Murder in the Manger Read online

  Murder in the Manger

  Debbie Young

  To Lucienne Boyce,

  for her wit, wisdom and kindness

  “God bless us, every one.”

  Charles Dickens

  “Never go to meet trouble half way.”

  Joshua Hampton

  1 Away in a Manger

  2 The Interloper

  3 New Directions

  4 Shortbread and Short Temper

  5 The Professional Verdict

  6 The Would-be Lodger

  7 Escape to the Bluebird

  8 Dislodged

  9 Test Driving the Nativity

  10 A Medieval Mystery

  11 The Playwright’s Audition

  12 A Traditional Nightcap

  13 We Will Remember Them

  14 We Can Be Heroes

  15 A Military Two-Step

  16 The Christmas Kitchen

  17 Christmas Past

  18 Logging On

  19 Keyed Up

  20 The Advent Anthology

  21 Cocoa with Hermione

  22 Adding Depth

  23 Saint Katherine

  24 Extras

  25 Teachers Join In

  26 All Quiet

  27 Candid Camera

  28 Welcome Back, Vicar

  29 Sunday Service

  30 Santa Baby

  31 She’s A Believer

  32 The Holly and the Ivy

  33 Second Time Lucky

  34 Lights!

  35 Water and Wine

  36 Booked Up

  37 Reading Allowed

  38 Girls on Film

  39 Father, Dear Father

  40 On with the Show

  41 Like Clockwork

  42 Room at the Gazebo

  43 Unexpected Guests

  44 Back to the Manger

  45 Reunited

  46 A New Player

  47 Diretor’s Cut

  48 Exit, Pursued by a Donkey

  49 A Christmas Feast

  50 A Change of Heart

  51 A Toast to Christmas

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Also by Debbie Young

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright Information

  1 Away in a Manger

  It was when the stable animals developed the power of speech that I realised the cast were departing from my nativity play script.

  “Do you think your baby Jesus would like a cuddle, Mrs Virgin?” asked a small sheep politely.

  “Hoi, first go for shepherds!” said an older boy with a tea-towel on his head, elbowing the sheep aside.

  The small sheep scowled. “I asked first.”

  A larger sheep pointed accusingly at Mary. “She’s the virgin around here. I think she should make you take turns nicely.”

  The small sheep and the shepherd made a dash across the stable floor, both arriving at the manger at the same time and grabbing the Baby Jesus. The plastic doll fell in pieces to the flagstone floor, leaving the shepherd holding its left leg and the sheep its head. The congregation gasped in horror.

  The larger sheep put his hands on his hips. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve broken Baby Jesus.”

  As he spoke, a chilling wail rang out from the back pew and ricocheted down the aisle to the front of the church. All eyes turned to stare at its source, sheep and shepherd forgotten.

  “My baby! You’ve murdered my baby!”

  A shadowy figure leapt from the back pew and legged it up the aisle to the nave, her shawl falling back to reveal a jumble of fair curls streaming out behind her.

  Pushing the children out of her way, she kicked the broken doll aside and burrowed her hands down into the manger, as if looking for buried treasure.

  “This isn’t the Lucky Dip, you know,” said the larger sheep crossly.

  Finding nothing but hay, she seized the manger in both hands and tipped it upside down, perhaps expecting to find something valuable tucked away down a crack in the wood. Drawing herself up to her full height, she then turned to Mary.

  “He was there an hour ago. I put him there myself.”

  Mary stared, speechless..

  The woman turned to face the congregation, polling the room with an accusing finger. “All right, this is a church, isn’t it? So confess! Which of you has stolen my baby?”

  2 The Interloper

  I should have known that allowing my ex-boyfriend Damian to get involved in my play would lead to disaster. Not that he gave me much choice, turning up on my doorstep like a stray cat.

  On the first Sunday morning in November, after a hearty breakfast, I left Hector’s flat above his bookshop and strolled light-footed down the High Street towards my cottage. In front gardens along the way, evergreen leaves shone with dew, and spiders’ webs twinkled in the morning light.

  I was looking forward to spending a quiet day on my own at home, basking in the memories of the night before. Hector planned to spend Sunday visiting his parents at their retirement bungalow on the Somerset coast. I made my excuses not to join him. Meeting his parents this early in our relationship would have been far too soon. Plus he didn’t actually invite me.

  Like the stout marmalade cat blinking companionably at me from a drystone wall, I had fallen on my feet when I moved to the Cotswold village of Wendlebury Barrow. I’d found kind neighbours, good friends and an agreeable local job in which my handsome and charismatic boss, now my boyfriend, nurtured my ambition to write books.

  My Great Auntie May used to say we make our own luck in this world, but by leaving me her cottage in her will, she’d given me a head start for mine.

  As I spotted the November parish magazine in the window of the village shop, I remembered the December issue’s deadline for my “Travels with my Aunt’s Garden” column. I was planning something Christmassy about her trio of fir trees.

