Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “We’re back,” gushed young Nicola Mears, First Gipping Brownie’s Brown Owl and Simon Mears’s wife. “It’s been exactly five minutes. We timed ourselves.”

  I wondered if her husband knew she had a crush on Phil Burrows whilst he had been out there risking life and limb under the wheels of The Gordon?

  Reassuring Phil that I’d meet him at Gipping Manor tonight, I headed straight for the refreshment table. If I didn’t have a cuppa in the next three minutes, I’d collapse from malnutrition.

  “That’s Phil Burrows, isn’t it?” said Gillian Briggs, handing me a cup. “I remember him and his brother, Steve, when they were little. Phil was always the handsome one. Always stealing Steve’s girlfriends. Oh! You’re back—” she smiled.

  I turned to find Noah and, to my annoyance, felt my face go hot. He really was handsome.

  “I’ll take two more rock cakes, Mrs. Briggs.” Noah turned to me. “Can I have a quick word, Vicky? It’s important. For a rockcake?”

  Gillian Briggs raised her eyebrows and winked.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “I’m listening.”

  “No. In private. Follow me.”

  With a cup of tea in one hand and a rock cake in the other, I hurried after him, wondering what on earth it could be about.

  Moments later, Noah stopped at the mouth of the rarely used east alley, which led to the industrial estate. It was a well-known hideout for lovesick teenagers after dark. Being mid-morning, the place was deserted. I felt inexplicably jittery.

  “I owe you an apology,” said Noah. “I was rude yesterday. The thing is—” he took a deep breath. “You make me nervous.”

  I was stunned. “But you don’t even know me.”

  “I feel as if we’ve met in another life,” said Noah, staring deep into my eyes.

  My stomach turned over. Had he known me when I lived in Newcastle with Mum and Dad?

  Gypsies got around a lot. It was certainly possible. “I don’t think so,” I said, adding wildly—and inexplicably, “I’m an orphan.”

  “An orphan? Me, too.” said Noah. “Both my parents died of the flu when I was twelve. The doctors refused to treat gypsies in the hospital.”

  “That’s awful,” I said. “Mine were on safari—actually, I can’t talk about it.” Somehow I just couldn’t bring myself to tell Noah the death-by-lions-in-Africa story.

  “I live with Aunt Dora,” he said. “You know we didn’t steal that silver. It’s always the same. We’re always blamed for everything.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re different from the other gorgers, aren’t you?” He brushed a strand of hair away from my face—just as Mr. Evans had done to Annabel. A bolt of electricity passed between us.

  “Am I?” I said, feeling even more jittery. Was this what he had in mind when asking to see me in private? Things were moving very fast. Good grief! Was he going to kiss me in broad daylight?

  “Is this why you’ve brought me here?” I said coyly.

  “No. I didn’t want to be overheard,” said Noah. “I need to talk to you about the woman in Mudge Lane.”

  All thoughts of love flew right out of my mind. “You know who she is?” I gasped.

  “You mean to say you don’t?” Noah seemed surprised. “I thought you reporters worked closely with the police?”

  “They’re not interested,” I said exasperated. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Why?” said Noah. “What did they say?”

  There was a crash of breaking glass followed by another, as a wave of empty beer bottles sailed in our direction. A pack of schoolchildren added stones to their ammunition.

  “Clear off you dirty pikeys!” they yelled.

  “You’d better leave,” said Noah, as the kids drew closer. Some were armed with sticks. Frankly, I’d never seen such open racial hatred and was embarrassed for my kind.

  “What was her name?” I cried, as he began to back away. “Was she a gypsy?”

  “Meet me by the gatehouse tonight at ten,” said Noah. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  And with that, he tossed his empty cup aside and ran off down the alley with the kids in hot pursuit.

  I stared after him, feeling incredibly excited. I had recruited a brand-new informant and a handsome one at that. But first, a quick word with his aunt, Madame Dora, was in order.

  21

  In the past hour or so, the queue of women waiting to see what the future held had grown considerably longer. Clearly, rumors that the gypsies were responsible for the theft of the missing church silver and priceless Trewallyn chalice had not affected Madame Dora’s business a bit.

