Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “We’ve never paid before,” chimed in Lily.

  Without even waiting for an answer, which was just as well, since I didn’t have one, Bernard floored his Ford Kia, sending a torrent of muddy water over an entire family, who had been walking by on foot.

  It looked like today was off to a bad start.

  As my Fiat edged closer to Robin, my stomach gave a flutter of anticipation. He was handsome in that chiseled, man-cologne advertisement kind of way, but—as I’d found out—not a very nice person and always looking for ways to make a profit.

  Robin peered into my open car window. “Five pounds. Cash only, please.” He gave a start of recognition. “Vicky! Where’s that little moped of yours?”

  “I bought a car.”

  “You should have told me,” he said. “For a small fee, I would have happily helped you find a bargain.”

  “Very kind. I hope you’re not going to charge me—as in the press.” I pointed to the sign on my dashboard. “And since when have people had to pay for parking around here?”

  Robin shrugged. “I’m just following her ladyship’s orders.”

  It didn’t surprise me that Topaz had found another way to make money, but I was surprised that Robin had agreed to help. I made a mental note to ask her. I was beginning to have a very long list of questions for Topaz Potter.

  Robin directed me to take another gate farther up the drive between a marquee and a bank of blue Port-a-loos to the VIP entrance.

  I was relieved. As I feared, the field allocated for the public was already a quagmire and claiming a few victims. I could make out four figures in matching hoodies pushing cars out of deep ruts, and the day was still young.

  The drizzle stopped, and a watery sun peeped through the clouds. I was pleased to see that the showground looked really professional, with a plethora of colored flags and bunting.

  A rousing sound of military music drifted on the summer breeze. Barry Fir’s cover band—Hogmeat Harris and the Wonderguts—had swapped their leather and fake tattoos for the scarlet, gold-buttoned jackets and white trousers of a traditional brass band. Accompanied by several members from St. Peter’s Church Youth Group, the band was seated on a raised covered podium and sounded surprisingly good as they belted out “Coronation Bells.”

  Set above the showground at the top of the bank adjacent to The Grange’s vast patio stood Mary Berry’s traction engine. Instinctively, I searched for Steve’s ambulance and was reassured to see his white vehicle marked with a red cross and parked next to the bottled-jam boil-off tent—no doubt needing to be close to the unpredictable portable gas range used for this highly volatile competition.

  Steve emerged from his ambulance and was mobbed by two young teenage girls. He made them laugh, and I felt ashamed. I realized I’d judged Steve because of the size of his body, not the size of his heart.

  As I drove on by, I noted that the makeshift bleachers were already filling up with spectators.

  The Devon Morris teams—or sides, to use the correct term—were assembled in brightly colored groups, headed up by mascots ranging from dragons and rams to dogs and lions. Some dancers were warming up, tossing sticks back and forth. Others were doing squats and lunges. A banner listed the participants:

  GIPPING RANIDS, TARKA MORRIS MEN, BLACKAWTON MORRIS, HARBERTON NAVY, DARTMOOR BORDER MORRIS, GRIMSPOUND BORDER, PLYMOUTH MORRIS MEN, DARTING-TON MORRIS MEN, AND A SPECIAL GUEST APPEARANCE BY PHIL BURROWS OF THE TURPIN TERRORS!

  The official Dance-a-thon wasn’t due to start until eleven and was expected to run for at least six hours. There were two main categories—Side and Individual. Sponsors could rout for a side or an individual and had been given specific colored ribbons to show their support when they originally signed up. A dropped stick or handkerchief merited instant disqualification even if the dancer could have kept on going all night.

  I found a good parking spot far beyond the Port-a-loos, which backed onto a small copse and next to another five-bar gate that would afford me a quick exit. The gate was padlocked, but locks had never deterred me.

  Donning my Wellingtons, I started back toward the arena when I heard the sound of an angry voice coming from behind the Port-a-loos. Creeping around the side, I went to eavesdrop.

