Midsomer Maiden |1| The Trials of Midsomer

3. Death of a Hollow Man

One evening a few months later, Tom and Joyce were sitting down to eat dinner. Well, Tom was sitting down to eat dinner; Joyce had already wolfed half of hers down and was making swift progress on the rest of it. "Careful," he warned. "You'll give yourself indigestion."

"I don't want to be late," she said by way of explanation, before shovelling the last mouthful of casserole in.

"No one turns up to rehearsals on time."

"The costumes arrived yesterday. They are so beautiful. I don't know where Harold finds the money."

"Well, the economy's booming," Tom remarked. "No doubt Harold's exports and imports are booming, too."

"And there are dark rumours of a change in venue," Joyce added. "Apparently, the Corn Exchange is no longer good enough for him." The door bell went. "Oh, that'll be Freddie." She hurried off to let her in, and Tom raised his eyebrows.

"Was anything ever good enough for Harold?"

***

Meanwhile, the play's director was getting up from his own dinner table, his wife blinking up at him owlishly. "You haven't finished your supper, Harold," Doris said.

Harold shot her a sharp look. "Dinner, woman, dinner! How many times do you have to be told?"

Doris looked down timidly. "I'm sorry, Harold. I'm sorry."

"Did you get all the Amadeus publicity out?" he demanded.

"Oh, yes, Harold, yes." She hesitated. "That is, I haven't done the Ferndale Centre. It's just such a long way, and there's no direct bus route. I-I was wondering, would you mind taking—"

Harold scoffed contemptuously. "When you see Peter Hall running around sticking up posters, let me know. I shall be happy to join him." He swept on his coat like it was a long, travelling cloak, and strode out of the door.

***

In one of the backstage rooms at Causton Playhouse, a young man named David Smy crept up behind the stage manager, startling her. "Hello, Deirdre."

"Oh!" She put her hand to her chest, smiling at him. "It's you!"

"How are things?" he asked.

"I'm running late," she admitted. "Couldn't settle Daddy for ages."

David winced. "Bad again, is he?"

"You could say that."

"What can I do? Shall I... shall I set up for you?"

"Oh, thank you, David," Deirdre beamed. "I need that little pie-crust table with the cakes on, and Salieri's wing chair."

David nodded, clapping her on the shoulder. "Right."

***

In another room, Freddie was sat halfway up a stepladder, her denim overalls testament to her dedication to the paintwork. She leaned back slightly, looking over the backdrop she was working on with a frown. "Would you say that looks Viennese?"

Tom gave her a thumbs up, and beside him, Colin Smy nodded appreciatively. "Very Blue Danube."

"You, er..." Tom hesitated, raising an eyebrow at the mess she'd made of her clothes. He had, when she had first arrived at his house wearing the overalls, thought it was a tad over-compensating, but as it turned out, she had certainly known best. "You are aware you're meant to be painting the backdrop and not yourself, yes?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Ha ha ha. I'm using a lump of Blu Tack as a grip, Tom, it's hardly going to be a professional job."

"Ooh, don't let Harold hear you saying that."