“I’m a reporter, too. Editor of Romany Ramblings,” she said. “I go by my maiden name of Dora Pike, but just call me Dora.”
“Vicky Hill.” What a stroke of luck! A fellow reporter! I was thrilled. It had never occurred to me that the gypsies might have their own newspaper! Better still, if the dead woman was a gypsy, Dora Pike was bound to know who she was and demand justice.
“My newspaper is available online, in case you were wondering.”
I was. “I’m impressed.”
“Don’t look so surprised. It’s no mystery,” said Dora. “We use modern technology just like the rest of you. We have mobile phones and satellite TV.”
So much for a romantic life on the open road, free from twenty-first-century technology.
Dora rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a business card—MADAME DORA, EDITOR AND PSYCHIC JOURNALIST. ROMANY RAMBLINGS. “Do you have one?”
I handed her the same cheap card Stalk had sneered at and braced myself for a derogatory remark.
Dora studied it with a frown, then smiled. “Don’t worry, your time will come, luv,” she said. “I see big things for you.”
I could already tell that Dora and I would become the best of friends.
“Mind if I put this bag behind my seat?” she said.
Wedging the bag behind her, I noted that Dora looked at Barbara’s parcel. Her eyes widened in surprise. My stomach flipped over. Did the gypsy woman’s psychic powers sense there was something sinister about the contents? Or had she guessed that I’d opened something that wasn’t addressed to me?
“I’m delivering it to a friend,” I said by way of explanation, wondering why I felt the need to do so.
Dora suddenly grasped my hand and turned it over. Her fingers traced my palm. Dad thought fortune-telling was a load of rubbish, but naturally Mum believed in the Sight. She said I’d inherited a sixth sense from her side of the family, and sometimes I was inclined to believe this was true. It had certainly helped me clinch three front-page exclusives. Even so, as the saying goes, the jury was still out.
Finally, Dora looked up from her studies. “I thought so,” she said with deep significance. “A word of advice, luv. Be careful whom you pick for friends. Sometimes people are not as innocent as they seem.”
I didn’t need a gypsy to tell me the obvious. I could think of at least ten people I could say that about.
“You are also not what you seem,” said Dora darkly.
I felt my face turn red and tried to snatch my hand away, but she held on tightly.
“Your eyes are the windows to your soul,” Dora said nodding. “You have enemies. I see a woman. Is that true?”
“Possibly.” I recalled reading how fortune-tellers had a way of drawing information out of you. “Actually, I’m more interested in my career.”
Dora dropped my hand, swiveled around, and pulled out a copy of the Gipping Gazette from her canvas shopping bag. It was folded open to the obituary pages on eleven and twelve, where my photograph—inappropriately smiling, I’d always thought—bore the caption: ON THE CEMETERY CIRCUIT WITH VICKY!
“Here you are now, but don’t worry,” said Dora. “You won’t stay stuck in this dump forever. I’ll be in the market tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come, and I’ll give you a proper reading.”
“No thanks. I can’t really afford it at the moment,” I said. “I already bought some lucky heather for five pounds. It was supposed to be three, but the girl didn’t have change.”
“You can’t go wrong buying heather from my daughter, Ruby,” Dora declared. Maybe not, I thought, but I was still overcharged.
I put the Fiat into gear and we began to bump up the drive.
“I wondered if you could tell me a little about Belcher Pike?” I ventured. “I understand he’s enjoying his final days here at The Grange?”
“He’s my dad,” said Dora. “Turned eighty-nine last month, but he won’t last out the summer. He’s bedridden now.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “As you know, I write the obituary column for the Gazette, and I just wondered if I might be able to have a chat with him—”
“Chat? A chat!” Dora seemed appalled. I kept my eyes on the road ahead but could feel her fury. “Do you want to send my father’s soul straight to hell?”
“No, of course—”
“A terrible misfortune will fall upon gorgers who cross the threshold of a dying Romany!” Idiot, Vicky! Edward had mentioned something about gorgers not being allowed near dying gypsies.