  To my astonishment, I found Jimmy Kitchen pinning one of the Gipping Ranids against a tree. I could only hear snatches of conversation but managed to catch “pillar box,” “church window,” and “curse.”

  Jimmy stepped aside to reveal Bill Trenfold!

  I couldn’t believe it. What could Bill Trenfold and Jimmy Kitchen possibly have in common? I knew I had witnessed something significant but didn’t know what. However, I intended to find out.

  I darted back to the front of the Port-a-loos just as Jimmy walked past, followed by a very worried-looking postman.

  I hastened to join him. “Hi, Bill,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” he mumbled. “Excuse me but I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Bill set off at quite a fast pace, which was surprising, given his bandy legs. I had to hurry to keep up.

  “What’s all this nonsense about a pillar box and being cursed?” It was a wild stab in the dark, but as Mum says, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  Bill stopped dead. He turned pale, which against his green uniform gave him a ghoulish pallor. “Lawd have mercy,” he whispered. “How did you find out?”

  “It was obvious.” I had no real idea what he was up to, but his reaction indicated I was on the right track.

  Bill grabbed my arm, clearly frightened. “I only left them open an hour or two, I swear to God. That’s all I did. Nothing else.”

  “Calling all competitors! Calling all competitors!” blasted the public address system. “The Morris Dance-a-thon will be underway in five minutes. Five minutes!”

  “You’d better go.” I’d hunt Bill down later. “Good luck! Break a leg!”

  Bill scuttled off, leaving me with a puzzle.

  Dad says to look at what a man does for a living, what use he can be, and what kind of Achilles heel or secret he may have. Bill Trenfold was a post office worker who, by all accounts and purposes, was heavily in debt. If there was a service he could offer the gypsies, what could it possibly be? What could he have “only left open an hour or two?”

  Did it have something to do with the new collection times? Had the pillar boxes been deliberately left open? And why mention the church window?

  One way or another, I was determined to find out.

  36

  A cacophony of feedback and screeches from the public address system was followed by an eruption of percussion instruments and the jingle of a trillion bells. The Morris Dance-a-thon had begun.

  I headed toward the thick wall of people pressed against the ropes, applauding and cheering on the competitors.

  Apart from Phil Burrows, who was standing on a special raised podium, all I could see were a series of leaping hats and waving handkerchiefs. Every so often the top hats and blackened faces of the Grimspound Border Morris dancers leapt into my line of vision, but frankly, after ten minutes I began to feel bored. Tony was welcome to report on this for the next six hours.

  The snag was that I still wanted to talk to Steve about the sodium hydroxide but since I hadn’t finished questioning Bill, I daren’t leave this spot in case he darted off.

  Reverend Whittler materialized by my side. “Vicky, a word?”

  Whittler’s face was etched with worry. What’s wrong?” I said.

  “Did you post that letter?”

  I was filled with a ghastly premonition. “Of course,” I said. “Why?”

  “Where?”

  “At the post office.” I felt terrible lying to a man of God but just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that not only had I forgotten but when I had remembered, I’d dropped it in a pillar box.

  Whittler gave me a piercing stare. “Straight after Glady
s Trenfold’s funeral?”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye. “Yes.”

  Whittler wrung his hands. “Windows of Wonder has not received the check. They have refused to start work on Monday.”

  “I only posted the envelope on Wednesday,” I said. “Maybe give it a few more days?”

  “It had a first-class stamp.” Whittler shook his head. “It should have arrived yesterday at the very latest. What if it’s lost?”

  Or stolen? Good grief! I had a startling epiphany. Hadn’t I heard Jimmy say “church window” and “pillar box”? What would he have to do with either? It was obvious. The gypsies were in cahoots with Bill Trenfold. Somehow they had persuaded him to be an accessory to the crime. Bill Trenfold wasn’t being forgetful about leaving the post boxes unlocked. He was doing it deliberately!

  “What am I going to do?” said Whittler. It would certainly cause a scandal of almost Enron-like proportions in this community. I’d lost count of the number of times Mrs. Evans had complained about donating money to the Trewallyn Trio and her concerns about Reverend Whittler’s capabilities.