  The December issue would also advertise the nativity play I was writing for the Wendlebury Players and the village primary school children to perform together, along with a live donkey. A good audience was guaranteed for my debut as a playwright. What could possibly go wrong?

  My post-Hector smile turned to a puzzled frown as I reached the brow of the hill and my cottage came into view. Outside stood a white van. Just like Damian’s, I thought. Just like the one he had converted into a camper van for his travelling English language theatre company. The sight still brought back bitter memories. I’d been subsidising the costs of Damian’s van for four years before we parted.

  Surely this couldn’t be Damian’s van. It was probably a tradesman’s. My elderly next-door neighbour Joshua must be having a domestic emergency. If so, he’d done well to get someone to come out to attend to it first thing on a Sunday morning.

  What a coincidence, I thought, drawing closer. The back door was covered with European flag stickers, as was Damian’s. Maybe it was a Polish plumber. Or one who used his van for his European holidays.

  Unlikely, however, that his business might also be called Damian Drammaticas, which was emblazoned down the van’s side. Nerves jangling, I broke into a run.

  As I crossed the road to my front gate, the van’s nearside door slid open, and a dishevelled figure with shaggy blond hair jumped down on to the kerb.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Damian clearly hadn’t been to charm school since I’d left him.

  A number of combative responses sprang to mind: “None of your business”, “What’s it to do with you?” and “In bed with my new boyfriend who brought me breakfast on a tray, which you never did once in seven years together.”

  But his aggression couldn’t diminish my post-Hector glow.

  “Hello, Damian,” I said calmly, though my heart was
racing, and not in the way it did when I spotted Hector on arrival at work. “What brings you here?”

  If he’d come to tell me he loved me after all, he was too late. The vacancy for boyfriend had been filled, though, truth to tell, Hector and I were still at the probation stage, with the option of notice on either side should the position not suit.

  Damian’s answer caught me out. “Work.”

  “You told me when I left you that there’d be zero employment in a little village like Wendlebury Barrow.”

  That was one of many reasons he’d dreamed up for me to stay with him. He’d also wanted me to sell the cottage and buy him a new van with the proceeds.

  “Ah, but I’ve found the perfect vacancy. Director of the local theatre group.”

  “You mean you’re bringing Damian Drammaticas to Wendlebury?” I glanced at the van, fearing the rest of his dreadful company might be about to spring out.

  “No, just me. Damian Drammaticas is resting. We’ve no more bookings till spring.”

  “But the nearest theatres are miles away. Where will you be working – Bristol? Bath? Cheltenham?”

  He permitted himself a satisfied smile.

  “No, guess again.”

  I looked once more at the van, wondering whether a new girlfriend might be lurking in the back, listening in.

  “But you’re definitely on your own?” A new girlfriend would have been fine by me.

  “Yep.”

  I shivered, my previous glow now dispersing like the morning mist.

  “Then I suppose you’d better come in and tell me your plans.”

  I fumbled in my pocket for my door key.

  He grinned, and patted my shoulder patronisingly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  3 New Directions

  As I turned to close the front door behind us, Hector sailed past in his Land Rover, head turned as if hoping to spot me. When he saw Damian’s van, he almost crashed into it. Too late for him to see, I blew him a wistful kiss.

  I led Damian through to the kitchen.

  “So tell me the truth now.” I took the kettle to the sink and turned on the tap to fill it. “Have you really got a local job, or are you on the run from something?”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. “What, you mean like a murder or a bank robbery?”

  As I slammed the kettle onto its base, a sharp rap sounded at the front door. I glanced towards it.

  “I expect that’ll be the police.”

  Damian grinned. “You are joking, aren’t you? You don’t really think I’m on the run.”

  “No, it really is the police. They’ve come to interview me after the mayhem at the fireworks party last night. I don’t know why you’re looking so surprised, Damian. You told me when I was leaving Frankfurt that English villages are rife with crime.”

  He did a double-take. “Yes, but I was only joking.”

  I stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. “Oh God, yes, I knew that. Of course.”

  There was another knock at the door.

  “Now listen, Damian, I’d better go and let him in. Make yourself a cup of tea while I talk to the policeman. There’s bread there for toast. And keep the door closed. I may be some time.”

  Half an hour later, having completed my official statement, I dispatched Bob, our village bobby, with a friendly wave. He’d have a long day gathering more witness statements, as most of the village had been at the party.

  Returning to the kitchen, I found Damian halfway through the packet of special shortbread I kept for Joshua’s visits. He was on his third cup of tea, judging by the trio of soggy teabags basking in brown pools on the draining board, but he hadn’t thought to make one for me. He was drinking out of my favourite mug, too.

  Pointedly I took a fresh cup from the cupboard and threw in a teabag so crossly that it missed the cup entirely and landed on the floor. I said nothing.

  Damian, resting his muddy shoes comfortably on the chair opposite him, displayed his most winning smile, forgetting I had long been immune. “So, where were we? About my new job.”

  It was always about him. Even though I’d just been interviewed by a policeman, it didn’t occur to him to ask why. I could have been a murder suspect, for all he knew. Some people never change.