  I felt a twinge of disgust. Only yesterday, most of these ladies were desperate for the “pikeys” to be gone, but today they were lining Dora’s pockets with pounds.

  I felt a slight wave of anxiety. What if she sensed I’d planned to meet one of her kin tonight? What if she peered into her crystal ball and saw something—romantic? Hadn’t Jimmy said that gypsies and gorgers could never be together?

  The tent flap lifted, and Mrs. Evans emerged clutching a brown paper bag. Ruth Reeves broke away from her friends, pawing at Mrs. E.’s arm, saying urgently, “Was it worth the money?”

  Seeing as how Ruth have been married to hedge-cutter John Reeves for decades, I wondered why she would need to see Madame Dora at all. Mum says only unhappy people want to know the future.

  “If it works, it’s worth every penny,” said Mrs. Evans grimly.

  “That’s not goose dung, is it?” I said, joining them.

  “No it’s most certainly not,” said Mrs. Evans. “It’s a charm to put a stop to Lenny’s wandering eye.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  Dora poked her head out of the tent looking decidedly different from the last time we met.

  Heavily made up with false eyelashes and crimson lipstick, a colorful bandana was wrapped around her head. Two large hoops dangled from her ear lobes, and her wrists jangled with an abundance of gold bracelets.

  “I thought I heard your voice, Vicky,” she said. “Come on in.”

  Ignoring the grumblings and cries of “She’s jumped the queue” and “What’s so special about Vicky Hill?” I ducked inside.

  Securing the flap behind us, Dora gestured for me to take the wooden stool whilst she settled into a high winged-back chair. A large crystal ball sat atop a round table that was covered with a gold-fringed, deep purple tablecloth. Behind Dora’s chair was a three-paneled Chinese screen painted with mysterious symbols. In the corner stood a potted plant and a small painted wooden medicine chest with dozens of little drawers containing various herbs—if the labels were anything to go by.

  This setup must have taken some time to put together to say nothing of transportation to and from The Grange. How did it get here?

  “Ruby brought all this in her VW camper,” said Dora, as if reading my thoughts.

  “I was just wondering,” I said.

  “We didn’t steal that silver,” Dora said bluntly. “Someone is trying to frame us. Someone is throwing rubbish around the pigsty,” Dora raged on. “Rubbish we spent a whole day clearing up and putting away into the correct recycling bins.”

  “I’m not sure if what you saw in a crystal ball will hold up—”

  “I’m not daft, luv. I’ve got it all on camera—and more besides!”

  “On film?”

  My suspicions as to Topaz’s involvement were growing by the minute. “I am sorry, Dora,” I said in my friendliest voice. “I have a feeling I know who is doing this. Why don’t I have a word with that person? I’m sure that person will apologize.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Dora. “I already know who is doing it, and I’m going to make sure she goes to prison.”

  Good grief! “Aren’t you being a bit hasty?”

  Dora regarded me with utter contempt. “Hasty? Hasty? There’s a dying man just feet from her back door! She’s shown no
respect for our culture. It beggars belief.”

  “At least let me talk to her first. I’m sure it was just playful high spirits.”

  “Why? Friend of yours, is she?” said Dora with a sneer.

  “Not exactly.” Blast, wretched Topaz and her ridiculous disguises.

  “Good, you’ve got some sense, then.” Dora leaned back in her chair and cocked her head. “You’ve had a rough life, luv,” she said gently. “Be careful of these so-called friends. They’d think nothing of betraying you.” She leaned forward and took my hand, turning it palm side up once more. “You’re an outsider,” she said. “Stick to your own kind. And, whilst we are on the subject, gorgers and gypsies should not be together. Ever.”

  I felt my face redden. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “You know who I’m talking about.”

  The tent was becoming claustrophobic. I snatched back my hand. What a fool I’d been to come here. The gypsy could obviously “see” me with Noah.

  “That’ll be five pounds,” said Dora. “But since you’ve got my article on the front page, I’ll do this for free.”