  “Get the bank to trace the check when it turns up.” And what was the betting that the payee would have a different name!

  “That’s far too late,” groaned Whittler. “What if we never get the money back?”

  But I was only half listening. I wasn’t my father’s daughter for nothing. I knew all about check washing.

  It was actually quite a simple process and could be done with household chemicals like acetone or bleach, even paint thinner. After erasing the payee, one simply wrote in the name needed, adjusted the amount, and deposited the check. A fake ID would secure a new bank account. With central banking and overseas call centers being the norm, by the time a rogue check was traced, it was too late. Money would have been withdrawn, the account closed, and the scam team moved on to pastures new. It was sheer genius. With Dora’s flashy Winnebago, it was obvious that the actual process happened in there. What a scoop!

  “I don’t know why you are smiling,” Whittler scolded. “This is very serious.”

  “I’m smiling because I’m quite sure there is nothing for you to worry about,” I said. “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course, Vicky dear.”

  “Can you stall them?”

  Whittler brightened a little. “I’ll go and phone them right this minute.”

  As he hurried off, my spirits fell. Did this mean that Noah was embroiled in the scam, too? What was I to do? Go to the police? Had I decided to stay and work in the family business, wouldn’t I be doing exactly what Noah was doing now?

  Once again, I saw how easily love could get in the way of my career. What a horrible dilemma!

  A sudden blast of a car horn brought me back to reality. A Westward TV white Ford Transit 2.4 TDCi with the usual rooftop antennas and satellite nosed through the crowd.

  My dilemma was forgotten as I was consumed with a horrible gnawing feeling of envy. Annabel was about to be on the telly. Annabel was soon going to be propelled to instant stardom.

  The crowd’s focus shifted away from the Morris dancers and seemed to move as one, away from the arena, much to the consternation of the competitors, who leapt even higher in an effort to keep their attention.

  Confronting Bill Trenfold had now lost its urgency, and I found myself trailing after the news van along with everyone else. There was some problem as the line of customers outside Madame Dora’s tent refused to move to let the vehicle through—for some reason, Dora had decided to pitch her tent in an area that was supposed to be left clear for emergency vehicles.

  The news van had to take a detour around the perimeter of the arena until it reached the bottom of the flight of steps that led up to the patio of The Grange.

  I had no trouble pushing my way through to the front. “Let our Vicky by!” cried one. “Break a leg!” and “Here’s the star!” called out another. If only that were true!

  As Topaz began to regally descend the steps, there was the odd speculative comment referencing “her ladyship’s” appearance in the Plymouth Bugle, but this was instantly squashed by a general sense of disbelief.

  Eavesdropping on various conversations, I realized that Topaz was held in the same high esteem as our own Queen Elizabeth II. It occurred to me that if Topaz’s ridiculous pranks were ever exposed—throwing recycling around, stealing her own silver, and impersonating a lowly waitress—the town might never recover.

  Today, Topaz wore a large straw hat and a pale blue linen suit—I was glad to see she had finally taken my advice and worn some magic knickers to control all that padding. Even from twenty feet away, I could see that her face was heavily powdered. She wore two bright spots of blusher on each cheek and a pale pink lipstick.

  Standing ramrod straight, Topaz carried a square handbag with a snaffle-bit clasp. She paused on the bottom step, staring loftily across the crowds with a superior look that plainly said, “These are my people.”

  Annabel appeared, looking stunning in a forest green silk dress and white denim jacket and carrying a new Kate Spade handbag. In her hand she held a sheaf of notes and was laughing with a burly cameraman sporting a heavy beard whom she kept calling Rock. “Rock, you are funny!” and “Rock, I don’t believe you!”

  The two other members of the crew were Crispin, who reminded me of a ferret and was presumably the actual producer, and a very pale girl of around my age, who was dressed from head to foot in black and sported a large nose ring. She placed a sturdy metal cosmetic box on a collapsible table, then retrieved a plethora of cosmetic products and brushes from the box.

