Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  Barbara shook her head. “She was just lying there in the road. We’d had a few glasses of scrumpy—there were no drunk-driving laws then—fooling around.”

  “You were driving!” I said stunned. “I thought you couldn’t drive.”

  “I’ve never driven since.” Barbara turned to me with a haunted expression. “I swear Mrs. Veysey was already on the ground. I’ve never seen so much jam. There was broken glass everywhere.”

  “Why didn’t you stop? Or at least come forward? People would have understood.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t have understood,” Barbara said bitterly. “They hated the gypsies. Jimmy was already in trouble with the police for spray-painting the Gipping War Memorial. But there was something else . . .” Barbara struggled to compose herself. “Wilf and I were courting . . .”

  “You mean you were dating Wilf?”

  “He was besotted with me—of course I had a lot of admirers back then. Wilf was nice and dependable—boring, in fact—but it was always Jimmy who had my heart,”—she paused—“and always will.”

  “Oh.” I was so shocked, I didn’t know what else to say.

  “We tried to elope,” Barbara said. “I was underage. Sweet sixteen. The police came and got me, dragged me home.”

  No wonder the town had talked! “What happened next?”

  “I didn’t hear from Jimmy again until he found me on Facebook.”

  “Facebook?” This was exactly why I refused to have anything to do with Facebook. It was too easy to track people down on the Internet. Dad always said the invention of caller ID was bad enough, but in his profession, Facebook was the curse of the twenty-first century.

  “I thought you hated modern technology.” In fact, Barbara had kicked up quite a fuss when Pete insisted she have a computer in reception. Barbara only learned to use it after Olive bought a MacBook Pro and started boasting about how often she tweeted on Twitter.

  “Jimmy just turned seventy,” said Barbara. “Milestone birthdays do that to us. You’re young. You have all the time left in the world, but we don’t.” Barbara gave a harsh laugh. “Just when I finally convince Wilf to marry me, Jimmy walks back into my life.”

  “When did all this start up?”

  “Tuesday evening. After the Graying Tigers shindig,” said Barbara. “Jimmy knew I was having a party—thanks to Olive and her silly Twittering—so he waited for everyone to leave and just knocked on my front door. Bold as brass.”

  The same night Carol Pryce died in Mudge Lane, not five minutes away from Barbara’s house. Could history repeat itself?

  “Does Jimmy drive a Land Rover?” I said suddenly.

  “No he does not. He rode his bicycle,” snapped Barbara. “And I know what you’re trying to imply.”

  “It just seems a bit of a coincidence that a second cyclist died in Mudge Lane, that’s all,” I said. “It must have been weird seeing him again after all these years.”

  “Nothing had changed between us. We’ve always had passion,” said Barbara. “I tingle all over when Jimmy touches me. His kisses make me dizzy.” She gave a big sigh. “I can’t expect you to understand. You’re far too young.”

  But I did, only by some cruel trick of nature it was with the wrong man: Steve.

  “If you don’t love Wilf, you can’t marry him!” I said firmly.

  “I don’t want to let Wilf go,” Barbara declared. “It would devastate him.”

  “He’ll get over it and meet someone else.” Wasn’t Sadie Evans the love of Steve Burrows’s life before I came along? “Believe me, there are plenty of eager widows in Gipping.”

  “Jimmy and I are finished.”

  “But I thought—?”

  My head was beginning to spin with all of Barbara’s drama. One moment she hated Jimmy, the next she didn’t. Frankly, I wasn’t sure why she was telling me all this, but one thing I did know was that I would never end up like Barbara. What a mess! Surely at her age she should have worked all this love stuff out by now?

  “Not now. Not after this.” Barbara gestured to the shoe. “That shoe is mine.”

  “And the bicycle bell?”

  “He took it as a—souvenir—don’t ask me why. We were young and stupid,” Barbara cried. “Oh Vicky! There was so much blood!” She gave a violent shudder at the memory. “When Mrs. Veysey came off her bike, she fell onto the broken jam bottles. A glass shard had gone into her neck. Right here.” Barbara pointed to her carotid artery. “It was horrible. Horrible.”