  Front page? “Thank you, but you do know that Page One is not up to me?” I said. “I’d still like to talk to her ladyship about this so-called film.”

  Dora gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t waste your breath. My mind is made up.”

  I got to my feet thoroughly rattled, though I wasn’t sure if it was because of Dora’s stubborn determination to get Topaz incarcerated—though I’d often thought of doing that myself—or her uncanny knowledge of my rendezvous tonight with Noah. Either way, I wanted to get out of this tent. Now.

  Outside, a chorus of “Are you going to meet Mr. Right?” and “Will you win the lottery?” greeted me, but I had no desire to stand and chat.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I had triple-booked myself tonight—an interview with Phil for a day-in-the-life, a rendezvous with the gorgeous Noah, and somehow, mixed in with all this, drinks with Steve.

  An extremely trying evening loomed ahead.

  22

  Three times I tried to call The Grange to speak to Topaz about this so-called film, but the phone just rang and rang. Needless to say, she didn’t have a mobile or an answering machine.

  Finally, on the fourth attempt—journalism is all about persistence—I was taken aback by the sound of a familiar voice and, for a moment, thought I must have dialed the wrong number.

  “Annabel, is that you?”

  “What do you want, Vicky?”

  “Are you at The Grange?”

  “Well, duh?” said Annabel. “Where else do you think I’d be? The moon?”

  “What are you doing there?” I said. “I thought the eviction was off.”

  “It may be off for now,” she said, “but actually her ladyship is in a dreadful state.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” Topaz had seemed very cheerful on the phone this morning.

  There was an exasperated sigh. “Because of the Trewallyn chalice. It was stolen, remember? Fortunately, I was able to tell her ladyship that the Gazette would be offering a reward of fifty pounds for any information leading to its recovery.”

  Frankly, I thought fifty pounds a bit cheap. “It was my idea.”

  “It was our idea,” said Annabel briskly. “However, since it’s me who has the relationship with the Lady Ethel, it’s all my idea now.”

  Blast Annabel and blast Topaz! “Can I talk to her, please? It’s important.”

  “She’s resting, and anyway, all her calls go through me now,” said Annabel. “What would it be regarding?”

  I hesitated. Even if Dora was bluffing, I didn’t want Annabel to jump on this bandwagon, too. “Tell her, tell her . . . it’s about Belcher Pike’s funeral arrangements.”

  As I ended the call, I wondered why I was bothering to talk to Topaz at all. With Annabel as her new best friend, she’d probably repeat our conversation.

  I felt strangely depressed and a tiny bit jealous. Get a grip, Vicky! I had far too much on my plate to give way to maudlin musings.

  Outside the Gazette, a handful of people were clustered around the show window, chattering animatedly. I caught snatches of conversation: “Burrows shouldn’t even be in there!” “Long live the Ranids!” “Burrows put Gipping on the map!” “It’s a disgrace!”

  Before I got dragged into God-knows-what—I’d had more than my fair share of drama today—I darted across the street to get a better view of what was causing so much excitement.

  It would seem there were two opposing camps stationed on either side of the show window. In the middle, Barbara and Olive were reorganizing the display to cries of dismay or yelps of delight from the onlookers.

  Out went Phil Burrows’s horse mascot. In came the Ranids’s bright green frog. Out went Phil Burrow’s Turpin Terror standee. In came a life-sized mannequin of a Gipping Ranids Morris man in full-on costume, bells et al. Olive seemed to get tangled up in his baldricks, and the two of them toppled over to the glee of the pro-Burrows clan. Barbara threw up her hands in frustration.

  This was one of the rare times when I did not want to be part of the action. My stomach rumbled again—the rock cake had not been that filling.

  Realizing it was the day that Mrs. Evans “did” for Margaret Pierce, I decided to go straight home and raid the pantry. I’d also had an idea.

  There was still the mystery of the missing shoebox. Since it was the summer holidays, the Swamp Dogs were bound to be festering in their lair at the abandoned wool and textile factory opposite my home. I might grill them on the church silver. Who knows—maybe they might have seen a green Land Rover with a safari roof rack and overhead lighting.

