Thieves! (12 page)

Jack followed suit, and the two men drove off in convoy.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” Jimmy said, breaking into a grin. “I think I owe you one for saving my life.”

How could I possibly refuse? At last I would see the inside of a gypsy wagon.

I
t was just as I had imagined the inside of a gypsy wagon to be. “What a wonderful home you have!”

I was seated on a buttercup-yellow three-legged stool. Jimmy was sitting on another that was painted a dark green. In front of him, an old kettle boiled merrily atop what I gathered was called a “queenie” stove.

The upper half of the wagon door was wide open, affording a spectacular view of open fields and woodland. I could hear the cry of birds and the rustle of the wind through the trees and, frankly, couldn’t think of anything more romantic than living life in one of these beauties.

“It’s all so neat and compact,” I enthused. “Where do you sleep?”

Jimmy pointed to the rear of the wagon. Beneath a casement window and atop a bow-fronted glass cabinet was a neat bed reminding me of a berth at sea.

It was definitely
cozy.
The actual living area couldn’t be larger than a prison cell—but thanks to an abundance of cut-glass beveled mirrors on all three sides, it didn’t feel remotely claustrophobic.

I caught sight of my reflection, feeling decidedly out of place with my shoulder-length hair, jeans, and light sweater. A long flowing gypsy skirt, peasant top, and shawl, with my hair tumbling to my waist, seemed far more fitting.

Every surface was painted in two-tone greens and yellows with delicate grape and apple motifs except for the bowed ceiling, which depicted a pastoral river scene. There were masses of scrollwork covered in gold leaf.

A display cabinet was filled with Royal Crown Derby china.

There were a few photographs framed in silver plate. I gestured to one. A young couple smiled at the camera, arm in arm. The man was unmistakably a younger Jimmy with his ribbon-threaded braid. “Is that you?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s very beautiful. Was that your wife?”

“Yes, but she wasn’t the love of my life.” Jimmy pulled a tattered photograph of a woman from his shirt pocket and passed it to me. “She was.”

The “she” couldn’t have been more than sixteen and was sitting on the step of what looked like this very wagon. The woman was stunning and reminded me of Bizet’s Carmen from a poster the Gipping Bards bought on eBay to promote one of their more ambitious productions.

“What happened to her?”

“Gypsies and gorgers can’t be together,” Jimmy said sadly. “Ever.”

“That’s ridiculous in this day and age,” I said. “Do you know where she is? Can you find her?”

“I’m not sure she’d want that. It’s too late.”

“Rubbish!” I cried. “You should follow your heart.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. “You are young. What do you know about love?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “But enough to know that outdated customs and traditions would never hold me back from someone I truly loved.”

“Some of our customs can only be broken by death,” Jimmy said quietly, but before I could press him further, there was a shrill whistle as the kettle came to a boil.

Jimmy took a tin tea caddy down from a rack of shelves set into the wall above the stove. He added three heaped spoonfuls—one per person and one for the pot—of
real
tea leaves into a Brown Betty teapot and poured on the boiling water. Given the amount and different brands of tea I consumed every day on my travels, I considered myself a tea connoisseur and had high hopes for this cuppa.

I was glad to see a packet of my favorite chocolate digestives join two mugs and a bowl of sugar on the pull-out table between us. These days I seemed to survive on a diet of tea, biscuits, and cake.

Jimmy leaned over to his right and opened a small fridge to retrieve a pint of milk. “These wagons are collector’s items nowadays.” Clearly our conversation about love and longing was over, but not for me. The thought of being reunited with the love of one’s life in later years was something I felt sure my mourner readers would go for. Perhaps I could have my own column? I made a mental note to mention it to Pete.

Jimmy poured the tea and gestured for me to help myself to a biscuit. “This wagon is over one hundred years old. It used to belong to my grandfather.”

“Was he part of the Pike clan?” I said.

“We’re all related. ‘Our caravan is our family, and the world is our family,’ a gypsy proverb,” said Jimmy.

“Why would anyone want to swap a beautiful wagon like this for a hideous camper?”

“Most of the youngsters these days prefer the modern conveniences,” Jimmy said. “Electricity, running water, mobile phones, and those ugly satellite dishes!” He shook his head. “There’s a growing divide between traditionalists and those who want us to be something we’re not. We are what we are. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Dad would have agreed with him. I could still see the expression of acute disappointment when I announced I wouldn’t be joining the family business.
“Going to work for the papers? Collaborating with the cops? You’re no daughter of mine.”

“You all right, luv?” Jimmy asked, squeezing my shoulder. “You look a bit down in the mouth.”

“I just think it very sad that horse-drawn wagons are becoming a thing of the past,” I said quickly, realizing it was a perfect lead into a perfectly reasonable question. “When you’ve set up camp, how do you get around? Other than the VW camper and Dora’s enormous Winnebago, is there another vehicle? A Land Rover, perhaps?”

“We use bicycles,” said Jimmy. “Why?

“No reason.” I took a sip of tea. “You’ve been on the road a long time and must know everyone . . .”

“Seventy years,” said Jimmy. “I just turned seventy last month, and yes, I do.”

“I wondered if you’d heard about that poor gypsy woman who died last night in Mudge Lane.”

“She wasn’t a gypsy,” said Jimmy firmly.

