Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Those ruddy gypsies will steal anything not bolted down,” said Stalk grimly, echoing Whittler’s words of only yesterday. “I’ve already given orders to search their wagons this morning. But don’t be surprised if they’ve already scarpered. They could be halfway to China by now.”

  Hardly, I thought. The VW camper was ancient, and those horse-drawn wagons weren’t exactly fleet of foot.

  Perhaps I’d been wrong about gypsies and silver—but why rob from the church, especially since Topaz had ordered the eviction. Wouldn’t the gypsies have stolen from her, since she lived so conveniently on their doorstep?

  Stalk’s phone rang and shattered the unhappy silence in the vestry.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” said Whittler. “There are no mobile phones allowed in the Lord’s house.”

  Stalk scowled and walked into the nave, but we could hear his voice ricocheting around the cathedral roof. “What do you mean, they can’t get through the lych-gate?” he boomed. “Goddamit. Do I have to do everything myself?”

  Stalk reappeared in the doorway. “Do you have any scissors, vicar?”

  The moment the odious Stalk was out of earshot, I retrieved my reporter notepad and a pencil from my safari-jacket pocket. “We’ve got a Page One meeting today,” I said. “I’d like to take down some details. It was Topaz—I mean, her ladyship, who tipped me off this morning. Any idea how she could have known?”

  Whittler poured the last dregs of brandy into the cut-glass balloon. “Holy Communion is at six on Thursdays.”

  “Excuse me?” I had to pinch the inside of my leg. “Are you saying that her ladyship actually came to church this morning?”

  “That’s right. A lot of the farming folk drive to Taunton for the livestock market.”

  “Her ladyship isn’t a farmer,” I pointed out.

  “Ah, but Lady Clarissa, her ladyship’s aunt—a Turberville-Spat—was always a regular churchgoer. Of course, Sir Hugh Trewallyn never bothered when he was alive, but it’s wonderful to have a Spat back in the congregation again.”

  I had to hand it to Topaz. When she was assuming the role of a different character, she did her best to be authentic. Wait! What was I saying! Of course she was authentic. She was playing herself.

  “Her ladyship called me the night before, offering to come early and help lay out the artifacts,” said Whittler. “She arrived shortly after I discovered the cupboard was empty. Of course we had to cancel the service.” He groaned with despair, adding, “How could I conduct Holy Communion without the sacred vessels?”

  I walked over to the storage cupboard and inspected the door handle. “It doesn’t look like this was a forced entry.”

  “There wouldn’t be.” Whittler’s voice sounded defiant. “I trust my parishioners. They would never steal from the church.”

  I looked inside. The cupboard smelled musty. Apart from one empty shelf—presumably where Whittler’s “sacred vessels” had been stored—the place was a chaotic mess of pamphlets, Parish newsletters, and candle stumps.

  I spotted a metal cash box labeled TREWALLYN TRIO, tucked behind a framed picture of Saint Peter. “What about money?”

  “I keep very little here. Each week I pay the cash directly into the church bank account,” he said. “Did you post the check to Windows of Wonder?”

  I felt my face redden. The envelope was burning a hole in my pocket.

  “You really should install a safe in that cupboard,” I muttered.

  “You are a suspicious young lady.” I noted Whittler’s eyes were beginning to glitter, and his usual sallow complexion had turned a little pink. “Goodness. I’m beginning to feel a little light-headed. Shall we walk to the rectory and have a cup of tea?”

  Despite being absolutely parched and starving, I had to turn Whittler’s offer down. En route to the office, I posted Whittler’s envelope in the first pillar box I found.

  This morning’s unusual robbery, the dead woman in Mudge Lane, the missing Land Rover, the stolen shoebox, and Barbara’s uncharacteristic absence from work all suggested something was definitely up.

  There was no way I could risk missing a minute of this morning’s Page One update meeting.

  18

  “You can’t do that! It’s just not fair.” Annabel stamped her foot and continued to pace back and forth in front of Pete’s desk.

  The atmosphere in Pete’s office sizzled with tension as what had started as a normal Page One update had dissolved into Annabel having an enormous wobbly.

