Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  I ran out of the door, hands held high in surrender. Twenty yards away stood the three policemen, cowering behind riot shields, with the dogs straining on their leashes, ready to attack.

  “Wait! I’m Vicky Hill!” I shrieked. “Run! Stand back, he’s got—”

  But it was too late. There was a huge explosion that picked me up off my feet and hurled me to the ground.

  The wagon was engulfed in a giant ball of flame. Numb, I watched it burn with such fierce intensity that, within minutes, all that was left was a blackened shell.

  “He’s alive,” shouted one of the policemen from behind his riot shield. He pointed to a ragged figure crawling toward the undergrowth. “Clever bugger must have jumped out the rear window.”

  Jimmy had also destroyed all the evidence.

  A police officer ran toward the fallen gypsy. “Call for an ambulance!”

  “Find Barbara,” gasped Jimmy. “Hurry.”

  I only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  43

  It was dark by the time I reached the entrance to Mudge Lane. I’d come in from the other side this time. The road was just as steep, narrow, and twisty. I only hoped I wouldn’t run into Ruby’s VW camper coming from the opposite direction.

  Switching off the headlights, I slowly eased the car downhill, praying I would be able to find a place to leave it. A field would be perfect.

  I’d had some time to think on the drive over and realized I would be dealing with an irrational female who had just lost her mother and believed she was about to lose her father, too.

  To my relief, a five-bar gate loomed out of the darkness. I jumped out, dragged it open across the mud, then returned to my car. The field was practically a bog. Thank heavens for four-wheel drive!

  Donning a black balaclava and changing into my Wellingtons, I took off on foot, feeling a weird sense of déjà vu. Wasn’t I doing just the same thing last Tuesday?

  With my Mace Screecher in my pocket along with a pair of handcuffs—courtesy of www.handcuffworld.com—I felt as ready as I would ever be. I’d also had to swallow my pride and send Probes a text. Only an idiot would tackle a killer alone, and besides, this was no longer about me. It was about saving Barbara’s life.

  Rounding a corner I stopped, stunned at the strange sight below me and for a moment, I felt disorientated. The ford was lit up by a row of dazzling bright lights—just as it had been on the night of Carol Pryce’s murder.

  Drawing nearer, I realized that they came from the overhead safari rack atop the very same Land Rover that had been hidden along Ponsford Ridge—the same one that had hit my car.

  Hugging the hedge, I crept closer and only now saw Barbara’s mangled pink bicycle lying in the stream. I froze in a silent scream. Was she dead?

  “Keep looking,” shouted Ruby. She was standing on the kissing bridge, looking out into the darkness beyond. “She can’t get far with that bad toe!”

  I almost cried with relief. Barbara was alive! Crouching low, I scuttled toward her and under the kissing bridge, hiding in the shadows.

  “She’s gone,” I heard Noah shout back. I felt sick to my stomach. So it was true. Noah was involved right up to his neck. “I say we leave her,” he said. “She’ll not survive the night out here. She’ll fall into a bog and drown.”

  Noah emerged from the far side of the ford, flashlight in hand. He shielded his eyes from the headlights’ glare, saying, “She’s hardly going to come out with all these lights on.”

  “I hope she dies,” cried Ruby. “It’s all her fault. Mum would still be alive if we hadn’t come to Gipping. Why did we have to come here?”

  Ruby started to cry. Noah hurried over and put his arms around her shoulder. I had a perfect view. They couldn’t be more than ten feet from where I crouched.

  “At least we’ve still got each other,” he said.

  “Ruby turned toward him. “What about that stupid newspaper reporter?”

  Automatically my stomach clenched. Please don’t say anything unkind about me.

  “She was a gorger, Ruby,” was all he said. “I just wanted information.”

  “I was worried,” said Ruby. “You won’t leave me, will you?”

  “What do you think? We’re friends, right?” Noah kissed the top of her head.

  “Yes, friends.” Ruby turned to look at him with longing in her eyes. I could see she hoped for more.

  “Let’s go,” said Noah. “We’ve got to pretend everything is normal. We’ll move onto a new place next week and start again.”

