Ballantyne 02 men of men.., p.1
A Pantomime of Peril: A British Cozy Murder Mystery (A Cotswold Antique Mystery Book 3), page 1
A PANTOMIME OF PERIL
A COTSWOLD ANTIQUE MYSTERY
VICTORIA TAIT
CONTENTS
What is a Pantomime?
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Copyright © 2025 by Victoria Tait
A Kanga Press Publication © 2025
Cover Design by Daniela Colleo of StunningBookCovers.com
Editing Allie Douglas
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and author.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
For more information visit VictoriaTait.com
WHAT IS A PANTOMIME?
A British pantomime, known simply as a “panto”, is a much-loved form of family theatre, traditionally performed around Christmas and New Year.
Despite the name, it is not silent mime. Instead, it is loud, colourful, and joyfully over the top, blending music, slapstick comedy, dancing, and audience participation.
Each panto is based on a well-known fairy tale or folk story such as Cinderella, Aladdin, or Jack and the Beanstalk.
The script is rewritten each year with local jokes, topical references, and plenty of ad-libs. Villains are booed, heroes are cheered, and stock phrases are shouted back and forth between cast and audience. The most famous are “He’s behind you!” and “Oh yes it is!” or “Oh no it isn’t!”
Characters often include a “dame” (a comical older woman played by a man in outrageous costumes), a principal boy (the male lead, often played by a young woman), a love interest, a pantomime animal (two actors sharing a costume), and an over-the-top villain.
Part of the fun is the mix of scripted chaos and real mishaps, with performers breaking the “fourth wall” to tease the audience. Pantos are staged by professional theatres and amateur village groups alike, and attending one is a festive tradition for many British families. It is equal parts theatre, community event, and good-natured silliness.
Jack and the Beanstalk
A classic British panto where poor Jack lives with his widowed mother, the dame, and sometimes one or two daft comedy brothers. He sells the family cow for magic beans, which grow into a beanstalk reaching a giant’s castle in the clouds.
The giant bellows his famous “Fee-fi-fo-fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!” as Jack steals a bag of gold, a magic harp, and a hen that lays golden eggs. Jack escapes down the beanstalk, chops it down, and defeats the giant, saving his family from poverty.
PROLOGUE
Keya Varma laughed with the rest of the audience watching the local Coln Akeman production of Jack and the Beanstalk as Daisy, the pantomime cow, trotted off stage.
Her friend Dotty, who was playing the back half of the cow, gave a little skip and nearly tripped, which made the audience laugh even louder.
As the lights dimmed, Keya moved quickly. She grabbed the table she’d placed nearby and carried it onto the stage, positioning it in the centre and covering it with a red and white checked tablecloth.
She returned for a chair and a basket containing an oversized plate, a plastic cup and some novelty cutlery.
Faye was setting a three-legged wooden stool beside a piece of scenery painted to look like a pantry, its shelves stacked with illustrated tins, baskets of vegetables, and three vertical black lines to suggest iron bars. She gathered up the skirt of her princess dress and sat down, adjusting her tiara.
“Quickly, Keya,” came a loud whisper from the wings.
Keya arranged the basket’s contents on the table and positioned the tall chair behind it. She retreated as the lights came up and the giant strode onto the stage. He tugged at the thick fur collar of his deep blue velvet jacket, then straightened it with a flourish.
On the other side of the stage, the giant’s wife stood beside a painted stove, stirring a large pot that looked more like a witch’s cauldron than a kitchen pan.
Something was missing.
Keya turned to the props table and spotted the toy chicken which was meant to lay golden eggs. She snatched it up.
“Hi,” Dotty whispered beside her.
“Just a minute,” Keya murmured, dashing back onstage and placing the hen on the kitchen table.
The giant paused beside the pantry and gave the princess an overly dramatic once-over.
“A princess in my pantry. How deliciously decadent.” He let out a deep, villainous laugh.
The giant’s wife paused her stirring. “If she’s staying in there, she can peel the parsnips. And get that hen off my table.”
Jack, who’d crept across the stage during the scene change, lifted the tablecloth and peered out at the audience. Several people gasped.
Dotty nudged Keya and nodded towards the giant. His face was flushed and he shifted uncomfortably, loosening the collar with his fingers.
“Sit yourself down and take off that heavy jacket,” said the giant’s wife, her voice strained.
The audience burst out laughing, and out of the corner of her eye, Keya saw the tablecloth shift again. Jack must have done something.
Then the giant staggered.
“Is that part of his act?” Keya asked.
“I don’t think so,” Dotty replied, frowning.
