Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

My indignation turned to excitement. That was it! I knew exactly how I was going to deal with Annabel and Dr. Frost. Thank you Edwina! All it would take was one clever phone call.

  It was only during the return journey to Gipping Junction that my thoughts returned to Olive Larch. I’d write to Pete. Taking out pen and paper I wrote a detailed account of all my suspicions, taking care to include Scarlett’s part in Sammy Larch’s tragic fall. I told Pete where to find the key to the vault, the incriminating CCTV tape—in my bottom drawer at Factory Terrace—and gave him Neil Titley’s contact number.

  As I reread my report, another wave of misery hit me afresh. It didn’t seem fair that I had to leave Gipping-on-Plym because of my dad. Chuffy said he was going to make it all go away and I knew he’d do just that. Did that mean I had to go away, too?

  One piece of advice that Dad had always given me was to deny everything. Even when Mum caught him in fla grante with Pam Dingles in a hotel room in Shoreditch, he swore he was helping her change a lightbulb.

  The only connection I had to Harold Hill was my name and my eye color. I’d looked myself up on Google once and discovered there were dozens and dozens of Vicky Hills in existence. As for my sapphire blue eyes—hadn’t Annabel purchased her own colored contacts on the Internet? The postcard she’d seen in my bedroom was just a postcard. It was all circumstantial evidence. Nothing could be proved.

  My spirits began to lift.

  Thanks to a signal failure, the train was an hour late getting into Gipping Junction. I made my untraceable phone call from the pay phone on the platform station. By the time I reached Factory Terrace it was after six.

  The members of the Gipping Snail Racing Federation were already in full cry in the sitting room. Tony was taking photographs, Mrs. Evans had laid out nibbles on the coffee table, and Barbara was handing round paper plates. I was about to take off my safari jacket when I realized there was no sign of Olive.

  “Where’s Olive?” I asked Fleming.

  “She was feeling very tired,” he said. “I persuaded her to stay at home. She said she knew the minutes were in good hands. Do sit down, Vicky.”

  I stared at him with mounting horror. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Dragging Mrs. Evans out in the hall, I whispered urgently, “Some emergency has come up. I can’t stay.”

  “That’s all right. Barbara’s taken the minutes before.”

  “I’m going to leave something in an envelope for Tony to give to Pete,” I said. “It’s really important you don’t forget.”

  Reassuring me that she wouldn’t, I dashed upstairs to grab an envelope and stuffed the report inside, scrawling CONFIDENTIAL: PETE CHAMBERS and left it on the hall table.

  I got back on my moped and tore off toward Headcellars, praying I’d get there before it was too late.

  37

  The gravel drive was flanked by thick woodland on one side, and a hedge on the other behind which was a field of cows. Presumably, they were the same cows that Mary Berry had put out to pasture on that fateful morning when all this began.

  Being May, the evening was still relatively light. I prayed that whatever Scarlett had planned for Olive’s demise would happen under cover of darkness.

  Spying a five-bar gate, I left my moped in a concealed spot and continued on foot. Having no idea what lay ahead, I didn’t want to announce my arrival. I’d seen enough movies where the friendly neighbor or a lone cop shows up unexpectedly. It always ended badly.

  Keeping to the field side of the drive behind the hedge, I crept stealthily toward the house. Unfortunately, the cows followed me en masse. Each time I paused, they stopped, snorting and stomping their hooves. When I continued, so did they. It was most unnerving and it was all I could do not to run.

  To my dismay, the hedge had been stock-proofed. The only exit from the field to the house was a second five-bar gate, a good fifty yards farther on. Idiot, Vicky! I was losing valuable time!

  The cows suddenly made a wild dash and congregated around the gate—presumably expecting to be fed. Blasted cows! It was a good five or more precious minutes of careful negotiating around piles of cow manure, before I could clamber over.

  I found myself in the courtyard behind the house. Scarlett’s Range Rover stood outside the converted barn.

  Praying no one was watching from a window, I darted over to the car and ducked down behind it. Retrieving my Swiss Army penknife, I plunged the blade into the front and rear passenger tires. If Scarlett were planning on a hasty exit, two flat tires would certainly slow her down.

