A Fete Worse Than Death Read online

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ purred Tim. ‘Our costumes and props are already there, so I would just need to round up the troops. When were you planning curtain-up?’

  ‘How about one o’clock?’

  ‘Marvellous. We’ll see you later. Goodbye, Pippa.’

  ‘Bye, Tim, and thank you.’ Pippa ended the call and stared at her phone. Her spirits were climbing by the second. Dev Hardman or not, she might pull this off. Each stall had a good sprinkling of people around it, the bucket in front of Short Back and Sides was rattling with coins at intervals, and hopefully people would donate after Macbeth. If it wasn’t too awful.

  Speaking of which… She stepped up to the mike and tapped it, causing a squeal which at least made people look up. ‘Hello everyone, I have an announcement to make. As Dev Hardman is still delayed, the Gadding Players have graciously agreed to put on a matinee performance of Macbeth, starting at 1pm in the marquee. Why not grab lunch beforehand, and enjoy the play with a glass of wine?’ Oh gosh, I sound like one of those people who do the special offers in the supermarket. Next stop, two-for-one on kitchen roll and a free packet of Polos with every box of fish fingers. I bet Dahlia Dean doesn’t have to do this. Then again, judging by the evidence, Dahlia Dean wasn’t even doing her actual job of GETTING HER CLIENT TO TURN UP ON TIME.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Pippa!’ A large, bearded, bespectacled man in a golfing sweater and slacks enveloped her in an embrace. ‘I was told to look out for a woman with green wellies, a clipboard, and an air of authority,’ he confided.

  Is that me? ‘Hello, er, Tim…?’

  ‘How did you know?’ he boomed, drawing back and looking puzzled.

  ‘Lucky guess,’ said Pippa, disengaging herself as tactfully as she could. ‘Lovely to, er, meet you, Tim. Did you manage to get hold of everyone?’

  ‘Yes, and we’re raring to go,’ he said, throwing his arms wide and almost whacking a passer-by in the face. ‘We’ll go and make ready. Is the green room where we discussed?’

  ‘Yes, in the morning room. Men’s changing facilities are in the downstairs loo at the hall, and women’s are in the blue bathroom. Props are laid out in the dining room. Mrs Harbottle will be able to show you.’

  ‘Thank you, dear heart.’ And he blew her a kiss as he departed. Thank heavens Simon wasn’t here to see that. Not that he’d be angry. He’d be rolling on the floor laughing.

  ***

  No-one broke a leg. The players were ready on time — early, in fact — and Pippa, standing at the edge of the marquee, watched them declaim and gesture with gay abandon. Frankly, she didn’t care if they ate the scenery, so long as they were entertaining.

  The three witches were getting into their stride when her mobile rang. Darn! She scuttled out of the tent. It was the number she had been trying in vain for much of the day.

  Dahlia.

  ‘Where are you?’ Dahlia asked.

  ‘I asked you the same question a good few hours ago,’ said Pippa.

  ‘We’re in the library, having a cup of tea,’ said Dahlia, as if it should have been obvious. ‘We just had a couple of things to do, and then Dev needed lunch. He gets terribly cross when he’s hungry. But he’s ready to come out now and do his thing.’

  ‘Well, he can’t,’ said Pippa. ‘As you didn’t give me any clue when or even if you were turning up, I’ve asked the local am-dram society to do Macbeth as a filler. Dev will have to wait his turn.’

  Dahlia made a strange noise at the other end of the line. ‘I thought the play’ — oh, the contempt she put into the word — ‘was on in the evening?’

  ‘It was. But I had to do something to fill the large gap in the programme.’

  ‘I’ll put Dev on.’ She made it sound like a threat.

  There was a pause. ‘Hey,’ said a voice she recognised, a voice with a slight Cockney twang and a grin in it. ‘What’s goin’ down?’

  ‘Hello, Dev,’ she said, trying to put a smile into her own voice. ‘I was just telling Dahlia that we’ve had to rearrange the timetable a bit, since I didn’t know what your movements were.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He didn’t sound bothered. ‘When am I on?’

  ‘As soon as the play’s over. Maybe three, three thirty?’

  ‘Kay. Thanks, babes.’ And the phone went dead.

  That was easier than she’d thought it would be. At least he was here, and he hadn’t run out on her. In fact, she should probably go and visit him.

