Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “What’s on your arm, you silly woman.” Mr. Evans began to laugh, too.

  “It’s for my arthritis,” said Mrs. Evans stiffly. She tore off the bracelet and threw it into the sink with a crash of clanking metal.

  “You’re getting past it, old girl.” Mr. Evans guffawed, giving Annabel a wink. He flexed his muscles. “You won’t see me getting arthritis.”

  “It’s hereditary,” I said quickly. “I have it and I’m only twenty-three. It’s the damp weather.”

  Mrs. Evans stomped over to the stove and returned with a saucepan. She put five potatoes on each plate except for Annabel’s, on which she put only one—and a deformed one at that. Annabel also got a burnt slice of flan.

  Mr. Evans gestured to Annabel’s plate with his fork. “See what little Annie eats?” Little Annie? “Next to nothing. You should try that. Lose some of that pot belly.”

  “You can talk,” Mrs. E. quipped. “Why don’t you do something about that fat gut of yours?”

  “I think it’s rather sweet,” said Annabel. “He’s nice and cuddly.”

  I caught Annabel’s eye and glowered at her. She just smirked and started cutting tiny pieces of food and popping them daintily into her mouth.

  Mr. Evans reached over and gently smoothed Annabel’s hair away from her face. “I love long hair,” he said softly.

  Mrs. Evans’s expression was nothing short of murderous, which reminded me—“There was nearly a murder committed at The Grange today,” I said, glad to change the subject.

  “Really?” Mrs. Evans perked up, as I knew she would. “Probably some stupid old man lusting after a girl young enough to be his daughter.”

  “God. What a nightmare,” said Annabel. “Her ladyship nearly shot a gypsy.”

  “She should have shot the lot of them,” declared Mr. Evans, bringing his hand down hard onto the table. “They’re parasites, leeching off the government.”

  “Nonsense; they pay their way,” said Mrs. Evans. “Mend the roads, fix the roof. Tell fortunes.”

  “I’d love to go to a fortune-teller.” Annabel wriggled in her seat. “I wonder if I’ve already met the man I’m going to marry?” She looked directly at Mr. Evans.

  Mr. Evans leaned back in his seat with a smirk. “If I come back on the market—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” muttered Mrs. Evans, viciously stabbing a potato with her fork.

  “You’ve got a short memory, Millie,” said Mr. Evans. “Remember all that trouble years back?”

  “What trouble?” Annabel and I chorused.

  “I’m not one to gossip.” Mrs. Evans sank her dentures into the pastry crust and then wished she hadn’t. She gestured for us to wait a moment whilst she finished her mouthful.

  “Get on with it,” said Mr. Evans, rolling his eyes.

  “And besides, it’s not right,” said Mrs. E. finally. “These two girls work with her.”

  “Oh, please tell us,” Annabel and I chorused again.

  “There isn’t much to tell. We’d just started courting, hadn’t we, Lenny?” said Mrs. Evans. “Your Barbara took up with one of them and ran off for a week or two. Caused a big scandal.”

  So that was the scandal! How unbelievably romantic!

  “Hardly a scandal,” said Annabel with a sneer. “I bet Barbara was a bit of a tart in her day.”

  It takes one to know one! “Neither of them were married, so why shouldn’t she fall in love with whomever she wanted,” I protested.

  “She was a real looker,” said Mr. Evans wistfully. “Hair down to her waist. Everyone took a run at Barbara.”

  “The police got involved,” Mrs. E. said. “And then there was all that bother with Mildred.”

  A light snapped on in my head. Hadn’t the newspaper clipping in the shoebox mentioned the name Mildred? “Mildred who?”

  “Veysey. Wilf’s poor mother,” said Mrs. Evans. “She had an accident in Mudge Lane. It was all very mysterious.”

  “I’d just started with the council and I remember putting up that “Beware of Cyclists” warning sign,” said Mr. Evans. “It’s dangerous down there if you’re not paying attention.”

  “Mildred was riding a bicycle, too, just like that poor lady last night,” Mrs. Evans said. “Vicky found the body, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The police say she drowned,” said Annabel.