  I scanned the growing crowd of admirers, waving at Mrs. Evans and noticing—with relief—that Barbara stood next to Wilf, her arm linked into his. Hopefully she’d come to her senses—especially now that I was about to expose her lover’s illegal business dealings.

  Annabel waved me over. “I’m so excited,” she gushed. “All my life I’ve wanted to be on television.”

  “And here you are,” I said with a tight smile.

  “Have you met Cherish?” Annabel turned to the makeup artist. “Cherish has connections with the BBC.”

  “My brother works in the cafeteria.” Cherish gave me a sweet smile. “Can I just finish you up, Ms. Lake?”

  “Ms. Lake,” giggled Annabel.

  Cherish took a large powder brush and loose powder pot and began to dab large puffy white clouds all over Annabel’s face.

  I thought I was going to die of envy. Pete pushed through the crowds and readjusted the collar of her denim jacket. “You look good, Annie.”

  Another Annie. I groaned. Anyone could look good if you had a full-time makeup person and the right lighting.

  Cherish closed the lid of her sturdy metal box and put it on the ground. With a heavy-toothed comb and wire hairbrush in hand, she stepped up onto it and began to backcomb Annabel’s hair.

  Suddenly, there was a united gasp of horror.

  “Omigod!” Cherish turned even paler than she was already and fell off her makeshift stool.

  In her hands she held a huge clump of hair, as if she had just taken a scalp in the Wild West.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Annabel. There was a deathly hush.

  Annabel’s hand flew up to the crown of her head, her eyes widening in confusion. She spun around and, with a look of utter horror, saw her own hair dangling from Cherish’s comb.

  “Omigod!” She backed away, then turned tail and tore up the steps toward the house, her screams gradually receding into the distance.

  “She never told me she had hair extensions,” cried Cherish. “Honest to God.”

  I caught Mrs. Evans’s eye and saw a flicker of what I knew to be guilt. Someone began to laugh, and then everyone was laughing.

  However, Topaz’s expression remained a mask of aristocratic indifference, and there, plain for all, was the difference between the upper and the lower classes. The former stayed cool and aloof in any situation, even if it was
facing almost certain death by a thousand Zulus in deepest Africa, and the latter dissolved into hysterical disorder.

  “Will you give this back to her?” said white-faced Cherish, offering me an auburn clump of hair the size of a fist.

  “Put Vicky on camera!” Pete shouted.

  It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to react as Crispin swept forward and pulled me out of the crowd. Within a matter of minutes, Cherish had very carefully brushed my hair and applied a coating of makeup and powder.

  Topaz materialized at my side with just a curt nod of acknowledgment. A hush descended on the spectators.

  Crispin handed me an earpiece and a cordless mike. “You do a general intro. The focus will be on her ladyship. We’ll have to feed you Annie’s questions.” Does everyone call her Annie? “There will be only one take.” Crispin patted my shoulder and returned to the news van.

  At last I was going to be on telly! I was euphoric! Instant nerves made my head clear and my mind sharp. Cherish helped me adjust the earpiece.

  “Put in a word for the Olympics!” called out Dave Randall.

  “Quiet!” ordered Cherish, who had exchanged her powder brush for a clapperboard. “Ready to rock, Rock? Aaaaannnd . . . action!”

  “Welcome to Gipping-on-Plym in deepest Devon and today’s spectacular Morris Dance-a-thon,” I said smoothly. “There are many Morris sides dancing here today, including a guest appearance by celebrity Phil—”

  “Good morning, viewers,” said Topaz, snatching the mike from my hand. “Welcome to The Grange, my ancestral home. The Turberville-Spats can trace our family tree to the War of the Roses—”

  “Phil’s participation”—I snatched the mike back—“in this prestigious event has already raised money—”

  “Which is why today”—Topaz took it again and started walking away, closely followed by Rock and his camera—“I am making a nationwide appeal for the return of a pair of priceless Georgian tea urns that were given by George III when he visited Gipping in the summer of 1810, shortly before he was diagnosed with a bipolar disorder.”