I stopped dead in my tracks. Prickles went up and down my spine. Every sense in my body switched to high alert. Hadn’t Topaz, Sadie, and Mrs. Evans claimed the place was haunted? The notion was stupid.
I waited for what seemed like eons but the light remained where it was. It was probably one of those new timer switches. There had been a crop of burglaries recently and perhaps Fleming thought word of his absence might reach the wrong ears. By leaving Scarlett’s Range Rover outside and the inside lights on, it would give the appearance that someone was home.
Satisfied with my logical explanation, I made my way to the far side of the house and came across a small frosted bathroom window on the ground floor. The top hinged section was latched open. I always marveled at why the general public usually decided not to arm these little buggers. They always provided a way in—especially for someone like me. Hadn’t Dad nicknamed me The Little Rat when I used to help on the occasional night jobs?
I clambered up onto the windowsill, stuck my arm through the narrow opening, and, using my specially adapted wire coat hanger, reached down to lift the lever. The lower window popped open. It was tiny, but I squeezed through without any problem.
Once inside, I was glad to find the bathroom door was open. This was extremely lucky since it was often the actual act of opening that door into the rest of the house, which triggered the alarm.
I peered into the corridor and to my surprise, noted the Flemings did have a motion and heat-sensored alarm system—I could see the units built into the coving—but those telltale green and red lights were flashing and therefore, not armed.
I thought about turning the overhead lights on but decided against it. Even though the house was isolated, if I could see Dairy Cottage, they could certainly see Headcellars and of course, there were other farms in the neighboring area, too.
After several futile tries—one door led down to a cellar—I found Fleming’s study. It was the last room at the end of a long corridor. Glad to see heavy velvet curtains drawn tight across a large casement window, I went over to his oak desk and decided it was safe to switch on the green banker’s light.
The room was more of a library than a study. There was a large inglenook fireplace filled with dried flower arrangements. Two entire walls were covered from floor to ceiling with books. A tapestry stretched across a third. On top of a long wooden cabinet stood a glass, framed display case filled with earth, leaves, and what looked like hamster furnishings. I went to take a closer look.
There was a miniature house, exercise wheel, and tiny jungle gym. Two large snails and several babies were nibbling on lettuce leaves. Presumably one of them was the famous Seabiscuit. It was hard to tell. To me, all snails looked alike.
I pulled out Fleming’s chair and sat down. The drawers were locked but easily opened with my Swiss Army penknife. The first had the usual pencils and sticky notes. The second was filled with unopened bills. Many envelopes were stamped FINAL NOTICE. I pulled out bank statements and discovered all carried hefty overdrafts. I opened a manila envelope. It was Douglas Fleming’s life insurance policy and had been cashed out six months ago.
Basically, the Flemings were practically bankrupt. Dad always said that money was often the main cause for divorce—and murder. It was no wonder Fleming had wanted to marry wealthy Olive Larch and not poverty-stricken Eunice Pratt.
My eye caught a British Telecom envelope. Withdrawing the itemized statement, I recognized the phone number of Dairy Cottage immediately having seen it on my caller ID enough times these past few days.
I stared at it for several moments. Eunice had been telling the truth. The time of each call was registered as early morning or late afternoon.
Working in a farming community, I’d learned a few things about a typical farmer’s day. With a jolt, I realized that those calls coincided with the daily milking schedule when Mary was bound to be outside with her cows. No wonder she had scoffed at Eunice’s claims ! Yet, why would Fleming call from home when his wife was bound to be around? Even though Mary said she often saw Scarlett doing her yoga in the garden, making secret phone calls seemed a bit risky. Why hadn’t Fleming phoned Eunice from his office?
Unfortunately the statement cut-off date was the week prior to Scarlett’s death. But I was sure the calls must have continued. Eunice had said as much.
I made a final search of the third drawer and pulled out an old tobacco tin. Inside were several keys—presumably spare house, office, cars—and, thankfully, the heavy ornate clef key to the Fleming vault. Slipping it into my fanny pack, my eyes were drawn to a dark blue vinyl wallet stamped BRITISH AIRWAYS. Inside was a one-way economy ticket—paid in cash—from London Heathrow to Rio de Janeiro in the name of Sydney Pember. The departure date was this coming Thursday!