  “If you don’t like it, take it up with Wilf,” snapped Pete.

  “This is the second time I’ll have canceled the camera crew,” she cried. “I’ll never be taken seriously again!”

  “Get over yourself.” Tony wore a huge grin on his face and was practically bouncing with glee on the tartan two-seater. He was clearly enjoying the show.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Annabel.

  Edward and I were also squashed onto the sofa, but whereas he calmly leafed through his reporter notepad, I was becoming increasingly nervous about the prospect of pushing Pete’s temper over the top.

  Tucked inside my safari-jacket inner pocket was Dora’s report, which I was having second thoughts about giving to Pete in his current mood.

  “Her ladyship will go ballistic when she finds out, won’t she, Vicky?” Annabel raged on. “You were there. You saw her fire that gun.”

  “It was an accident,” I pointed out. “But, yes, I don’t think she’ll be happy.” And boy, was I glad to not be the bearer of that bit of news.

  “Her ladyship has already been informed by the police,” said Pete. “The eviction is off, and that’s final. Do you understand?”

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” Annabel persisted. “Vicky? Come on. What do you think? Really.”

  Although I was relieved that Annabel’s debut as anchorwoman for Westward TV had been canceled, I, too, was confused.

  “Has it been called off because the gypsies are legally entitled to stay at The Grange,” I asked gingerly, “or because they’re suspects in the robbery at the church and have been told they can’t leave town?”

  “Who cares? Pete, please listen to me.” Annabel flicked her auburn Nice ’n Easy tresses and slithered onto the edge of his desk. As she leaned toward him, he got an eyeful of cleavage whereas we were rewarded with the rear view—the Y of a lilac-colored thong peeping above the waistband of her low-rider jeans.

  “Don’t you understand that having a camera crew here with the police is good television?” Annabel pleaded. “We could film them searching the caravans and everything.”

  “There will be no searching of caravans,” Pete said coldly. “Now get off my desk and go and sit down.”

  Annabel childishly flung her pencil across the room and flounced back to the sofa.

  “Conducting a search, a televised search, would throw up all sorts of legal issues,” said Edward.

  “But they’re thieves!” shrieked Annabel. “If they didn’t steal them, who did?”

  “Gypsies are very superstitious,” said Edward. “They’d never steal holy artifacts from a church, especially at night.”

  “The Swamp Dogs?” I suggested, but even I knew their parents were atheists and would never set foot in a church.

  “No,” said Annabel slowly, and turned to look straight at me. “My instincts tell me this could be the work of a professional thief.”

  “Don’t start that The-Fog-is-in-Gipping nonsense again, Annabel,” warned Pete. “I won’t save your job next time.”

  My heart began to pound in my chest. I had to steer the subject away from Dad.

  “Take a look at this.” I handed Dora’s envelope over to Pete. “Dora is on the National Gypsy Council,” I said, “and believe me, she knows her rights.”

  “The woman with the Winnebago?” said Annabel with a sneer. “Have you any idea how expensive those things are to buy? I bet she didn’t get the money from telling fortunes!”

  Pete pulled o
ut the newsletter. “Romany Ramblings?”

  “It’s for gypsies and travelers,” I said. “Dora has an office set up in her Winnebago with a printer and a scanner. She said a lot of the younger folk have computers and iPhones so can get it online.”

  Annabel hurried around to Pete and snatched it out of his hands. “God. Listen to this. It says here that the Queen awarded an MBE to a gypsy called Gloria Buckley. I quote, ‘We are part of the human race, a microcosm, and there is good and bad in our community as there is everywhere else.’ Blah-blah-blah. Apparently, they’re organic conservationists—”

  “Let me see that,” said Tony.

  Annabel tossed the publication onto his lap. “Be my guest.”

  Tony skimmed the contents. “I don’t like them any more than you do, but last night I sneaked up to The Grange to take some photographs of all that rubbish behind the pigsty—”

  “Don’t tell me they’re using the recycling bins?” scoffed Annabel.

