS Morgan, ‘but we will want to speak to you again. Do we have your addresses?’

  Having checked the addresses, DC Bennett and DS Morgan went back up to the gallery. Mrs Flowers, without saying a word to anybody, scuttled out of the main doors, Bryony was already on the phone and Sam dived into the office. Libby and Fran followed him.

  ‘Can we do anything?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Could you stick a few “cancelled” strips up?’ asked Sam, looking woebegone.

  ‘On the posters along the promenade?’ said Libby.

  ‘Please.’ Sam fished out some pre-printed strips and handed them over. ‘We always have some, just in case.’ He sighed. ‘Didn’t imagine quite this scenario, though.’

  Libby and Fran trailed through the foyer, explained to the uniform on duty what they were doing, stuck a couple of ‘cancelled’ strips either side of the entrance, and plodded up to Victoria Parade. As they made their way back after papering the whole of the promenade with the depressing pieces of paper, they heard their names called out.

  ‘Jane!’ Libby turned and looked up at the thin terraced house above on Cliff Terrace.

  ‘What’s going on?’ called Jane Baker from her front steps.

  They crossed over and explained.

  ‘Don’t publish it yet, though,’ said Fran. ‘The police don’t quite know how to handle it yet. They haven’t appointed an SIO, even.’

  Jane raised her eyebrows. ‘Not even DCI Connell?’

  ‘Not even him,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘Although he’s supposed to be desk-bound these days.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, Jane, we’ll let you know as soon as there’s anything worth saying.’

  ‘Somebody will have let it out on social media, anyway,’ said Libby, as they went back down the slope to The Alexandria. ‘Bryony or someone.’

  ‘And we’re mixed up in it again,’ said Fran, on a long sigh. ‘How do we do it?’

  Back in the office, Sam allowed them to use one of the phones to alert their loved ones and Dame Amanda and Sir Andrew of the situation. Dame Amanda agreed to let Clemency know, but sounded very shaky.

  ‘I know he wasn’t a very nice person,’ said Libby, staring up at a highly coloured portrait of the founder of The Alexandria, Dorinda Castle, ‘but it’s a horrible thing to have happened, and just before Christmas, too.’

  ‘She’d have known how to deal with him,’ said Fran, following Libby’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘She had a few hairy moments, didn’t she? Remember what Bella told us.’

  Sam was looking interested. ‘You know about the history of the place?’

  ‘Er – yes,’ said Fran, and buried her face in her large handbag.

  ‘Is that why you’re consultants?’ he went on.

  ‘In a way,’ said Libby. ‘And now, if there’s nothing else you want us to do, we’ll get out of your hair.’ She stood up and smiled brightly. ‘I expect we’ll see you over the next few days.’

  She swept out of the office, followed by Fran.

  ‘I don’t know why we’re so wary of talking about the dear old place,’ she said, as they walked over to the box office.

  ‘It isn’t the pleasantest story,’ said Fran.

  ‘Even if it did bring us a second theatre, in a way,’ said Libby.

  ‘And me a cat,’ added Fran.

  Bryony peered out of her cubbyhole.

  ‘You off, then?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve given us permission,’ said Fran. ‘What about you?’

  ‘They’ll let me out when I’ve sorted this lot. If I can sort it,’ said Bryony gloomily.

  ‘I wonder what they’ll do about Puss?’ said Libby. ‘Do you think the understudy’s strong enough?’

  Bryony shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Do you realise,’ said Fran ten minutes later, as they walked along Harbour Street towards Coastguard Cottage, ‘we haven’t once wondered who did it.’

  Libby stopped dead. ‘Good Lord,’ she said. ‘So we haven’t.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fran, starting to walk
again, ‘there appears to be a choice. So many people didn’t like him.’

  ‘But not enough to kill him,’ said Libby.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, someone did.’

  Libby nodded soberly. ‘Unless it was an accident.’

  Fran gave her a look. ‘You said it was his throat. How can that be an accident?’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Libby looked sideways. ‘You know…’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Fran took out her key. ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘I suppose I ought to go home, really. Ben’ll want to know what’s happened.’

  ‘OK. Will you ring if you hear anything?’

  ‘Yes – and you will, too, won’t you?’ Libby sighed and shook her head. ‘Poor things. Their first panto and this has to happen.’

