Murder and the Pantomime Cat

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I think I know,’ said Clemency, going rather pink. ‘Young girls, mainly.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Fran and Libby.

  ‘And Sheila – well, he only hinted at that, but it was something way back, you know? When she did all those leads in musicals.’ Sam sighed. ‘I’d better tell the police, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Let us drop a hint first,’ said Libby. ‘Then, if they think it’s all just hearsay you won’t have to say anything.’

  ‘And precisely,’ said Fran, as they walked back to Coastguard Cottage, ‘how do we do that? We don’t know the police team here.’

  ‘We can text Ian,’ said Libby. ‘Then he can tell us what to do. You can text him.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because of his soft spot for you.’ Libby smirked. ‘Go on. Dare you.’

  ‘Let me get indoors first,’ said Fran irritably. ‘And you can put the kettle on.’

  Fran sent her text, Libby made the tea, and they sat and looked at one another.

  ‘What do we think?’ said Libby eventually.

  ‘No one was very keen to talk to us, were they?’ said Fran.

  ‘As you said, they’re scared.’

  ‘But I think they all had something to say.’

  ‘I don’t often have insights,’ said Libby, ‘but even I felt that, too.’

  Fran grinned. ‘There’s a breakthrough!’

  ‘ What should we do, though? Should we try and talk to them again?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Fran. ‘They’d only clam up.’

  ‘These two might not,’ said Libby, nodding towards the window.

  ‘Oh!’ Fran stood up. ‘Do we let them in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Libby beat her to the door. ‘Pinch and Punch! Do come in.’

  The two men, more tired-looking and older than they appeared on the stage, stepped hesitantly over the threshold.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Fran. ‘Would you like tea?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Punch. ‘We had a pint in the pub.’

  ‘We went back to see if you were still with Sam,’ said Pinch, when they were seated, ‘but you weren’t.’

  ‘Sam said you were going to drop a hint to the police for him,’ said Punch. ‘So we thought…’

  ‘You want us to do the same for you?’ said Libby.

  ‘Well…’ Pinch looked at Punch.

  ‘We don’t want to tell tales,’ said Punch, ‘but Ackroyd was always making snide remarks.’

  ‘And you thought they might mean something?’

  suggested Fran.

  They both nodded, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘What are your real names?’ asked Libby suddenly. ‘We can’t go on calling you Pinch and Punch.’

  ‘Joe King,’ said Pinch with a grin.

  ‘And John Collins, would you believe,’ said Punch.

  ‘Therefore – King and Collins,’ they said together.

  ‘But he didn’t have anything on us,’ said Joe King. ‘Although he did used to hint that we were a gay couple.’

  ‘Which didn’t worry us,’ said John. ‘It was other people he used to get at.’

  ‘So we gather,’ said Fran.

  ‘He’d say things like, “The things I could tell you,” or just give someone a look,’ said Joe. ‘Like a warning.’

  ‘And say things,’ said John. ‘What was that thing he was always saying, Joe?’

  ‘Eh? What?’

  ‘Some American expression.’ John frowned. ‘Oh, you remember. Old-fashioned.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Joe.

  ‘Nix! That was it. As though it was meant to shock.’ John looked puzzled. ‘It didn’t fit, somehow.’

  Fran looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps it did mean something.’

  ‘I don’t see what,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, neither do I, yet.’ Fran smiled at the two men. ‘So what else?’

  They fidgeted and looked at each other.

  ‘Well, it sounds silly, now…’ said John.

  ‘But he said…’ Joe looked at his friend again, ‘he said he could bring the whole production down.’

  Libby gasped.

  ‘What did he mean?’ asked Fran.

  ‘We don’t know. But he mentioned Clem,’ said John.

  ‘Clemency?’ said Fran and Libby.

  ‘That’s what he said. But how could Clem bring the production down?’ said Joe. ‘She’s the nicest…’

  ‘She is,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve known her for some time.’

  ‘I think it’s rubbish,’ said Fran. ‘He was just trying to seem important.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. But now…’ said John.

  ‘You were right to tell us without the others knowing,’ said Fran. ‘We’ll pass it on.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Libby, ‘if you’re given the chance to carry on, would you want to?’

  ‘Yes!’ they said together.

  ‘It’s actually a nice little production,’ said John, pursing his lips judicially. ‘If you get rid of the temperaments. Holly would be just right as the Princess, Mark’s a great Tom, and even Cooper’s a reasonable King – just the right touch of pomposity…’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Libby.

  ‘What about Sheila?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Well…’ said Joe.

  ‘Her understudy’s great. Girl named Honor,’ said John. ‘Hmm.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Well, we’ll pass it all on, as we said, but I don’t know what will come of it.’

  Joe stood up. ‘It doesn’t seem much now we’ve brought it all out in the open.’

  ‘But I’m glad we did,’ said John, also standing up. ‘Sorry we bothered you.’

