Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Just a small one. I’m driving.” I wasn’t surprised that he’d already heard the news. There were no secrets in Gipping. “Who told you?”

  Whittler chuckled. “Mrs. E. is great friends with Betty Bond. Her son, Kelvin, was called out to the scene. He was pretty shaken up.” I recalled the poor young constable last night. “I’m sure he hadn’t seen a dead body before.”

  Nor had I, for that matter, and the expression on the woman’s face still haunted me this morning.

  “What did Kelvin make of it?” I intended to grill Mrs. Evans later on.

  Whittler took a sip of tea. “I always say, there’s nothing like the first sip of a freshly brewed pot of tea.”

  “Did Kelvin mention the police thought she could be a gypsy?”

  Startled, Whittler looked up sharply. He must have inhaled a cake crumb because a violent fit of coughing followed.

  I jumped up. “I’ll get you some water.”

  “No need,” he croaked, eyes bulging. Spluttering, Whittler reached for the sherry and drank straight from the bottle. Gradually he recovered his breath. “Goodness. Well, I never. We haven’t had gypsies in these parts since I was a teenager. Barbara caused quite a scandal, I recall.”

  This didn’t surprise me. Barbara had been notoriously wild in her youth and never let anyone forget it.

  “Stalk said a few gypsies had arrived in Upper Gipping.” I cut myself another slice of Victoria sponge.

  “I only hope the poor dead woman isn’t a gypsy.” Whittler dabbed his eyes with a paper napkin, adding darkly, “For your sake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know anything about gypsy funerals?”

  I shrugged. “No. Why?”

  “My colleague officiated at one in St. Jude’s in Teignmouth a few years ago,” said Whittler. “Over three hundred gypsies turned up.”

  “Three hundred?” I squeaked. The Gazette prided itself on being one of the few newspapers in the country that recorded the names of every single mourner. How would I ever cope?

  “Oh yes. It was like an invasion,” Whittler said with relish. “Gypsy funerals are quite something. It’s traditional for relatives from all over the country to come and pay their last respects. Festivities can go on for days. My colleague told me that after the service, they even dug a hole in the church car park and roasted a whole pig.”

  “A pig!” I gasped. “I suppose it will make a change from the usual sherry and fruitcake.”

  “One of their customs is to burn the wagon of the deceased with all their possessions in it,” said Whittler. “They perform a ritual destruction. I’m told it’s quite astonishing to watch.”

  “Even now? With modern trailer caravans?”

  “Oh yes. Imagine if my parishioners decided to do the same?” Whittler chuckled. “There would be fires burning in Gipping every single day.”

  I believed it. I went to at least seven funerals a week.

  “They’re all dreadful thieves,” Whittler went on cheerfully. “Steal anything not bolted down. She’ll be buried at St. Peter’s naturally. You’d better prepare yourself.”

  And with that worrying thought, I said, “I really must go.”

  “Wait! I almost forgot,” said Whittler. “We must toast Gladys. More sherry?”

  “I’m fine.” Mine was still untouched. I still couldn’t get used to the tea-sherry-cake mixture of flavors first thing in the morning. Whittler refilled his glass and offered up a little prayer. I drank it down in one go and got to my feet. “Don’t forget to post that envelope, Vicky,” he said. “There’s a very large check in there.”

  Reassuring him that I’d physically take it to the main post office in the High Street, I bid the vicar good-bye and walked back to the car park to collect my Fiat.

  It sounded as if things were soon going to get very lively in Gipping-on-Plym.

  4

  To my disappointment, there wasn’t a gypsy to be seen in Gipping-on-Plym. It was business as usual.

  Knowing the four-space car park behind the Gazette would already be full, I left my Fiat in the alley adjacent to The Copper Kettle across the street. Topaz Potter, who owned the café as well as The Grange, charged me one pound—paid in advance—for the privilege. It was easier than having to use the free parking lot half a mile away.

  To my surprise, there was no sign of Topaz’s red Ford Capri and, emerging from the side passage, I noted that the café blinds were at half-mast. On the front door was a sign saying CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  How odd. I’d only seen Topaz yesterday, and she hadn’t mentioned she was going away. I stooped down to peer under the blinds and saw the wooden chairs turned upside down on the Formica tabletops.

