Cherringham--Playing Dead Page 9

  Don’t move.

  But Ferris eyes also shifted towards Jack, then back to Kramer again. He saw the one-time writer’s finger tightening on the trigger, and he was still feet away.

  “You’re a maniac!” Kramer said, his voice shaking.

  Not exactly helpful words, Jack thought.

  Until he realised that — in a way — they were.

  17. The Real Villain

  Sarah’s eyes were on Jack.

  If ever she had to believe that he could use all his skills, it was now.

  But at this moment — Kramer wounded, the cast backed up around him, the gun aimed right at Kramer’s head — what could Jack do?

  Even if he bolted and leaped at Ferris, that left plenty of time for the trigger to be pulled.

  But then she saw Jack do something … amazing.

  He smiled.

  Then — he raised his hands a bit, waist high, palms open.

  “Ben. I don’t have a weapon. Don’t have anything. I just want to tell you something.”

  Ben Ferris didn’t move from his position. But he nodded, then a mumbled “Yes?”

  “I went to Kramer’s cottage. Saw it trashed.”

  Another nod.

  “I saw his award for The Fading Light. And who really wrote it. You’re no maniac.”

  He paused.

  “You’re a great writer.”

  “What?” Kramer started to say. A quick glance from Jack stopped Kramer in his tracks.

  Sarah saw the slightest movement, as Ferris turned slightly in Jack’s direction.

  What was going on? she wondered.

  Kramer again interrupted the moment: “Isn’t anybody going to do something?”

  Nobody responded to him.

  “I saw the award, and — what is it you call it? — the credit for writing. Listed only Jez Kramer.”

  Jack paused.

  “You wrote that programme. I’ve seen it, Ben. It was — really — brilliant.”

  Now Ferris nodded. “He’s a thief. Stole the credit, had me booted off the show I created. When he showed up here, in my village … it brought it all back. Doesn’t even remember me, my name … right? Just some nameless, faceless writer. So easily disposed of, just as I can—”

  Sarah felt her stomach tighten. Each second this went on seemed a second closer to the inevitable happening — Kramer being killed on stage.

  “Right. Stolen. Like, well, so many writers, hmm? That … person lying on the floor before you is a thief. No wonder you wanted to hurt him. No wonder—”

  What is Jack’s game here? Sarah wondered.

  “…who wouldn’t?”

  “Only what he deserves…” Ferris said.

  “Right. And you Ben. Is this what you deserve? Sure, payback for Kramer. The lowlife who stole your work. And you, the rest of your life in jail? Who wins then, Ben?”

  A few seconds of quiet.

  Jack took another step, and Sarah saw he kept his hands up and open.

  Must be a NYPD technique.

  And she thought: Jack’s done things like this before.

  For the first time, she had a flicker of hope that this might not end in more bloodshed.

  “If you kill him, Ben, who wins then? But if you stop now. If … you lower that gun, we all know what Kramer did. Everyone in this room. And you can still have a life.”

  “They’ll still send me to jail.”

  He’s actually considering it! Sarah could hardly breathe.

  “Sure. For a while. But — least in my country, probably here too — not for the rest of your life.” Jack took a breath. “You can have a life. You can even write again. I, for one, would want to see that.”

  “I don’t write anymore…”

  Jack waited. Then: “You could … but if you pull that trigger, in my book, you lose, and Kramer kind of wins. Don’t think anyone on this stage wants that.”

  Ben didn’t move. His arm outstretched, gun at an angle, aiming at Kramer who was probably praying that Jack’s words would have some effect.

  For a few seconds — nothing.

  No talking. No gunshot. The street sounds outside muffled by the thick stone walls of the theatre.

  Then:

  “Ben. Why not put the gun down?”

  As if the idea had just occurred to Jack. Sarah had now trained her eyes on Ben Ferris, as probably everyone else on stage did as well.

  Then, as if it had become too heavy, wavering a bit, then so slowly … Ferris lowered the weapon.

  Still, no one moved but Jack.

  Who now closed the distance between him and the would-be killer.