  Ben had his own news to impart when Libby arrived, having helped Edward move the first of his possessions into his new flat.

  ‘It’s lovely, Lib.’ He handed her a whisky and poked up the fire. ‘It’s a perfect little white Georgian house, and it’s been divided really well. Edward has the ground floor and the main entrance, and the upper floor is reached from the back, but the two are completely separate. Now tell me what’s been going on at The Alexandria.’

  Libby told him.

  ‘So it looks as if people were right about him being a nasty piece of work,’ he said thoughtfully when she’d finished.

  ‘It doesn’t always follow that just because someone’s murdered they were a nasty piece of work,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, but in this case it looks like it, doesn’t it?’ Ben sipped his whisky. ‘I wonder if Ian had any luck looking him up?’

  ‘No idea. Should we ask, do you think? Will he want to know?’

  ‘I think it would be rather odd if we didn’t tell him,’ said Ben. ‘A murder on his own doorstep?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Libby, ‘but he probably knows already.’

  ‘It won’t be his baby, though, will it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ Libby drew up her knees and hugged them. ‘So we can speculate to our heart’s content.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ben, ‘I forgot to tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ said Libby, suspiciously.

  ‘Harry’s trying out a new recipe on us.’ Ben grinned over his shoulder. ‘I said you’d be delighted.’

  Harry came in and went straight through to the kitchen bearing a large enamel dish. Peter came in and put down two bottles of red wine.

  ‘If you’re forced to eat Hal’s experiments,’ he said, ‘the least we can do is provide something to wash them down with.’

  The “experiment” turned out to be red lentil meatballs in a vegetarian sauce with egg-free tagliatelle.

  ‘There are times,’ said Libby with her mouth full, ‘when I could easily become a veggie.’

  ‘Only because I treat you so well,’ said Harry. ‘And now, petal, you are going to tell us just what’s been going on down in Nethergate. You muttered something about Puss Ackroyd as we came in.’

  Libby sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘He’s dead,’ she said.

  ‘Dead?’ Harry’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Murdered, apparently,’ said Ben. ‘Throat -’

  ‘All right!’ interposed Libby sharply. ‘We went to give him a ticking off, along with the director and the deputy chair of the Alexandria trust. The director found him in the Wardrobe.’

  ‘Not a lion and witch sort of wardrobe, I take it,’ said Peter.

  ‘No.’ Libby shook her head and forked up some more tagliatelle. ‘In amongst the costumes. He’d gone to have his mended.’

  ‘Have you told Ian?’ Harry had put his fork down and was staring intently at Libby.

  ‘No – it isn’t his case. He’ll have heard about it anyway.’

  ‘You need to tell him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Harry gave the impression of gritting his teeth. ‘He was going to look your Ackroyd Lane up.’

  ‘Ian thought there was something wrong about him, too.’ Peter confirmed.

  ‘In that case,’ said Ben, ‘I wouldn’t mind betting that we don’t have to bother about letting him know. He’ll come to us. Or to Fran.’

  Libby scraped up the last of her sauce. ‘Why don’t you tell us about the Ackroyd you knew in London?’ she said to Harry.

  He pushed his plate away. ‘Did you like the meatballs?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already said.’ Libby glared at him.

  ‘Go on, love,’ said Peter. ‘It’ll come out now, anyway, if it is him.’

  ‘I looked him up,’ said Harry. ‘It is.’ He stared at his plate for a few moments, then looked up at Libby and gave a crooked smile. ‘Do you remember sitting out on that terrace thing on the Isle of Wight?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘And I told you all about the children’s homes and the club?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Puss Ackroyd worked at the club, too.’

  Ben and Libby gasped.

  ‘Yes. He was scraping around trying to get chorus jobs in those days.’

  ‘Fran said he was chorus when she knew him.’

  ‘Well, at this time he was plain Bill Ackroyd, and he just loved little boys.’ Harry made a face. ‘After one incident too many, Pierre – the chef – chucked him out. And he threatened Pierre, tried to intimidate some of the staff, and, in the end, had a go at me. This wasn’t long before Pete rescued me.’

  ‘So did Ian find anything about him?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Give the bloke a chance!’ said Harry. ‘This was only yesterday.’

  Libby pushed her chair back. ‘Does anyone want coffee?’

  ‘No, more wine, please,’ said Harry. He stood up. ‘I’m traumatised.’