“A vigil is kept around the clock,” Dora raged on. “They must never be left alone. They must be segregated until death comes and finally releases them from the sufferings of this life. These are our customs, and they can never be broken.”
“Sorry,” I said, desperately trying to think of something to redeem myself. “I suppose I’m nervous about his funeral—when he has one, if he has one,” I blundered on. “It’s just that I’ve heard that there will be hundreds of mourners, and I’m worried about leaving someone’s name out.”
“Is that all?” said Dora. She patted my leg. “Don’t worry. I know the name of every family in England, luv. I’ll help you when the time comes.”
“Thank you!” My relief turned to excitement. If the dead woman as a gypsy, Dora would almost certainly know who she was—or, at least, know someone who might.
“When do you expect everyone to arrive?”
“In a week or so,” Dora said. “We’re the advance party, so to speak. Tell you what—why don’t you come and have a cup of tea in my wagon? We’ll talk about how we can help each other.”
“I’d love to.”
Ha! Edward wasn’t right about everything.
As the main house came into sight, the drive split in front of a large oak tree.
“Take the right fork,” said Dora. “I’m up behind the stables.”
My spirits lifted. I couldn’t wait to see the inside of a traditional horse-drawn wagon and was positive that my new friend Dora’s would be stuffed with horse brasses and Royal Crown Derby china galore.
“Just stop by the public footpath sign,” she said.
Cutting the engine, we both got out. I changed into my trusty Wellingtons and squelched my way after Dora along the muddy footpath that led around the back of the stable block and up a slope.
Moments later I stopped dead. There in front of me was a luxuriously sleek, silver Winnebago Sightseer. So much for a horse-drawn wagon.
I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same Winnebago that Florence Tossell’s sister had seen in Brighton last month. Surely there couldn’t be two?
“I had to drive in through the Ponsford Ridge gate,” said Dora, gesturing up the hill to a distant hedge, where a five-bar gate was just visible. “She can’t handle these small country lanes.”
“She’s a beauty,” was all I could manage to say. Everyone knows that Winnebagos cost thousands and thousands of pounds, and this one looked practically new. There was obviously a great deal of money in telling fortunes! I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong business.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dora said cheerfully, removing her muddy shoes and gesturing me to do likewise—fortunately, my socks were new. “Times have changed. It’s called progress.” She unlocked the door, and I followed her up three short steps into the RV. Donning a pair of sheepskin slippers, she added, “There’s nothing romantic about sleeping in a freezing-cold wagon. Even my Ruby prefers a VW camper.”
“And the man with the ponytail?” I felt my face redden and hoped Dora hadn’t noticed.
“Noah?” Dora gave an indulgent chuckle. “That’s my nephew. Writes poetry. Plays the guitar. Now, he is a romantic.”
“So they’re cousins?” I asked, realizing that I was glad that Ruby and my pirate look-alike were not an item.
“Oh, we’re all related,” said Dora. “And that’s the way we like to keep it. Blood is thicker than water. That’s just our way.”
; It was also the Hill way. Dad’s business activities were always kept within the family. He’d often say, “If you can’t trust family, then who can you trust?”
As Dora boiled the kettle—she proudly pointed out a silent generator—I gave the Winnebago a once-over.
It was equipped with all the modern conveniences and reminded me of the celebrity trailers depicted on TV. Plush, wall-to-wall carpeting; sleek wooden fittings and fixtures; a state-of-the-art kitchen. There was even a flat-screen television, an expensive-looking camera, and a computer workstation complete with scanner. A glass display cabinet was stuffed with Royal Crown Derby china.
Although Dad only dealt in silver, he knew the value of everything on the black market. Royal Crown Derby was deceptively expensive. Some limited pieces ran into thousands of pounds.
Dora set down a tray containing an unopened packet of chocolate digestives, two china mugs, and a Brown Betty teapot.
Whilst the tea steeped in the pot, Dora handed me a copy of Romany Ramblings.