  On the way back to the hall, her eye was caught by Serendipity’s stall. Marge had gone, and a large piece of paper had been left on the empty table, weighted by a stone, bearing the legend ‘SOLD OUT.’ But where were the takings? Was there no rest for the wicked?’

  Marge answered on the second ring. ‘I’m done, Pippa. Sold out.’

  ‘Yes, I saw. What did you do with the takings?’

  ‘Left them with the WI, and I’ve made a note of how much. I’m not daft, Pippa. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a swing boat ride to go on.’

  ‘Thanks, Marge,’ Pippa said to empty air.

  Beryl Harbottle was in full-on bouncer mode. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Parker, I can’t be letting any more people in. I’ve already got people going in and out with armour and swords and tree branches, and that chef and his assistant wandering round glued to their phones.’ To be fair, she did look frazzled.

  ‘Fair enough,’ chirped Pippa. ‘Can you tell Dev Hardman I called in, and I’ll be watching the play if he needs to find me.’

  Beryl Harbottle almost chopped her own head off with the door.

  Pippa whistled as she strolled to the tent. No-one could say she hadn’t tried. She’d rearranged half the programme, made an emergency dash to the bank, and kept an eye on things. She made sure her phone was on silent mode before slipping into the marquee. The last thing she wanted was to disrupt proceedings.

  The play seemed to be holding people’s attention. Tim was centre stage, soliloquising. Indeed, the play had advanced rapidly — perhaps they were doing an abridged version. Excellent, thought Pippa, I can get Dev on quicker. But her thoughts were stopped in their tracks by a sudden ‘Ow!’, booming from the stage. She looked up. Tim was gazing at his sword in complete bewilderment.

  Someone giggled, and the sound recalled Tim to his senses. He sheathed his sword, put his hand in his pocket, and began to speak his lines again, but faster. What had happened?

  Pippa left the tent and hurried towards the ‘wings’. As she reached them Tim hurried off stage, sweating. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘What is it?’

  Tim was silent until he was some distance from the marquee. ‘My sword bit me,’ he said, in tones of forced jollity. ‘Look.’ And when he drew his hand out of his pocket, a thin, steady stream of blood was trickling from his forefinger.

  ‘Let’s get you to first aid,’ said Pippa, taking him by the arm and leading him to a stall at the side with a large green cross on the front. ‘They’ll patch you up, and then you can go back on.’

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Tim said, as a nurse from the GP surgery bathed his small wound and applied a plaster.

  ‘You’ve cut yourself, Shakespeare,’ she said, tersely. ‘Try and keep your arm in the air. That’ll help stop the bleeding.’

  ‘But — I don’t know how I —’

  ‘Maybe there’s a sharp bit on the handle of your sword,’ said Pippa. ‘You might have caught your finger on it.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Tim. ‘I can’t see much without my glasses on. Can you tell how I’ve done it?’

  Pippa ducked under Tim’s raised arm and ran her hands carefully over the handle of the sword. She couldn’t feel anything sharp — it seemed rounded and harmless. She pulled it half out of the scabbard, and —

  It made a sound like a real sword. Or, at any rate, the sound swords made on TV. She touched the flat of the blade. Metal. Very, very cautiously, she touched a fingertip to the edge of the sword, and winced.

  ‘You use fake swo
rds, right?’

  ‘Of course we do?’ Tim’s colour was starting to return. ‘You have to be mad to act, but not that mad!’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve found the sharp bit,’ said Pippa. ‘Hold still while I take your sword off, and I’ll fetch you another one from props.’

  ‘You’re an angel,’ boomed Tim, as she unbuckled his belt. ‘You’ll have to be quick though, I’m back on in a few minutes.’

  Pippa ran to the hall, holding the sword at arm’s-length. How on earth had a real sword got mixed up with the props? She banged on the door and charged through, shouting ‘Prop needed!’ and almost upsetting Mrs Harbottle.

  ‘Excuse me,’ snapped the housekeeper.

  ‘Sorry!’ Pippa called, running across the hallway.

  The dining room was quiet. Presumably the actors were either on stage or relaxing in the green room. Pippa unsheathed one of the swords lying on the table. Its blade was wooden. So was the next. She grabbed it and headed out. She would have to take the real sword with her, until she could find somewhere safe to put it.

