Murder in Steeple Martin [antikvár]

LiBBY SAT ON A plastic chair in the middle of what would be the auditorium of the Oast House Theatre and considered mass murder. Her feet were cold, her hands were cold, she was thirsty and it seemed to her that every single person on the stage - and behind it- was going out of their way to do exactly the opposite of what she wanted. 'Bloody hell,' she muttered as a member of the cast ran to the wrong corner of the stage again and then stopped and looked for a prompt. 'Other way, Emma,' she called, just refraining from adding, 'You silly cow.' What was the matter with the girl? She was behaving like a rank amateur. She was an amateur. Oh, bloody hell again. The rehearsal wore on. The partially constructed hop garden at the back of the stage was showing an alarming tendency to become part of the action and was constantly being propped up by nervous actors; the back-stage team were having a violent argument ; at a pitch the actors could only dream about and the plastic chair was getting harder and harder. 'That's it,' said Libby standing up suddenly and dislodging a pile of the lighting technician's notes. s-'Let's all go to the pub.' Silence fell and bewildered faces turned towards her. ^ ^ 'But we haven't done scene three,' came a | plaintive voice from the back of the set. 'We haven't done scenes one and two, either, J have we? Not properly. Not so's you'd notice.' 'What?' People began looking at each other, 1