Cherringham--Playing Dead Read online

“You’ll be…?”

  “Lieutenant Henry Collins. The dashing lover.”

  “Young lover?” Sarah said.

  She just couldn’t resist.

  “Suppose. But it’s not a terribly demanding role, so I can still direct. And for such a creaky piece of theatre as this, why not a bit of ‘ham’ to spice things up, hmm?”

  She smiled at that.

  Kramer looked away. “Besides, it’s good to model for all the amateurs what it really looks like, this acting, taking control of the stage, eh?”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  Sarah flipped over a notebook page, as if moving on to another topic.

  “Can I ask you about all these … accidents?”

  Kramer was in mid-sip when he froze. A rather dramatic freeze, eyes narrowed, cup suspended in space.

  “Why would you want to discuss any of … that in your newsletter? Doesn’t sound like profile material to me at all!”

  He was coming at her hard.

  But then, with Sarah’s recent experience dealing with crime and Cherringham, she could — with a deep breath — take it in her stride.

  “I’m sure that all our fans of the Little Theatre, and of the upcoming production — and your fans too — would love to be reassured that all is well.”

  Kramer nodded, thinking it over.

  “My bobby is in the hospital, I’ve had the maid quit muttering about the theatre being dangerous after food poisoning … and we are just weeks away from opening night. So, how do you think I feel about all those accidents?”

  Sarah nodded. Then her eye caught a small bureau in the corner, and a battered old trunk overflowing with papers and what she assumed were scripts. On a table beside it was a laptop and some gold and silver plaques.

  Even from here, she could see they were citations … awards of some kind.

  He travels with his awards.

  Then back to the director — who she was sure was about to give her the heave-ho.

  “No theory on the food poisoning, or the light that hit Graham?”

  “Things happen, Sarah. We’re all being extra vigilant now. Trust me; there will be no more accidents. And yes, that’s exactly what they were.”

  She nodded as if Kramer’s assurances were enough.

  Then she pointed to the array of plaques.

  “You have won some major awards. Mind if I…?”

  She stood up.

  This new direction clearly suited Kramer. “Oh, just a few things. To remind me of how high the quality bar can — and should be — held.”

  Sarah walked over to the bureau and picked up one plaque.

  “A BAFTA?”

  “Yes, for directing that series the The Fading Light. The one about the returning soldier, Indian Army story, remember…?

  “Gosh I certainly do. At school it was all we talked about. I think mum had a crush on the star — what’s his name?”

  “Hmm, well ‘what’s his name’ is in his sixties now. You know, I still get fan mail about it, decades later. And—”

  Kramer’s phone trilled and he dug it out of his pocket. “Hel-lo? Tim? Good man. Was expecting your call, and … oh. I see. But I would still love to — oh, right. The producer’s not in yet. Got it. Right. LA, sure.”

  Kramer nodded at Sarah a single finger in the air indicating that she need not rush.

  After all, they were discussing Jez Kramer’s brilliant achievements.

  “I know. Traffic is crazy. Right I, well, I’ll be here. Maybe this afternoon … oh, okay. Whenever, then. ‘All ears’, as they say. By-e!”

  He quickly explained the significance of the call.

  “New project for BBC America. Operating out of Los Angeles, can you imagine that? They could use a steady, experienced hand like mine at the tiller. So, yes—”

  He did a good job of dissembling and hiding his disappointment at the visit that had obviously been deferred.

  She guessed that LA and BBC America weren’t summoning Jez Kramer to ride to the rescue.

  Then he took a step closer to Sarah.

  “Say, I just had a thought. That is, if you have no more questions.”

  Enough for now, Sarah thought.

  “We’re down a maid in the cast. Not an enormous role, but you’d be perfect. And, for your profile, you’d get to see me ‘in action’, as we say. Add a bit of ‘colour’ to the piece.”

  Sarah laughed. “I’m not really an actress, Jez. I think the last thing I did was play a shepherd in the Christmas play when I was seven.”

