Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  Slipper took the one to my left, and I dutifully followed. We rounded a corner and made for a faint light coming through an open doorway a few yards farther on.

  Slipper pushed the door open and went on in, but I decided to wait outside—partially because I wasn’t sure how Topaz would receive me, and partially because I was hoping to eavesdrop on whatever conversation she might be having with Probes.

  I had a good view of the sitting room. It was lovely and bright, with huge sash windows overlooking the park.

  The wallpaper was made of pale yellow silk and hung with heavily framed family portraits. In front of an ornate fireplace stood an exquisitely embroidered tapestry fire-guard. Dark-crimson velvet curtains fell from crested pelmets; a sand-colored Knole sofa trimmed with gold fringe and enormous tassels was joined by a pair of matching wingback chairs. Bowls of roses in crystal vases sat on several antique occasional tables atop a glorious Persian carpet.

  It was a far cry from the tattered Victorian chairs and grime of The Copper Kettle kitchen, and frankly, I felt a little intimidated.

  Topaz often pulled the aristocracy card on me, but I usually took it with a pinch of salt. Here, despite her silly lowly waitress act, I realized there really was a class gap between us.

  At first I couldn’t see her. She was standing partially shielded by a large potted palm in a ceramic pot next to another door.

  Dressed in a frumpy beige canvas skirt, white short-sleeved shirt, sandals, and pearls, Topaz’s short brown hair lay flat on top of her head. On the sofa sat the discarded Jackie O wig.

  “It’s just not fair!” Topaz shouted through the door. “Don’t you care about the Spat silver?”

  “You know as well as I do that this is not the work of the gypsies,” came a muffled voice I recognized as Probes.

  There was the sound of a toilet flushing and the loud crack of a lock being drawn across. Probes emerged dressed in plain clothes.

  Topaz stood aside to let him pass. “Annabel said it was the work of a famous silver thief called The Fog.”

  “The Fog?” said Probes sharply.

  My stomach turned over. So this was what Annabel was up to! Was she trying to lure Dad to Gipping-on-Plym? The idea was ludicrous—and yet . . . not impossible.

  “I’d think it highly unlikely,” said Probes. “He’s still on the run. Interpol has been after him for months, and we’d know if he’d entered the country.”

  “But he’s supposed to be frightfully clever,” said Topaz. “That’s why he’s called The Fog—because he creeps in so slowly and then disappears.”

  “The Fog wouldn’t dare return to England, let alone Gipping-on-Plym.”

  Thank you, Probes. Then I thought, wait—Probes seems to know a little too much about my dad. Naturally, I knew Probes had connections with Interpol, and, yes, it was common knowledge that the reason why Dad had fled the country was because of a botched robbery, but even so . . .

  “Did you know that he’s one of the top ten famous criminals in the world?” Topaz declared. I couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit of pride that Dad was in the top ten and wondered exactly which number.

  Probes walked to the window and gazed out over the parkland beyond. “Why would Annabel think The Fog would come to Gipping?”

  “Apparently his specialty is Georgian tea urns.” Topaz flounced over to the Knole sofa, tossed her wig on the floor, and flung herself into the corner. “Really, this is all so frightfully tedious. I still don’t know why you won’t let me evict the gypsies today. That eviction service from Plymouth is jolly good and had a last-minute cancellation at five.”

  “We searched the wagons. The gypsies haven’t done anything wrong, and you know it,” said Probes wearily. “Where have you hidden the silver, Ethel?”

  I’d never heard Topaz addressed by her real name before.

  “I told you, I haven’t touched it,” she said. “Why would Uncle Hugh say they could stay here? Why, after all this time, have they come back?”

  Up until last night, I had been asking myself the same question, but now I knew the answer. The gypsies were back because Jimmy Kitchen realized he couldn’t live without his first love and had come to get her. It was too romantic for words.

  “You do know that wasting police time is a criminal offense,” Probes said sternly. “And if you are thinking of making a false claim on an insurance policy, you could go to prison.”