  “Kelvin—that’s Betty’s son—doesn’t think so,” said Mrs. Evans. “And why else would that important redheaded copper be involved? Kelvin says they’ve been told to keep out of it.”

  My heart began to race. I knew something was up! Just knew it!

  “Both in Mudge Lane,” Annabel frowned. “How very strange.”

  “Not really. The two incidents are decades apart, isn’t that right, Mrs. E.?” I said. “By the way, the flan was delicious.”

  “Interesting . . .” Annabel turned her attention back to her plate and fell silent.

  Mr. Evans nudged her elbow. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “Don’t do that,” snapped Annabel. “I’m thinking.”

  I desperately wanted to change the subject. Whatever had happened in Mudge Lane belonged to me. “What do you think about the gypsies claiming they can camp at The Grange, Mr. Evans?”

  “Bastards!” He slammed his hand down on the kitchen table again. “We taxpayers are continually getting shafted while the do-gooders in government use our hard-earned cash to pay out to nonconformists and the terminally idle.”

  Annabel whipped out her notebook. “Great quote. Mind if I use it?”

  “If me and the lads had anything to do with it, we’d set fire to the lot of them!”

  “No need,” said Annabel. “They’re being evicted on Friday and it’s being televised and—guess what?—I’m going to be on TV!”

  “Evicted, eh?” said Mr. Evans. “Now you’re talking. I can’t wait to see that.”

  “Yes, her ladyship wants them off,” Annabel said. “Oh, Mrs. E., I almost forgot. Your cleaning services are wanted at The Grange.”

  “I’ve already spoken to her, thank you very much,” said Mrs. Evans with a sniff. “She telephoned.”

  “What’s for pudding?” I said.

  “Spotted dick,” spat Mrs. E.

  “Not for us.” Mr. Evans looked at his watch and stood up. “We’ll skip pudding and fill up on popcorn.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The Gipping Film Club is showing Basic Instinct tonight,” said Mr. Evans.

  Mrs. E. stood up, too. “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

  “Don’t you have some Morris knee pads to sew for Saturday?”

  Mrs. Evans sat back down, a look of defeat on her face. “You know I do.”

  “Vicky?” said Annabel sweetly. “Hardly your scene, but you are welcome to come with us.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I thought I’d help with the sewing.”

  The moment Mr. Evans and Annabel disappeared, Mrs. E. covered her face with her hands.

  “It’s not his fault,” she whispered. “It’s her.”

  “He’s just having a midlife crisis.” I’d grown fond of Mrs. E. and couldn’t bear to see her humiliated. “It’s just a phase, honestly,” I said. “He’ll come to his senses.” Although Dad never did—I knew for a fact that Pamela Dingles followed him to Spain. My mother caught them watching a bullfight together.

  “Yes. Yes, of course!” Mrs. Evans suddenly sat up straight. I noted a fierce gleam in her eye. “When did you say the gypsies were being evicted?”

  “Friday. Why?”

  “No one tries to steal my husband from under my nose. No one.”

  Mrs. Evans obviously had some kind of plan and seemed to perk up considerably. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in the mood to talk about Mildred Veysey, Barbara, or the dead woman in Mudge Lane, steering every question around to “when Lenny and I first met.”

  After sewing a total of thirty-four bells onto strips of colored clot
h, I was very glad to finally get to bed.

  Just as I snapped off the light, my mobile phone rang. It was Steve.

  “Just calling to wish my girl good night,” he said. “You sound sexy. Are you in bed?”

  “No. I was cutting my toenails.”

  “I wish I could be there to hold your foot.”

  “Very sweet of you, Steve,” I said. “I’ll save my nail clippings.”

  “Would you?”

  “Do you have any news from Plymouth?”

  “A little. I thought we could meet tomorrow night.”

  I sat bolt upright. “You’ve heard something, haven’t you?”

  “You’re tired. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

  “At least give me a hint,” I said. “I’ll never sleep otherwise.”

  “I don’t sleep anyway.” Steve gave a heavy sigh. “I just can’t stop thinking about you.”