  I made another dash toward the back door and that’s when I heard them. Chilling screams were coming from inside and the sound of smashing glass and china. I went to turn the handle but the back door had been locked.

  Frantic, I recalled the tiny bathroom window I’d climbed through before. It was open. I scrambled inside as Olive’s screaming grew louder and more hysterical.

  Jumping down into the bathroom, I ran into the hallway toward the dreadful noise and stopped dead. Horrified.

  A brown-robed monk was grappling with Olive at the top of the cellar stairs.

  For a split second, I thought it was the ghost of Father Gregory until I realized the figure was dressed as Robin Hood’s Friar Tuck, complete with full face mask and monk’s pate.

  “Scarlett!” I yelled. “Let her go!”

  Startled, Scarlett turned toward me, loosening her grip on Olive for a second. It was all Olive needed. She kicked Scarlett in the shin crying, “Help, Vicky! Help!” But it only made Scarlett more furious.

  With one final determined push, she flung Olive away and through the open cellar door. There was a sickening series of thuds and screams as Olive tumbled down the stairs. Then, silence.

  I was so shocked I could hardly breathe. “You’ve killed her,” I whispered, backing away, hardly able to believe what I’d seen. Please God don’t let Olive be dead.

  Scarlett swiftly moved toward me She looked grotesque and utterly terrifying in her ill-fitting mask especially as it looked like she’d added some touches of her own. Friendly Friar Tuck’s face had black-rimmed eye sockets and fake blood streaked down gray cheeks.

  Surrounded by broken vases, smashed picture frames, I cast around for a weapon of any kind but fell over a fallen chair. Scarlett lunged forward with astonishing speed. She grabbed my wrists and hauled me to my feet, slamming me hard against the wall. Through the mask, her eyes were yellow with rage.

  “Please Scarlett, don’t,” I protested feebly. “It’s not too late to talk.”

  She didn’t answer, simply propelled me toward the open cellar door. “Yes, let me go to Olive,” I begged. “She might still be alive.”

  Instead Scarlett kicked the door closed. I tripped and fell on my back again, dragging her down with me, only just managing to roll out of her way as she hit the floor, loosening her grasp.

  I spied an abandoned cricket bat yards away and stood up, only to pitch forward as Scarlett took hold of my ankles; her acrylic nails digging deep into my flesh.

  I went down again, hitting my chest on an overturned chair and my head on the corner of an oak dresser. Severely winded, I lay there, eyes closed, unable to move. I’d forgotten that among her many accomplishments, Scarlett held a red belt in Tae Kwon Do.

  Was this how it would end for me? I steeled myself for a final beating but nothing happened. All I could hear was a loud click, retreating footsteps, and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

  I hauled myself into a sitting position. My head hurt. My ribs were sore. The house was eerily silent. My thoughts flew to Olive. I had to get to her yet I knew Scarlett would be back at any moment. I’d seen enough horror films to know there had to be a grand finale.

  I longed to call out to Olive, to reassure her that she wasn’t alone but I daren’t utter a sound. Wait! I could call 999! I didn’t need to speak. They could triangulate my bearings! I pulled out my mobile but my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t hit the right numbers. Then, a blinding
pain in my arm as the phone was kicked out of my grasp.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Scarlett calmly, as I watched my mobile skitter away.

  She stood over me holding Fleming’s starter pistol. Having discarded her monk’s costume for a navy velour jogging suit, anorak, and trainers. Her blond hair was scraped back in a ponytail. Except for a slash of bright red lipstick, she was devoid of makeup and sported just four acrylic nails.

  “The phone lines have been cut,” she said and, without taking her eyes off me, snatched up my mobile and put it in her pocket.

  “The police are on their way,” I bluffed. “They know your real name is Sydney Pember.”

  “Really? How clichéd!” Scarlett said. “I was expecting something more original from the Gazette’s star reporter. Oh! By the way, I liked my obituary. You did a nice job.”

