Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “If she didn’t lock Auntie in,” said Robin contemptuously, “who did?”

  What was I to do? Even though Topaz’s disguise was ridiculous, I just couldn’t bring myself to blow her cover. It could lead to all sorts of complications. Knowing the citizens of Gipping-on-Plym as I did, they wouldn’t forgive being taken for fools by stuck-up Ethel Turberville-Spat from The Grange. Much as I was tempted to tell Probes, I didn’t want to get involved.

  Olive began to tremble. “I saw a dark creature,” she began. “I think . . . I think . . . it was that thing that lives on the moors.”

  “The what?” I said.

  “It’s a phantom wild cat rumored to roam the moors,” said Steve.

  Robin rolled his eyes. “Nice try.”

  “She’s not the first person to have seen the Beast of Bodmin,” said Steve. He turned to Olive, adding gently, “Was it a catlike creature, luv?” Olive nodded, her eyes filled with tears.

  “On Bodmin moor in Cornwall,” Robin said with scorn. “Not in the middle of Gipping-on-Plym.”

  “But, I saw it,” she protested.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to press charges for assault,” Robin said.

  “Assault? Assault?” Barbara shrieked.

  “I’ll get my solicitor on it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “This is a very serious allegation, Lieutenant Berry,” Probes said.

  “I am aware of that,” said Robin. “Of course, we might be willing to discuss an out-of-court settlement but—”

  “Okay, okay, enough of the macho talk for one day. Let’s get these ladies home,” Steve said firmly. “It’s all right for you sailor, you’re not cold and wet. But Barbara and Vicky are. Whatever you say, Miss Larch and Mrs. Pratt have suffered a nasty shock.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Robin scowled but to my surprise, followed Steve’s orders. Taking Eunice’s arm, they paused at the door. “You’ll be hearing from us, officer.”

  “I was only trying to help,” whispered Eunice.

  The foyer was swarming with firemen and uniformed police officers that were leading the brawlers away in handcuffs. Probes strolled over to greet familiar faces and lend a hand while I watched Olive’s tearful reunion with Douglas Fleming. I had to admit he looked genuinely concerned.

  “Vicky, you’ve got to help me!” Dave Randall called out, as a young constable with acne escorted him toward the exit. Seeing Dave brought back the full impact of the Larch Legacy snafu that I’d conveniently forgotten about.

  I hastened to join him. “Whatever happened?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to talk to the prisoner, Ms.,” said the constable who looked as if he couldn’t be more than twelve.

  “It was all agreed. Sammy promised.” Dave shook his head with disbelief. “You’ve got to believe me.”

  “I do.” And, to my surprise, I really did.

  “She did it,” Dave said. “She never liked me and she made him change his mind.”

  “Who? Olive?”

  Dave stopped walking. “No. Scarlett Fleming.”

  Scarlett Fleming? But before I could ask him why and how the dead woman could possibly be involved, the young constable bundled Dave into one of two waiting custody vans and the doors were slammed in my face.

  As I watched the convoy peel out of Gipping Manor car park, I realized I hadn’t seen Annabel after the fire alarm went off. Surely she wouldn’t leave without me?

  Apart from one of those ridiculously tiny Smart cars that had slipped effortlessly into a narrow space reserved for leaving baby strollers, it looked like everyone had left.

  I began to worry. Perhaps Annabel was waiting for me in the warmth of the BMW? I hurried back into the street where we’d parked earlier but to my growing fury, saw her car had gone.

  I couldn’t believe it. I had no money. No mobile phone. No coat. Annabel had left me stranded! It was at least a two-mile walk back to Factory Terrace and my feet were killing me in Sadie’s shoes. Blast Annabel!

  I burst into tears and started to hobble home but had only gone a few yards when I heard a car behind me.

  Without giving a thought to my safety, I turned and flagged it down.

  The Smart car pulled up alongside. The electric window purred open and a familiar voice said, “Can I give you a lift?”

  It was D.S. Probes.

  19

  With the heater on high, the car smelled of Probes’s distinctive musky scent. Wrapped in a green tartan blanket, I slowly began to thaw—though the pain in my rib cage was becoming unbearable.