  “She’s gone, then,” came a hard voice.

  I jumped up to find two of my regular mourners, Florence Tossell and Amelia Webster. “It certainly looks like it,” I said.

  “I knew she couldn’t keep that place going,” said Florence, fiddling with the wart on her chin. “Didn’t I tell you, Amelia?”

  Amelia nodded. Both ladies wore crimplene summer dresses and hand-knitted cardigans, but Amelia had added a large straw-colored floppy hat despite the fact the day was overcast. “People prefer The Warming Pan,” she said. “And her food was overpriced and tasted dreadful.”

  I had to agree with her on all counts. I ate at the Kettle only out of a misguided sense of loyalty.

  “We were hoping to bump into you,” said Florence. “Is it true that the gypsies are back at The Grange?”

  “Back at The Grange?” It would certainly explain Topaz’s sudden absence. Having inherited the estate from her uncle and aunt—Sir Hugh and Lady Clarissa Trewallyn—Topaz must have dropped everything and gone to protect her birthright.

  Topaz didn’t live at The Grange. She didn’t use her real name, either—namely that of Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat. For reasons that still remained a mystery to me, Topaz fancied herself as Gipping’s local vigilante, adopting the pseudonym of Topaz Potter and doing a terrible job of running a café as a front.

  “Oh yes. In Sir Hugh’s day, they used to camp there every summer,” said Florence. “Remember all that scandal with Barbara?”

  Barbara again. Here she was more than forty years later and still unable to escape her past.

  “We’re awfully worried about Saturday’s Morris Dance-a-thon,” Amelia said. “My husband, Jack, is the Ranids’s squire this year.”

  “Squire?” I said.

  “It’s the squire’s job to run the program and call the dances,” said Amelia. “Jack threatened to burn down all their caravans if they weren’t gone by Saturday.”

  Amelia’s hand fluttered to her floppy hat. She pulled the brim down, hard. Jack Webster was notorious for his temper, which often turned violent after a few glasses of lethal Devon scrumpy. I took a closer look at Amelia’s face and fancied I saw a yellowing bruise above her right eyebrow.

  “When Jack came to pick you up last night from Barbara’s,” I said, “did he take the shortcut through Mudge Lane?”

  “Jack didn’t show up,” said Florence, throwing her arm protectively around her friend’s shoulders. “Eric and I had to take her home.”

  “It wasn’t that he forgot,” protested Amelia. “He’d been drinking at the Three Tuns and didn’t want to lose his license.”

  “Doesn’t he drive a green Land Rover?” I said.

  “All the farmers round here have green Land Rovers,” snapped Florence.

  “Was he out shooting rabbits?”

  “Why are you asking all these questions?” Amelia sounded upset.

  “Just curious.” It dawned on me that news of the woman’s demise might have reached the vicarage but not the High Street. Yet.

  “If anyone was shooting rabbits, it would be those gypsies poaching. Mark my words. We don’t want thieving gypsies in Gipping, with their filthy children and rabid dogs—”

  “And all the nasty rubbish they leave behind,” said Am
elia. “They don’t use toilets, you know.” She pulled a face. “They just go number one and number two in the woods.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Florence sharply. “These days they have all the mod cons and demand equal rights. My sister lives in Brighton, and she said they had some gypsies passing through only last month, and one of them drove a flashy silver Winnebago with a satellite dish! Imagine!”

  At the sound of clopping hooves, Amelia turned to Florence and said, “Mod cons? Just look at that!”

  A pretty green-and-yellow-painted bowtop wagon, drawn by a glossy-coated skewbald pony in a gleaming harness, trotted on by. Bells tinkled cheerfully, and the clink, clink of metal pots and pans fastened to the guardrails seemed to play a magical melody of their own. So much for the dirty old vans!

  At the reins stood a handsome man in his late twenties looking very Pirates-of-the-Caribbean. Dressed in black jeans and a white shirt with balloon sleeves, he sported a mustache and wore his long dark-brown hair tied back in a ribbon.