  “Thank you,” was all I managed to say but my hopes rose a little. Scarlett was beginning to talk. This was good. Dad always said that keeping your abductor talking was the key to survival.

  “It was a bold plan, but if I must say, not very well thought through,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

  “I beg your pardon?” A tide of red flew up Scarlett’s face. “It was very well thought through. How dare you!”

  “What I meant was, there were things I’d have done differently.” I tried to sound calm but my stomach churned with fear.

  “Really,” she said, her voice hard. “Like what?”

  “Hiring Go-Go Gothic was a mistake.”

  “I wasn’t to know Titley’s outfit was a gimmick,” Scarlett snapped. “Sadie told me he had a very classy Cadillac.”

  “And pretending to be Melanie Carew when you made the booking,” I said. “You must have known someone would check.”

  Scarlett’s jaw hardened. “Go on.”

  “The phone call you made to me on Thursday morning at that ridiculously early hour and not bothering to leave your name.” It was a wild guess but the expression of surprise on her face confirmed I was right.

  “You had to be involved. You write the obituaries!”

  “Why go to all that trouble of faking your own death?” I said. “Couldn’t you just get divorced or disappear?”

  “It takes seven years for a missing person to be declared officially dead,” said Scarlett. “Seven years! Dougie and I don’t have that kind of time and nor does Olive, besides—” she drew herself up to her full height—“I’m a very important person in the community. Someone like me can’t just be buried quietly.”

  “The funeral was quiet,” I said. “No one came.”

  “Ah! But you wrote about it. My photograph was even on the front page!” said Scarlett. “As a matter of fact, I rather enjoyed Dougie telling me how everyone was devastated that I’d died in such tragic circumstances.”

  “I think they were more disappointed that they missed out on the slap-up meal and thirteen-pan steel band,” I said dryly. “You had a preneed funeral plan, remember?”

  “It was never paid for.”

  “And of course, an open casket is a rare sight in Devon.”

  “Hah! But I’d suffered horrific injuries in that car crash, dear,” said Scarlett. “An open casket would have been so gruesome.”

  “Why pick a yoga retreat? Why Spain?”

  “Could have been the Pyrenees,” she said. “I wanted to create confusion. By the time the Foreign and Commonwealth Office collaborated and got through all the paperwork, Dougie and I would be long gone.”

  “Not if the Fleming vault was exhumed.”

  “Why would it be?”

  “To inspect the coffin,” I said. “You and your husband were captured on CCTV stealing it from the Bards’ storage unit. Along with Friar Tuck’s costume.”

  Scarlett smirked. “Nice try, dear but it would never hold up in court,” she said. “I was wearing a disguise and by the time the police get permission to exhume my body—so strange to think I’m dead—it’ll be too late.”

  I knew she was right. “You’ll be far away in Rio.”

  “Exactly.” A slow smile spread across Scarlett’s face. “You see, Dougie and I thought of everything.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “You might have got away with murdering Sammy Larch, too, had you not had a witness.”

  “You’re bluffing.” Scarlett laughed. “You can’t prove it and you can’t prove I was here, either. Olive is lying dead and Dougie and I inherit all her money!”

  “Fleming is already suspected of murdering you. He married Olive too soon. Everyone will think the worst!”

  “In case you forget, Dougie has an alibi tonight,” Scarlett said. “I do believe he’s at your house as we speak.”

  “You really have thought of everything,” I said incredulously. “Everyone knew that Olive suffered from poor health—and a fright, such as an encounter with an imaginary ghost, could kill her.”

  “Correct.”

  “You push Olive down the stairs, Fleming discovers her body, and calls the police,” I went on. “Reeling from the recent deaths of two wives, he decides to leave Gipping-on-Plym and start a new life.”

  “Almost. But not quite.” Scarlett smirked. “You’ve forgotten all about Eunice Pratt.”

  “You’re right! I have!” I tried to sound intrigued but a sick feeling came over me. “What about her?”

  “A woman obsessed with a man who doesn’t want her,” said Scarlett dramatically. “A woman who stalks the object of her desire. A woman who already has a restraining order on her head. What do you think such a woman would do to her rival in love?”