  “Listen. You look the part, and you speak well—”

  This guy judges everyone and everything it seems.

  “—I won’t take no for an answer. Will you at least, think about it? A ‘maybe’? We have the next rehearsal tomorrow night. I do believe that you’ll fit the maid’s costume perfectly.”

  She smiled, nodding, “Okay I will think about it.”

  He put down his teacup and clapped his hands together. Then — another unwelcome move — he gave her a big hug, probably standard behaviour among the directing/acting set.

  “Fantastic. You will have a ball.”

  Based on what her mother had said Sarah thought that was unlikely.

  “As I said — I’ll think about it,” she reminded him.

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  He guided her out to the kitchen and the back door.

  “And do be careful reversing. Lovely cottage, but that horrible driveway was made for grocery carts, not cars!”

  Then he opened the door.

  “Thanks,” she said, walking out to the still-chilly air, and the challenge of getting her Rav-4 out to the road.

  5. A Chat with Ambrose Goode

  Jack laughed, sitting in his parked Sprite as a light rain began to fall.

  “He wants you to be the maid?”

  Sarah was still laughing as well. “Yes. If only to get me to stop asking about the accidents.”

  He paused. Rain spatters hit the windscreen noisily. “You should do it.”

  “Jack — I’m hardly an actor.”

  “It could be fun, and besides, you see how your mother’s worried. She’ll feel better, you there.”

  “A maid?”

  “You’ll do great. Can’t wait for the opening night.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I should remind him they need a replacement bobby too?”

  “No way. With my accent?”

  “And you’re just going to pop in on Ambrose Goode?”

  Jack looked at the cottage across the street.

  Tiny, almost hobbit-like in size, with an untended spot of garden outside.

  “Figured I’d surprise him. As former director of the company’s shows, he might have a few choice words to say.”

  “Always seemed like a sweet man, Jack — but he is getting on.”

  “I hear you. I’ll be gentle. Dinner at The Old Pig this evening?”

  “Sure. Daniel is at his friend’s tonight, and Chloe kind of comes and goes as she wants these days. She’s involved in the school show, excerpts from Anything Goes.”

  “Great music — Cole Porter. And I know that ‘coming-and-going’ time. Suddenly they seem so independent, hmm?”

  “Scares me a bit.”

  “Does everyone, Sarah. Okay … say half-six for dinner?”

  “Jack — it’s okay. You can say six-thirty. I understand ‘American’.”

  Another laugh. Sometimes just talking to Sarah made him feel good. He’d made many friends since he came to the village. But this connection with Sarah — and the detecting they did — made him feel like this could really be his home. Far worse places than Cherringham…, he thought.

  “Okay, rain’s picking up. Let me pop in. See you soon.”

  And after Sarah’s goodbye, he opened the car door quickly, and dashed across the road to the tiny cottage.

  *

  A small overhang barely kept Jack’s head out of the now-heavier rain, and the back of his winter coat wa
s getting soaked. Good in snow, but it wasn’t at all waterproof.

  I better start checking the weather.

  English rain is nothing to ignore.

  His first ring didn’t bring anyone to the door. Maybe Goode was out?

  But then Jack heard the barking of what had to be a small dog with a high-pitched yap.

  A voice on the other side of the door. “All right, Biscuit. Easy now. Just the doorbell.”

  The dog, though, kept up its steady barking, and then Jack heard a lock being thrown and the door opened.

  The man before him wore a quizzical expression, thin grey hair neatly combed to one side. Dress shirt, buttoned vest.

  “Yes. What can I do for you? Not selling anything, are you?”

  Jack shook his head, hoping that Goode would allow him entry out of the rain.

  “Mr. Goode, I’m Jack Brennan, and—”

  “That American fellow. New York cop, right?”

  Goode’s eyes had narrowed as he spoke.

  Jack smiled. “You got it. And I’m friends with Helen Edwards.”