  ‘Woah!’ She nearly ran into Norm. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing,’ panted Pippa. ‘Can you mind this for me? I have a fake sword to deliver. I’ll explain later.’ She thrust the sword at Norm, who frowned at it.

  ‘Isn’t this…?’

  ‘I’ve got to go!’ Pippa called over her shoulder. She didn’t want to risk turning Macbeth into a comedy by withholding the lead man’s sword.

  Tim was waiting at the marquee when she returned. ‘Here you are,’ she gasped.

  ‘Excellent,’ he stage-whispered. ‘In the nick of time, too. Ha! Nick!’ And he strode into the tent.

  Pippa watched Tim deliver his first line before retracing her steps to the hall. She didn’t hurry; she took her time. It had been a trying day, and the main attraction wasn’t even on yet. Worst of all, though Pippa had tried her hardest, she suspected she had some explaining to do.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘I’m in charge of security, and I say call the police,’ said Norm.

  ‘Sssh! Someone will hear you!’

  ‘It needs to be said!’

  ‘All right, but not that loud…’ Pippa peeped into the dining room. It was still empty, so she ushered Norm in and closed the door.

  ‘Why don’t you want me to ring Jim Horsley?’ Norm’s face was puzzled, and also suspicious.

  ‘It isn’t that! But … look at it from my point of view. The fete’s going well and Dev Hardman will be doing his book signing in a few minutes. It feels as if everything’s finally coming together. Then a police car screams up and PC Horsley starts asking questions, because one of the actors has a cut finger. I mean, you might as well get everyone to pack up and leave then and there. No-one will be interested in the fete any more, and if they’re kept hanging round while the police take statements, they won’t bother coming back tomorrow. All this will have been for nothing…’ Pippa began to sniff, and it was genuine. The thought that all the effort everyone had put into the fete would be wasted was enough to make anyone cry.

  ‘All right, Pippa.’ Norm put a heavy hand on her shoulder. ‘I do understand. But it’s exactly this sort of minor-seeming incident that needs to be followed up. Imagine if whatsisname, Tim, hadn’t cut himself on the sword. Imagine if it had been used in a proper stage fight. Someone could have got badly hurt.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Pippa, in a small voice.

  ‘It got moved, didn’t it? The play?’

  ‘Kind of. It was scheduled for seven o’clock, but I asked them to do an afternoon show too, to fill up the bit when Dev was meant to be on. Oh heck, I should see if he’s ready —’ Pippa moved to the door.

  ‘No. Wait.’ There was a hint of steel in Norm’s voice which stopped her in her tracks. ‘So the tent would be a bit darker in the evening. It would be harder to tell a real sword from a fake one. So the swap would have been more likely to succeed.’

  Pippa’s blood ran cold in her veins. ‘You mean —?’

  Norm nodded. ‘I think it was deliberate.’

  ‘But why? Why would someone even do that? The swords are laid out together on the table, and the thingies, the — sword holsters?’

  ‘Scabbards,’ said Norm, dryly.

  ‘Scabbards, then. They look pretty similar. How would you make sure the right person got the real sword?’

  ‘There are ways,’ said Norm. ‘They could hand it to someone, or take it themselves.’

  ‘So it couldn’t have been Tim, because he cut himself.’

  ‘No,’ mused Norm. ‘Unless he was trying to get someone else into trouble.’

  ‘My brain hurts.’ Pippa rubbed her forehead. ‘Look, I’ll check on Dev, get him on stage, and come back. Please don’t do anything without me.’

  Norm’s expression was grim. ‘I won’t. But I want you here in ten minutes, Pippa, or I will call Jim Horsley.’

  Pippa scurried to the library, where she found Dev sprawled in an armchair reading The Times. Unusually, he looked exactly the same as he did on TV and in photos; deep tan, black hair in a messy quiff, black T-shirt, leather jacket and faded jeans. He would have fitted near-seamlessly into the line-up of Short Back and Sides. And curled on the window seat, texting, was the cherry-haired woman from the bank. What a surprise.

  ‘We’re nearly ready for you, Dev,’ she said. ‘I’ll check the play’s finished, get a table and chair put out, and then give you a ring. We’ll get the books brought to the marquee while you do a speech.’

  ‘Awesome, darlin.’ Dev closed the paper and left it on a side table. ‘I’ll stroll down with you.’ He produced a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his leather jacket and clicked it on and off. ‘Ready to go.’