  I went to get my car and set off for Factory Terrace.

  Rounding a corner, I saw Bill Trenfold’s post van driving away from the pillar box on the corner of Tripp Lane. I looked at my watch with astonishment!

  This time it wasn’t even 3:30 P.M.! Bill’s collection time was getting earlier and earlier—no doubt he was sneaking off home and pretending to put in a full day’s work.

  On a whim, I stopped by the pillar box and found that, once again, he’d forgotten to close the door properly. This was unacceptable.

  I sped after Bill and managed to catch him at his next port of call—the pillar box at the entrance to Bexmoor Way.

  Making sure to cut off his escape with a PIT maneuver—precision immobilization technique that I’d seen on an American show on the telly—I leapt out of my Fiat and strolled over, giving a playful rap on the bonnet of his car.

  Bill wound the window down and scowled.

  “Hi, Bill,” I said. “Nice day.”

  Bill regarded me with his rheumy eyes. “Forecast says we’ll have scattered showers on Saturday, but what do they know?”

  I noted he hadn’t shaved. Gray whiskers peppered his chin and sprouted from his nostrils in tufts.

  Reminding myself that despite the rumors that brother and sister loathed each other, Bill had still lost his only living relative. Suppressed grief could do funny things to people and might explain why he was becoming so forgetful.

  “How are you coping?” I said. “Are you eating properly? Feeling light-headed?”

  Bill looked wary. “Why?”

  “You might want to double-check those pillar boxes in Tripp Lane and The Marshes. Both doors weren’t closed properly.”

  All the color drained from Bill’s already pale face. He opened his mouth and shut it several times but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to croak, “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “Don’t worry. No harm done.” I gave him my most reassuring smile, but deep down I was worried. I pointed to the collection plate. “Are you coming back again at five thirty?”

  “Eh?” Bill scratched his head under his polished peaked cap.

  “It’s just turned three thirty,” I said helpfully.

  Bill stared at me again, then blurted out, “New times,” he said. “It’s not my fa
ult. It’s head office. They keep cutting down my hours.”

  Of course, everyone in the entire country knew about the enforced closure of hundreds of village post offices. Many postal workers were being laid off as the government slashed postal budgets, and countless petitions had been signed by customers worried about saying good-bye to yet another landmark of British country living.

  “You mean, you’re only picking up post once a day?” I said.

  “What?”

  “Is there a new time?” Really, this was quite maddening. “Because if there is, these collection plates need to be updated.”

  Bill’s bottom lip began to quiver. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he said. “I don’t want to get the sack.”

  “Of course not.” Poor man. If Reverend Whittler was right, Bill already had enough money problems. “I just don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  Bill got out of his post van. He pulled out a large fob of keys from his pocket and made a meal out of slamming and locking the door shut. “Happy now?”

  Leaving him to it, I set off once more.

  Tripp Lane was narrow with a series of blind corners. A cyclist coming in the opposite direction was upon me before I could brake, but fortunately, he pressed himself against the hedge. As I sailed on by, I caught a glimpse of a bright yellow shirt and long ribbon-threaded braid. An empty gunnysack was slung across the handlebars. I was positive it was Jimmy the gypsy. I was also positive that he was poaching rabbits. And in broad daylight, too!

  Thinking of food, my thoughts turned to Mrs. Evans’s homemade black-currant jam, but it would seem that my afternoon snack was destined not to be.

  Jack Webster’s Land Rover was parked outside Chez Evans. It was unusual to see Jack in these parts. I hadn’t realized he and Mr. Evans were close friends and only hoped he wasn’t planning on leading my landlady’s husband astray.

  Since I didn’t want to bump into Jack Webster, I drove my car on past and stopped outside the factory’s main gate.

  No sooner had I cut the engine then I heard the distinctive grating sound of metal scraping on concrete. The main gate edged open, and to my astonishment, Jack Webster emerged. Immediately, I ducked out of sight.