  “Good woman. Not bad at trotting the boards either.”

  If anything the rain got worse, but Goode seemed oblivious to Jack’s state.

  Jack nodded in the direction of the storm behind him. “You think I could come inside, just…”

  Goode’s eyes widened as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him at all, opened the door, and let Jack in.

  *

  The cottage might look small on the outside, but if anything it felt even smaller inside.

  Too much dark furniture, antimacassars in place but turned a deep yellow from age. Had there been a Mrs. Goode who took care of such things, now gone?

  Newspapers piled by an easy chair with an indented cushion. One light on in the gloomy room, windows covered by curtains that could make it hard for even a sunny day to penetrate here.

  The dog — Biscuit — kept circling Jack, barking full out, a small dog –

  And Jack liked dogs…

  – but damned annoying.

  “Biscuit, do calm down. Don’t get many guests, Mr. Brennan.”

  “Mind if I sit?” Jack said.

  Again, another thought that didn’t seem to occur to Goode. But he made his way to his easy chair while Jack went to the couch.

  Sitting seemed to calm the small mop-sized dog, and it scurried close to its master, and planted itself atop what looked like yesterday’s Guardian.

  “You said you’re a friend of Helen’s?”

  Jack nodded. “Yes, and she’s concerned about what happened to Graham Jones.”

  “Nearly bloody well killed. Close one, that.”

  “I can imagine. But the other incidents. People got sick from the first rehearsal dinner?”

  “Days. Took me days to get better. Our maid, Alice, quit the show.”

  “I hear you might have a new maid?”

  Goode looked up. “Really, and who—?”

  “Helen’s daughter, Sarah.”

  Another quizzical look.

  “Really? Hmm — never knew she had any interest in theatrics.”

  Jack didn’t offer an explanation as to why Sarah may have developed such a sudden interest.

  “Tell me, you were the person who directed all the previous shows, yes?”

  Goode’s hands seemed to lock on the arms of his chair, each ending in a wooden claw.

  “Twenty years, Jack. We’ve done so many of the classics, The Mousetrap, Major Barbara, The Glass Menagerie, even The Miracle Worker with a working pump! All staged in that draughty Village Hall auditorium.”

  “Now you have this beautifully restored theatre—”

  “And the Board of Directors bring in that pompous has-been, Jez Kramer!”

  Goode raised his hand and pointed. “Mark my words, Jack. They will regret that. Mr. BBC, here without any of the talent propping him up that he’s used to in London, trying to make a show come to life by badgering people.”

  “I gather you have no faith in him?”

  Goode hesitated. “No. I don’t. They’ll wish that it was an ‘Ambrose Goode’ production by the time that mountebank is done taking their money.”

  “I hear he’s cast himself in the play too.”

  “Ridiculous. Plays the young lover. At least I get the satisfaction of putting a bullet in him in the final act, ha ha!”

  Goode paused, as if realising he’d gone too far.

  “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  “Of course.” Jack inclined his head.

  No fan of the new director here either, he thought.

  “And the spotlight accident…?”

  Goode still seemed lost to his daydream about shooting Kramer. Then:

  “Hmm? What it seems. An accident. In a theatre, new like that, things happen.”

  Jack nodded. Accidents do happen. But he also trusted Helen Edwards’ instincts.

  If she felt that something was wrong, it could well be.

  “Ambrose, there’s something else I was curious about.”

  The man’s gaze finally came back to Jack.

  Yes, Goode seemed a tad lost, maybe flaky. He could understand why the Board wanted to bring in someone from the outside. But he could also see why Goode would be so angry at that.

  “Yes?”

  Jack hesitated. Goode’s mood didn’t seem the best.

  “It’s about the lease you signed, for the theatre—”

  After a long pause, Goode reached down.

  On cue. Biscuit raised its head for a pat.

  “What about it?” Goode said quietly.

  “Seems like the theatre needs to turn a profit over the next twelve months or…,”

  Jack looked down at his notebook.