I was seriously baffled. Was Fleming going to flee the country under an assumed name? Surely, he couldn’t be planning on getting rid of Olive so quickly?
Good grief! Olive already suffered from a weak heart. What if the physical exertion on her wedding night was too much for her? Or worse—what if Fleming had decided to get rid of her on their honeymoon? The cliff paths along the north Cornish coastline were treacherous. All it would take was one little push.
There was a sudden loud clunk. A violent shudder started under the floorboards and continued up the wall in front of me, ending in a mind-numbing groan. A series of gurgles! The whoosh of rushing water! Had the house not been empty, I would have sworn it was a toilet being flushed.
I leapt to my feet, paralyzed with fear. Every hair on my neck stood up. Gooseflesh coated my arms. Directly above my head came the sound of slow, heavy footsteps. My heart hammered so hard in my chest I thought I was going to die of fright.
My God. It was true. Headcellars was haunted!
I shoved everything back into the drawers and slammed them shut, switched off the banker’s lamp, and tore out of the study. I raced along the corridor as if the hounds of the Baskervilles were hot on my heels, flew into the bathroom, and scrambled out of the window, not even bothering to relatch it.
I didn’t look back until I stopped my moped at the top of the drive to catch my breath.
My hands were shaking so much I could hardly hold the handlebars. I did not believe in ghosts. I did not. There had to be some logical explanation. Think Vicky think!
And then it hit me. Maybe Scarlett Fleming wasn’t dead, after all. Perhaps it had been her footsteps I’d heard upstairs? Was it conceivable that the two of them were in this scam together?
Scarlett never went to Spain. Neil Titley had sworn that it had been a woman who had booked Go-Go Gothic’s services and Melanie had denied any knowledge. Scarlett got Neil’s number from Sadie Evans when the two used to chat while having their nails done at Polly’s on the Barbican. Scarlett must have booked her own funeral!
As I’d suspected all along, Fleming’s grief—despite a couple of dramatic performances—had seemed incredibly short-lived. There was the sudden friendship with Sammy Larch—despite everyone knowing that Scarlett couldn’t stand him. What about the night the old boy died? Fleming took Olive to the Nag and Bucket while Scarlett may well have pushed her father down the stairs but I could never prove it. It was pure fluke that Dr. Frost had been too preoccupied with getting back to the Imperial Hotel in Plymouth to examine Sammy’s body properly.
But where did Eunice fit in? Why would Fleming keep calling her?
Despite telling myself otherwise, I was thoroughly spooked by this evening’s developments and would have preferred a visit to St. Peter’s churchyard in broad daylight.
There was no time for nerves. With that one-way ticket to Brazil a mere two days away, I had to move fast.
33
I’d be lying if I didn’t say that cemeteries gave me the creeps. A part of me almost wished I’d persuaded Topaz to accompany me tonight. She seemed to suffer no qualms about ghost hunting and her mindless chatter would have steadied my nerves.
A fox’s strangled cry made
me jump. It was all I could do not to turn tail and flee.
I took the main pathways through the graveyard and up to Albert Square. The wrought-iron gate seemed unnecessarily noisy when I pushed it open. A rustle of wind through the leaves and the hoot of an owl only made me jittery. A ghostly moon peeped behind the clouds.
Arriving at the Fleming vault, I retrieved my Mini Maglite from my fanny pack and switched it on. The beam lit up the narrow stairway, which led down to the heavy iron doors.
Dad says, “There’s nothing to fear from dead people” and that “It’s the living you have to watch out for.” Even so, my hand shook as I slipped the key into the lock and turned it.
With a click, the door swung open and I stepped down into claustrophobic gloom.
The vault was deep and not how I imagined at all. On both sides, marble plaques marked the final resting places of Fleming’s ancestors stacked three high. My heart sank. I’d assumed I’d see coffins nestling in alcoves, not sealed in individual tombs. If Fleming had already sealed up Scarlett, I was doomed.