Funny that Dora claimed to know nothing about it but Jimmy did. “Don’t you think it disgraceful? The police don’t even seem to care who this woman was?”

“Is that so?” Jimmy shrugged. “That’s the police for you. More tea?”

“She was dressed like a gypsy,” I persisted. “Riding a bicycle, too. The wig was a bit weird, though. I nearly fell over because it got all tangled up in my legs.”

“You were
there
?” said Jimmy sharply.

“I found the body,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual. “My car was hit by a Land Rover leaving the scene.”

“As I said, she wasn’t one of ours.”

“What about all the mourners coming for Belcher Pike’s funeral—I mean, to pay their respects?” I said. “Perhaps one of them might know something?”

“Maybe,” said Jimmy slowly. “Tell you what, why don’t I ask around? Gypsies don’t like to talk to gorgers. You won’t get very far on your own.” Which is exactly what Dora had said, too.

“Thank you—but . . .”
Blast
—Topaz! I’d almost forgotten. “I think it’s only fair to tell you that the owner of The Grange has hired a professional eviction service to come here on Friday.”

“Eviction!” Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “They can’t do that. We’re allowed to camp here.”

“Sir Hugh passed away,” I said. “His niece owns the estate now.”

“That can’t happen. It mustn’t,” Jimmy cried. “If Belcher Pike is uprooted in his final days, his soul will go straight to hell.”

“Jimmy, we’ve got a problem.” Noah’s face loomed large through the open half door. “Some idiot reporter is—”

“Noah, lad!” said Jimmy with false joviality. “Come on in for a cuppa and meet my guest.”

Jimmy’s pathetic attempt at warning Noah of my presence was not lost on me.
Idiot reporter!
My face burned with indignation—and to think I’d been attracted to him and his wretched guitar.

“I was just leaving,” I said coldly. But, of course, I had to wait for Jimmy to move the tea service, push the table in, and pick up his chair so that I could squeeze past him.

I was rapidly going off wagon life. It was far too cramped.

“We’ll be in touch,” said Jimmy, all smiles once more. He opened the lower door and took in a breath of fresh air. “Now, that’s what real life smells like. Off you go back to your stuffy office.”

Jimmy stepped aside to let me pass. I swept by Noah without giving him a second glance and tramped back to my car.

Idiot reporter?
Noah’s words stung. I might be an idiot for finding him attractive, but I certainly wasn’t an idiot when it came to sleuthing. Dora and Jimmy were lying about the dead woman in Mudge Lane, and maybe they were poaching, too.

I kept circling back to the same questions. If the woman
was
a gypsy, why would they pretend she wasn’t? If the woman
wasn’t
a gypsy, why did the police say it was an accident but move her body to Plymouth?

It was only when I was halfway back to Middle Gipping and had reached Plym Bridge that I realized that I’d forgotten to post Whittler’s check
and
drop off Barbara’s mysterious package.

Fortunately I remembered there was a pillar box opposite Barbara’s house. Barbara had been born in Gipping-on-Plym and given the scandal that she had supposedly created all those years ago, might be able to shed some light on the new residents at The Grange.

I turned the car around and headed back to The Marshes. Jimmy Kitchen’s cup of tea had been very good, but I could always do with another.

F
ifteen minutes later I arrived at The Marshes and pulled up outside Barbara’s end-terraced house. Built on a ridge, Barbara’s two-up, two-down, overlooked a horseshoe of unattractive 1950s redbrick bungalows with metal-framed windows and corrugated iron roofing.

In the center of the horseshoe was a patch of grass that always seemed to be waterlogged whatever the weather. Rumor had it that the bungalows had been built on a landfill and were steadily sinking—hence the local nickname “Little Venice.”

Bill Trenfold’s post van was parked next to the old-fashioned cylindrical red pillar box. I checked my watch. It wasn’t even three thirty, and I knew the last collection of the day was supposed to be 5:30 P.M. Bill was picking up early.

I opened my window and shouted, “Bill! Wait!”

But he didn’t seem to have heard me. I’d no sooner gotten out of my Fiat when Bill simply drove off! It was little wonder that there were so many complaints about the postal service if the postmen had decided to enforce their own schedules.

Blast!
I had given Whittler my word, and now it looked as it I’d have to drive all the way back to Gipping to post his letter after all.

Turning to the main reason for visiting poor Barbara, I went to get the shoebox. It wasn’t there.

Puzzled, I opened the rear doors and looked under the driver and front passenger seats, thinking it must have slid forward. With growing dismay, it dawned on me that the wretched shoebox must have been stolen, and I knew exactly by whom.

Blast the Swamp Dogs!
No doubt they nabbed it when I was dealing with Jack Webster’s shenanigans. Of course I’d confront them, but it was annoying. Besides, what use would an old shoe and a bicycle bell have for them anyway? Come to think of it, what use would either have for Barbara?

As Mum would say, “
What you haven’t had you won’t miss
.” The sender hadn’t left a note or return address. If it were that important, I was quite sure we’d hear about it, but until we did, I had other things to think about.

I was tempted to leave, but experience had shown that Barbara had eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat. She was bound to have recognized my car and heard me shout out to the postman. I also noticed the curtains upstairs were open, suggesting Barbara was no longer lying stricken in a darkened room with a migraine.