Page 11

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Julia had been coaxed, guilted, and perhaps even manipulated into accepting Chaplin into the family, but on one issue she had stood firm. The cat would not sleep on her bed. She was absolutely resolute on that. She had made a mistake with Jake, occasionally allowing him onto the bed, but for reasons of comfort, hygiene and allergy avoidance, she was determined that there would be no cat on her bed. To make this clear to her new lodger, she had purchased a horrifyingly pricey cat bed, along with a cat scratch post and a cat food bowl. The cat bed lived in the sitting room, to further reinforce the point.

So, why was her neck at that improbable angle? And why was there a soft paw lodged in her ear?

Because Chaplin was stretched out, sleeping comfortably on Julia’s pillow, that’s why. Not just her bed, her pillow! Julia’s head, which should by rights be resting comfortably on the soft-but-just-firm-enough down pillow, was positioned awkwardly between the pillow and the mattress. She opened her eyes and moved her head tenderly, so as not to stress her neck further, and gently got up.

‘Come on you, that’s not your place,’ she said, lifting the sleeping cat from the bed. He opened his eyes with a lazy blink, but didn’t move. He just lay heavily across her hands, his legs hanging down. Jake watched nervously from his position on the floor next to the bed. He winced as the cat passed over him in Julia’s arms.

‘Don’t worry, Jakey, I promise I’m not going to drop the cat on you,’ she said. Jake got up and followed at a safe distance while Julia transported Chaplin down the passage and into the sitting room.

‘You’ve got your own bed, kitty cat,’ she said, popping him into his bed, which was shaped like an igloo and made of some sort of super-soft fluffy material that just made you want to crawl into it yourself and curl up for the remainder of the day.

Chaplin didn’t feel the same enthusiasm for his bed. When she plonked him in it, he would usually sit for a minute looking mildly pained, and then stalk off to the sofa, or to a rectangle of sunlight on the carpet or, yes, to Julia’s own bed. She left Chaplin in the cat bed, wondering how long he’d stay this time.

In the kitchen, she flicked on the kettle and donned the long shapeless cardigan and slip-on gardening shoes that she kept by the door. She popped a doggy treat in her pocket and picked up a bowl of kitchen scraps in her hands for the chicks. Jake shot out of the door, and sat down waiting for the treat that Julia tossed up in the air. He snapped it, swallowed it and was off round the garden, greeting the day with his usual enthusiasm. The fresh air! The smells! The grass beneath one’s feet! Oh, hello, Henny Penny!

Julia massaged the crick in her neck as she watched him gambol, and thought about the day ahead. She was going to take it easy after the busy and stressful weekend. She had not a thing in the diary. She would potter in the garden, perhaps do some cooking for the week, take Jake for a walk, and treat herself to lunch at the Buttered Scone. But first, tea and her word games and a few pages of her book, all of which she planned to enjoy in bed.

She held the tea tray carefully as she walked to the bedroom and sat down on the bed, then propped it against a cushion while she swung her legs up and settled against the headboard. The gentle sense of anticipation she usually had at the thought of an hour or so of such a mild indulgence was marred by a flutter of worries. She couldn’t unhear Hayley’s words – ‘one of the potential suspects’. As much as Julia knew that she and Tabitha were not responsible for the fatal accident with the gun, and as confident as she felt that DI Gibson would clear her, she didn’t at all like the idea of being on a list of possible suspects. She thought of all those true crime shows, in which some poor fellow had sat fifteen years in prison before being cleared by DNA evidence and sent off with a: ‘Sorry! My mistake!’

The second worry in her fluttering flock was the question of how Sean and Jono were doing. She had not spoken to Sean since he’d left her house with his son and Leo and a car full of clobber on Sunday evening. The atmosphere had been tired and tense, and future plans uncertain. Sean, until yesterday his own man, unencumbered by dependants, now had a troubled adult son living with him. It wouldn’t be an easy transition for any of them.

Julia had sent him a message around lunchtime on Monday: Hope all’s well there and Jono settling in. Bring him for supper sometime this week. Chat soon? Xx

His reply had been brief and uninformative.