Moving in deeper, I played the flashlight over ancient walls—“Cuthbert F. Fleming 1801-1895” and “Florence W. Fleming 1775-1856” to name just a few—and marveled at the sense of history here. I could only trace my family tree back two generations.
Suddenly, my stomach flipped over. A hollowed out section toward the rear lay empty and gaping—presumably these three shelves were ready to receive the next generation of Flemings.
On the top shelf was a new coffin. Heart pounding, I moved closer.
Just as Neil Titley had said, it was decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphics, but I couldn’t find the Gipping Bards stamp of ownership. It had to be under the bottom.
I had to see it. I had to know. But what if I was wrong? A horrific vision of Scarlett’s disfigured remains tumbling out made me pause for thought. But wait! Hadn’t Probes said that decaying bodies smelled dreadful?
Taking a deep breath I inhaled deeply. It was just dank, stale air. Wedging the flashlight in a gargoyle’s mouth opposite, I grabbed the corner of the coffin and tried to move it. Without warning, the shelf crumbled away. I leapt aside as it—and the coffin—crashed onto the ground, shattering into pieces.
To my joy, not only was the cavity jammed with newspapers and sandbags, my flashlight illuminated PROPERTY OF THE GIPPING BARDS stamped in red ink.
I leaned against the cold walls, exhausted.
At last I had proof. Scarlett Fleming was very much alive. But the future sure looked bleak for Olive.
34
To my dismay, as I drew close to 4 Factory Terrace, Topaz’s Capri was parked outside number four. It was past midnight. She was the last person I wanted to see tonight.
My thoughts were consumed with Scarlett Fleming. She must have been hiding at Headcellars all the time. Had she known I’d been there and rifled through Fleming’s desk?
I stopped a few yards away and cut the moped engine. All I could see was the top of a flat cap. Topaz must have reclined the driver seat. Hopefully she was still asleep.
A cowbell sounded the moment I pushed my moped into the drive. All too late I saw the black nylon thread that Topaz had stretched between the gateposts and fed back through the car’s rear window. Damn and blast!
Topaz sat bolt upright and flung open the driver’s door. I gave a start. She was dressed in her farming disguise.
“I was waiting for you,” she said. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Keep your voice down,” I whispered. “I could ask the same of you. Get back into the car.”
Leaving my moped on the kickstand, I got into the passenger seat and narrowly missed sitting on a thermos flask. “Is there any hot chocolate left?”
“No.” Topaz pulled the driver’s door shut. “Well? Where have you been?”
I was about to tell her to mind her own business when I suffered one of my brilliant flashes of genius. “I have a confession to make,” I said. “I think you are right about Headcellars being haunted. Didn’t you mention something about a priest hole?”
“You went ghost hunting without me?”
“I came by the café to get you but it was closed.” This was true. “Where did you go?”
“You’ll never guess.”
“You’re right. I can’t. Surprise me.”
“I followed Annabel to Dartmoor prison.”
I went very still. “The prison? What on earth was Annabel doing there?”
Topaz grinned. The light from the street lamp illuminated her teeth. Together with the false mustache, she looked like a caricature of Groucho Marx. “Guess.”
“I really can’t. Please, Topaz.”
“She was seeing someone!”
“Who? How do you know?”
“I followed her inside but they wouldn’t tell me. It was visiting hours and she was gone a long time. But that’s not all. Guess what happened next?”
“Get on with it,” I snapped.
“Annabel drove all the way to London. Have you heard of Wormwood Scrubs prison? It’s very famous.”
“No. Why?” I was beginning to feel light-headed. Of course I knew Wormwood Scrubs! I knew it very well. Dad had been in and out for years.
“She visited someone there, too!” said Topaz. “Don’t you see the obvious?” When I couldn’t answer, she gleefully went on, “Annabel’s handbag operation is huge. She’s obviously got dealings on the inside. She might even have some handbag ring going on.” Topaz seized my arm, nodding manically. “This is the biggest scoop ever, isn’t it? Have you any idea what the fall-out might be?”