  With a sickening jolt, I realized that the stain on Barbara’s white shoe was not terra-cotta clay at all but blood and strawberry jam.

  “I hate to ask you this, but what part of Mrs. Veysey did you actually run over?”

  “I think it was her . . . her . . . legs.”

  “You didn’t see her fall off her bicycle?”

  “No. Why?”

  “What about the coroner report?” I said suddenly. Forensic Detectives was my favorite television show, especially when old cases were solved and convicted people proven to be innocent after all. “Maybe Mrs. Veysey had a seizure or a heart attack? You said yourself she was already lying in the road.”

  “Do you think so? That would make me feel so much better,” Barbara said, brightening, but then she slumped over and her face crumpled. “Jimmy took my shoes and promised he would throw them away,” she moaned. “He broke his promise.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “What is the point of sending the shoebox to you at all? Why not just give it to you in person?” Naturally, I didn’t mention the missing press cutting. “And why mark the box confidential?”

  “Confidential?” Barbara frowned and picked up the floral wrapping paper. “It’s not marked ‘confidential.’”

  “I must have been thinking of something else,” I mumbled. “And where’s the other shoe? Why send only one?”

  “Oh.” Barbara frowned. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”

  I suddenly thought of Ruby and Dora. “How do you know that it was Jimmy who sent the shoe at all?” I said adding slyly, “Was there a note?”

  “No,” said Barbara, brightening up once more, only to plunge back into gloom a second later. “But if he didn’t, then he must have told his wife.” She grabbed my arm. “What if she blackmails me? Threatens to tell Wilf?”

  This was distinctly possible. Barbara had really gotten herself into a mess.

  There was a loud knock on the door. Barbara swept the shoe, box, and wrappings off and under the table.

  Olive peeked in, her face flushed with excitement. “The gypsies have done it again!” she cried. “This time they’ve robbed The Grange!”

  30

  Annabel was in reception fairly bouncing with glee. “Her ladyship is distraught,” she said. “The police are at The Grange right this second!”

  “What happened?”

  “Last night someone smashed the window in the heirloom room and stole a ton of silver,” gushed Annabel. “Of course, I couldn’t hear anything because I was sleeping in the attic.”

  “Those would be the servants’ quarters,” chimed in Olive. “I’m surprised her ladyship put you up there. Doesn’t The Grange have twelve bedrooms?”

  Annabel grunted. “That explains the lumpy bed. Really. The servants’ quarters?”

  “I wonder how the burglars got past her ladyship’s high-tech security system,” I said dryly, but the sarcasm seemed to be lost on Annabel.

  “They were professionals, obviously.”

  “The gypsies did it, didn’t they?” Olive declared. “They’ll have to be evicted now.”

  “That’s right,” shouted Barbara from behind the counter. “Blame them for everything, why don’t you!”

  It didn’t take a brain surgeon to work out that Topaz was up to her tricks again, and she’d managed to fool Annabel into the bargain. The whole thing was a joke, and if Topaz didn’t watch out, she would find herself in serious hot water for wasting police time.

>   “I hope there will still be a reward,” said Olive. “Ronnie has already started searching on his rounds, looking in all the dustbins for clues.”

  “The silver would hardly be hidden in a dustbin,” said Annabel with scorn.

  “You’d be surprised what people throw away,” Olive sniffed. “Ronnie is always bringing home bits and pieces.”

  “I’ll be going to Plymouth today, of course.” Annabel flapped a piece of paper in my direction. “This is a detailed list of the missing silver items. I need to make sure they appear on the front page.”

  “You’re going to Plymouth?” Normally I would be envious of Annabel going to the printers in Plymouth with Wilf and Pete, but not today. Annabel’s absence would give me the perfect opportunity to grill Topaz alone.

  “I almost forgot, Vicky—Pete needs the Trenfold obit pronto. Excuse me, I have a ton of stuff to do.” Annabel headed for the door that led to upstairs, muttering, “It’s so exciting being me.”

  Ten minutes later, Pete and Annabel were ensconced behind closed doors in his office, and I was tackling Gladys Trenfold’s obituary.