The giant’s wife sounded genuinely alarmed as she urged, “My dear, I really think you should take the weight off your feet. And perhaps a glass of water?”
“I think she means an actual glass,” Dotty said.
“Oh.” Keya looked around. “Where do I get that from?”
“Here,” whispered a voice behind her, and a bright yellow and pink water bottle appeared.
Keya took it and rushed onto the stage. She felt the warmth of the stage lights as she tried to hide the bottle’s garish colours, placing it behind the toy chicken.
It was still clearly visible, but the giant managed to joke, “That hen will be laying a pint of Cotswold Gold next.”
The audience chuckled, although less enthusiastically. Jack peeked out from under the table, looking confused.
The giant wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Sweat gleamed on his forehead under the stage lights. He tugged at his collar again and took a long drink from the bottle.
He wobbled, then straightened and braced himself, planting both feet firmly on the stage.
Facing the audience, he declared, “Fee, fi, fo, fum…” His voice cracked.
“I smell…” He paused to catch his breath. “The blood…” Another pause. He reached for the table, his other hand rising to his chest. His complexion turned pale.
“…of an Englishman,” he finished in a whisper.
With a final stagger, the giant collapsed to the floor.
CHAPTER ONE
DOTTY
“Fe fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman.”
Dotty Sayers looked up from her desk in the office of Akemans auction house, where she’d been checking Lots for the upcoming winter auction.
Marion Rook spoke the famous pantomime line from Jack and the Beanstalk in a deep voice as she held up an elaborate midnight-blue velvet jacket. Usually poised and practical, she wore a mischievous smile as she displayed one of the costumes that had arrived earlier from the Wychwood Playhouse.
“Oh, let me try that on,” cried Clara, jumping up from her chair. She slipped the jacket over her shoulders while Marion shook her head in mock despair.
“Not like that. Your arms are through the air vents, not the sleeves. They’re there because it’s hot for actors under the bright stage lights. Here, let me help.”
As they rearranged the jacket, Dotty glanced back at her screen. Their final auction of the year, scheduled for early December, now included a special theatre section.
Zach, her boyfriend and the newly appointed Managing Dire
Finally wearing the jacket the correct way, Clara turned and struck a dramatic pose.
It’s a little big for you,” Dotty said gently, not wanting to dampen Clara’s excitement, as Marion attached a long velvet cape to the back of the jacket.
“But Brenda Coombe might be able to alter it. She’s a dab hand with a needle.” Clara smiled enthusiastically.
“But I thought Jack was poor?” Dotty said.
“He is at the beginning,” Clara replied, walking deliberately down the office. She turned, held her head high, and added as she strutted back, “But he marries the princess, so I’ll need something fancy for the final scene.”
“I think it’s wonderful you’re playing the lead in the village panto.” Marion gave Clara a small nod of approval.
Then she glanced across at Dotty and grinned as she added, “And there’s a fabulous pantomime cow costume.”
“Dr Peter has asked Arlo and Dale, who live in the converted barn at the edge of the village, if they’d like the role. I’m hoping they agree.” Dotty smiled weakly.
Zach had persuaded her to accompany him to the recent auditions for Coln Akeman’s first pantomime in five years.
Their friend, Dr Peter Wimsey, had written the script and was directing this year’s production. Dotty worked with his wife, Gilly, who ran the antique centre at Akemans. Dr Peter had said that his elderly patients needed a reason to get out of their houses in winter, and a local pantomime was the perfect excuse.
Dotty hadn’t wanted a part, and certainly not a speaking role, but Dr Peter had asked if she’d be one half of Daisy, the cow Jack exchanged for a bag of beans, and she’d reluctantly agreed.
“And there’s a wonderful all-black villain’s costume for Zach,” Marion continued.
“I didn’t know he could sing so well,” said Clara seriously. “And he’s really taken to his character, Lord Grubwort, the giant’s steward, even though he claims the only panto he’s ever seen was last year when you took him to Mother Goose in Cheltenham.”
“That’s right, but I’ve found plenty of performances to watch online,” Zach said, stepping into the room with a rolled-up poster under his arm.
“Is that about the auction?” asked Dotty. He’d suggested putting posters on the noticeboards in local Cotswold villages to raise awareness for the winter auction.
“Actually, no, but thank you for the reminder.” As he uncurled the poster, he added, “I wondered if this is the director of that TV drama about the family and the country house, The House of Wintermere, which is so popular. He’s rumoured to be looking for somewhere to live in the Cotswolds.”
Dotty leaned back in her chair, and commented, “Aunt Beanie loves that programme.”
