by Amanda Wills
Her feet were numb with cold by the time they reached the imposing electronic gates at the end of Claydon Manor's long drive. They had been open the day of the show but today they were firmly closed. A CCTV camera sat atop one of the stone gate posts, staring at her with its unblinking eye. Poppy peered up at it, wondering who was watching her on the other end. Set into the stone post at shoulder height was a cast iron letterbox, painted black. A triangle of white caught her eye. It was the corner of an envelope, which was wedged in the flap like a minnow trapped in the jaws of a pike.
Poppy brought Cloud alongside the letterbox, held her reins in her left hand and gave the envelope a tug. The corner tore off in her hand.
‘Whoops,’ she said under her breath. She slipped her hand inside the letterbox and pulled the rest of it out. Grubby and creased, it was one of those envelopes with a see-through window. Expecting the usual typewritten address Poppy was surprised to see a lock of black hair. Scrawled above the window in almost undecipherable handwriting was one word. Canning.
‘Bit weird,’ she said, shoving the envelope in her pocket. Cloud shifted his weight onto his other foot and Poppy looked around for the keypad on a metal post she and Scarlett had seen on their first visit to Claydon Manor.
Cloud stood patiently while she leaned over and pressed the button on the keypad with the picture of a tiny bell on it. She patted his neck.
‘You're such a good boy. You'd be a whizz at handy pony.’
She wriggled her toes and stared through the bars of the wrought iron gates as she waited to be let in. Claydon Manor, in all its extravagant Georgian grandeur, was straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Poppy quite expected to see a butler standing to attention outside, his hands clasped behind his back and a deferential expression on his face. She couldn't imagine what it must have been like to grow up in such a huge mansion. She had been dragged around enough National Trust properties to know that there would be dozens of bedrooms, vast reception rooms and green baize doors leading to poky servants' quarters in the attic.
It was unimaginable to think that the haughty Georgia with her plummy voice and easy arrogance hailed from much humbler beginnings. Until her parents came into money she'd lived in a modest three bedroomed semi. Her mum had been a checkout girl at the local supermarket and her dad had been a builder. And now, for the price of a lottery ticket and six lucky numbers, they had all this.
A crackle from the speaker on the keypad interrupted Poppy's thoughts. A high-pitched voice cried, ‘Who is that?’
‘Poppy McKeever. I left some black leather gloves when I came to the show here the other day. I've come to pick them up.’
Poppy cocked her head to listen. She thought she could hear urgent whispers, but it could have been static on the intercom.
Then the woman's disembodied voice cut through the background noise. ‘You'd better come in.’ And with a click the huge iron gates slowly began to swing open.
Poppy let her reins slide through her hands as Cloud walked up the gravel drive, his stride long and his eyes swivelling left and right at Claydon's sleek liveries grazing in the paddocks either side. They passed a blue van parked on the grass verge. Above a picture of an old-fashioned chimney sweep were the words Bert's Clean Sweep. It wasn't until they were alongside the driver's door that she realised a man in blue overalls was snoozing in the driver's seat, his blue beanie hat pulled down so low that the only part of his face that was visible was his double chin.
Poppy jumped off Cloud and led him over to the panelled front door. She was about to knock when she saw a wrought iron door pull to her right. She gave it a tug and heard an answering clang from somewhere deep inside the house.
A crunch of gravel behind them made Cloud start and Poppy turned to see Angela Snell just a few feet away. The livery yard manager was holding Poppy's gloves in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.
‘Did you see anyone on your way in?’ said Angela shortly, her eyes narrowed.
‘Only the chimney sweep.’
‘And no-one was watching you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
Poppy frowned. ‘I told you already. The only person I saw was the sweep. And he was fast asleep. Why?’
Ignoring her, Angela held out the gloves. ‘Yours, I believe?’
‘Thanks.’ Poppy shoved them in her pocket. As she did she remembered the envelope. She pulled it from her pocket. ‘Oh, and this was poking out of the letterbox.’
Angela stiffened and her eyes slid over to the chimney sweep's van.