  Catching my eye, the man gave me a stunning smile that made me blush. On impulse, I waved.

  “What are you doing?” hissed Florence. “Don’t encourage him, you stupid girl.”

  “I was just being friendly,” I said, gazing after the departing wagon and wondering if there was a real bed inside. Frankly, I found gypsy life fascinating and romantic—life on the open road. Singing around a campfire. Sleeping under the stars.

  Two women followed on foot. One looked a few years older than me, with long dark hair and a hard face. Dressed in a traditional ankle-length skirt and white peasant long-sleeved blouse, she carried an open basket.

  “Lucky heather?” she said, walking up to us. “Keep you safe from the evil eye.”

  “Shoo!” said Florence, flapping her hands. “Go away.”

  “I’ll take one,” I said firmly. If I had to report on this funeral, I couldn’t afford to upset the mourners.

  “That’ll be three pounds, and don’t ask for change.”

  Three pounds! The young woman thrust a tiny bunch of lilac heather tied with a red ribbon into my hands. I noticed her nails were long like talons. I took out my wallet, annoyed that I only had a fiver, and handed it over. She snatched it and headed off for another unsuspecting member of the public.

  “You got ripped off,” scoffed Florence. “Three pounds!”

  “Five, actually,” I grumbled.

  “No, thank you,” said Amelia as a second gypsy woman in her late sixties limped over with a stack of flyers peeping out of a canvas shopping bag. “Please go away.”

  The woman had obviously been a beauty in her heyday. She wore her gray hair coiled on top of her head and enormous hoop earrings. A long, red dirndl skirt, matching blouse, and fringed shawl completed her outfit.

  “Can I have a flyer?” I said.

  “Bless you, me angel,” said the woman, shooting Amelia a venomous look and adding, “And you should watch that husband of yours. One day he’ll go too far.” She limped after the disappearing wagon.

  My stomach turned over. Perhaps he already had!

  “What a horrible woman,” gasped Amelia. “What a thing to say!”

  I studied the flyer ROAMING RIGHTS FOR ROMANIES! WE CAMP BECAUSE WE CAN! with Florence—smelling strongly of cooked bacon—reading aloud over my shoulder. “‘Shortage of residential and transit authorized sites, retrospective planning permission holdups, lack of health care and education, poor environmental conditions, unemployment’—blah, blah, blah. I told you so!” she said, stabbing the paper with her finger. “They’re playing the human rights card. They’re here to stay. Just you see.”

  “Oh dear,” said Amelia. “Jack is going to go berserk.”

  Realizing I’d wasted precious minutes chatting, I said, “I really must get to work.”

  “Can you ask Barbara when she intends to finish the window?” said Florence. “The Morris Dance-a-thon is only a few days away.”

  I looked across the street and saw newspaper still taped up inside the show window.

  “Jack wanted me to make sure the Ranids’s mascot was in the center,” said Amelia. “It’s so unlike Barbara. I suppose she’s too busy with her wedding plans.”

  Promising them I’d find out, I bid my good-byes and left.

  Life was certainly never dull in Gipping-on-Plym.

  5

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Olive Larch, looking distinctly frazzled. Three large cardboard boxes were standing at the foot of the padlocked wooden shutters that screened the display window.

  “I don’t know what to do with them. Or that thing.” She pointed to a man-sized hobbyhorse standing by the entrance to the nook. A long, black cape enveloped the wooden pole reserved for the rider. Atop was a garish white horse head sporting a highwayman mask and jaunty black tricorn hat. The model horse’s mouth was permanently open in a macabre smile, revealing an impressive set of teeth.

  “That’s not the mascot for the Gipping Ranids,” I said, knowing full well our local Morris dancers had a giant green frog.

  “It’s the Turpin Terrors,” said Olive. “Phil insists I put it in the window, and all this stuff, too.” She kicked the box with her patent-leather pump.

  “Where’s Barbara?” I said.

  “No one knows.” Olive wrung her hands. “Wilf called and told me to come in.” Olive occasionally worked in reception when we were extra busy, but her excruciating slowness was more of a hindrance than a help. “I rang her house and left two messages.”

