Page 4 of A Village Theatre Murder
When Nicky came in sporting the little yellow hat, Tabitha gave Julia a hard poke with her elbow. They exchanged glances,and shared a small rush of pride in their work. The hat was perfect. Jaunty, yet modest.
The Charming Good-for-Nothing followed her in his midnight-blue velvet jacket.
‘There’s Graham,’ said Jane Powell, in a stage whisper from the row behind them, presumably to her neighbour. ‘That’s a fake moustache.’
‘It’s right realistic, though, isn’t it?’ whispered her neighbour, admiringly. ‘Looks just like he grew it himself. You’d never guess.’
‘He’s fooling people, all right,’ said Jane.
Dylan came on briefly and acquitted himself well as the Dashing Young Rogue. He had few lines, but he delivered them with panache – not too much, just enough, a pause, a little shrug. He had a certain presence about him. Julia had promised her daughter Jess a report of his performance, and she was pleased that she could give a good account. The youngsters had agreed that their holiday romance had to come to an end when Jess returned to Hong Kong, but Julia happened to know that they were in almost daily communication. The flame still burned, it seemed.
Although she’d seen bits and pieces of the play in the previous weeks, Julia hadn’t watched it from beginning to end. The story carried her along quite briskly, and the acting was surprisingly good, for the most part. There was a brief flash of terror when Guy, playing the Postman, who only had four lines to say, froze on the third one. A stressful couple of moments passed while he stood rooted to the spot, gaping like a fish. Excruciatingly long moments for Guy, no doubt, but also for Julia.
Just when Julia thought she would expire from the awkwardness, there came a hiss from offstage: ‘No news is good news, sir.’ It was Hector speaking from thewings.
‘No news is good news, sir,’ echoed Guy, relief washing over his face.
Sean squeezed her hand, knowing Julia would have felt stressed in sympathy, along with Guy. ‘Poor chap,’ he whispered.
She squeezed back.
Tabitha leaned in to whisper in her other ear, ‘Better hope nothing happens to Graham.’
Julia gave a silent snort of laughter at the wry comment. Guy was the leading man’s understudy. Guy might know the lines, but it certainly didn’t look as if he’d have the nerves to deliver them in a big role.
The play was a drama, but it did offer a few laughs – most of them intended, and one or two not. Within ten minutes of curtain-up, Graham’s moustache had detached itself from the upper left corner of his lip and was inching its way slowly upward. Soon it was well on the diagonal. When it reached the edge of his left nostril, forty-five minutes later, it must have started to tickle, because Graham gave a huge sneeze, followed by another. The force of the sneeze further loosened the errant facial hair, which now hung down vertically over his lips, attached by a mere thread of glue, interfering with his delivery of the lines.
Subdued titters came from the audience, and a horrified whisper – ‘Oh, what will people think, Graham?’ – from his wife in the row behind them. Julia smiled to herself. Jane was permanently distracted by the question of what other people thought.
Unfortunately, the facial hair malfunction coincided with a particularly dramatic moment in the play. The denouement was at hand!
Oscar, playing the Upright Husband, stormed in from the wings to confront him about his treacherous lecherous behaviour.
‘You cad!’ he shouted, producing a gun from the pocket of his brown tweed coat.
The audience gasped. And – oddly – giggled.
Oscar stopped short, looking out at the audience in surprise. Why were they laughing at the dramatic end to the play? He looked at Graham and saw the problem immediately. The moustache was hanging comically from his face, swaying gently. Graham seemed not to know what to do about the awkward situation. He was struck dumb and motionless, blinking into the hall.
Oscar, quicker on the uptake, stepped forward, reached out his left hand and gave the moustache a sharp tug, removing it. Graham let out a small yelp. Oscar tossed the strip of facial hair into the wings and picked up where he’d left off.
‘You cad,’ he shouted again, waving his gun at the Charming Good-for-Nothing.
‘Let me explain!’
‘There’s nothing you can say! You must take your punishment.’
Oscar lifted his arm, steadying it with his other hand, the pistol aimed straight at his rival’s chest.
Nicky came running in, shouting, ‘No!’
But it was too late for the Shy Young Lass’s intervention. The dramatic tale of love and deception had only one possible end.
The Upright Husband looked down the gun at the Charming Good-for-Nothing, and pulled the trigger.
A great crack rang through the hall.
The Charming Good-for-Nothing had his comeuppance. He crumpled, thudding heavily onto the wooden boards.