‘I thought I'd bring it over, save you the job,’ said Poppy, holding out the envelope and wondering why the older woman was acting so strangely.
Angela looked at Poppy, who was wearing a pair of Caroline's red woolly gloves, and then at her own gloveless hands. ‘Stay there,’ she instructed, and turned on her heels and headed for the chimney sweep's van.
‘Is it me, or is this all a bit weird?’ Poppy whispered to Cloud. He snuffled her hand with his velvety nose. His head shot up as he heard the van door open.
Angela strode back over and held out her hand. ‘I'll take him.’
Poppy took a step back until she was touching Cloud's shoulder and clutched his reins tightly. ‘No, you won't.’
Angela exhaled loudly. ‘It's OK. I'm just going to put him in the stable next to Barley while you speak to him.’ She nodded to the middle-aged man climbing stiffly out of the van. His blue overalls strained across his sizeable midriff. An image of digestive biscuits popped, unbidden, into Poppy's head.
‘I don't understand -’ she said.
Angela took Cloud's reins. ‘Don't worry. I'll put a rug on him and give him some hay.’
Poppy watched mutely as Angela led her pony away. A meaty hand in a white latex glove reached over her shoulder and plucked the envelope from her hands.
‘I'll be having that, young lady.’
Chapter Eight
Poppy stared at Bert the chimney sweep. He looked uncannily like Inspector Bill Pearson, the digestive-loving police officer she'd spoken to the day she'd discovered Shelley Taylor was swindling people out of a small fortune by pretending her daughter Hope had cancer. Perhaps they were twins, Poppy wondered wildly. One caught criminals for a living, the other spent his days cleaning chimneys. Bert slipped the envelope into the deep pocket of his soot-covered overalls, peeled off his latex gloves and held out his hand.
‘Hello again, Poppy,’ he said, showing her his warrant card. Bert the chimney sweep was indeed Inspector Bill Pearson from Devon and Cornwall Police. ‘I think it's time for a cuppa and a chat, don't you?’
Poppy's mind was working overtime as she followed him around the side of the house. She felt as though she'd stepped into a television drama without being given any lines. What was the portly inspector doing here, dressed as a chimney sweep? Were times so hard he'd had to find a second job? Why hadn't Angela just taken the letter and let Poppy go home? And why had she seemed so cagey? Nothing made sense.
‘After you,’ said Inspector Pearson, holding the back door open. Poppy heeled off her jodhpur boots and stepped into a cluttered boot room. Coats in various shades of khaki and brown hung from hooks on one wall, and on the other was a huge butler’s sink. Above it was a pinboard covered with rosettes. Most of them were red.
‘We’ll talk in the library,’ said the inspector. Poppy scurried after him down a wide, shadowy corridor with closed doors leading off either side. She felt like Alice, following the White Rabbit into the rabbit-hole.
Inspector Pearson stopped outside one of the doors. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
As the door opened Poppy caught a glimpse of a cavernous kitchen as big as Riverdale's entire downstairs. Dominating the room was a vast oak table, at the centre of which was a vase of dead roses. It was all Poppy registered before the door swung shut.
She rocked back on her heels, unsure what to do. Behind the huge, painted pine door she could hear the low rumble of voices. A sha
ft of light pierced the gloomy hallway. It was coming from the keyhole. Without thinking, Poppy sank to her knees and pressed her face against it.
A well-built man with close-cropped hair and a thick neck was sitting at the head of the table, tapping furiously into his phone. Next to him a woman stared blankly out of the window as she wound a pink hairband round and round her fingers. She had fair skin, ash-blonde hair, pale blue eyes and colourless lips. She was wearing a beige cashmere jumper. Everything about her looked muted, as though she'd been edited with a sepia filter.
A younger woman with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing jeans and a Jack Wills hoodie, had her back to them as she filled the kettle at the kitchen sink.
Inspector Pearson was talking to the couple at the table, showing them the scruffy white envelope, which was now in a police evidence bag. Curiouser and curiouser, thought Poppy, as she pressed her face closer to the keyhole.