  “I’m not sure that got us any further forward,’ said Fran, shutting the door after their guests had gone.

  ‘All we can do is pass all that on to Ian or his minions,’ said Libby, ‘but they were right. It doesn’t seem much.’

  ‘Do you want any more tea?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No, I’d better get off. I’ve got to try and think about my panto – if I can.’

  ‘With any luck we won’t have to get involved any more with this one,’ said Fran.

  Libby stared out of the window at the darkening sky. ‘Who do you think did it?’

  Fran joined her at the window. ‘I can’t honestly see any of them doing it. Do you think it could have been an accident?’

  ‘With a cut throat?’ said Libby. ‘Can’t see it.’

  ‘We don’t even know who was in the theatre that afternoon.’

  ‘We could ask.’ Libby looked at her friend. ‘If Box Office Bryony is in the theatre. She might be, to field enquiries.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not? Send Ian another text to tell him we’ve got a bit more info and we’re going to check it at the theatre.’

  ‘He’ll be furious.’

  ‘He always is,’ said Libby. ‘Come on.’

  But when they arrived, the main doors were locked.

  ‘Stage door?’ suggested Libby.

  Unwillingly, Fran followed her round the building, where, sure enough, the stage door was unlocked.

  The silence of the theatre enfolded them. Libby found the light switch and they made their way to the stage. The strange whispering that always seemed to fill an empty stage sounded strange and unfamiliar, and Libby hurried to the steps that led down from the stage.

  ‘Come on – foyer,’ she said.

  They crept through the dark stalls and finally emerged into the comparative brightness of the foyer, but the box office, too, was locked.

  ‘Who’s in here, then?’ asked Fran. ‘Someone must be.’

  ‘Dressing rooms?’ said Libby. They looked at each other.

  ‘Wardrobe?’ said Fran.

  ‘Let’s sit down and think about this,’ said Libby. ‘Who might it be?’

  ‘Techies?’ Fran sat on one of the gilt chairs that stood around the foyer.

  ‘Building manager?’ Libby followed suit.
<
br />   ‘Not necessarily the murderer.’

  They both stopped and listened. Nothing.

  ‘If it’s the murderer, who? Someone who was in the pub at lunchtime,’ said Fran.

  ‘They were all there.’

  ‘Brandon?’

  ‘No.’ They both shook their heads.

  ‘Not Clemency.’

  ‘No. Tom and Joe – definitely not.’

  ‘Holly? Mark?’

  They shook their heads again.

  ‘Cooper.’ Fran raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s nasty enough,’ said Libby. ‘And more worried about his career than the others.’

  And as if the very sound of his name had conjured him up, Cooper appeared at the top of the stairs.

  He stopped dead. The three of them looked at one another for a long moment.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ He began to descend. ‘And how are you, my lovelies? Still doing the police’s work for them?’

  Libby cleared her throat. ‘No – we just needed a word with Box Office. But she isn’t here.’

  ‘Well, of course not. We’re closed.’ He arrived in front of them. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Stage door was unlocked,’ said Fran. ‘Was that you?’

  Cooper looked slightly disconcerted. ‘Er – yes.’

  ‘You’ve got keys?’ Libby was surprised.

  ‘Yes.’ He lifted his chin. ‘I like access to the theatre.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Fran. ‘Why were you in Wardrobe?’

  ‘I wasn’t!’

  ‘That’s where you were coming from,’ said Libby.

  The dead silence surrounded them again.

  ‘I was looking for something.’ Cooper looked a little shamefaced. ‘But Wardrobe’s still locked. They’ve got that tape over it.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Libby, standing up, ‘as we’ve all been thwarted, I think we all ought to get out.’

  Looking relieved, Cooper held open the auditorium door. ‘After you.’

  Nervously, Fran and Libby preceded him.

  They were halfway down the aisle when they heard the noise.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cooper whispered.

  ‘Nix,’ said Libby, and wondered why she’d said it. Neither of her companions reacted.

  ‘Someone’s backstage,’ whispered Fran.

  ‘Get behind me,’ growled Cooper, and pushed past them. Fran and Libby exchanged surprised glances. He strode towards the stage and hopped nimbly up the steps.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  ‘Look out!’ shouted Fran as a huge section of castle-painted scenery began to topple towards them. They all scooted into the wings and Libby took out her phone with a shaking hand.

  ‘You all right, girls?’ Cooper’s voice was shaking, too.

  ‘Dusty!’ said Fran, coughing.

  ‘Police,’ Libby was saying. ‘The Alexandria theatre in Nethergate. There was a murder here… yes, yes. At the moment…’

  She rang off. ‘They’ll be here in a minute. Where did they go?’

  ‘Our jolly attacker?’ said Cooper, no longer attempting to keep his voice down, and oddly, sounding far more normal.

  ‘Did you leave everyone in the pub?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I had lunch. I don’t know where the rest went.’ He peeped out on to the stage. ‘Should we try and get to the stage door?’