  Now that I realized that Wilf, too, had written the obituaries—and risen through the ranks to become the editor—my feelings toward my job had changed.

  I was proud of ON THE CEMETERY CIRCUIT WITH VICKY! and even got fan letters. I always liked to treat my subjects with respect and made sure their lives sounded interesting and meaningful. I wanted to make sure each life counted for something. After all, what I wrote was recorded for all time.

  I made a few phone calls to various Gipping towns-folk, who seemed to enjoy telling me how much money Gladys lost on snail racing and about her obsession with the QVC shopping channel on TV. Apparently she’d even worked for the post office for a short time before getting fired.

  I was surprised to learn that twenty years ago, Bill had been charged with receiving stolen goods after two of Gladys’s sprees in Debenhams department store in Plymouth. As Dad says, “once a thief, always a thief.”

  Before I could dwell further on Bill Trenfold’s poor character, Pete’s door flew open, and Annabel emerged looking flushed and happy.

  “Thank God there is justice in this world,” she declared. “Pete’s given the okay for the camera crew tomorrow to come to The Grange.”

  I was shocked. “The eviction is going ahead? What about the Morris Dance-a-thon?”

  “My people aren’t coming about the eviction, silly,” said Annabel. “They’re interested in the stolen silver.”

  “Why?”

  “Several of the items were priceless,” Annabel said. “Those Georgian tea urns for example. Her ladyship said they were given to one of her ancestors by King George III when he was passing through Gipping.”

  Annabel adds, “They were real beauties, weren’t they?”

  “Were they?” I said. “I didn’t notice.”

  “Luckily, I took a photograph of the urns with my iPhone,” said Annabel. “Pete said he’s going to put it on the front page. It’ll get a lot of international attention.”

  “You think the urns have gone overseas already?” I scoffed. “How?”

  “Everything’s global these days,” said Annabel. “I’ve already uploaded the photographs on my Facebook page and tweeted three times this morning.”

  “But if you claim the gypsies stole it, why all the bother with the Facebook-Twitter thing?”

  “Oh, it’s not a bother.” Annabel smiled. It was one of her calculating smiles that I had come to know so well. She was up to something and I had a sneaking suspicion it might have something to do with me. “I’m afraid I can’t say much at this present time.”

  “Is that you, Vicky!” yelled Pete through his open door. “Where’s the Trenfold piece?”

  “Coming!” I quickly printed off the document and walked into his office, closing the door behind me.

  Pete looked up sharply. “I don’t like my door closed.”

  “I just wanted to express my concern that Annabel might be on a wild-goose chase with this silver theft nonsense,” I said, adding with an indulgent chuckle, “We don’t want a repetition of what happened the last time.”

  “I’m perfectly aware of the balls-up that Annabel made last time,” said Pete. “But she’s got some pretty firm evidence. Why don’t you just concentrate on your job and let me decide. I’m the chief reporter.”

  “I’m glad you brought my job up,” I said jovially, “because I’ve got a name for the woman who drowned in Mudge Lane.”

  A flicker of alarm crossed Pete’s face before he focused on loading papers into his leather briefcase. “Not our turf anymore. Not our problem.”

  Not our problem? “It was Carol Pryce,” I plunged on. “Spelled with a y. One of the gypsies said he’d help make some discreet inquiries.”

  “Goddamit, Vicky,” shouted Pete. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Stay out of this!”

  “Don’t you care if the Bugle gets the scoop?” If there was one newspaper that Pete hated in the entire world, it was the trashy Plymouth Bugle.

  “There is no scoop.”

  “With all due respect, as the official funeral reporter, I can’t stay out of it. Carol Pryce died within our reader circulation area and I found the body!” I had a sudden thought. “In fact, I’m happy to talk to Wilf about this. I know he’ll understand how I feel since he once did my job.”

  “Keep Wilf out of it.” Pete locked his briefcase with a snap and headed for the door.

  “Did you know that his mother died in Mudge Lane, too?” I said. “That road is a death trap for cyclists. The public should be warned!”