  “Factory Terrace, isn’t it?” he said, as the little car sped along the narrow country roads with surprising speed.

  “Thank you.” I hoped he wouldn’t start to grill me about the bathroom incident. I was determined to speak to Topaz first.

  He handed me a hip flask. “This will warm you up.”

  I took a sip. It was cherry brandy and burned a path from my throat to my stomach. I felt better instantly.

  Probes turned on the radio. The sound of soothing jazz music filled the car. Perhaps he didn’t feel much like talking, either.

  The evening had been an unmitigated disaster in every way. I wasn’t sure what had upset me the most. Annabel abandoning me; my handsome Robin turning out to be such an idiot and—God—how could I have allowed myself to get talked into keeping an eye on his dreadful aunt—though I had to admit, I did feel a little bit sorry for her. And then there was Topaz-the-vigilante leaving me to hold the proverbial baby. All this paled into insignificance as I imagined my reception tomorrow morning at the Gazette over the Larch Legacy snafu. Wilf ’s fury! Pete’s scorn! Annabel’s glee!

  I forced myself to think of something else, something trivial, and turned my attention to studying Probes’s car.

  The Smart car inside was even smaller than it appeared on the outside—if that were physically possible. My knees were squashed against the glove compartment but Probes had to drive with his legs open embracing the steering wheel. His spiked hairstyle brushed the roof causing him to hunch over in the driver’s seat.

  “My other car is a Porsche,” he joked.

  I was startled. He must be telepathic. “This car is small,” I said.

  “True. But let’s say I’ve had a few improvements made to the engine.” Probes gave a chuckle, instantly changed down to third gear and we accelerated to sixty miles an hour in seconds. “Handy when pursuing suspects down narrow country roads,” he said, navigating the twisty lanes with ease, “And of course, no one expects a plainclothes copper to drive one.”

  “You got a promotion?”

  “Detective Sergeant,” Probes said. “Thanks to you. Don’t you remember?”

  Of course I did. Even though it hadn’t been intentional, I suffered the usual pang of guilt about helping a copper in any shape or form. Dad would be so disappointed.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Does this mean you’ve been transferred back to Gipping?”

  “I’m still with the Drug Action Team in Plymouth.” Probes cleared his throat. “I came because . . . I was h-h-hoping you’d be here tonight.”

  My stomach filled with butterflies. Out of uniform, Probes was very attractive—quite sexy actually—but he was still a copper.

  “I really wanted to thank you properly,” Probes went on. “I’ve been trying to take you out for a curry for weeks but you’re so busy, I can never pin you down. And I’d really like to.”

  “What, pin me down?” I said, and then wished I hadn’t. “That came out wrong. Sorry.”

  He laughed. “Freudian slip, perhaps?”

  “Of course not,” I said quickly, but an image of Probes doing just that popped into my head. I felt my face turn red and was grateful that it was too dark for him to see it.

  “Pity,” he muttered.

  We drove on in an awkward silence until Probes said, “What’s all this about Scarlett Fleming and Spain?”

  “It’s nothing re
ally.” Blast Annabel and her big mouth!

  “It’s no trouble.” I could sense his eyes on me and wished he’d keep them on the road. “Annabel mentioned a yoga retreat on the Costa Brava.”

  “Not the Costa Brava,” I said firmly. Never the Costa Brava! “I believe it was closer to the Pyrenees Mountains. That’s in France.”

  “Yes, I know. Annabel said that you’d already contacted the Foreign and Commonwealth Office,” Probes said. “Do you think there is something fishy about Mrs. Fleming’s death?”

  Yes, of course I did! But, not if it meant Probes would start to ask awkward questions. “Not at all. A few ladies were interested in taking up yoga and were curious as to where it was. Mr. Fleming said he didn’t know.”

  “He seemed to be enjoying himself this evening,” Probes said. “All things considered.”

  “He was putting on a brave face. Stiff upper lip and all that.” Of course, I agreed with Probes one hundred percent but he was still a policeman—no, now a sergeant—and that was even more of a reason why I didn’t want him nosing around in Spain or France, for that matter.

