Page 2 of A Village Theatre Murder
‘It was kind of you to take him in after Olga died.’
‘I tried not to. Jake and the chickens felt like a full house. But Dr Ryan was keeping him in the vet’s rooms, and he was alone at night, and if no one came forward to take him…Let’s just say that Dr Ryan can be surprisingly persuasive. And I did find poor Chaplin, after all. That day…’ Julia stopped. She didn’t need to finish her sentence for Tabitha to know what she meant.
Julia had come across the hungry cat while calling on his owner, Olga Gilbert, the vet’s missing receptionist, who was, as it turned out, no longer in the land of the living, and thus in no fit state to feed cats. ‘I felt rather responsible for him. And really, he’s the sweetest chap.’
Chaplin walked across the counter to his food bowl – no food bowl could be left on the floor, for obvious reasons – and began to crunch determinedly through the dry pellets. Chaplin had settled right in. In fact, he behaved as if he owned the place. Little did he know that he had narrowly escaped being shipped off to the animal rescue shelter. Jake relaxed, now that the cat was otherwise occupied.
‘Right,’ said Julia, consulting her notebook. ‘Next up, Oscar.’
‘Ah yes, Oscar, playing the Upright Husband.’
‘Until he decides to get his revenge…Which brings us to…’
‘The prop gun.’ Tabitha plonked a small black handgun down on the table. ‘Got it.’
A little shiver ran up Julia’s spine. She hated the sight of a gun, even a gun designed as a prop, with the ability to make a loud bang and do little else, fit only for the stage.
‘And the gun is concealed. So he needs a jacket with a large pocket to keep it in. He’s wearing his own, a brown tweed.’
‘Did he check that the gun fits?’
‘Yes. At the last rehearsal, when Regional Superintendent Grave brought this prop gun for Oscar to use in that scene. It is a perfect fit. So, he’s all sorted. We’ll keep it in thelittle props cupboard and put it in his pocket backstage, so that he can put the jacket on and find the gun ready.’
Tabitha stretched her back and rolled her shoulders. ‘Shall we take a little break?’
‘Yes. I’ll put the kettle on and we can go outside to stretch our legs while we wait for it to boil. Come on, Jake.’
2
Julia put the kettle on, and the two women went out of the kitchen door into the back garden. Jake followed, accelerating slightly as he passed the cat – still chomping obliviously away in his place on the counter – and exited the door in relief. Delighted to have made it outside without incident, he bounded over to the chicken coop to greet the residents, six fat chestnut-coloured hens who had bustled their way to the gate in anticipation of a snack.
‘I’ll let them peck around outside for a bit,’ said Julia, jiggling the bolt on the gate. ‘Come on, girls. Go and find those slugs!’
‘Is the cat all right with the hens?’
‘Yes. He watches them, but doesn’t bother them. And they don’t give a toss about The Stare.’
‘Or The Moustache, I presume.’
‘Completely unfazed by that either.’
‘Hens are sensible creatures.’
Julia pulled the gate open. Henny Penny, the largest and boldest hen, came out first, at a brisk trot, heading straightfor Jake. He nudged her gently with his soft brown muzzle. She leaned into him for a long moment, then trotted on, heading for the vegetable patch where shiny garden snails could sometimes be found lurking beneath the spinach leaves. Jake followed meekly after her, his eyes soft with affection.
‘Weird chap, your Jake,’ Tabitha muttered with a shake of her head. ‘Him and that chicken.’
‘You’re not wrong. But who can understand true love, really?’
‘Not me, that’s for sure.’ Tabitha said this lightly, but Julia wondered if she didn’t sometimes wish for a loving companion. Julia had thought her own romantic life had likely ended with her marriage three years ago, and no one had been more surprised than her when Dr Sean O’Connor had arrived in her life. His craggy handsome face and lively blue eyes had brought an unexpected flutter to her pulse, but it was his calm good nature and good humour that had truly won her heart.
As the chickens fanned out in search of insects, Tabitha and Julia took their own slow circuit of Julia’s little garden, enjoying the soft sun that fell slanted through the trees. The leaves were starting to show a hint of yellow, and the cool air carried the promise of autumn. It wouldn’t be long before Julia was raking up fallen leaves. Her mind turned to the tasks she would have to take care of ahead of the change of seasons. The garden and house were small, but somehow there was always a lot to do. She must order in more wood for the fire. Cut down the dahlias, which had been magnificent, but were now leggy and falling over. Cover some of the more tender plants. Put in her winter vegetable seeds and seedlings. Cabbages. Carrots. Perhaps she’d give potatoes a try this year.
‘…don’t you think?’ asked Tabitha.
‘Sorry. I was miles away with the potatoes. What did you say?’
Tabitha gave her a quizzical look, but clearly decided not to investigate the potato comment, instead repeating her unheard observation: ‘I was saying that Roger Grave has done a rather good job of directing the play. I know you had your reservations about him, but he’s been good with the actors, and quite easy-going all round. I was a bit concerned that he might not see it the way that I wrote it, but he’s been really respectful of the text.’
