Murder in the Manger Read online

  Hector scowled. “He’ll break Carol’s heart. You do know that, don’t you?”

  I crossed to the tearoom to put the milk in the fridge.

  “I don’t think he’d do that on purpose. He’s not setting out with that intention.”

  Hector sighed. “People seldom do.” I realised with sadness that he was probably thinking of Celeste, my predecessor in his affections. She had left him for another woman and emigrated to Australia. Much as I would have preferred Damian to leave, I hoped his presence might buck up Hector’s ideas about me.

  Hector fixed his eyes on his keyboard and started to type very fast.

  9 Test Driving the Nativity

  “Look out, young Sophie, you’ve caught your fancy man red-handed with another woman!”

  Sitting on the sofa nearest the door in the lounge bar of The Bluebird was Billy, the old man whom I’d got to know as a regular customer of Hector’s House. He wasn’t interested in books or reading, however, but in the illicit hooch that Hector slipped into his elevenses to keep him happy. Billy nodded towards a booth on the far side of the bar. There Hector was tucking into a steak dinner, his dining companion out of sight behind the high-backed bench seat. I slumped down beside Billy, who shouted across to Hector before I could stop him.

  “Oi, Hector, aren’t you going to introduce your ladylove to your dinner guest?”

  I cringed some more, until Hector replied slightly guardedly, “Don’t you remember, Billy? They’ve already met, on Saturday night at the fireworks party.”

  Hector beckoned me to his table, and I tried to saunter over casually as if I’d never suspected his date was anything other than family.

  Katherine Blake, commonly known as Kate, was Hector’s godmother. She’d just returned from a long holiday in Australia, which had begun before I’d moved to the village back in the summer. But she set down her fish knife and fork, held out her hands and hauled me down to kiss her on both cheeks like an old friend, rather than an acquaintance encountered only once at a crime scene.

  “Sophie, my dear, I’m so pleased to see you again. I was just asking Hector why he didn’t bring you along tonight.”

  I looked furtively at Hector for a clue. She seemed to have assumed our relationship was more established. I didn’t yet rank as his constant companion, even if our third date had ended with breakfast. But Kate was unstoppable. “Hector’s been telling me all about you, Sophie. Why don’t you come and join us now?” She patted the seat beside her, then changed her mind. “Oh, but of course, you’ll want to sit next to Hector. Budge up, Hector. Make room.”

  Shooting me an apologetic look, Hector shuffled along the bench seat obediently. I’d never seen anyone boss him about before. I remained standing.

  “That’s very kind of you, Kate, but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for tonight.”

  Kate shot Hector a look of mock horror. “You see, Hector, what did I tell you? I know what you’re like. Hang back too much and you’ll lose her.”

  As she turned to beckon to Donald, the publican, for an extra glass and a menu, Hector put his head in his hands.

  “Beam me up, Scottie,” he said in a low voice so only I could hear, and I laid my hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

  Kate turned back to me, beaming. I was genuinely sorry to have to turn down her invitation.

  “I really have got a prior engagement.” Kate’s face fell. “I’m meeting a girlfriend for a drink and a chat.” I held up my script. “We’re brainstorming about the nativity play I’ve written for the Wendlebury Players and the village school.”

  Kate took the script from my hands, although I hadn’t offered it to her. “How wonderful. Much better than those tired old school pantomimes, don’t you think, Hector?” She flicked through it too fast to read more than the odd sentence. “A new community-wide project. What a wonderful idea. I can see this becoming an annual village tradition.”

  Gently but firmly I took back my script, wishing I had her confidence in the production. “Well, let’s wait and see how it goes first, shall we?”

  Donald delivered the requested extra glass. Kate filled it from the bottle, passed it to me, and raised her own drink in a toast. “Here’s to you, my dear, and all that you’re bringing to Wendlebury.” She glanced at Hector. “What a treat for dear Reverend Murray, too, just as he returns in time for Advent.” Her trilling laughter, reminiscent of a slightly raucous tropical bird, probably went down well in Australia.