  “An insurance claim?” Topaz brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that. What a frightfully good idea.”

  Probes gave a heavy sigh. “You’re impossible.”

  Unfortunately, I didn’t see the canister of furniture polish left on the ground by Mrs. Evans. It made a very loud noise as it rolled across the floor and stopped at Topaz’s feet.

  Topaz looked up. “Omigod! Vicky!” she shrieked and leapt to her feet, racing across the room and flinging herself into my arms. “I’ve missed you!”

  “I heard the news about the silver.” I tried to extract myself from her enthusiastic embrace. “Your ladyship?”

  Topaz jumped back and became lady-of-the-manor once again. “Thank you for your concern,” she said with a haughty sniff. “I am quite well, but it was a frightful shock.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” groaned Probes. “Do we have to continue this charade? Vicky knows exactly who you are.”

  “What was stolen, Topaz?”

  Topaz gave a heavy sigh. “Obviously, the priceless Trewallyn chalice—and some littler knickknacks at the church.”

  “You mean the ancient artifacts that have been there for hundreds of years?” I said.

  “And the Georgian tea urns, of course,” said Topaz. “They’re the ones that we’re really worried about, aren’t we, Colin?”

  “We would be if they were really missing and not just”—Probes looked me straight in the eye and actually winked—“mislaid.”

  I was glad to see Probes had more intelligence than I normally gave him credit for.

  “Of course they’re not mislaid,” said Topaz with scorn. “The window was smashed. It was the work of a professional, I’m sure.”

  “A professional who hurls a brick through a glass window?” said Probes wryly.

  “Personally, I think the gypsies are in cahoots with professional thieves.”

  So this was the angle Annabel was taking!

  “Can I see the heirloom room?” I asked.

  “Be my guest,” said Topaz. “You’ll see what I mean.” We all trooped down to the heirloom room—as it now seemed to be officially called.

  “Are the fingerprint people coming?” I said.

  “Colin refused to call them out.” Topaz lowered her voice. “He’s being frightfully difficult about it all.”

  “I heard that,” said Probes.

  The heirloom room was in chaos. The silver on the refectory table had been disturbed and scattered about.

  Having been privy to Topaz’s closely guarded list of inventory in the past, I started to count the pieces. Excluding the Georgian urns, the original list numbered thirty-seven items, so it was somewhat startling to find that the number was exactly the same. Even the exquisite silver swan centerpieces were still there, hidden underneath an upturned teapot.

  For a fleeting moment, it crossed my mind that Dad could be involved, but then I reminded myself that he always worked alone. Furthermore, he had earned his nickname, The Fog, for a reason.

  Dad had never been the smash-and-grab type. Often his victims did not discover the theft for weeks afterward because of the way he only took specific pieces. His method of breaking and entering without leaving a trace was legendary—so much so that his peers have begged him to write a textbook on the art of “stealth burglary.”

  I was now certain that Annabel and Topaz were in cahoots. It was amusing, really.

  Probes poked around muttering various comments like, “I thought that belonged to my mother” and “Grandfather said this cigarette box was mine.”

  Moving over
to the sash window, I almost laughed. What amateurs!

  The lower half had a fist-sized hole in it, but the latch was still firmly shut. In fact, it had been painted over, as had the pulley ropes on either side of the frame that raised the window.

  On the carpet lay a large brick. There was a sprinkling of glass on the floor by the skirting board, but peering outside, I saw a pile of shards on the patio. Whoever had thrown the brick had done so from inside this room.

  I turned to Topaz, who was hovering in the doorway. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear the glass smash.”

  “How would I? This is a frightfully large house, and the heirloom room is in a different wing.”

  “I’ve already warned her she’s wasting police time,” said Probes, who seemed to have glided silently to my side. He had a musky scent that I was never quite sure if I found attractive or not. “My cousin seems to think the focus was on the Georgian tea urns. Why do you think she would say that?”

  “I have no idea,” I said quickly.

  “Are you two quite finished?’ said Topaz. “I can’t stand here all day. I’m busy.”