  Pete’s eyes met mine. I braced myself for another torrent of abuse, but Pete just gave a heavy sigh. “You’re a good reporter, Vicky,” he said quietly. “But I’m asking you, just this once, to let this one go. Now get out of my way.”

  I stepped aside and let Pete pass.

  I’d never received a compliment from Pete before, but far from letting things go, I was determined to dig deeper. After all, isn’t that what good reporters do?

  I wasn’t remotely bothered about the missing silver and Topaz’s silly game. If Annabel had fallen for it, she deserved to have egg on her face. But I was bothered by Pete’s reaction. It just wasn’t like him at all. But wait! Pete was a notorious womanizer, and Mudge Lane was just the kind of place he’d pick for a rendezvous. Perhaps he’d borrowed the Land Rover from a friend?

  Exasperated, I knew that wasn’t it. And then I had an epiphany.

  Although the two hit-and-run accidents were decades apart, they had one common denominator.

  Gypsies.

  31

  At The Grange, preparations for tomorrow’s Morris Dance-a-thon were already underway.

  As I drove up the drive, the parkland on my left was bustling with activity. Tents of all shapes and sizes were going up; an arena was pegged out and strung with colored bunting. “Testing, testing, one two, three” erupted from Barry Fir’s public address system, accompanied by the usual ear-splitting screeches and feedback.

  Bleachers, in the form of rows of rectangular bales of straw, were placed in tiers up the grassy bank that rose to a majestic stone balustrade, spanning the width of the main house.

  I pulled over to let a large tractor-trailer full of Boy Scouts go by and gave Simon Mears a cheerful wave. This was followed by his wife Nicola’s minivan jammed with Brownies all eager to lend a hand.

  The sky was blue. The sun shone. Perhaps God would smile on tomorrow’s big event, and all would be well.

  Jimmy Kitchen cycled toward me with an empty gunnysack slung around his shoulders. I made a mental note to tell Barbara to remind her boyfriend that poaching was illegal and that this particular landowner would not hesitate using her twelve-bore shotgun.

  For some reason I felt awkward, wondering how close knit the “tribe” was and if Noah might have mentioned our own little tryst from the night before.

  I waited for him to draw alon
gside, anxious to hear his thoughts on the recent silver scandal, noting that, unlike Barbara, he didn’t look the worse for wear. I couldn’t help wondering what happened after I left them to it.

  “Did you hear about the robbery last night?”

  “They’re trying to pin that one on us, too,” snorted Jimmy with disbelief. “I insisted the cops search our wagons.”

  “That was a good idea,” I said. “Are the cops still there now?” I did not want to bump into Stalk.

  “No. They’ve gone,” said Jimmy. “We’ll be moving on next week.”

  “What about Belcher Pike’s soul?”

  “It’s his decision, not ours.” Jimmy gestured to the shouting and banging going on around us. “This place is like a three-ringed circus. We’re accused of theft and fly-tipping. It’s no place for a dying man.” Jimmy touched his forelock. “Best get on.”

  News of their departure filled me with mixed feelings. Apart from the obvious fact that I would not have to deal with Belcher Pike’s funeral, I realized this meant Noah would be moving on, too, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  Thoughts of Noah were soon forgotten when I pulled into the rear of The Grange. Jimmy had been mistaken about the police being gone—D.I. Probes’s ridiculously small Smart car was dwarfed next to Topaz’s Ford Capri.

  As Topaz’s very distant cousin, it stood to reason that she’d have involved Probes in recovering the family heirlooms. Of course, he and I were the only two people who knew of Topaz’s double life.

  I found the back door unlocked and ajar—defeating the purpose of all Topaz’s new warning signs.

  Presumably, Topaz was in her “suite of rooms.” I took the stairs up to the first floor, pausing to admire the stained glass window depicting the family motto—HOMO PROPONIT SED DEUS DISPONIT—“Man proposes, God disposes.” A faint bark greeted my footsteps and, looking up, I saw Slipper wagging her tail.

  A door, set into the wooden partition—custom-made to seal off the upper floor during Sir Hugh and Lady Clarissa Trewallyn’s time—stood open. With Slipper trailing behind me, I stepped through into a labyrinth of long cavernous corridors.