  I heard the pub door open behind me, and I turned to see Ella, the village school’s business manager who had become a good friend since I’d moved to the village. We often met at The Bluebird for a drink and a chat.

  Alerted by Kate’s laughter, Ella spotted us straight away and strode over cheerfully to join us.

  “Hello, Kate, welcome back. I don’t know – the lengths some people will go to in order to miss a school governors’ meeting.”

  Kate rose to embrace Ella as warmly as she’d greeted me. “Ella, my dear, how lovely to see you.” She noticed my script’s twin peeking out of Ella’s handbag. “Ah, so you’re Sophie’s mysterious friend, robbing me and Hector of her company tonight. Once I’ve caught up with my inbox, I shall email you to fix a date for my school assembly on Australia. I’ve got plenty of gorgeous photos to share with the children of all those strange Australian creatures - kangaroos, koalas, wombats. I’ll use them to encourage the children to embrace and rejoice in difference in a sublimely subtle sermon against bullying. I thought I might also read them the Winnie the Pooh chapters about Kanga and Roo arriving in the Hundred Acre Wood.”

  Ella beamed. “I’m sure the headmistress will be delighted. I might even persuade the dinner ladies to do an Australian themed school dinner that day. Not sure what, though. Any suggestions?”

  “Emu steak and Fosters?” said Hector.

  “Hector!” Kate slapped his hand playfully. “That’s exactly the kind of stereotype I want to avoid.”

  Ella laughed.

  “Maybe the children’s English lessons that day could be about Australian dialect,” I said tentatively, wanting to be part of this cosy clique.

  Kate clapped her hands. “What fun! What a team! My word, we’re on fire tonight.”

  Ella grinned. “Good to have you back, cobber. The school governors’ meetings aren’t half as lively without you. Now, come on, Sophie, Hector’s made me thirsty for a lager.”

  As Ella and I headed for the bar, I heard Kate say in a stage whisper, “Talented as well as beautiful. You want to hang on to her, Hector. She’s divine.” I didn’t hear Hector’s reply.

  Ella leaned comfortably on the bar, looking back towards Hector’s table. “She’s a force of nature, that Kate, don’t you think? The kids love her, though. Even the naughty ones.”

  Once we’d got our drinks, I steered us towards the furthest table from Hector and laid my copy of the script in front of me.

  “So, are you still sure we’re doing the right thing, using my script? You’re not just being kind to me? You haven’t had second thoughts since rereading it?”

  Ella pulled her copy out of her bag and opened it at the first page, which to my relief showed only a couple of tiny edits. I’d half-expected to see it covered in red ink with “Must try harder” scrawled across the title page.

  “It’s fine, Sophie. Stop worrying. You’ve got a real ear for dialogue, and you’ve got the measure of the community. They’ll love it.”

  I wasn’t so easily reassured. “You don’t think I’ve taken too many liberties with the basic story?”

  “Nah. Not compared to what the kids will take themselves. It’s sweet, respectful and touching. Having naturalistic dialogue in there, instead of stagey dramatic proclamations, makes it more meaningful to modern children. And even though you’re restricting the dialogue to the adults, you’ve given the kids plenty of carols to sing to vent their high spirits.”

  “I did wonder whether they’d be unhappy about that, being used to having
lines in the school pantomime.”

  Ella shook her head. “I wouldn’t worry. As long as they’re on stage in front of their parents in fancy costumes, they’ll be happy. But you know what they say.”

  “No, what?”

  “Never work with children and animals. So don’t give the donkey any dialogue either.”

  As I forced a feeble grin, our conversation was interrupted by a raucous group emerging from the public bar.

  Ella nodded towards the gaggle of men. “Gosh, who’s that handsome stranger in town?”

  With a sinking feeling, I swung round to see Damian at the centre of the bunch, being clapped on the shoulder by a grinning Ian, one of my friends from the Wendlebury Players.