  “Can’t hurt to make a few inquiries.”

  “No need for that,” I said quickly.

  “Why?” Probes said. “Is it because of Lieutenant Berry?”

  “Of course not,” I said, astonished. “What’s he got to do with yoga?”

  “I know these naval chaps get jealous when they’re away at sea.”

  Surely Probes didn’t think Robin and I were an item? The funny thing was that twenty-four hours ago, I would have been happy with that possibility. Now, I couldn’t care less.

  “We’re just friends,” I said. Maybe not even that.

  “Look, Vicky . . .” Probes took a deep breath. “Your personal life is your own business, but just be careful, that’s all.” When I didn’t comment, he went on. “Eunice Pratt is trouble. When I worked in Gipping, she was a nightmare. It wasn’t just the endless petitions, either. And now I’ve met the nephew. . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but he didn’t need to. Much as I hated to admit it, Robin and Eunice were like two peas in a pod. “Mrs. Pratt is not well,” was all I managed to say.

  “But it’s her nephew who wants to press charges.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.” But I knew Robin had. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard him threaten legal action for monetary gain.

  “It looks like the party has continued here,” said Probes. We had pulled up outside Factory Terrace where the street was lined with cars. Many were double-parked.

  Probes turned off the engine. “Do you want me to escort you inside?”

  “No thanks.” I suddenly felt nervous. The atmosphere between us seemed charged with electricity. With a jolt, I knew exactly what it was—the same kind I’d felt with Steve only a hundred times more intense. Alarmed, I lunged for the door handle but Probes leapt out and—given the size of the car—was opening my passenger door before I had time to blink.

  “Keep the blanket.” He took my arm and helped me out. His touch felt warm and firm. “Vicky, there was just one more thing.”

  I knew it! Probes had used that sneaky Columbo ploy. I braced myself for the Spanish inquisition—no pun intended.

  “If there is something you aren’t telling me about tonight at Gipping Manor, for whatever reason, I’m asking you to reconsider.” He gently readjusted the tartan blanket over my shoulders. “Remember, setting off a fire alarm is a punishable offense.”

  “I know.”

  Probes bent down and kissed my forehead. “Goodnight.” My skin felt on fire. Horrified, I tore into the house without a backward glance though I sensed he was still watching me.

  Fortunately, I managed to sneak upstairs without being seen. As with most parties, the guests all tended to congregate in the kitchen and Chez Evans was no different. I could hear good old Frankie belting out “New York, New York.”

  In my bedroom I struggled to get out of Annabel’s dress. She had been right about Mrs. Evans’s sewing efforts.

  Still furious with Annabel’s selfishness, I grabbed a pair of scissors from my desk and savagely cut the material from bodice to hem.

  Thinking of scissors, my mind flew to Olive Larch. The pair she’d clutched in her hand—although small—were still lethal. I couldn’t imagine her attacking Eunice but I certainly could see her trying to defend herself.

  As I climbed into bed, sleep refused to come. My rib cage had nasty welts from Sadie’s bustier and I still could not get warm despite being wrapped in the tartan blanket, which smelled of Probes.

  My mind drifted to Dave’s parting comment. How could Scarlett Fleming have changed old man Larch’s mind, and why? With both Sammy and Scarlett dead, he’d better have concrete proof that the Legacy was meant for the jumpers.

  I was also struck by the fact that Scarlett Fleming was now the subject of yet another mystery to say nothing of her grieving husband’s behavior at the Gala tonight. It was quite obvious there was something going on between him and Olive Larch.

  I closed my eyes. I wasn’t done with Fleming. Yet.

  20

  Having spent a restless night, haunted by dreams of Probes covered in trifle playing the drums, I got up early and crept downstairs.

  Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Evans were still fast asleep. I peeped into the open sitting room door and saw a mass of empty glasses and bottles of half-drunk gin, wine, and a keg of beer. There were going to be a lot of hangovers this Saturday morning.

  The kitchen wasn’t much better. There was no bread left in the stoneware pot and only enough milk to make a cup of tea. In the end I ate dry cereal.