  I closed the shutters, and Probes said he’d return later with some wood to patch up the hole in the glass. “No point tempting fate,” he said grimly.

  After locking the door carefully behind us, Topaz said, “And don’t think I’ll be making you any tea. This isn’t a café.”

  “Let me escort you to your car, Vicky,” said Probes. “We need to talk.”

  “I have no influence over your cousin.”

  “Not about Ethel or Topaz or whatever she’s called,” said Probes. “This is about you.”

  32

  I followed Probes outside, expecting to be taken to my Fiat. Instead, he veered left and took the narrow pathway around the side of the pigsty. No doubt Probes had found out about Topaz sabotaging the gypsies’ recycling efforts. I wondered if I should mention that Dora had caught her on camera, too.

  We stopped next to the recycling bins, which were still in ship-shape condition.

  Probes seemed nervous, jostling from foot to foot and scanning the area. After some moments, he said, “Sorry to be so cloak-and-daggerish. I don’t want us to be overheard.”

  “Are you telling me a secret?” I joked.

  “You could say that.” Probes’s face wore that contorted look that had anguished struggle written all over it.

  “Is this about the recycling or the silver?” I said, suddenly feeling sick. Probes seemed to know a lot about Dad’s movements. “You know the gypsies didn’t take it.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that.” Probes seemed irritated. “My cousin has nearly ruined everything.” He fell silent again.

  Good grief. Spit it out!

  Finally, Probes took a deep breath. “I’m sorry we never got to finish our meal.”

  “Excuse me?” For a moment, I was confused. “Meal?”

  Probes turned red. He gave a harsh laugh. “I see it wasn’t as memorable for you as it was for me.”

  Realization dawned. “You mean six weeks ago, when you suddenly rushed out minutes before the main course arrived and left me with two plates of scampi and chips?”

  “Yes. And I’m truly sorry,” Probes said ruefully. “I was called out on a case. I did leave two messages with Annabel Lake. Didn’t you get them?”

  “She must have forgotten.” No surprises there. Annabel had a habit of forgetting messages intended for me.

  “She didn’t? I thought you were so annoyed that you decided never to speak to me again.” Probes smiled, showing his neat, sharklike teeth. “When I saw you with Steve at the Manor—” He thrust his hands savagely into his pockets. “And now I suppose it’s too late. This is embarrassing. I am making a complete fool of myself here.”

  Probes’s vulnerability was surprisingly touching, and I found myself saying, “Steve and I are just friends.”

  “Friends?” Probes eyes widened. “Do you treat all your friends in such a friendly manner?”

  Blast! Probes must have seen me kissing Steve at Gipping Manor after all.

  I felt my face redden. “We were friends, then. But now we’re not. It’s . . . complicated.” Good grief, Vicky. How could you trot out that old cliché!

  “I’m a bit old-fashioned,” said Probes stiffly. “Some call me stuffy, but I’m a one-woman man.

  A one-woman man! How unbelievably refreshing in this day and age!

  “Are you seeing anyone?” A trillion butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I realized Probes was actually trying to find out if I was available! Suddenly the area behind the pigsty seemed charged with electricity.

  I hesitated. Much as I liked Noah, he was moving on. “Not exactly.”

  “You must know that relationships between police and journalists are frowned upon,” Probes went on. “It could lead to a conflict of interests. It’s just that—” He gave a heavy sigh, and his face turned pink. “You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met.” He looked into my eyes. “I really like you, Vicky.”

  Golly. This was a real turnup for the books. “I had no idea,” I said, stunned. “Honestly—you’ve always seemed so disinterested. In fact, if anything, you’ve been a bit standoffish.”

  “That’s boarding school for you,” said Probes. “I was sent away at seven and, other than Ethel—Topaz, whatever you want to call her—never had much to do with girls.” Poor Colin! What an awful example of female companionship! “Since my people had a farm in Africa, I was sent out there every holiday, so that didn’t help much. Father called me socially inept.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

  Golly again! From the very beginning I’d had a soft spot for Probes, but having been brought up to believe that the only good copper is a dead one, the possibility of dating Probes properly was something I occasionally fantasized about, but that was about as far as it went.