  “What’s the point? Mum’s dead,” sniveled Ruby. “You go back. I’m staying here. As long as that bitch Barbara is still around, Dad will always want her. You know she found him on Facebook, don’t you?”

  “Don’t, Ruby,” said Noah. “You’ve already got Carol Pryce’s blood on your hands.”

  My heart caught in my mouth. It was Ruby who had murdered the policewoman. Not Jimmy, not Dora, and, most of all—thank God—not Noah.

  “She found out what we were doing. She lied to you, and she made a fool out of Dad,” cried Ruby. “I saw them down by the lake, you know. Kissing.”

  “Forget all that,” said Noah. “That’s past. People are coming from all over England to pay their respects. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  Ruby whispered something in his ear. I strained to hear over the noise of the water sloshing around the wooden bridge supports but could only make out “stay” and “pretend.” He handed her the flashlight and headed for the Land Rover.

  “Okay,” said Ruby in a very loud voice. “I know you’re right.”

  Opening the passenger door first, Noah slammed it hard, then returned to the driver’s side and got in—slamming the door a second time. Switching off the overhead lights, he turned over the ignition, and the diesel engine burst into life. He eased the vehicle forward through the stream and around Barbara’s bicycle, leaving it lying there, partially submerged.

  The lights of the Land Rover gradually faded into the distance. A strange mist came down. All was silent save for the sound of the ford, trickling across the lane.

  I hardly dared breathe. I knew Ruby was there, but not where.

  Moments later I heard her footsteps overhead. Then silence.

  It was now or never.

  I double-checked that my balaclava was in place, took off my cumbersome Wellingtons, and crept out from my hiding place, grateful for the darkness. Just wearing socks, I tiptoed up the short flight of steps to the bridge.

  I could just make out Ruby standing there in the mist with her back to me.

  I pounced, flinging one arm around her neck, hooking my right foot in and around her right leg, and threw my weight forward. Unfortunately, Ruby was stronger than I thought. She flung herself upright and we both fell backward, screaming, over the edge and into the water.

  Winded, freezing cold, and soaked to the skin, I tried to recover but Ruby was too fast. In a trice she was on top of me, raising the flashlight high and ready to strike. She cried out on seeing my mask but brought the flashlight down hard. I threw my head aside and managed to roll her underneath me, splashing, choking as the water filled my eyes and lungs.

  As I clamped her small body between my knees, Ruby fought like a wildcat. We wrestled for the flashlight. I got it, but she knocked it out of my hands and into the water.

  Twice I almost reached my Mace Screecher, but each time she reared up, biting down hard on my wrist, making me cry out in pain.

  And I was underneath her again. Ruby’s face was a mask of pure hatred. She tore off my balaclava. “You!” she spat and punched me full in the face.

  I fell back into the water, head spinning, unable to move. “Stop it!” I panted, working the Mace cylinder into my fingers, which were practically numb with cold. “Your dad’s badly injured, Ruby. It’s over.”

  “Liar!” she screeched, and flew once more at my head.

  I flipped the button.

  Pepper spray hit Ruby full in the
eyes as an earsplitting whistle exploded through the night air, over and over again. Ruby fell backward and plunged her face into the water, moaning, crawling to the side of the road, shivering with pain. The alarm went silent.

  I staggered to my feet and was engulfed in warm, sturdy arms. “I’ve got you, dear,” Barbara said. “You’re safe now.”

  I burst into tears. “Oh! I thought . . . I thought . . . you—”

  “Goodness, it would take much more than a little gypsy trollop to get the better of me,” she scoffed as Ruby’s moans continued.

  “But how—?” I stammered. “When I saw your bicycle—”

  “Yes, I’m not very happy about that,” she said. “I may not be as young as I was, but believe me I can still move when I have to. Although my toe—”

  “But they were searching for you!” I wailed.

  “Not far from here is a sunken garden,” Barbara said wistfully. “There’s a hidden grotto. Jimmy and I used to meet there. It was all such a long time ago.”

  A pair of headlights came over the brow of the hill. I grabbed Barbara’s hand, terrified. “Oh God. It’s Noah’s. He’s come back!”