I had to admit it looked surprisingly professional. All eight pages were nicely laid out with full-color photographs. “I run off copies for those who don’t have or can’t afford the Internet. A couple of my boys take them around to other sites.”
I leafed through the newspaper, intrigued by the range of features, from gypsy campaigns to evade eviction to human-interest stories. One gypsy was even awarded an MBE from the Queen. There was a whole section dedicated to “Young Ramblers,” a column called “Peep at the Past” chronicling a different gypsy way of life one hundred years ago, job opportunities, caravans for sale, and a helpline for victims of domestic violence.
To say I was impressed was putting it mildly.
Dora poured me a cuppa and gestured to the milk and sugar. “I’m working on getting up a website with an audio stream. Get some of the old-timers to record their memories before our way of life is lost forever.”
Even the Gazette didn’t have a website.
“But I want to reach a wider audience. Not just limit this to gypsies,” Dora went on. “You gorgers are willing to believe the worst of us. We’re not thieves. We don’t destroy the countryside. It’s our creed to live peacefully with nature. Live and let live is all we ask for.”
We sipped our tea in companionable silence. It was now or never. “A woman drowned in Mudge Lane last night,” I said. “It’s been rumored that she might have been a gypsy. I wondered if you’d heard anything?”
“Sorry,” said Dora. “Not one of us, luv. I told you, I know everyone.”
“It happened only last night,” I pointed out.
“Vurma,” said Dora. “Or you could call it a gypsy phone tree. There are fixed contact points throughout the country. Someone always knows someone. Believe me, if she was a gypsy, we’d know.”
“Are you quite sure?” I asked. “The police don’t seem to care.”
“Is that why you think she’s one of us?” demanded Dora. “Because the police don’t care?”
“I didn’t mean it quite like that,” I faltered.
“We’ve had centuries of discrimination,” Dora proclaimed. “But not anymore. Times are changing. More tea?” I nodded. “And I suggest you don’t go asking questions. We don’t like talking to reporters,” Dora went on. “If you want to know something, ask me.”
“How long will you be staying at The Grange?” I asked, feeling quite flattered that I was obviously the exception to the rule.
A shadow crossed Dora’s face. “Who can say when God decides to take my father’s soul?”
“Is it”—I hesitated—“legal to stay here?”
“When I was a teenager, we’d camp at The Grange all summer,” said Dora. “My folks picked apples and helped make scrumpy. Sir Hugh said we could come whenever we liked.”
“Sir Hugh died a while ago,” I said. “I’m not sure how Lady Turberville-Spat—she inherited The Grange—would feel if it were too long.”
“The niece?” Dora gave a harsh laugh. “She’ll be in for a nasty surprise one day.”
My heart gave a jolt. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see,” Dora said cryptically. “We have a saying, ‘In the hour of your greatest success are sown the seeds of your destruction.’ But let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Business? Dora got to her feet, limped over to the computer workstation, and hobbled back with a thick brown envelope.
“It’s all in there. As a board member of the National Gypsy Council, I’ve written a detailed report about the disgraceful lack of legal stopping places for gypsies and the lack of sanitation and health care. We need the public to be aware that our kids are discriminated against in schools. I want this report on the front page of your newspaper, and believe me, Dora always gets her way.”
I was flabbergasted. “The front page is not up to me.”
“And don’t think I don’t know the little tricks you gorgers try to pull, like framing us for fly-tipping and spreading rubbish about,” Dora declared. “We follow the recycling rules, same as everybody else.”
“Actually, I believe Gipping County Council are dropping off recycling bins as we speak.”
“There is no way you can evict us, luv,” said Dora. “We’ve got the law on our side these days. The Race Relations Act of 1976 recognizes Romanies and ethnic minorities deserving of sensitive treatment, and with my dad so close to death’s door, you can’t get more sensitive than that!”
“Right. Of course,” I said.
The door opened, and Ruby poked her head in. “Whose Wellingtons are those outside? Oh.” She scowled on seeing me. “I thought we were going to pick mushrooms.”