  “They sure are. Couldn’t believe my eyes. The stuff that couldn’t fit had been sorted into neat piles. Scrap metal. Paper. Even cardboard boxes had been broken down,” said Tony incredulously.

  “I don’t care about recycling or about Belcher Pike!” Pete slammed his hand down on his desk. “Right now all I care about is Page One. We’ve got no bloody lead story!”

  “How about a reward for the missing silver?” Annabel and I chorused, then looked at each other with distaste.

  “I’m the one who has the relationship with Lady Ethel, and it was the Trewallyn chalice that was stolen,” said Annabel.

  “And the artifacts,” I said. “The church is my area of expertise.”

  Pete drummed his fingers on his desk. “What else have we got?”

  “But that’s a great lead!” said Annabel.

  “How about a day-in-the-life of Phil Burrows?” I suggested. “What’s it like for him to be dancing with the Turpin Terrors instead of the Gipping Ranids?”

  “You won’t make yourself popular,” said Tony. “No one will care.”

  “What’s going on with ‘Motorist Menace of the Week’?” said Pete. “Any poor bugger been caught by Stalk for drunk driving?”

  “I was,” I said. “Almost.”

  “Speaking about Mudge Lane,” said Edward. “When I bumped into Coroner Cripps at the petrol station this morning, he told me they still had no ID on the woman who died and that she had been moved to Plymouth.”

  “That’s strange,” said Annabel.

  My stomach clenched. Half of me didn’t want anyone to know about this, but the other half wanted to see Pete’s reaction.

  “I already told you,” said Pete. “It’s not our problem.”

  “Not our problem?” Edward rarely raised his voice.

  We all looked at one another, stunned. Since when did Pete not seize the chance to stir up trouble with his controversial front-page scoops? His cavalier attitude toward the stolen silver and his blatant indifference to a dead woman were seriously worrying. What was wrong with him?

  “With all due respect,” Edward began, “I feel—”

  “If you’ve got any complaints, take it up with Wilf,” Pete snapped. “And Vicky, Stalk has already called me this morning to complain about your behavior at the church. Apparently you disobeyed a police officer.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  As we were dismissed, Edward asked Pete for a quiet word but was bundled out and had the door slammed in his face.

  The four of us stood quietly shocked in the reporter room. “He’s losing it,” said Tony.

  “Don’t take any notice of him,” said Annabel. “I think he’s having problems at home.” Grabbing her favorite Mulberry bag off her desk, she looked directly at me. “I’m off to The Grange to talk to her ladyship. I think she should know there could be an international thief in the area.”

  “Good idea,” I said mildly.

  Recalling that Dora was going to be in the market square this morning, I decided to take her up on her offer of telling my fortune after all. Perhaps she could enlighten me on Annabel’s plans.

  I’d also keep my eyes peeled for a Land Rover with a safari roof rack and overhead lighting. Thursdays at Gipping market often attracted a different kind of crowd.

  Pete’s insistence that the dead woman was not our problem had only made me determined to make it mine.

  I had no intention of letting sleeping dogs lie.

  19

  I was relieved to find Barbara back at work.

  When I’d arrived earlier this morning, the office was still locked up and the front door blinds down. I’d had to let myself in via the side entrance and discovered everyone else had done so, too.

  The shutters to Barbara’s beloved street-side show window were wide open, and only her ample rear—clothed in a poppy-print skirt—strong calves, and sturdy Birkenstocks protruded from the aperture.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” I said, realizing this was true. “You won’t believe what’s been going on. We’ve had a weird drowning in Mudge Lane, someone has stolen the church silver, and we’ve got gypsies at The Grange.”

  Barbara edged backward out of the opening and stood up. Her face was pale. Large dark circles lay beneath her normally inquisitive eyes, which today seemed dull and listless. Her hair, although scraped back into its customary bun, looked disheveled, with loose tendrils escaping from their pins.

  “Are you feeling any better?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Barbara. “Just look what that wretched Olive has done to my window!”

  I peered over Barbara’s shoulder and gave a gasp of dismay.