I most certainly did and I had to do something about it. I had to get hold of Dad’s great friend and partner-in-crime, Chuffy McSnatch. Since he dealt in handbags, he might be implicated. Surely Annabel wasn’t stupid enough to visit her suppliers or informants openly in prison?
“Good work, Topaz.”
“You said we needed to catch her red-handed. I took some photographs.” Topaz opened the glove box and retrieved a disposable camera. “I’ll get them developed at This-And-That Emporium tomorrow.”
“Pity you couldn’t get the names of whom Annabel was visiting at those prisons,” I said.
“Of course I did.” Topaz pulled up her rucksack and unzipped it. She retrieved a scrap of paper. “It was frightfully good fun. I just joined the queue of people and must say blended in very well with the crowds. No one took any notice of me, at all. When I came to sign the visitor book, I just looked at whom Annabel went to see, pretended I didn’t feel very well and just left. Here—” She handed me the paper. I glanced at the names—Wayne Henderson in Dartmoor, and Nigel Keeps in Wormwood Scrubs. I’d never heard of either.
“I’ve also got the address of the warehouse,” she said. “I wrote it on the back. It’s close to the Imperial Hotel, just like I thought.”
“You’ve done really well, Topaz. Thank you.”
“She’ll go to prison, won’t she?” Topaz grinned. “Do I get to share a byline?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” I was only half listening. “We still need to catch her physically receiving stolen goods.”
“All in good time, boss,” said Topaz. “I’m going back to the warehouse every night until I catch her on camera!”
Promising Topaz I’d be in touch the next morning, I bid her goodnight.
Sleep wouldn’t come. For some reason I just couldn’t buy Annabel’s handbag endeavor. Hadn’t she dreamed of her first front-page scoop? She wanted to be a serious reporter! Why jeopardize her career? Whatever Annabel was up to, she was a fool to fraternize with known criminals.
My thoughts turned to poor, gullible Olive. Fleming wouldn’t be the first husband who knocked off his wife on their honeymoon for monetary gain.
I tossed and turned for hours. I couldn’t help feeling that I should have tried harder to stop Fleming because I’d suspected him all along. Even though the police would never act on a hunch, if Olive died it would be all my fault.
I grabbed my moped and raced out of the house early the next morning, anxious to get to the office. If there was any bad news, Barbara was bound to hear it first.
At the end of the road Mrs. Evans was waiting at an empty bus stop. I had a sudden thought and pulled up alongside, cutting the engine.
“The Reverend Whittler is back from Disney World tomorrow,” she said, before I had a chance to bid her good morning. “I’m just popping in to give the rectory a quick spit and polish.”
“Does the name Sydney Pember ring any bells?”
Mrs. Evans frowned. “It does seem familiar.”
“Perhaps you saw it on an airline ticket somewhere?” Fleming’s desk drawer had been locked but that would never have deterred my nosy landlady.
“No. Not there,” she said slowly.
“Maybe at Dr. Frost’s surgery?”
“Are you suggesting I look in confidential files?” Mrs. Evans sounded hurt.
“Of course not,” I said smoothly. “It’s terribly important. My editor asked me to ask you. He said you knew everyone in Gipping.” He hadn’t.
Mrs. Evans turned pink with pleasure. “I’ve never thought of myself as an informant,” she beamed. “Now, let me think.”
I looked at my watch praying she’d hurry up—not that getting to the Gazette any earlier was going to change Olive’s fate. “Perhaps he’s someone in the Gipping Bards?”
“That’s it!” Mrs. Evans snapped her fingers. “It’s not a he, it’s a she. Scarlett didn’t like the name Sydney. Said it was too manly. Pember was her maiden name before she got married.”
“You see! You do know everyone!” Thanking her profusely, I went on my way deeply troubled. If I’d needed further proof that Scarlett was alive, I had it now. There must have been a second airline ticket in that desk drawer and I’d missed it.
Expose! Page 23