  Scribbling a note to Mrs. Evans, I mentioned I was off to Plymouth that night and if she wanted me to give Sadie a parcel, I’d happily deliver it.

  I had a slight headache but that was nothing compared to the feeling of utter dread that had settled in the pit of my stomach at the prospect of seeing Wilf.

  The Gazette looked the worse for wear, too. In the window the inflatable snail’s shell lay limp and puckered. In reception, the remnants of yesterday’s all-day party were still in evidence.

  Tony was jumping childishly on the semi-collapsed helium balloons, trying to pop them. Every time there was a loud bang, Barbara clutched her head in pain.

  “Where is today’s Gazette?” I said anxiously.

  “Wilf took them all upstairs,” said Barbara. “Dreadful snafu on the front page, dear.”

  Tony strolled over and thrust a copy in front of me. “Kept this one back for you,” he said with a smirk. “Nice photograph of Randall.”

  Written in bold in gigantic font was LARCH LEGACY NAMED! Under more headlines—TIRELESS PETITIONER TRIUMPHS AT LAST and LARCH LEAP IS NEW JUMP FOR OLYMPIC HOPEFULS—a grinning Dave stood in front of a flourishing yew hedge wearing a moleskin jacket emblazoned with the logo,

  Team GB

  Let’s Jump

  London Olympics 2012

  “Looks like someone is going to be writing retractions and apologies today,” Tony went on. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing all morning with indignant cutters and baffled readers.”

  “It’s not ringing now,” I said defensively.

  “That’s because I had to take it off the hook,” said Tony.

  “Oh, be quiet, Tony,” Barbara snapped. “Haven’t you got something better to do?”

  “I’ll tell Wilf you’re here.” Tony sauntered out of reception.

  “If you want my opinion,” said Barbara. “I’d stick to your guns. I’ve known Dave since he was a nipper, and if he said Sammy Larch promised him the money, then he did just that.”

  “Did Olive say there had been a mistake?” I said hopefully.

  “Olive doesn’t bother herself about money.” Barbara rubbed her forehead. “I really must take another aspirin.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” I said noting the dark rings under her eyes.

  “I was up most of the night with Oli
ve,” Barbara said with a sigh. “Poor thing was very shaken up. I don’t care what that dreadful sailor said, the Pratt woman tried to suffocate Olive to death. Her health isn’t good—and now she’s begun to hallucinate. . . .”

  “The Beast of Bodmin?”

  Barbara nodded, but wished she hadn’t. Clutching her head again, she sank down into one of the two brown leatherette chairs. “It sent her over the edge. I’m very worried about her state of mind. Douglas seems to be the only person who she feels safe with and if that dreadful sailor presses charges. . . .”

  “Pssst!” came a voice from the nook. Barbara rolled her eyes. “Sorry. I forgot to mention Topaz has been waiting for you, though why she thinks there is any privacy in that nook is anyone’s guess.” Since Barbara liked to maintain that the flimsy plywood structure built across the far corner of reception was extremely private, it just showed how severe her headache was this morning.

  Topaz peeped out of the brown-spangled curtains. “Over here. Hurry.”

  “I suppose I’d better put the telephone back on the hook,” Barbara grumbled, taking a silver hip flask out of her cardigan pocket. “There is only one way I am going to get through today. Would you like some?”

  “No thanks.” I slipped inside the nook. Topaz was sitting on one of the plastic chairs dressed in her medieval serge uniform and white-lace mop cap.

  “Good grief! What happened to you?” I said. Her face was covered in telltale red splotches. Despite Steve’s protests that he never wanted to be alone with Topaz, he’d clearly changed his mind. Men!

  Topaz frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your face? It’s all red.” I bet she’d try and deny it.

  Topaz thoughtfully touched her chin. “Oh, that.”

  “A food allergy, perhaps?”

  “No. I kissed that Steve chappy,” Topaz said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Why? Are you jealous?”

  “Of course not.”

  “For a man, he’s a frightfully good kisser but I have to say that pillow talk is a complete waste of time,” said Topaz. “He refused to tell me a thing. Are you going to sit down?”