Good Murder by Robert Gott

provide an audience with a convincing demonstration that all flesh was indeed grass. In his case, rather dry and withered grass.
    Kevin Skakel wasn’t much better. In fact, he was worse. When I pressed him to prove his claim that he had his part down, he took umbrage and limped to the back of the hall, his club foot hitting the boards just that bit harder than his good one. If he’d been able to act he’d have made a decent Richard the Third.
    Annie, to give her credit, knew most of her lines, although in the brief run-through I did with her she was as animated as a table-ready flounder. I attempted to explain, yet again, my vision of the play to the company, and to convey roughly how I saw it being blocked out in this space. The men weren’t happy about the leather posing pouches I wanted them to wear. I thought the pouches were both dramatic and sensible. They certainly cut down on costuming costs.
    ‘I’m not serving somebody in the hotel one night and parading practically naked in front of them the next,’ said Bill Henty.
    ‘And putting them off their food for life,’ said Annie.
    I stepped in to stop the argument descending into a slanging match, aware that there was no love lost between Bill and Annie. They were forever sniping at each other. I think perhaps Annie may have turned him down at some stage. I don’t inquire too closely into the private lives of the members of my company.
    After a few futile and frustrating hours at the hall we returned to the George to prepare for dinner. We had adopted a routine by now. Each person knew his job, and nobody seemed to mind too much doing it. I think waiting on tables was preferred to acting. With each day the George was becoming a bit more spruced up. Augie Kelly’s delusions of grandeur had prompted him to try to turn the dining room into some sort of palm-court fantasy. He had the walls and ceiling patched and painted, even though this meant people ate their dinners with the smell of paint and turpentine stripping their nasal passages. He had put large potted palms in strategic places, and made sure that there were flowers on every table. I had to admit, the room looked elegant. The inappropriately heavy drapes he had hung hid the ugly black-outs from the diners. In a matter of only a few days, the George had established itself as a place to take a girl for a decent meal. Word spread through the services, and most of our customers were air force or, occasionally, army — officers of course, showing a local girl a good time and hoping for something in return.
    When we returned from the hall I retreated to my room and went over the script. I needed to drop four characters to make it work. Fatigued by rewriting Shakespeare, I decided to take a bath before going down to help out with the serving. There was no one in the bathroom when I entered, although someone had taken a bath recently. It had probably been Kevin Skakel, who shed extravagant amounts of hair whenever he bathed, and never cleaned up after himself. Sluicing out the tub was essential to avoid contact with the disgusting detritus of the Skakel moult. There was no hot water, but the water that came out of the tap was comfortably tepid. I slipped in, adjusted to the initial shock, and closed my eyes. I must have fallen asleep. How else would it have been possible for someone to enter the bathroom without my knowing it? That, however, is what happened.
    I opened my eyes suddenly and, sitting on the edge of the bath, was Sergeant Peter Topaz staring at me. I was comprehensively discombobulated, sat up violently, and spilled water over the edge. Topaz stood quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent his trousers being doused. There was nothing else to do but to play this calmly, as if waking to the sight of a policeman perched on the edge of one’s bath was a perfectly ordinary experience. I slid back down into my previous, comfortable position.
    ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to you to knock,’ I said,