The man stopped texting and said something in a gruff voice.
Inspector Pearson nodded, pulled on his latex gloves and used a kitchen knife to carefully prise open the envelope. He pulled out a single sheet of white paper and read it with raised eyebrows. He peered into the envelope, turned it upside down and gave it a shake.
The woman took one look at the lock of black hair on the table, buried her head in her hands and began keening softly. The sound was so wretched it made the hairs on the back of Poppy's neck stand up. Inspector Pearson cleared his throat and started speaking.
Poppy held her breath, straining to hear what was being said. But she only caught random words. Letterbox. Fingerprints. Precious. Police. It didn’t make sense.
The thickset man thumped his fist on the table, making Poppy jump. Inspector Pearson slid his chair back and she scrambled to her feet. By the time the policeman had joined her in the hallway she was inspecting an antique map of Devon hanging over a mahogany console table.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I just need to ask you a couple of questions and then you can go.’
He pushed another door open to reveal a square room, lined floor to ceiling with books. It was north-facing and bitterly cold. The inspector switched on an electric fire between two chintzy armchairs and motioned Poppy to sit down. He took out a pocket notebook, a black ballpoint pen and the letter, which was back in its plastic evidence bag.
‘So, Poppy, how did you come to be in possession of this letter?’
‘It was in the letterbox.’
Inspector Pearson narrowed his eyes. ‘If it was in the letterbox, how did you know it was there?’
‘Sorry, I meant it was half in and half out. I thought I’d save someone a job by taking it down to the house. As I was going anyway.’
‘So, you pulled it out of the letterbox. Were you wearing gloves?’
Poppy nodded.
‘But I thought the reason you’d ridden over today was to pick up your gloves?’
‘I’d left my new riding gloves here.’ Poppy pulled the gloves out of her pocket and showed him. ‘I borrowed my stepmum’s gloves today.’
The inspector scribbled something down in his notebook. ‘And did you see anyone outside the gates? Anyone at all?’
Poppy shook her head.
‘Think very carefully, Poppy. This is important.’
Poppy pictured the ride to Claydon. She didn’t think a single car had passed them. The only things they’d seen were sheep, Dartmoor ponies and the occasional buzzard.
‘No, we didn’t see anyone.’
‘We?’ he queried.
‘Me and Cloud. My pony.’
‘Right. And I gather from the Cannings that you’re not a friend of Georgia’s. So how did you come to leave your gloves here?’
‘I was at the show last weekend. I left them in the arena by accident. They were new, else I probably wouldn’t have bothered riding over.’
‘Ah. You were at the show. Have you ever met Georgia before?’
‘A few times, yes. Why?’
‘Did you see her at the show?’
‘She was there when we arrived, yes.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Um, about half eight, I suppose. Our class started at nine.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Briefly.’
The inspector was watching her intently. ‘What about?’
Poppy thought back. ‘I asked her about the course. To see if she had any tips. It was my first show, you see.’
‘She seemed OK to you? Not worried about anything?’
Georgia had seemed her usual snooty self. ‘No.’
‘Did you notice anything out of ordinary at the show? Anyone who looked out of place? Hanging around, asking questions?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Poppy said. ‘But I was concentrating on the jumping. I’m probably not the best person to ask.’
Inspector Pearson sighed.
‘Wait, there was someone,’ said Poppy.
‘At the show?’
‘No, this morning. I saw a walker, up on Barrow Ridge.’
‘Man or woman?’ he asked.
Poppy screwed up her eyes. ‘A man, I think. Wearing camouflage gear and one of those massive backpacks students use when they’re on a gap year.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘He was too far away. But he just looked like a rambler. Sorry.’
There was a rap at the door and the woman in the Jack Wills hoodie walked in with a mug of tea and a plate of digestive biscuits.
‘Hello Poppy.’
Poppy felt a jolt of recognition. The last time she'd seen this woman she'd been in police uniform, leading a man away in handcuffs.
Poppy looked from Inspector Pearson to PC Claire Bodiam and back again.
