Four.
It was at times such as these, that Scott realised just why country life was so trying.
It was eleven o'clock at night, in the middle of winter, one month from Christmas, and he was standing under a single light-bulb, in a small, dark room, surrounded by Shakespearean costumes, hand-painted, cardboard scenery, and a jittery, middle-aged amateur dramatics cast, dressed up like a Victorians.
"Terry Miller?" Scott asked again, as the plump woman pressed a shaking hand to her lips in distressed disbelief, and nodded, her eyes screwing shut tightly. As a single tear rolled down her face, she scrabbled in the petticoats of her dress, pulling out a tissue.
"Mmhmm," she nodded, eyes still shut tightly, "Yes, yes, it was -," she paused and broke into a sob, "– Poor Terry," she turned away, face buried into her tissue, her sobs coming out like a chicken clucking. An older woman, with a sour face and permed grey hair, marched up to her, taking her firmly round the shoulders, and steering her away like a invalid. As the plumper woman wandered blindly back to the heart of the group, the sour-faced woman who'd taken her away, turned back to Scott with a glare.
He blinked at her, waiting for something. When nothing was forthcoming, he decided to start things off,
"Err, you knew Mr. Miller?"
She continued to glare at him. Unblinking. Scott shifted under her gaze, and cleared his throat. Yes, the country certainly had its characters.
"I knew him," she snapped, so briskly that Scott almost jumped.
"Did you see anything before he…fell?" Scott ventured, notebook out in the hope of something useful.
"Course I didn't see anything. Eyes on the audience weren't they?" she bit back. Scott raised his brows, a thousand and one replies of his own on the tip of his tongue. He bit them back, and carried on regardless,
"Of course. In that case Mrs…"
"Miss. Long, I never married," she barked. Scott took a deep breath,
"In that case Miss. Long, can you think of anyone who would have a grudge against Mr. Miller?"
She looked away for a second, frowning in thought,
"Well, outside of the players I wouldn't know. But I do know that Henry Kearns and he had a disagreement over who should play Catherine Sloper, of course, you'll notice that Abigail Shaw got the part. Hardly surprising since she and Terry have, or, had been…well, you know," she sniffed, "Disgraceful really. Both married you know."
Scott raised his brows as he scribbled down some notes.
"Both married?"
Miss Long nodded,
"Oh yes."
Scott cast his eyes back over his scribblings,
"Who's Henry Kearns?"
Miss Long gave a dismissive sniff,
"He sits on the village theatre board. Very set in his ways, not extremely popular."
Scott managed a genuine-looking smile,
"Thank you Miss Long, we'll be in touch if we want to ask you anything else,"
Miss Long turned with a groan,
"I hope not," she muttered, shuffling off.
Scott's smile soured once she was out of earshot,
"Nice talking to you too."
Barnaby was standing in the aisle, talking to a tall, thin, grey-haired man, who kept pausing to run his hand through his hair, and push up his small-rimmed glasses.
Scott joined them, trotting down the stairs and across the garish red carpet, flipping shut his notebook.
"Ah, Scott, this is Mr. Arnold, he is the head of the theatre board,"
Scott nodded a greeting. Mr Arnold however, failed to notice, rubbing at his face with a hand.
"Poor Terry, good gracious, what a thing to happen. On the opening night too," he shook his head. Barnaby flashed him a sympathetic smile.
"Thank you Mr Arnold, we'll be in touch."
As Mr Arnold turned and shuffled up the aisle in bewilderment, Barnaby turned to his sidekick.
"Anything Scott?"
The dark-haired DS took a deep breath, and pulled a face, consulting his notes,
"A Miss Long recalls Terry Miller having a bit of a barney with a one Henry Kearns, who sits on the theatre board, apparently, Miller had been having an affair with leading lady Abigail Shaw, also married."
Barnaby looked round at his second-in-command impressed at the knowledge gathered,
"Well now, there's something to start with."
Scott nodded,
"I'd say so Sir,"
Barnaby cast around the huddled cast and audience, who were looking tired, shocked and dazed. He turned back to Scott,
"Have uniform take everyone's name and address as well as brief statements then send everyone home. Can't keep them here all night."
Scott nodded,
"Right."
Barnaby watched Scott head off towards the uniformed officers, and let him co-ordinate the statement-taking operation. He glanced around the theatre, looking up to the main walkway where Miller had tumbled from.
He sighed.
From one murder to another.
Maybe Scott was right. Maybe there was something in the water around Midsomer. He smiled. If only it were alcoholic.