Page 45 of A Village Theatre Murder
‘Going out,’ Hayley barked at Cherise. ‘An hour or so, I expect.’
Cherise appeared not to notice Hayley’s brusque manner and purposeful stride. She started gushing delightedly, ‘Gosh, another delivery for you, boss! And wasn’t it lovely? Goodness, whoever is sending these lovely gifts deserves a chance, I’d say. If you’re not interested, you can send him my way. A fellow like that would be…’
Hayley made as if she didn’t hear a word emanating from the front desk, and strode through the door, Julia scurrying after her.
Roger Grave’s house was on the outskirts of the neighbouring village of Edgeley. Hayley had been there for a drinks party the previous Christmas, not long after Roger Grave had movedthere, and knew where to go. Julia followed her directions as obediently and confidently as she would the Google Maps lady whose plummy tones instructed her on her way around the Cotswolds.
‘Left here…Straight over at the roundabout…Turn right by the school…’
In between directions, there was mostly silence, both women mulling over things in their heads.
‘Here we are. You can pull over here.’ Hayley gestured to a small stone house set just back from the road, with a neat, if not treasured, garden along the front side.
Hayley’s hand was on the door handle before Julia’s little red Fiat had come to a complete stop.
‘Come on then, let’s see what’s up with Roger.’
Julia got out and locked the car. This was a London habit that she’d never managed to shake, despite the continued ribbing of her fellow villagers – ‘What do you think, it’s going to bestolen?’ followed by guffaws of laughter. She followed Hayley to the front door with a prickly sense of foreboding. She wondered about Roger’s personal life. He had never mentioned a wife, and she’d assumed him to be single. Clearly, given the Bethany discovery, any assumptions she might have about his life meant nothing, but in this case she had been correct.
‘He lives alone,’ said Hayley, ‘so if he’s not here, we’re on a wasted mission.’
She knocked on the green-painted front door.
No answer.
She knocked again, wearily this time, as if she knew it would be in vain.
This time, her knock got a response. A high-pitched yapping bark from inside the house. The barks got louder, closer, until the dog was on the other side of the front door. It jumped at the door – Julia worried for the woodwork on the other side, as she heard the little thing hurl itself halfway up thedoor and then scrape its nails on the way down. On the fourth jump, the dog’s foot must have snagged the door handle and its weight pulled it down. The door cracked open to reveal a bouncy golden spaniel, going berserk.
‘It’s okay, boy, we’re just visiting your dad, Roger,’ Julia said, bending down to calm him. ‘Everything’s all right.’
Except it wasn’t. Everything wasn’t all right at all.
The door creaked open wider to reveal – there on the floor by the front door, beside the neat row of wellies and running shoes – the splayed, lifeless body of Superintendent Roger Grave.
23
‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare?’ said DC Walter Farmer, gently lifting the front cover of the weighty hardcover tome with a clean handkerchief. ‘What’s that all about?’
Bob Jones, the new forensics chap, scratched his big head with short, blunt fingers and sighed a deep, thoughtful sigh. ‘Well, it’s about life, innit? Love, death, betrayal, misunderstandings…The whole sorry mess. You name it, it’s all in that there book. There’s the thirty-seven plays just for starters – you’ve got your comedies, your tragedies, your historical plays…’
Walter Farmer stared in utter bewilderment as the man counted them out on his stubby fingers, bending each finger back as he enumerated the types of Shakespearean plays. Julia was likewise surprised at the turn the forensic investigation had taken. Bob’s predecessor at the forensic unit hadn’t been much for talking, and when he had talked, it hadn’t been about Shakespeare, that was for sure.
Bob continued, unfazed, ‘And that’s before you even get to the sonnets. My favourites, if I must be honest. They’re mostly about love, of course. But also beauty, and, like, the passing oftime, y’know? And mortality…It’s all there. I mean, that’s life for you, innit?’
He looked down at Farmer, who was still squatting at Roger Grave’s feet, next to the big book, hankie in hand. Farmer, realising he was expecting an answer, nodded.
‘So to answer your question, I’d say this book is about life, really. Life in all its complexity.’
Walter stood up to frown at the man in confusion. ‘I meant, what’s it all about, in terms of the crime? Why is the book here? Who dropped it? What’s it got to do with Superintendent Grave’s death?’
‘Oh, that! Ah, well, yes, my mistake. I don’t know for sure, but it could be that the superintendent was whacked on the head with this here book. It’s a tragedy, really.’
Was that ajoke? A Shakespeare joke at the side of the dead body of a senior policeman? Surely not. Looking at Bob, Julia couldn’t say for sure. For all his literary observations, he had the lumpy, impassive face of a retired boxer. If it was a joke, Walter Farmer certainly didn’t get it. He looked as blank as, well, a blank page.
‘Looks to me like he fell and hit his head on the hall table,’ Walter said, moving on from Shakespeare to more concrete matters. They all looked at the antique wooden table next to Roger Grave’s head. It was narrow, the perfect table for the space, but solidly built. A dark smudge on the corner seemed to bear out Walter’s theory.
‘My working guess is that it happened last night. Looks to me like he was whacked with the bard’sWorksbefore he fell and hit his head on the table,’ Bob Jones countered, standing up tall, his hands on his hips. Forensics chaps liked to show up the working coppers when they could, so there was a hint of self-satisfaction about his answer, but he kept a smile on his face to show there were no hard feelings.