  Suddenly, the penny dropped. “You set her up! You made sure Fleming waved at Mary Berry the morning of the funeral knowing full well she’d tell Eunice.” I shook my head with amazement. “And the phone calls!” I recalled the itemized phone records made to Dairy Cottage and Eunice’s increasing distress and confusion. “You used her. How unbelievably cruel.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m expecting her here at any minute. So it’s time for you to go.”

  I came back to reality with a jolt. Scarlett would never have told me all this if she planned to let me live.

  Pressing the pistol muzzle against my temple she said, “Get up and walk.” I stumbled to my feet. She frog-marched me past the closed cellar door and into the library.

  Astonished, I saw the tapestry on the far wall had been drawn aside. Behind the oak wainscoting was a small, low door. It was open.

  “The priest hole,” I said horrified. Too late I guessed what was in store for me. I lashed out at Scarlett’s legs but she slapped me hard across the face with the pistol. “Believe me, this might not be a real gun but I can assure you a bullet at point-blank range will kill you.”

  Defeated, I crawled through the low doorway and into darkness. “And don’t bother to scream,” Scarlett said, peering through the opening. “These secret hiding places have walls several feet thick. No one will ever hear you.”

  Scarlett closed the panel shut. I heard a final click. I was alone. No one could help me now.

  38

  I sat without moving for what seemed like hours, numbed by the very real possibility that I just might die.

  I still couldn’t believe I was trapped. I couldn’t believe that Olive Larch was probably lying dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs, and I’d soon be joining her in the hereafter.

  If, by some miracle, she had survived the fall I jolly well hoped she’d tell the world that I’d tried to save her but couldn’t save myself. Other than Olive, no one knew I was here. I didn’t even have my mobile—Scarlett had made sure of that.

  But, wait! Hope soared in my breast. Chuffy promised he’d call me with instructions. Wouldn’t he realize that Scarlett’s voice wasn’t mine? Of course, she wouldn’t answer and besides, Chuffy had no idea I was on the trail of a killer. My spirits plunged.

  What about Mrs. Evans? Hope soared again! Perhaps she’d been her usual nosy self and opened the confidential envel
ope. She’d get help, wouldn’t she? My spirits rose again. Even if help came, they’d never find me. No one found Father Gregory, either.

  But, wait! My moped! Blast! Even if it were discovered in the undergrowth, Annabel’s exposé would soon put paid to that. I could see the headline now: DAUGHTER OF NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL, THE FOG, VANISHES! No one would care. They’d expect me to disappear—just like my parents had.

  I drew some comfort from knowing that Chuffy would protect Dad’s identity. He’d tell my parents that I had followed his advice and taken a new name and moved to a new location. It would be months before they wondered why I hadn’t been in touch. I’d be dead in three weeks or less!

  Oh, God! It could be years before the truth was discovered—most likely when old houses like these were no longer valued and torn down. I stifled a sob of self-pity. My skeletal remains would be found lying on the floor and the superstitious locals would believe they’d finally located their missing medieval monk.

  Tears welled up in my eyes. I recalled Mum’s stern words, “Crying won’t help.” She was right. It wouldn’t. I couldn’t just sit here waiting for the grim reaper to call.

  At the thought of the Reverend Whittler another wave of self-pity hit me anew. There would be no funeral or after-service party for me. Not even a headstone at St. Peter’s the Martyr commemorating the short life I had lived. It would be as if I had never existed.

  I wiped a tear away from my cheek. There had to be some way I could let the world know what really happened. Then, when my bones were found, the truth would be out. I’d get my front-page scoop all right. I’d be on every newspaper in the world—just like the famed Lindow Man who was murdered in the first century A.D. and discovered lying facedown in a peat bog.

  Lindow Man’s murder remained a mystery—but mine, would not. Wasn’t I journalist? All I needed was paper, pencil, and a little bit of light.

  I’d been reluctant to use my Mini Maglite only because of my fear of enclosed spaces. Who knew how tiny this place really was.

  “Courage, Vicky!” I said aloud, and pulled the flashlight out of my pocket.