  ‘I’ll just, er, let someone know where we are,’ said Pippa. ‘I’ll meet you in the hallway.’

  ‘Yeah, whatevs.’

  ‘That was quick,’ said Norm, as she burst into the dining room.

  ‘Can you do me a favour?’ His eyebrows drew together. ‘Nothing to do with that. Some boxes of Dev’s cookbook are stacked in the library. Could you bring them to the marquee for the signing?’

  ‘I can,’ said Norm. ‘I hope you’re not trying to divert me.’

  ‘No!’ cried Pippa. ‘But once Dev’s set up, we can work on the — other thing.’

  ‘The potential stabbing,’ said Norm, placidly.

  Pippa winced. ‘Please keep your voice down, if you have to say that.’

  She found Dev examining a painting of a stag on a hillside. ‘I’ve sorted the books and they’re on their way.’

  He stuck thumbs up. ‘Let’s go meet the adorin’ public.’ The thumbs went into his belt-loops, and he sauntered down the path next to Pippa as if he were going for a pint at his local.

  Applause was coming from the marquee, and even an occasional cheer. Pippa hoped it was sincere. ‘I think they’ve just finished.’ When they reached the tent, the actors were taking a — well, not quite a curtain call — holding hands in a line and bowing. Tim was in the middle, and appeared to be completely recovered.

  Dev put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. A woman at the back looked round crossly, then gasped. ‘It’s him! It’s Dev Hardman!’ More and more people turned to see, until the entire tent was focused on Dev, who waved cheerily. He walked to the front, clapping the actors, who seemed undecided whether to be grateful for Dev’s applause, or offended that he had stolen their thunder.

  ‘Nice job, guys,’ he said. Tim half-bowed in acknowledgement. Dev continued to stand, waiting, and there were a few giggles from the audience as the actors almost fell over each other in their haste to get off stage. ‘Anyone got a chair I can borrow?’ Most of the women in leapt up. ‘I only need one!’ He laughed and took the nearest, turned it so that its back was to the audience, and straddled it, leaning his elbows along the top. ‘So. What do you wanna know?’

  A forest of hands shot up. ‘Yeah, you,’ said Dev, winking at the centre of the front row
. Pippa backed out of the tent. He’d be just fine.

  Norm was wheeling a trolley stacked with cardboard boxes across the lawn. ‘Ruddy thing wants to go every way but straight,’ he puffed. ‘Where shall I put these?’

  ‘Just inside the tent should do. Can you give me a hand with a table?’ Together they carried a small trestle table into the tent, and Pippa set a pile of cookbooks on top.

  ‘Ooh, me books are here!’ cried Dev. ‘Who wants one?’ He mimed fending off the audience with his hands, then got up and sauntered to the table, bringing his chair with him. ‘How much are they?’ he asked, out of the side of his mouth.

  Pippa checked the inside flap. ‘It says seventeen pounds ninety-nine.’

  ‘Awright! Apparently, they’re seventeen pounds ninety-nine.’ Was he mimicking her? ‘That’s eighteen quid to you an’ me. Or I’ll say thirty quid for two. Signed. Form an orderly queue, please.’ And he winked at Pippa.

  Norm tapped her arm. ‘All right, I know,’ she mouthed.

  ‘I haven’t rung Jim yet,’ he said, as they walked to the hall.

  ‘What have you done with the —’ Pippa lowered her voice — ‘the sword?’

  ‘Popped it in the sideboard for now. I haven’t had time to do anything else. But you can be sure I’ll see to that.’

  Beryl Harbottle was waiting for them at the front door. ‘I understand there has been an incident.’ She looked down her nose at Pippa.

  Here we go. This is where it all falls apart. ‘One of the actors managed to cut themselves. He’s been patched up, though.’

  ‘Yes. He’s just told me. Not very good, is it?’

  ‘Not ideal, no.’ Pippa climbed the steps and walked past Mrs Harbottle. ‘But I’m not sure why you’re treating this incident as my fault.’

  ‘You changed the running order. People get confused and mistakes are made.’ Beryl’s voice followed Pippa into the hallway.

  ‘Look, I don’t know how a real sword got in with the props.’

  ‘A real sword?’ Mrs Harbottle’s tones were high and declamatory, and could have reached the back row of a theatre. ‘A real sword? Someone could have been killed!’ And she whisked away without another word. A door shut behind her.