  Dead center was a life-sized standee of Phil Burrows dressed as an action hero in white trousers, a black T-shirt and Terminator sunglasses. A slogan said I AM BACK!

  On Phil’s right stood Beryl—the creepy horse mascot with the highwayman mask. On his left was another life-sized standee of Phil Burrows dressed as a Turpin Terror in a red tatter three-quarter coat, black breeches, a white cravat, a tricorn hat, and a highwayman mask. Along the base of the window, various Turpin Terror souvenirs had been arranged in a neat row—tricorn hats, mugs, key rings, and scarves.

  Tucked in the rear left-hand corner stood the Gipping Ranids mascot—a bright-green man-sized frog, with huge webbed feet, bulbous eyes, and a goofy smile. The banner GIPPING RANIDS RULE! was lying on the ground and partially hidden by carefully placed musical instruments—an accordion, pipes, tabors, a concertina, and two fiddles—in a symmetrical design. Olive was always one for straight lines.

  “How could you let her do this?” Barbara’s voice was heavy with accusation. “No one is allowed to touch my window displays!”

  “I thought no one could,” I said. “Don’t you have the only key?”

  “The padlock was snapped off with wire clippers,” Barbara said. “And we know who always keeps a pair of those in his dustcart cab: Olive’s ghastly boyfriend.”

  “In fairness to Olive, she was put on the spot,” I protested. “I was here when Phil Burrows came in yesterday, and he demanded she put all his things in the front of the window; otherwise, he’d pull out of Saturday’s event. We tried to find you—”

  “And what am I supposed to tell the Ranids?” said Barbara. “Jack Webster will have a fit. He’s the squire this year, and you know what his temper is like.”

  “Can’t we just change the mascots around?”

  “You don’t just change it around,” said Barbara with scorn. “There is skill involved.” She marched over to the nook and drew back the star-spangled curtain to reveal a pile of Ranid-themed souvenirs, posters, and flags. “Where am I supposed to put all these?”

  “There’s space—”

  “Oh, to hell with it,” said Barbara, throwing up her hands. “I don’t have time for all this.” She stormed over to the counter, yanked up the flap, and let it fall behind her with a deafening crash. “Let Olive take the blame. I don’t care.”

  This was so unlike
Barbara. I’d never seen her so upset. Clearly, she must be suffering from pre-wedding nerves, and yesterday’s migraine was evidence of that. Mum often said that when something major was bothering Dad, it was the little things—overcooking the potatoes, losing a sock—that used to send him off the deep end.

  “Where is Olive now?” I asked.

  “God knows.” Barbara gestured to the neat stacks of paperwork and heaps of colored ribbons along the counter. “She was supposed to have sorted all this out. I’m not going to her hen party now. She can stuff it.”

  “Don’t be silly. Olive would be terribly hurt. She’s been planning it for ages.”

  Good grief. This was worse than being at school. I looked over to the front door. Speak of the devil. “Here comes Olive now.”

  “Good. I’ll give her a piece of my mind.”

  Olive nudged the door open with her shoulder and walked in cradling a small brown paper bag in her hands. Barbara and I immediately recoiled. There was the most terrible stench.

  “You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen,” enthused Olive, oblivious to Barbara covering her nose. “A gypsy fortune-teller and healer. Her name is Madame Dora.”

  “Was she any good?” I said.

  Olive gently set the brown bag down on the counter and retrieved a small business card from her cream hand-knitted cardigan pocket. Today she wore a yellow butterfly barrette in her sleek bobbed hair. “Barbara, this is for you. I thought she might be able to help your Wilf with his bad eye.”

  Barbara pinched her nose and spoke. “No, thank you,” she said in a nasal voice. “It’s not bad. He only has one eye.”

  “What’s in that bag?” I said.

  “Whatever it is, stinks,” muttered Barbara.

  “It’s goose dung,” Olive said proudly. “Collected by the light of a new moon.”

  Barbara gave a snort. “Oh please!”

  “It’s a cure for Ronnie’s baldness. I have to keep the dung moist until midnight. Then, when the clock strikes twelve, I have to smear it over Ronnie’s head.”