  Jack patted Ben Ferris’s shoulder, nodding. Then, Jack reached down as if removing something unwanted, and slipped the gun out of Ben Ferris’s hand.

  “Thanks for listening to me, Ben.”

  Ben finally turned to Jack and nodded back at him.

  Then Sarah — and she guessed everyone on else on stage — took a deep breath…

  18. The Performance

  The actors formed a line and bowed again, even Graham returning to stand on stage with his replacement, Phil Nailor. Two ‘bobbies’ on the stage!

  Then Todd raised the curtain once more, as the audience kept on clapping.

  Sarah turned to her current butler, smiling, hands joined like all the other cast members.

  Jack grinned back.

  “Guess they liked it?”

  Out to the audience, Sarah could see people standing up now, even hear whistles and cheers.

  Not so sure that was totally for the performance, Sarah guessed.

  After last night’s dress rehearsal, Jack had walked Ben over to the police station where — he told her later — Alan was amazed at the story.

  Ben cheated by Kramer of credit and the award, leaving the writer too ashamed to ever breathe a word of what had happened. And then using this opportunity for revenge, to stage what would have ultimately been a fatal accident. Setting up the other “mishaps” as cover for his real intentions…

  At the station, in front of Alan, Ben didn’t deny any of it.

  Alan also picked up on Jack’s suggestion that they do all they can to help Ben Ferris.

  There would be jail time — no doubt. But maybe he could use that time to begin writing again.

  “Love to see a novel from you,” Jack had said.

  Funny.

  Could be, Sarah thought, just as Jack said…

  By not killing Kramer, Ben Ferris might well have got his life back.

  But there had been the little problem of the butler being arrested. The entire troupe had convinced Jack to take the role, despite the fact that he’d have to keep the script in his back pocket.

  “Guess being a butler serving cocktails won’t be too much of a stretch?” Jack had said.

  And if Tony Standish’s American accent produced laughs, Jack’s attempt at a servant’s British accent was something to hear.

  At many points, The Purloined Pearl teetered awfully close to farce.

  But the show worked. Even the now more-despised Kramer was able to carry on, his wound a mere grazing and, with his arm in a sling, Lieutenant Henry Collins now actually seemed a tad dashing.

  The curtain came down, everyone beaming at each other.

  Most of the audience knew of the events of the past twenty-four hours. Still, it seemed like they’d all had a ball watching the show.

  The theatre’s future — at least tonight … looked secure.

  The curtain went up one more time.

  Another big bow from the line of actors.

  Which is when Sarah’s mum did something unexpected. She broke ranks from the line of players, and strode to the apron.

  She put her hands up, signalling silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we — the Cherringham Players — want to thank you for your great reception tonight … in this, our new home! The restored Cherringham Little Theatre!”

  Thunderous applause.

  “We
hope for many more productions in the years to come. But—”

  And now Helen Edwards turned, and looked right at Sarah and Jack.

  “…Tonight — as you all know — would not have been possible without the invaluable assistance of two people who — whether they decide to continue acting with us or not — will always be part of our little village theatre…”

  “Did not expect this,” Jack said quietly to Sarah.

  “She is theatrical,” Sarah said. “Nothing like a good surprise…”

  “My own daughter, Sarah, and our village’s good friend from America, Detective Jack Brennan!”

  “Retired,” Jack said, under his breath.

  And another wave of applause for — now — just the two of them.

  Jack laughed as he looked at Sarah and shook his head.

  She heard Tony Standish on his left, whisper.

  “Go on you two — take a bow!”

  And then with a look to synchronise the move, she and Jack stepped forward and took their bow.

  For saving the show, the village theatre … and, just maybe, two lives.

  END

  Next episode

  On the edge of Cherringham lies St. Francis' Convent, home of the Sisters of St. Francis, a small Catholic teaching order. Here a handful of nuns worship, contemplate, and pray. And here one Easter the beloved local priest Father Byrne meets his unexpected demise. The circumstances of the death are suspicious, and soon Jack and Sarah are on the case: what secrets did Father Byrne take to the grave? Who wanted him dead? And is religious faith ever a guarantee of innocence?

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

  A Deadly Confession

  by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards

  Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series

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