  “The Wendlebury Barrow Players,” he was saying. “I’m the new director of the Wendlebury Barrow Players.”

  “They’re called the Wendlebury Players. Drop the Barrow. And that’s not a job, that’s a hobby.”

  He leaned his chair back on two legs.

  “Really, Sophie, it’s time you got over your petty snobbishness. Just because theatre actors don’t earn as much as movie stars doesn’t diminish their value to civilised society. And director is as high a position as you can get.”

  “No, Damian. With the Players, the post is definitely a hobby, like dominoes and darts and bridge. They’re an amateur company that meets for a couple of hours once a week after work. They stage two shows a year, for a few nights only. The cast have day jobs, including the director. The last director was a teacher, like me. That’s how he earned his keep.”

  “Oh.” Damian crashed his chair back onto all four legs. “Oh well, it’s still good experience. I only need a temporary job anyway, to tide me over till our spring bookings. We’re touring Spain at Easter, and rehearsals start in February.”

  I poured boiling water on my teabag and jabbed at it with a spoon to hasten the brewing process.

  “Didn’t you do any research before you accepted the post? And how did you even know about it anyway?”

  When he took another biscuit, I picked up the packet, resealed it and put it away in the cupboard. Pushing his feet off the chair, I sat opposite him and clasped my hands on the table, feeling like a detective questioning a suspect.

  “I saw the ad on your bookshop website,” he said. “I thought you were hinting.”

  I cursed myself for posting him a bookmark from Hector’s House when I got the job, wanting to show how well I was doing without him. He must have got the website address from there.

  “And where and how do you think you’re going to live, on no salary, between now and spring? Surely not in your van?”

  Damian tapped the table. “No, right here, of course, with you.” He reached across the table to cover my hands with his, batting his long blond eyelashes.

  “Over my dead body!”

  I snatched my hands away and put them on my lap. Undeterred, he slipped off his shoes and reached one foot across to rest on my thigh. When I dragged my chair back out of reach, his big blue eyes widened.

  “But Sophie, I’m committed. Some bloke called Ian, one of the Wendlebury Players, emailed me to say I could start straight away. Don’t you want me to help your beloved village?”

  “I want you to behave like a responsible adult and go away. Did you even look at the Players’ website before you agreed to join them? If you had, you’d have seen the post is completely unsuitable for you.”

  Damian shrugged. “Going online has been tricky since you left and took your laptop with you. In internet cafes, the clock’s always ticking – you pay by the minute.”

  “Damian, don’t try to pretend this is my fault. Why didn’t you check on your smartphone?”

  He stared out of the window into the back garden. “I lost it. Dropped it. It broke.”

  Then I thought I’d hit upon a certain deterrent. “Anyway, it’s my script they’re using. You said you would have to be desperate to use a play I’d written.”

  He stared at me with those dangerous Viking eyes. “Well, maybe I am.”

  4 Shortbread and Short Temper

  Damian dropped his stare only when he was distracted by something stirring in the back garden. He turned and pointed out of the window.

  “Look out, there’s some old tramp coming up your garden path. Do you want me to chase him away for you? Shall I go out and thump him?”

  I’d forgotten I’d promised my elderly
neighbour Joshua a post-mortem of the fireworks party. I pointed sharply to the front door, and spoke in the tone of a dog owner ordering a recalcitrant hound to its basket.

  “Damian, van!”

  To my surprise, it worked. For an instant, I wondered whether if I’d been as assertive when we were together, I’d never have left him. No. I’d have killed him by now.

  I watched him all the way to the front door, which, careless as ever, he failed to shut properly behind him. I darted out to lock it before opening the back door to welcome Joshua. Today my life seemed to have become a revolving door for men: I was on to my third of the day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  I hoped Joshua’s soothing presence would calm me down.

  “Good morning, young Sophie.” He crossed the kitchen slowly and took his usual place in the chair that I’d just vacated. “I trust your party went well.”

  I needed to gather my wits. “I’ll tell you once I’ve made the tea.”

  It took a whole pot of tea (Joshua preferred his tea from a pot) to give him the edited highlights of the vicar’s party, which he enjoyed along with the rest of the shortbread. He then leaned forward on his stick to speak confidentially.

  “So who is that dashing young adventurer who’s been at my shortbread?”

  I pursed my lips. Joshua might be old and infirm, but he never misses a trick. “Let’s call him an unexpected ghost from my past.”

  “Not the Ghost of Christmas Past?” He chuckled. “Not Damian?”

  “Yes, Damian. He thinks he’s come to direct the nativity play.”

  “That’s good news for the Players. They need a new director. Are the rehearsals going well?”

  I realised talking about the play would divert Joshua from asking where I’d been when Damian arrived in the dead of night.

  “The Players like the script. After they’d had their first read-through, the school staff will join them the following week. The children’s rehearsals will be on Saturdays after that. They won’t have any words to learn, we just need to block out their moves.”

  Joshua nodded his approval. “I shall look forward to seeing the results. The simple poetry of the nativity play is hard to beat.”