Play Murder at the Midsummer Show

The produce tent smells of hot canvas and vinegar. Mr. Fennimore Pratt lies across the trestle of pickled onions where he fell, one arm hanging, his president's rosette still pinned to his tweed jacket. Somebody has put a tea towel over his head, which is decent of them, but it makes it hard to look at anything. Mrs. Ivy Penhallow, jam judge for thirty-one years, stands at his feet with her reading glasses on a chain and a pencil she keeps licking. She has already walked the tent twice. I didn't touch him, before you ask. Well, I touched his wrist, to see. Nobody's been in since I found him, twenty to eight, I looked at the church clock. She points the pencil under the bench. That's a jar of honey. It's got Toby Lark's label on, the one with the little bee he draws himself, and the honey classes don't go on this side. And he's been hit behind the right ear, Constable, which you'll see if you lift the towel. He didn't get that from an onion. Outside, the brass band is tuning up for a show that opens at ten. Poppy Harcourt's voice carries from the gate, telling somebody that no, nobody is cancelling anything yet. Mrs. Penhallow tears a page from her notebook and holds it out to you. That's everyone who had words with him yesterday. I've put stars by the loud ones. Do you want me to read it to you, or can you manage my writing?