All fine. Thanks again for having Leo. X

It was now Tuesday. No phone call. Not even a message. Julia was determined to give them their space, but even so, it was unusual for Sean to be so absent, so uncommunicative. There was usually a ‘Good morning’ message, or a forwarded article, or a cartoon he thought she’d like.

‘Julia Bird, you are being very silly,’ she told herself in a stern voice that made Jake look up, worriedly, lest he be in some sort of trouble. She addressed herself internally for the remainder of the conversation, telling herself that Sean was just very caught up in moving Jono and his belongings into his little house and getting the young man settled. He’d be in touch when he was ready.

That settled, Julia decided to turn her attention to her word games. Before she could find her phone, it pinged from somewhere in the bedclothes. It must be Sean, she thought with relief, patting down the duvet in search of the phone. Funny how thinking about someone sometimes seemed to summon them. Her hand found the phone and freed it from the tangled bedding.

It wasn’t Sean. It was a message from Roger Grave on the WhatsApp group that he’d created for the South Cotswolds Players involved in the production, cast and crew. The group was named ‘SCP production notes’ and the rules expressly forbade banter unrelated to arrangements, rehearsals and other matters directly related to the play.

Please come to an all-hands c in fact, no weapons of any kind. All right?’

Oscar nodded, ‘No guns, no guns.’

‘Guy is the understudy for the lead, so he will step into the breach and take Graham’s role of the Charming Good-for-Nothing.’

This came as quite a surprise, given Guy’s freeze on the first night. Guy clearly thought so too, because he looked up in astonishment, or perhaps terror.

‘I just wanted to mention…’ Hector said. Roger looked up from his notes. ‘That I know all the lines. I have the memory for it.’ He tapped his head. ‘All in here.’

‘Excellent, that’s very helpful. Thank you for reminding me, Hector. Yes indeed. Let me see where I can put you.’ Roger looked back down at his notes. ‘I’d like you to take over Guy’s role, if you can?’

‘The Postman?’ Hector said, incredulous. ‘You want me to play the Postman?’

‘It’s short notice, I know, but we all have to do our bit, Hector. I’ll take over as prompt for the performances. You’ll be fine.’

‘Could I have a word?’ Hector said, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. ‘In private.’

‘In a moment. First…’

‘I can’t be back here. I can’t be in the play – I’m a murderer!’ Oscar said loudly. ‘I killed a man. I pulled the trigger and shot a man. ’

‘Oh, Oscar,’ said Julia, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. She could feel his body shaking uncontrollably. ‘It was not your fault, it was an accident.’ She might have had her suspicions about Oscar, but seeing how distressed he was, she felt sure now that this was no cold-blooded murderer.

‘You heard what the police said: there’s no such thing as an accident…’ He gulped for breath. ‘I know that. I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? Family law, but still. Anyway, I’ll be disbarred. And rightly so! I discharged the weapon. The man that pulls the trigger is the murderer, that’s what the law says. I know the law. I shot the gun.’

Oscar made a horrible rough gasping sound. He was in a full-blown panic attack, or perhaps even a more serious breakdown.

Julia thought about what to do. Oscar was becoming hysterical. ‘Shall we take a little walk and get some air, Oscar? It might clear your head, calm you down.’

‘Don’t you see, Julia? I don’t deserve to be calm. I killed Graham Powell and I will take the punishment. There was a time I wished him dead and now he is dead. At my hand, don’t you see? I am going to turn myself in. It’s the only way. I must be punished. It’s the only road to redemption. The law requires redemption.’

Every member of the group had their eyes fixed on the rambling, raving man, and with the exception of Julia, they appeared to be struck dumb.

Oscar jumped to his feet, his eyes glittering. ‘I must see that detective at once. I pulled the trigger. I pulled the trigger…She must know me for what I am…I shot the gun…’

He started towards the door muttering, ‘Air…I need air…And the police…I’m going to the police…’

Julia didn’t know what to do, but she knew she couldn’t let him leave alone in that state. She stood up. ‘Well, if you insist on turning yourself in, Oscar, I’ll keep you company.’