  Stifling a groan, I said, “Thanks. So what did your friend say?”

  “You’re killing me, doll,” said Steve. “All right, I’ll tell you.” He paused, presumably for dramatic effect. “There’s going to be an internal police inquiry.”

  An internal inquiry! The only reason for an internal inquiry was when something was not quite kosher in the Devon and Cornwall Police Constabulary. “Any idea who would want one?”

  “Why don’t you ask your friend, Probes,” said Steve bitterly.

  “I just might.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Steve said. “My man will be getting the toxicology results in the morning. Be interesting to see what comes back.”

  “That would be great,” I enthused. “What time do you want to meet?”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll call you.”

  It seemed a small price to pay for some potentially excellent information.

  17

  “There’s been a break-in!” shrieked Topaz. “I knew that would happen! I told you so!”

  “There is no need to shout,” I said crossly. Being woken up by a hysterical woman on the other end of the phone was not my idea of fun. Squinting at the luminous dials on my alarm radio, I let out a groan. It wasn’t even seven.

  It had taken me hours to get to sleep last night, and when I did, I was haunted by a naked vision of Steve, dressed in Mr. Evans’s bottle-green socks, sitting on a three-legged stool in a gypsy wagon, drinking a cup of tea. “Just calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

  “I told you they were thieves!” Topaz squealed.

  I sat up in bed. “For heaven’s sake, what’s happened?”

  “There’s been a robbery!” Topaz sounded triumphant. “You’d better come quickly if you want the scoop.”

  I scrambled out of bed, dragging off my pajamas with my free hand and reaching for my clothes, which were always neatly folded on the floor next to my bed. Childhood habits of nighttime police raids die hard.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask your new best friend,” I said, pulling on my jeans with one hand.

  “Why would I?” said Topaz. “The church is your area of expertise, isn’t it?”

  I sank onto the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about?”

  “They’ve taken the silver from St. Peter’s the Martyr Church,” said Topaz cheerfully. “Reverend Whittler is frightfully upset.”

  “That’s terrible.” And strange—why would gypsies steal from the church? “I’ve got to get dressed,” I said. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Are you mad?” said Topaz. “I’m not leaving The Grange. The gypsies are bound to target me next.”

  Racing out of my bedroom, I bumped into Annabel on the landing. She was wearing sky-blue pajamas embroidered with pink kittens. “Where are you off to?” she demanded. “Is there a fire?”

  “Emergency church business—” Which I thought a very clever answer because it was true.

  “Church? Ugh.” Annabel pulled a face. “Rather you than me. See you at work. Don’t be late for our Page One update.”

  It was only when I turned into Church Lane and pulled up behind a police panda car that I had a sudden thought. How on earth did Topaz know about the theft at such an early hour? Not only that, but she seemed almost gleeful.

  Carefully locking my Fiat—this time I wasn’t taking any chances—my Topaz musings were cut short by a rustling in the undergrowth.

  D.C. Bond materialized from a large elderflower shrub. He was adjusting his uniform, and judging by the pink flush on his face, I suspected that the young copper had been answering a call of nature. “Morning, Ms. Hill.”

  Naturally, my mind flew to D.C. Bond’s comments on the woman in Mudge Lane. It might be prudent to make friends with this young copper, especially as I would need a mole for the internal police inquiry.

  “It’s Kelvin, isn’t it?” I said with an indulgent smile. “You probably know a very, very good friend of mine. Detective Sergeant Colin Probes?”

  D.C. Bond’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you mean Detective Inspector Probes? He’s been promoted.”

  How could Probes have been promoted so quickly? Again? It just wasn’t fair.

  “I knew that,” I said. “Freudian slip. Old Colin seems to get promoted a lot.”

  D.C. Bond seemed to swell with the inflated authority of the newly anointed. “I don’t remember seeing you at his promotion party?”

  “A journalist never stops working,” I said smoothly. “Colin and I had our own private celebration. I thought I might just pop into the church to say hello to him.”

  “He doesn’t handle theft,” said D.C. Bond suspiciously. “You’re that reporter girl, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Vicky Hill.”