  “You’ll have to join the pub darts team after that performance, mate,” Ian was saying as they headed for the bar. I ducked down over my script as if studying it intently, hoping my hair falling across my face might provide a curtain of invisibility. As the men seethed past us, a large hand reached out to pat me roughly on the head. I didn’t need to look to know it was Damian’s.

  “Gosh, you might be in there, Sophie,” hissed Ella excitedly once they’d gone past. “Hector’d better look out – he’s got competition.”

  “He most certainly has not.” I explained to Ella about Damian’s surprise reappearance. She was all sympathy, especially when she’d established Damian was single. She patted her hair into place.

  “You’ll have to fight Carol for him, mind. He’s her new lodger.” I told Ella about his deal with Carol and the Players. She flexed her arm muscles, Popeye style.

  I tapped my script to return to the reason for our meeting.

  By the time Hector came over to kiss me goodnight before escorting his godmother home, I was feeling more reconciled to the latest developments in the Damian saga. Then I caught a snippet of their conversation in the street as they passed by the open window. Kate’s voice cut flute-like through the evening mist.

  “Of course, the biggest highlight of the trip was spending time with my great-godchild.”

  Great-godchild? Of course! She’d just been to Australia, where Celeste, Hector’s ex, had gone to live after their break-up. They must have had a child that Hector hadn’t told me about. So that was why he hadn’t wanted me to visit his parents’ house on Sunday. They’d have photos of the baby in pride of place.

  His baggage was much bigger than he’d confessed to me. And it wasn’t going to go away.

  10 A Medieval Mystery

  By the time I arrived at Hector’s House next morning, I’d worked myself into a bit of a state. The night before, I’d been having nightmares about Hector emigrating to Australia, taking the bookshop with him and changing the stock exclusively to board books for babies.

  So I was glad to find it was business as usual when I arrived to see him emptying a box of First World War poetry and history books on to the central display table. Remembrance Day was our final theme before the onslaught of Christmas, when there’d be no escaping the focus on the nativity.

  “Could you add these poppies to the window display please, sweetheart? Carol crocheted them for us over the weekend.”

  He flattened the emptied cardboard box and took it out to the stockroom.

  Then Damian walked in, closely behind the school-run mums. I ignored him, heading over to the tearoom to serve the ladies their morning coffee. Chatting to them as if he wasn’t there, I tried at the same time to tune in to the conversation at the main counter between Damian and Hector.

  “Can you point me in the direction of your drama section, please?” Damian was saying. “I’m looking for a particular script.” I cringed. I knew our drama range was tiny, but that was not unreasonable, given that the only drama books our customers ever requested were actors’ life stories and gift editions of Shakespeare.

  As I poured the frothed milk on to some cappuccinos, one of the mums came up to the cake counter and said in a low voice, “Who’s that, Sophie? Is he a regular?”

  I said what I wanted to believe. “No, he’s just passing through.”

  “Shame, because he’s a bit fit,” she said. “A sight for sore eyes at this time of the morning.”

  Yes, but not fit for purpose as a boyfriend, I thought bitterly.

  As I delivered the cappuccinos to her table, she was saying to her friends, “He’d look good in one of those Nordic noir sweaters.”

  “I’m thinking of getting my Dave one of those for Christmas,” said another mum. “Though it won’t look quite the same on him.”

  “My Paul lives in fleeces,” said another.

  “You make him sound like a sheep,” said the first.

  The woman nodded. “Same sort of build. Barrel of a body on spindly legs. Quite cuddly, though.”

  I tuned out when Damian returned to the shop counter.

  “I couldn’t find what I was looking for,” he said to Hector abruptly. “There’s not much there. Do you have any more scripts tucked away anywhere – misfiled, perhaps?”

  Hector, who prided himself on being orderly, shook his head. I felt awkward on Hector’s behalf. It can’t have been easy to have to serve his romantic predecessor. I’d never have coped with Celeste as a customer. But Hector managed to remain civil. After all, a customer was a customer, and Damian’s money was as good as the next person’s.

  “If you tell me exactly what you’re looking for, perhaps I can be more helpful?”