‘Why are you dressed as a chimney sweep? Has something happened to Georgia? Is that why you’re here?’
Chapter Nine
Inspector Pearson took a digestive biscuit and dunked it in his tea.
‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to tell you that.’
‘We all thought she had food poisoning.’
His hand stopped in mid-air. A soggy corner of the biscuit fell into his tea with a soft plop.
‘Why did you think that?’
‘She was complaining about her hot dog. Said it was virtually raw. We assumed it had given her a gyppy tummy and that’s why she didn’t jump.’
A phone rang somewhere deep in the house. The inspector jumped to his feet. He was surprisingly nimble for someone of his size.
‘Stay here,’ he told Poppy, disappearing through the door with PC Bodiam close behind him.
This was getting weirder and weirder, Poppy thought. She wiggled her toes and gazed around the room. Hundreds, no thousands, of antique, leather-bound books lined the shelves. She padded across the room and studied the spines. An array of Encyclopaedia Britannicas with navy leather covers and gold-leaf lettering caught her eye and she pulled one from the shelf. To her surprise it wasn’t an antique book at all – it was a moulded book panel designed to look like one. Poppy tried more. Every single book was a fake. They were all there for show, never to be read.
She sat back down and switched on her mobile. No phone signal here, let alone 3G. The wifi signal was strong but she didn’t know the Cannings’ passcode and she could hardly interrupt them to ask. She sighed, wondering how long Inspector Pearson was likely to be. And then she noticed the plastic evidence bag, which had slipped down the side of the armchair in his haste to leave.
Poppy knew she shouldn’t look at the letter. But she also knew it would probably explain why the police were here, and what had happened to Georgia. It was becoming increasingly obvious that her disappearance had nothing to do with a dodgy hot dog. Poppy grappled with her conscience for all of thirty seconds. Inevitably curiosity won out. She checked that the door was closed and reached for the evidence bag.
The scruffy, white paper was blank on one side. Poppy turned it over, her mouth dry. Her eyes slid over the untid
y lines of handwriting, scrawled in ugly capital letters:
THESE ARE OUR DEMANDS. TWO MILLION IN EXCHANGE FOR YOUR PRECIOUS DAUGHTER. WE’VE SENT A LITTLE GIFT TO SHOW WE MEAN BUSINESS. IT’LL BE A FINGER NEXT TIME. AND SHE’S DEAD IF YOU TELL THE POLICE. WAIT FOR THE NEXT INSTRUCTION.
Poppy’s eyes widened. Was this a ransom note? Had Georgia been kidnapped? Common sense said no. Things like that happened in books and films, not real life. Real people didn’t get kidnapped. But the Cannings were loaded. And why else were the police here?
Before Poppy had a chance to marshal her thoughts she heard footsteps in the hallway. She shoved the evidence bag back down the side of the armchair. She was sitting with her hands clasped demurely on her lap when PC Bodiam appeared moments later.
‘You’ve been very helpful, Poppy. We won’t take up any more of your time.’
‘So, can I go home?’ Poppy asked. Her eyes slid involuntarily to the armchair where a corner of plastic peeked out. She didn’t notice the PC follow her gaze.
‘You can. But Poppy – and this is really, really important – you must not tell a soul what you’ve seen, or think you’ve seen, here today. Lives could be in danger if even a whisper gets out that there are police at Claydon Manor.’ PC Bodiam’s voice was gentle, but her expression was deadly serious.
‘I haven’t seen anything,’ Poppy gabbled.
PC Bodiam stared at the letter and then at Poppy. ‘Well, that’s alright then. Come on, I’ll show you out.’
As they walked into the yard Angela Snell was leading Cloud out of his borrowed stable. Poppy tightened his girth and pulled his stirrup leathers down. She was about to edge her toe into the stirrup when PC Bodiam laid a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing. But you must not tell anyone we were here, do you understand?’
Poppy didn’t understand at all. But she nodded anyway. PC Bodiam smiled briefly.
‘Thank you. Believe me, Georgia’s life depends on it.’