  “We’ve been told not to talk to the press,” Bond said. “Run along now.”

  Run along? I had to be years older than him! “I want to talk to the vicar.” I tried to step round him, but he blocked my path. “Please get out of my way.”

  D.C. Bond gestured to the lych-gate a few yards farther on. The entrance to the churchyard had been transformed into a spider’s web of yellow plastic CRIME SCENE DO NOT ENTER tape. “You can’t go in there without authority.”

  “It looks like you can’t get in there at all,” I said dryly. “I got a phone call from Reverend Whittler to come here quickly.” Not strictly true. “How else would I have heard about the robbery at this time of the morning?”

  “Sorry. Orders are orders.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake . . .”

  Without another thought, I sprinted toward the waist-high stone wall to the right of the lych-gate. Launching into the air, I executed a perfect straddle jump that would have made champion hedge-jumper Dave Randall proud.

  “Oi!” shouted D.C. Bond. “Come back!” but I didn’t, and tore up the brick herringbone pathway toward the church porch.

  Reverend Whittler was in the vestry nursing a balloon of brandy. Dressed in his usual black attire, he was slumped in an oak high-backed chair seated behind a scratched wooden table. The far wall was covered with black cassocks and white surplices dangling from wooden pegs. Scattered around the room were various odds and ends—a chipped headstone, a pair of broken papiermâché angel wings from the Sunday School play, a stack of moth-eaten bibles, and four croquet mallets.

  “I’m afraid my fears were justified, young Vicky,” said Whittler. “The gypsies didn’t waste any time.”

  D.I. Stalk emerged from a walk-in storeroom with a flashlight. “What the hell—pardon me, vicar—are you doing here?” I noted he hadn’t shaved this morning and must have left home in a rush. “I gave D.C. Bond strict instructions—”

  “I’m not here in a professional capacity,” I said, “but as a friend.”

  “How kind, dear,” said Whittler. “They’ve taken everything, Vicky.”

  “No questions!” barked Stalk. “This is a crime scene.”

  “I’m not asking any,” I protested. “But frankly, the more people who know about it, the better. We could offer a
reward on this week’s front page. How about PILFERING AT ST. PETER’S: RECTOR OFFERS REWARD! as a headline?”

  “Would you, Vicky?” Whittler took a large quaff of brandy. “Don’t you think that an excellent idea, Inspector?”

  Stalk grunted an assent but looked cross. “Forensics will be here shortly to dust for fingerprints.”

  “All the altar artifacts have gone.” Whittler took another swig of brandy “The ciborium, both cruets, a silver paten, and, of course, the Trewallyn chalice.”

  “The Trewallyn chalice?”

  “It was given to the church by Sir Hugh’s great grandfather at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It’s embedded with two large rubies and is of tremendous value.”

  How odd that Topaz—supposedly so obsessed with her family heirlooms—hadn’t mentioned it?

  “Distinctive silver like the chalice is relatively easy to recover,” I said—reluctant to add, unless it was to be melted down. “It’s bound to appear on the black market eventually.”

  “What do you know about black markets?” sneered Stalk.

  “I’m a reporter and make it my business to know.” I’d also make it my business to contact Chuffy McSnatch—my godfather, go-between, and Dad’s right-hand man. Chuffy knew everything and everyone on the black market.

  With a start, I realized I couldn’t do that anymore. Having refused to follow Dad’s orders, Chuffy had made it clear that I’d been excommunicated from the family firm, and I was not to contact them ever again. He’d even changed his pager number. Mum had made an unexpected call from a pay phone in San Feliu to try to make me change my mind, but by then it was too late. The damage had been done.

  For months and months I’d pretended to be an orphan, and now it was true. I was on my own.

  To my dismay, I felt my eyes begin to prickle, and a solitary tear ran down my cheek.

  “Don’t cry, Vicky dear,” said Whittler kindly. “Here, take a sip of brandy.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.” I gulped. “It’s so sad. I hate thieves.”

  “God is all seeing and all knowing.” Whittler downed the last of the amber liquid. “The culprits will not go unpunished in the afterlife.”