  “Perhaps Barbara had too much fruit punch and overslept?” I said—though that would be a first in Gazette history. Barbara liked to boast that she’d only taken two days off sick in all the years she’d worked for the newspaper—and that was because she couldn’t ride her bicycle to work because her ingrown toenail had flared up.

  “Phil wants all this in the window today,” said Olive.

  “I saw Amelia Webster outside wondering why the window wasn’t done yet.”

  “I can’t do it without Barbara. You know how she is.”

  I certainly did. Along with the archive room, it was her pride and joy. Barbara refused to let anyone interfere in her themed window displays and kept the shutters padlocked just in case someone silly enough was tempted.

  “Since Barbara keeps the key with her, there is not much you can do about it,” I said. “And anyway, who is Phil?”

  “You don’t know?” Olive’s jaw dropped. “Phil Burrows is a famous Morris dancer.”

  I shook my head. “No. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.”

  “He used to dance with the Gipping Ranids until he was poached by the Turpin Terrors,” said Olive. “They’re based in Brighton and dance all over the country. Phil is making a guest appearance. It’s very exciting. I knew him as a lad. Even then I knew—”

  “I’m sure Barbara will be here soon.” Time was moving on, and I was anxious to get upstairs to the reporter room. “Just tell Phil he’ll have to wait, and in the meantime, take a look through those boxes.”

  “But they’re Phil’s,” said Olive. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that Pete called an emergency meeting in his office. You’d better hurry. You’re already late!”

  Cursing Olive under my breath, I tore upstairs.

  6

  Luckily for me, Pete was on the phone. I managed to slip into his office unnoticed and stood at the back of the room. There was an air of excited anticipation. I knew my instincts had been right about the bald woman. Accidental drowning? My eye!

  My fellow journalists—court reporter Edward Lyle; sports go-to man Tony Perkins; and, of course, Annabel—were squashed on the tartan two-seater sofa seemingly riveted to Pete’s “conversation,” if you could call it that.

  Gripping the receiver in one hand, Pete was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously into his notepad and uttering the occasional grunt.

  Pete slammed down the phone. “We’re on!” He threw his pencil onto his desk, where it prompt
ly rolled off and fell to the floor.

  Annabel leapt from the sofa. “I’ll get it!” She bent down to pick it up—making sure that Pete got an eyeful of cleavage in her plunging V-neck, pale-yellow T-shirt before putting the pencil back onto his desk. “Looks like we’ve got some action here this week, folks,” said Pete, all business.

  “That was Detective Inspector Stalk at the police station putting us on red alert. We’re about to be invaded by some hundred-plus gyppos.”

  “It’s politically incorrect to say the word gyppos, Pete,” reminded Annabel. “I believe the term these days is travelers.”

  “They’ll be coming for the funeral,” I said. “Do we have a name yet?”

  “Belcher Pike,” said Pete.

  “That’s a strange name for a woman.”

  “Belcher is not a woman, silly.” Annabel swiveled around to face me, draping her arm along the back of the sofa. Her V-neck gaped open to reveal a lace-trimmed, pale-blue bra. “He’s some important gypsy king who has come to Gipping to die.”

  “What about the dead woman in Mudge Lane?”

  “Accident,” growled Pete. “Can we move on?”

  “Let me fill her in, Pete.” With an exaggerated sigh, Annabel turned to me again. “The police said she was cycling across the kissing bridge, wobbled off the edge, hit her head, and drowned.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I cried. “What about the Land Rover that hit my car?”

  “Don’t know anything about that, do you Pete?”

  “Are you quite finished?” snapped Pete, unwrapping a fresh stick of gum and folding it into his mouth. Sometimes I wish he still smoked. His mood had seemed better in the good old days.

  “I was just filling her in,” said Annabel, adding, “since she was late.”

  “I went to Ms. Trenfold’s funeral, actually.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” said Edward. “It must have been a terrible shock to find the body.”

  “It was, thank you, Edward.” I shot him a grateful look, unwilling to say that last night I had suffered nightmares about drowning in a sea of hair. “All I’m saying is that I have a feeling I might know who is responsible, and I don’t believe it was an accident.”