  Peter gave him a friendly buffet on the arm and they trooped into the sitting room. They had barely sat down when another knock sounded on the front door.

  ‘Guess who,’ said Ben.

  Ian Connell walked into the sitting room and shook his head.

  ‘I might have known.’

  ‘No, you mightn’t,’ said Libby. ‘Harry came round to try out a new recipe on us.’

  ‘And you didn’t even mention the murder that happened at The Alexandria today?’

  ‘I asked her,’ said Harry. ‘Sit down, Ian.’ Harry himself slid to the floor and leant against Peter’s chair. Ian looked at Ben for guidance, then sat down.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Libby. ‘It isn’t your case, is it?’

  ‘Strictly, no.’ Ian eyed the wine glasses.

  ‘No, you can’t have wine if you’re driving home,’ said Libby.

  ‘I’ll make you coffee,’ said Ben, and vanished into the kitchen.

  ‘I got in touch with Nethergate as soon as we heard,’ said Ian. ‘I’d found out a little about Bill Ackroyd, you see.’

  ‘Puss’s real name,’ said Libby.

  Ben came in with the cafetière, a mug and milk jug on a tray.

  ‘What were you saying?’ He sat down on the sofa next to Libby.

  ‘Bill, as Hal remembered him,’ said Ian, ‘was born William Ackroyd. Where the Lane came from, heaven knows. As William Ackroyd, he had convictions, and had also appeared in pantomime several times.’

  ‘He had?’ Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘As a principal, or chorus?’

  ‘Chorus. In Cinderella. And Cinderella was Sheila Bernard.’

  ‘Really? So he could have claimed to have something on her, too?’ said Libby.

  ‘If that’s what he was doing, yes.’

  ‘That’s what Mark and Clemency thought.’

  ‘Are they an item?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I don’t think so. I think Mark’s more interested in young Holly.’

  Harry wrinkled his nose.

  ‘I’m sure she’s very nice,’ said Libby with a sniff. ‘Do you mind telling me what happened today?’ asked Ian, accepting a mug from Ben.


  ‘Go on, petal,’ said Harry.

  ‘We don’t mind hearing it again,’ said Peter with a wry grin.

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, looking at Ben. ‘I suppose…’

  She related the story of Ackroyd’s abortive telling off and its aftermath.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Ian when she’d finished. ‘And this Sam was in the theatre when you arrived?’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Libby’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘It wasn’t him! He’d only arrived half an hour before us.’

  ‘And when did Lane arrive?’

  ‘Half two, according to Box Office.’

  ‘Box Office?’

  ‘The box office manager. Bryony Nice girl. She’s been there for a couple of years, now.’

  ‘Do you know who’s in charge down there?’ asked Harry.

  ‘The SIO? No,’ said Ian. ‘I shall get hold of him tomorrow, though. I think he probably needs to know what I’ve found out.’

  ‘Surely he’d find that out himself?’ said Ben. ‘Or his team would.’

  ‘Not necessarily right back to the Bill Ackroyd days,’ said Ian.

  ‘What were the offences?’ asked Libby.

  ‘That’s under wraps at the moment, I’m afraid,’ said Ian, and glanced at Harry, who shook his head.

  ‘Did any of the other names come up?’

  ‘I don’t know all of the other names,’ said Ian evasively.

  ‘That probably means they did,’ said Libby.

  Ian laughed. ‘How you do jump to conclusions!’

  He drank the rest of his coffee and stood up. ‘I’ll keep you informed as far as I’m able,’ he said. ‘And of course, it goes without saying that you’ll tell me if you hear anything, won’t you?’

  He gazed round at the four innocent faces looking up at him and sighed. Ben grinned and stood up to see him out.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I helped Edward move into Grove House today. Lovely place.’

  Ian half turned in the doorway. ‘I didn’t know he was moving today.’

  ‘Not completely,’ said Ben. ‘He’s going back up to – Leicester, was it? – tonight to collect some furniture. I expect he’ll spend the rest of the week moving in.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Ian. ‘I’ll see if he wants a hand.’

  ‘Now why,’ said Libby, after Ben had shut the door, ‘didn’t he seem pleased about Ben helping Edward?’

  ‘Or was it,’ said Harry, ‘that he didn’t know Edward was moving this week? That’s what he said.’