  ‘No, let’s stay here until we hear the police,’ said Libby.

  ‘Why did you say “Nix” out there?’ Cooper looked at Libby. ‘I only ask because it’s an odd word to hear, and bloody Ackroyd was using it all the time.’

  ‘That’s why,’ said Libby. ‘I was hoping to get a reaction.’

  ‘From me?’ Cooper sounded astonished.

  ‘From anybody. Listen.’

  The faint sound of sirens was now heard, followed very quickly by heavy footsteps.

  ‘Police!’ shouted a voice.

  Slowly, Cooper, Fran, and Libby emerged.

  As Libby opened her mouth to explain, there was a rush of noise from the stage door and DCI Ian Connell erupted on to the stage.

  ‘Told you he’d be furious,’ muttered Fran.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled. Even the uniformed officers quailed.

  ‘We – er – wanted to ask Bryony, Box Office…’ began Fran.

  ‘I wanted to find…’ began Cooper.

  Ian rounded on the uniformed officers. ‘Why wasn’t a watch kept on this building?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s their case, Ian,’ said Libby.

  ‘No.’ He turned back and seemed to take hold of himself. Cooper looked shell-shocked. ‘Search the building, please.’ He pulled out his phone and spoke urgently into it. Then came towards the dusty trio and stood looking at them with his hands on his hips. ‘And now?’

  Gradually, Fran and Libby told him all the titbits of information they’d gleaned, and Cooper admitted to doing a little sleuthing on his own.

  ‘And then Mrs – er – Libby, said Nix. And I wondered why. Ackroyd was always saying it, and -’

  ‘Nix?’ Ian’s voice sharpened. ‘Another hint Lane was dropping?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ Libby, Fran and Cooper looked at each other in puzzlement.

  ‘Oh, I think I do.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Libby. ‘It means nothing, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Ian let out a gusty breath. ‘The Nyxes – taken from the Greek – were the names given to a group of young girls recruited back in the late eighties and nineties, let’s say for immoral purposes.’

  ‘God, yes!’ exploded Cooper. ‘I remember now! It was quite the scandal – provincial theatres, mainly, wasn’t it?’

  Ian nodded. ‘Which means he thought someone in your company had been connected -’ he paused, as a scuffle made itself heard somewhere on the other side of the stage. ‘And he was right.’

  And from the opposite wing space emerged two ruffled-looking policemen, hauling between them an equally ruffled Sheila Bernard.

  Ben and Libby headed for the Pink Geranium through the silence of a winter evening. The clear sky already showed myriad stars, which were reflected in the sparkling of the frosted pavements.

  ‘Nearly Christmas,’ sighed Libby. She had missed the panto rehearsal, leaving Peter to knock her cast into submission.

  Ben kissed her cold cheek. ‘Nearly Christmas,’ he agreed.

  ‘So tell us the whole story,’ said Harry, when Libby and Ben, together with Fran and Guy who had been invited along for support, were settled in their usual seats at the Pink Geranium.

  ‘Well, it was as we all thought,’ said Fran. ‘Ackroyd had lost his telly show due to allegations of misconduct, but it hadn’t been serious enough to make a big thing of it.’

  ‘Should have been,’ said Libby with a sniff.

  ‘Anyway,’ Fran went on, ‘he was jealous of everyone else and spent most of his time trying to unsettle them all.’

  ‘Trouble was, Sheila really had been involved in this whole Nyxes thing, and had escaped prosecution. No idea how, as she fairly ran the thing! She toured the provincial theatres back in those days - very handy for recruiting young girls. She thought he knew all, as they say,’ said Libby. ‘So, as far as we can make out, she went to try and talk to him, saying she’d help with his costume. She was a dab hand, apparently.’

  ‘How did she get in and out without being seen?’ asked Ben.

  ‘She’d long gone by the time we got there,’ said Fran. ‘Through the stage door. It really should be secured properly. We’ll have to bring that up at committee.’

  ‘She kept saying it was an accident,’ said Libby.

  ‘Throat cut?’ said Harry disbelievingly.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, that’s the story.’

  ‘And everyone else has been cleared?’ said Guy.

  ‘Just gossip,’ said Fran. ‘Shows how dangerous it can be.’

  ‘Will they be allowed to carry on?’ as
ked Peter.

  ‘Yes, after a bit of recasting, obviously,’ said Fran. ‘The girl who Pinch and Punch would prefer be the Fairy Godmother is actually going to be the Cat, and they’ve got someone new in for the Godmother…’

  Libby and she giggled. A groan went round the rest of the table.

  ‘No, no!’ said Fran. ‘Not that! A star!’

  ‘Who?’ came the chorus.

  ‘Dame Amanda Knight!’ shouted Fran and Libby in unison. ‘Happy Christmas!’

  Proudly published by Accent Press

  www.accentpress.co.uk