“Ruby, this is Vicky, who works for the newspaper,” said Dora. I resisted the temptation to ask for my two pounds change. “She’s going to publish my article on the front page this week.”
Blast! “As I was saying, it’s not really my—”
“And you believe her?” Ruby snorted. “What did you go and talk to a bloody gorger for? And a reporter, too?”
Dora opened her mouth to answer and shut it again. The two women glowered at each other. Clearly this kind of discussion would not continue in front of the likes of me.
“Actually, I just write the obituaries,” I said. “We were talking about your grandfather, Belcher Pike.”
“He’s not dead yet,” snapped Ruby.
With Wellingtons on once more, I bid my good-byes and left the luxury of the Winnebago. I reflected that things had gone rather well.
My fear that the names of hundreds of mourners would elude me were groundless. As for the gypsy woman’s inflammatory report—let Pete deal with her. The front page was out of my hands.
Yet there was one thing that bothered me. Dora didn’t seem remotely curious about the dead woman in Mudge Lane. Call it my own Romany instincts but Dora Pike was hiding something, and I was determined to find out what it was.
10
As I took the footpath back to my car, I had to stop to admire the view. It was magnificent. Born in the industrial city of Newcastle, it had taken me a while to appreciate the beauty and adjust to the silence of the countryside. Surprisingly, I’d grown to love it.
Gray clouds gave way to a watery sun. Below, stretching to the horizon was a patchwork of rolling green meadows divided by hedgerows, peppered with grazing sheep. Down to my right, screened by towering oak and beech trees, stood The Grange.
I could just make out the redbrick chimneys and dormer windows set into the slate roof—servants’ quarters from another century ago.
To my left, stood a forest of pine trees known as Trewallyn Woods. The tradesmen’s entrance wound it’s way past Sir Hugh’s Folly, a cylindrical tower built in Victorian times—for no reason whatsoever—to the rear of the main house.
I had to look hard to locate the two wagons and VW camper. Even the Winnebago was shielded from the road by a belt of trees and thick hedge.
From my vantage point, I tried to find Belcher Pi
ke’s “segregated” wagon but to no avail. It was as if the gypsies weren’t here at all, although I rather doubted this would be of any consolation to Topaz.
The Morris Dance-a-thon was to be held in an enormous field on the south side of the house. The original building had been Tudor. Then, as the years passed and fashions came and went, bits were added on here and there—Queen Anne sash windows with multipaned glass, gothic gables with hideous gargoyles peering down from bargeboards—and now, the front door was reached by taking a wide flight of stone steps leading up to a Palladian portico supported by grand Corinthian pillars.
A natural sloping bank descended from the upper garden—now a wilderness—providing the perfect spot for spectators to sit, picnic, and watch the proceedings below.
There were many preparations to make. An arena with a hard floor had to be laid out, tents erected, Port-a-loos brought in, and parking for hundreds of cars marked off.
There was plenty of space for everyone, and frankly, as long as Belcher Pike didn’t die before Saturday, there was no reason why the Morris Dance-a-thon couldn’t go ahead as planned.
Continuing down the footpath, I came to a T-Junction. One way took me past the Victorian walled kitchen garden, which I knew led directly to the rear of the house; the other, up to Ponsford Ridge. In front of me was the entrance to a bridleway flanked by an archway of trees that looked as if they’d definitely been disturbed. Branches were broken, and the ground was full of muddy footprints and tire tracks.
Curious, I set off, promising myself that I’d walk for only ten minutes—I couldn’t afford to get lost—but just when I was about to retrace my steps, I heard the faint chords of a guitar.
Drawing closer, I came upon a grassy clearing. Less than twenty feet away stood an elaborately carved bowtop wagon in a dull khaki green. There was no decorative scrollwork picked out in gold leaf, colorful shutters, or painted wheels.
Fierce-looking barbed wire encompassed the small camp. There was even a sign reading GORGERS KEEP OUT. Dora certainly wasn’t taking any chances with Belcher Pike’s soul.
Thieves! Page 6