  “I think you need your eyes checked, dear,” said Barbara with a chuckle. “Look again.” A convoy of flashing lights was streaming down toward us from both directions. “I do believe the cavalry has arrived.”

  44

  “I’ve been robbed! My Georgian tea urns have gone!” shrieked a voice on the other end of the phone. “I knew that would happen! I knew those gypsies couldn’t be trusted!”

  I grabbed my watch and groaned. Six thirty this time! Why did Topaz always call so early? “Don’t try that one again,” I said coldly. “It won’t work.”

  “But I swear to God—” she sounded hysterical. “Honestly—”

  “Talk to your cousin. I’m sure he’ll help.” I hung up the phone and tried to get back to sleep for one more precious hour, but then it occurred to me that perhaps it was best to get an early start.

  Today was the day.

  It had been over a week since Dora had died, and Gipping-on-Plym had been invaded by literally hundreds of gypsies, who were pouring in from all over England for what promised to be Devon’s biggest funeral ever.

  Now that I saw bona fide Romanies grieving, I realized how easily we had all been duped.

  As I headed for the bathroom, I realized I still hadn’t gotten used to having it all to myself again. Now that Annabel had moved out and into a tiny terraced house close to the office, I found I quite missed her. She’d also had to cut off all her hair and taken a last-minute three-week trip to a private health spa, presumably to recover from the aftereffects of MAN-STAY.

  Needless to say, the church silver, Trewallyn chalice, and Georgian tea urns had all been returned to their rightful places, with no reward being claimed. Later, Topaz admitted that although she had masterminded the first burglary, the second was all Annabel’s idea.

  When I pressed for reasons why they’d picked Georgian tea urns, Topaz just shrugged, saying that Annabel would do anything to get on the telly.

  Topaz had decided to stay at The Grange, having come to an arrangement with the new gypsy council. If they promised to leave directly after Dora’s funeral, she had offered them a deal—a daily rent of three pounds per caravan, paid in cash. They all agreed.

  At the Gazette it was business as usual. I was glad to see Barbara back at her post. Later, she’d told me privately that she and Jimmy had realized it could never work between them, saying she wished she’d kept their magical romance exactly where it had been—back in the past.

  “But why did you go to Mudge Lane?” I asked.

  Barbara shrugged. “One last kiss perhaps? He left me a note telling me to meet him there. Now that I think about it, it didn’t look like his handwriting—though he’d never been good at spelling.”

  I didn’t want to, but I just had to ask. “Who was driving the Land Rover?”

  “I couldn’t see. It came from behind, dear,” she said. “Jimmy was a terrible womanizer. A hard dog to keep on the porch.”

  “So I heard.”

  “He made that poor Dora so unhappy,” Barbara said. “Why would he treat me any differently?”

  Whether she had decided to go ahead with her wedding was still up for debate.

  “I’ m not sure I’m really ready for that big commitment,” Barbara said, admitting that it had been her idea to look for Jimmy and lay a ghost to rest. “It was Annabel who had told me all about Facebook,” she went on. “Do you know she has over four hundred friends?”

  Wilf agreed to a long engagement, saying he just wanted her to be happy.

  With Olive becoming more of a fixture in reception, Wilf agreed to give Barbara an agony column to run alongside Gipping Roundup on page seven. It was called “Dear Babs.” Readers were invited to e-mail her with their relationship problems for “no frills” advice.

  By the time the police found Noah’s abandoned Land Rover, his horse and his green-and-yellow-painted wagon had vanished. I couldn’t help but feel glad. Falling for rogues seemed to run in our family.

  Both Jimmy and Ruby had been hospitalized—Jimmy for third-degree burns following the explosion, and Ruby, suffering from the aftereffects of having Mace sprayed in her eyes.

  Rumor had it that she would be allowed to attend her mother’s funeral before being moved to Dartmoor Prison to await sentencing. With one count of first-degree murder, two of attempted murder, and counts of forgery and grand theft up the gazoo, Ruby would most likely be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for some time to come. Jimmy faced lesser charges, but basically, the future for both looked bleak.