  Damian glanced in my direction, presumably to check whether I was listening. I averted my gaze, pretending to be busy filling china pots with cutlery. The mums had fallen silent to eat cake, so I could hear him better than he might have realised.

  “I’m after the York Mystery Plays,” said Damian. “I don’t mind what format or edition. But I need them for tomorrow.”

  Hector looked hopeful. “Why, are you planning to leave town?”

  I crossed my fingers.

  Damian gave a short laugh. “Town? You’ve got delusions of grandeur, haven’t you? This is only a little village. No, it’s for the Wendlebury Barrow Players. They need a Christmas play, and I thought the medieval scripts would be spot on.”

  “I thought they’d already chosen their play?”

  I was grateful for Hector’s diplomacy.

  “No, not really. I mean, Sophie’s had a stab at writing one, but it’s hardly professional standard. If I’m going to direct it, I’ll want decent material.”

  Hector pulled the order book out from under the counter.

  “You do know it’s a very small company, don’t you?” he asked, opening the book at the next blank page. “Just five women and one man? The Mystery Plays have huge casts.”

  Damian had never taken kindly to having his judgment challenged. “But there’ll be plenty of extras from the village school.”

  Hector nodded towards the play table in the corner of the tearoom, where a couple of pre-school children were amusing themselves with robust board books. “You do realise it’s a primary school, don’t you? There’s only so much stage direction a four-year-old will take.”

  Damian watched disdainfully as a little boy aged about three poked his left forefinger through a hole in The Very Hungry Caterpillar board book while burying his right forefinger up his nose.

  “That doesn’t matter, because the adults will have all the dialogue.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That gorgeous Middle English language rolls around the mouth so beautifully. It’s a joy to perform.”

  At that point a girl of about two produced a half-sucked sugar lump from her mouth and held it up with the pride and wonder of a conjuror extracting a hidden egg.

  Hector suppressed a knowing smile.

  “But perhaps a little beyond the comprehension of the under-twelves?”

  Damian scowled. “Listen, I’m a professional theatre director, so kindly leave the choice of material to me. Just order me a copy of the York Mystery Plays. You do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

  As if to offset his rud
eness, he flashed a white-toothed smile. A couple of the mums sighed wistfully.

  Hector typed a quick search into the computer. “I can get you a second-hand edition in for tomorrow morning. I don’t suppose it matters if it’s used? It’s not as if the words will have changed between print runs.”

  Damian gave an easy laugh, relaxing now that he’d got Hector to do his bidding. “Perfect. I need it for their meeting tomorrow night.” He patted his pockets. “Oh, I’m sorry, I seem to have left my wallet at my digs.” Digs. As if Carol was a regular source of accommodation for itinerant thespians. “Any chance you could put it on Sophie’s account for me?” He pointed vaguely in my direction, as if Hector might not know who I was. “Sophie and I are old friends. Our relationship goes back a very long way. Doesn’t it, Sophie?”

  “Rather too long, if you ask me,” I said in the sweetest tone I could muster. I resented being portrayed as more Damian’s than Hector’s. “As does your running tab. I suppose next you’ll be wanting to take advantage of my staff discount.”

  Damian perked up. “Ooh, can I? Thanks.”

  Hector was gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

  “Don’t worry, cash on collection tomorrow will do fine. If you don’t mind getting your change in our local currency? Being that we’re just a village, rather than a town.”

  Damian looked as surprised as I felt. “If that’s the done thing around here. Of course, I’m used to doing everything in Euros these days.” He glanced over to the mums to see whether any of them were impressed.

  Hector extracted a small gold-coloured coin from a glass goldfish bowl behind the counter.

  “Have you not yet encountered the Wendlebury pound?” He held the coin tantalisingly at eye level, just out of Damian’s reach. Damian stared at it, reminding me of Jack being persuaded to trade his mother’s cow for magic beans. Perhaps I should have written a panto after all.

  Just then one of the toddlers pottered over to Hector with outstretched hands.