Dotty rented a small cottage from Aunt Beanie, who was Gilly’s aunt rather than her own, at Meadowbank Farm. She now spent most of her time at a charming honey-coloured stone house in Burford, which Zach rented, but she needed to decide what to do about Earl Grey, her cat. He still lived at the farmhouse, enjoying the warmth of the kitchen’s large Aga range cooker and hunting around the outbuildings, but she missed him when she stayed with Zach.
“Wickham Vale as Othello,” said Marion, recognising the young man in the Roman-style costume. “And you’re right, Zach, he is the director of The House of Wintermere, but he started his career as an actor. I didn’t know he wanted to live in the Cotswolds, but it makes sense since the house where they film is nearby.”
“How exciting. Do you think he’ll come and watch our pantomime?” Clara asked, her eyes gleaming.
“Angling for a part in his TV drama?” remarked Zach, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, you’d be fabulous as one of the young women,” said Dotty kindly. She’d watched a few episodes with Aunt Beanie, although she was more interested in the interior of the house, and its antiques and paintings, than the storyline.
“Or one of the servants,” added Marion dryly, before continuing, “I doubt he’ll be interested in the panto. He’ll be used to large budgets, lavish sets and big-name actors. Not our budget production in the village hall.”
Clara’s shoulders sagged.
The office door opened, and Gilly Wimsey entered, her orange ringlets bouncing as she came to a halt.
“I’ve just had a message from Peter. He’s been called to a death in the village, so can you start rehearsals without him?”
“Who’s died?” Dotty asked quietly.
“Old Mrs De Winters, who lived at Colneford Manor. It is sad, but I can’t help feeling she’d have preferred to end her life in her family house rather than the care home she was on the waiting list for. She was such a generous and enthusiastic member of the community. She lent her house and gardens for charity events, supported the local school before it closed, and donated to all manner of worthy causes. But I wouldn’t want the job of sorting through all her possessions. She was a real hoarder. Not of frivolous or decorative things, but of items she thought might come in useful.”
“I know the sort. Those who remember the war and rationing,” said Marion. “We’ve seen plenty, haven’t we, Dotty, in house clearances. Garages full of old cardboard boxes, magazines, and rusty biscuit tins.”
“Do you think Wickham Vale might move into her house?” asked Clara hopefully.
“To quote a famous pantomime line,” Zach said with a grin, “Oh no he won’t!”
CHAPTER TWO
KEYA
Keya Varma lifted a mug of deluxe hot chocolate from her tray and placed it on a square wooden table. The young boy’s eyes widened in anticipation as he stared at the mound of whipped cream and the chocolate flake sticking out from the top.
“Doesn’t that look lovely, Daniel?” said his mother, as Keya set a teapot in front of her. She added a plate with two halves of a toasted teacake. Butter had melted into the soft, spiced bun, and it glistened around the plump raisins.
After checking that the pair had everything they needed, Keya retreated but paused by the hot drinks counter to speak to Norman Climpson. He had his back to her, and the steam wand hissed as he frothed some milk.
A message pinged on her phone. She removed it from her pocket and glanced at the screen. It was from Sujin, her partner, but was it personal, or had he sent something formal in his role as Regional Forensics Operations Coordinator?
She scrolled down. Business.
A woman had died and Sujin was asking her to attend the scene. At least it was local. The deceased had lived in Coln Akeman.
“Yes, Keya?” Norman said, turning round.
“Um. I can’t remember why I wanted to speak to you, but can you tell my sister I’ve been called away with work? And do you mind locking up tonight? I doubt I’ll be back.”
Keya glanced around the cluttered living room at Colneford Manor.
It reminded her in a small way of her own little house in the Cotswold town of Tetbury, which had been gifted to her and hadn’t been updated since the 1960s.
But this room was much larger, like the rest of the house, and although it contained an eclectic mix of items, it retained a faded grandeur.
A tall wingback armchair faced a stone fireplace, magazines were stacked beneath the windowsill, and an old typewriter sat on a side table, its cover pushed half off. Oil paintings in dark wooden frames lined the walls, and a wooden sideboard, dark with age, held a pair of brass candlesticks, a glass dome with a stuffed bird inside, and a gilt clock with an ornate face.
There was also a paler patch on the sideboard, beside the clock, as if something had been recently removed. The air carried the faint lingering scent of dried lavender from a bunch hanging from a wooden ceiling beam.
“Do you think Akemans will be asked to clear the contents of the house?” asked Trainee Constable Thomas Wimsey. He looked smart in his new uniform, with a crisp fluorescent yellow jacket and a radio clipped neatly to his chest.