  Dora’s funeral procession started at The Grange in Upper Gipping and along the main Plymouth road to St. Peter’s the Martyr.

  Traffic was at a standstill. People came out in droves to watch a white hearse drawn by seven white horses with plumed feathers and hundreds of mourners on foot go by.

  Ruby was escorted by a plainclothes policewoman, who walked with her behind the hearse. There was no sign of Noah, but given that there was a warrant out for his arrest, it was hardly surprising.

  Fortunately, Elaine Pike—the young woman who had so conveniently told me there was no Belcher Pike—helped gather the names of the mourners by circulating a notebook around the site. The total this morning was seven hundred and ninety-two, but more were expected. It was a far cry from Gladys Trenfold’s funeral of one vicar plus two.

  Since Church Lane was packed with gypsies and non-gorgers alike, Reverend Whittler broke one of his rules and allowed me to leave my car at the vicarage nearby.

  I was struck by the pungent smell of cooking meat. Entering the car park I was startled to see an enormous fire pit had been dug and a whole pig was roasting on a spit. At the far end, someone had driven Dora’s Winnebago, where it sat in a sea of spectacular flowers, glittering gold jewelry, cases of china, and mounds of clothes. Wildflowers covered the lych-gate. Floral tributes in designs ranging from horse heads to giant teapots flanked the herringbone path all the way up to the church porch.

  Whatever role Dora had played in the Pike check-scam operation, she seemed to have died with her political reputation intact. Questions about Jimmy, Ruby, and Noah’s illegal dealings were met with blank stares and not even a “no comment.” True to form, the gypsies had closed ranks.

  Standing in the porch, I was pleased to find Reverend Whittler grinning from ear to ear.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” he beamed. “Of course, they won’t all get into the church.” He went on to say that Barry Fir had loaned him some of the band’s audio equipment so that the service could be heard outside.

  “What’s the Winnebago doing here?” I asked.

  “They’ll set fire to that after the ceremony.” Whittler rubbed his hands with relish. “Many years ago Romanies used to burn the caravan and the body together. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve found a nice little spot in the southeast
corner of the cemetery for poor Dora.”

  Noticing that scaffolding with the sign Windows of Wonder had been erected against the east wall, I asked, “When do they start work?”

  “Monday,” Whittler said. “Thanks to Olive Larch’s generous donation of five thousand pounds. She really is a saint!”

  I only wished Olive could have made a donation to my landlady, who felt she’d been ripped off, not just by her employers but by the justice system, too. From now on she insisted that Doing-It-Daily was a cash only deal.

  Topaz arrived dressed from head to toe in black, carrying a black bag and wearing an enormous picture hat and veil. Without so much as a greeting to either the vicar or myself, she grasped my elbow and steered me behind a stone buttress, where presumably we wouldn’t be overheard.

  “Something frightful has happened.”

  “I’ve already told you what I think about the missing tea urns,” I said firmly.

  “Urns? This has got nothing to do with urns,” said Topaz. “This is much, much worse!”

  With shaking hands she struggled to undo the clasp of her handbag. Retrieving a stamped envelope, she thrust it into my hands. “The postmark says Gipping. It’s dated over a week ago and must have gotten lost with all this dreadful post business.”

  Inside was a good quality photocopy of a birth certificate. I studied it, confused. “This says Robin Cuthbert Berry.”

  “I know,” Topaz said. “Look at his . . . his . . . father. Oh God.”

  “Good grief!” I had to read the name twice. In the box marked FATHER was—“Sir Hugh Trewallyn?”

  Topaz snatched it back. She seemed closed to tears. “It must be a fake.”

  “Possibly.” But I wasn’t so sure. From the dim recesses of my memory, I seemed to recall some hint of hanky panky between Mary Berry and Sir Hugh years ago, plus hadn’t Dora Pike mentioned that Sir Hugh might have exercised his rights as lord of the manor? Why else had Mary Berry been granted a lifetime tenancy at Dairy Cottage?

  “And to think I’ve allowed Mary Berry and that ghastly Eunice Pratt to live on my land scot-free.”