  “…or Andy Parkes can reclaim the property despite it being a historical landmark. Tear it down if he wants. Put up flats.”

  Goode sat quietly.

  Jack prompted him.

  “That the deal?”

  “Best I could get. At a monthly rent we could afford. I — I just assumed…”

  “It would all work out. But if not?”

  Again silence. Suddenly, Jack felt bad for the old-school director, here in his tiny cottage. A glance to the mantel showed a few pictures in dust-covered frames. But in the gloom Jack couldn’t tell if it was a wife, kids, family…

  It felt to him, that Ambrose Goode was all alone.

  “Not the best deal, hmm?” Jack said.

  Goode looked up. “I … thought that the shows would all be packed, and with letting the theatre out for other events, to guest artists … we’d be fine.”

  “And if not, would you say that would all be to the benefit of Andy Parkes?”

  “Yes. I imagine so. But I don’t see what you’re—”

  “The accidents, Ambrose. Just thinking aloud, wondering who could benefit from such accidents, from the production being stopped?”

  Now Goode leaned forward, eyes wide.

  The guy hadn’t actually thought about it at all…

  “You’re saying that maybe Andy Parkes might—”

  “Hang on. I’m not accusing anyone. But if the accidents weren’t just that, good to think who’d like to see The Purloined Pearl never open.”

  “That bastard.”

  Jack saw that Goode already had Parkes in — what did they call it here? — the dock, ready for sentencing.

  He tried to calm Goode.

  “It’s what I do, Ambrose. Or what I used to do. Ask questions. May all still be an accident or two. But always good to know who has an interest in things going, as we say, ‘south’.”

  Goode now looked away. If anything this conversation seemed to have left the old-time director confused, even frightened.

  Or — Jack thought — is the director also a bit of an actor himself?

  Jack stood up.

  “You’re done?” Goode said, suddenly interested in more discussion with Jack.

  “For now. Just tryi
ng to help out, Helen being worried and all. May have more questions later.”

  Goode struggle out of the chair, a great effort, Biscuit close at his heels as he came to Jack.

  “Look, is there any way you can come to the rehearsals? If someone is doing things, you’d be there to see them, catch them!”

  “Be a little hard to explain to everyone.”

  Jack also had to wonder … was Goode asking this so that he knew what he was looking into?

  “I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

  Then Goode brought his right fist into his left palm.

  “Got it! Our stage manager Todd Robinson, you know; the electrician? He’s overwhelmed. Only his second show as full SM, and now with the new stage, lights, and all — perhaps you could assist him?”

  Jack stopped.

  Now that’s an idea…

  He’d certainly get to see everyone ‘in action’, as it were. Not that he knew anything about what a stage manager does.

  “I really have never done—”

  “It’s just keeping props in order, getting sets and people in place, and you’d be there. I think it would give everyone a jolt of confidence — our own NYC detective in the house!”

  Any more exuberance and Jack felt Goode would explode.

  Jack laughed. “Okay. I’ll do it. Maybe don’t tell Todd the real reason I’m there.”

  “Great. No more accidents, and the show will go on. Huzzah!”

  Considering how gloomy Goode had seen when discussing the unfortunate lease, he certainly had turned it around.

  “Tomorrow, seven sharp!” Goode said.

  “See you then,” Jack said, heading to the door, catching a glimpse through the bevelled glass windows of the old door that the rain still pelted down.

  Note to self…

  Always travel with an umbrella.

  And he headed out, racing to his Sprite.

  *

  It was while driving back to the Grey Goose to get ready for his dinner with Sarah, that he had an interesting thought.

  No matter if this all turned out to be nothing; he’d get to see his good friend playing the maid.

  What fun, he thought, as he hit the road out of the village that led to the river, windscreen wipers struggling to keep up with the steady downpour.

  6. Dinner at The Old Pig

  “Julie, tell Sam that this has got to be the best rack of lamb I’ve ever had.”