  Much as I felt flattered, I was also annoyed.

  What was wrong with men? Why were they only interested when they thought you were interested in someone else? Probes only came forward when he thought I was with Steve. Jimmy Kitchen turned up the moment he found out that Barbara was about to marry Wilf.

  “I know this venue is hardly romantic,” said Probes, gesturing to the recycling bins. “Actually, I thought the path led out to a field, but when this is all over, I want us to have a proper date in a restaurant that does not serve scampi.”

  “Yes, a restaurant,” I said, but my heart began to thump the way it always does when I could sense a story brewing. “What do you mean, when this is over? When what is over?”

  “There! You see!” cried Probes, exasperated. “You’re asking questions like a newspaper reporter.”

  “I am a newspaper reporter,” I cried. “This is about Carol Pryce, isn’t it?”

  “Goddamit, Vicky!” Probes exclaimed. “Why do you have to go and spoil things?”

  “It was a perfectly innocent question,” I said defensively. “And I don’t see why she should change anything between us.”

  “Be quiet,” Probes whispered. “Don’t say that name.”

  “After all, according to the police, her death was just an accident.” I suddenly saw Probes back in Mudge Lane on Tuesday night in his pajamas and had an epiphany. “Good grief! Was Carol Pryce your girlfriend?”

  “Enough!” Probes took my arm and pulled me roughly toward him. Redheads had a reputation for fiery tempers, and Probes was no exception.

  “What’s going on?” said an angry voice. “Leave her alone!”

  Probes dropped my arm like a hot potato and spun around. How long Noah Pike had been standing in the shadows, clutching a white recycling bag filled with plastic bottles, was anyone’s guess.

  Noah dropped the bag and hurried toward me, sweeping me into his arms. “Are you all right, luv?”

  “Fine,” I mumbled, praying that the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

  Probes regarded me with contempt, muttered, “Unbelievable,” and stormed off, leaving me w
ith the realization that in the space of less than twenty-four hours I’d almost had—and lost—two boyfriends.

  “He’s a copper, isn’t he?” said Noah. “I can always tell.”

  Only last night, as we lay canoodling in Noah’s wagon, we’d shared our mistrust of Her Majesty’s Police Constabulary. I wasn’t sure how much Noah had overheard, and I didn’t want to appear two-faced.

  “He’s a distant cousin of Lady Turberville-Spat at The Grange.” This was true. “And yes, he’s a police officer, and since some of the silver belonged to the family, he is obviously concerned.”

  Noah regarded me with suspicion. “What were you doing around here anyway?”

  Think Vicky, think! “D.I. Probes was worried that his cousin may have gotten herself into some hot water over the”—I gestured to the row of wheelie bins—“recycling situation here.”

  “Oh, that!” said Noah with disgust. We know the Spat woman is trying to frame us. We’ve got it on tape.”

  “D.I. Probes and I were wondering what to do about it.”

  “You mean, he’s wondering how to get her off?” said Noah with scorn. “But what’s that got to do with you?”

  Good question. I gestured to all the recycling bins again. “One of our reporters—Tony—was up here taking photographs of this particular area to illustrate how environmentally conscious you all are and—”

  “And that will appear along with my report, I hope.” Dora was standing right behind me, clutching a blue plastic bag—paper products only. Neither of us had heard her approach.

  Noah gave a guilty start and sprang back.

  Dora’s eyes widened as she spotted a quart-sized plastic container marked ACETONE—HIGHLY FLAMMABLE lying on the ground. It must have fallen from Noah’s white plastic bag.

  The silent warning signal she gave Noah would have been imperceptible to anyone other than me. Dad’s anger was legendary, and Mum had perfected various subtle facial expressions that stood for “Keep quiet,” “Run!” and “You silly cow.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be with Belcher Pike?” Dora said harshly. “Not chit-chatting around here.”