Thieves! (15 page)

Reverend Whittler was in the vestry nursing a balloon of brandy. Dressed in his usual black attire, he was slumped in an oak high-backed chair seated behind a scratched wooden table. The far wall was covered with black cassocks and white surplices dangling from wooden pegs. Scattered around the room were various odds and ends—a chipped headstone, a pair of broken papiermâché angel wings from the Sunday School play, a stack of moth-eaten bibles, and four croquet mallets.

“I’m afraid my fears were justified, young Vicky,” said Whittler. “The gypsies didn’t waste any time.”

D.I. Stalk emerged from a walk-in storeroom with a flashlight. “What the hell—pardon me, vicar—are you doing here?” I noted he hadn’t shaved this morning and must have left home in a rush. “I gave D.C. Bond strict instructions—”

“I’m not here in a professional capacity,” I said, “but as a friend.”

“How kind, dear,” said Whittler. “They’ve taken everything, Vicky.”

“No questions!” barked Stalk. “This is a crime scene.”

“I’m not asking any,” I protested. “But frankly, the more people who know about it, the better. We could offer a reward on this week’s front page. How about PILFERING AT ST. PETER’S: RECTOR OFFERS REWARD! as a headline?”

“Would you, Vicky?” Whittler took a large quaff of brandy. “Don’t you think that an excellent idea, Inspector?”

Stalk grunted an assent but looked cross. “Forensics will be here shortly to dust for fingerprints.”

“All the altar artifacts have gone.” Whittler took another swig of brandy “The ciborium, both cruets, a silver paten, and, of course, the Trewallyn chalice.”

“The Trewallyn chalice?”

“It was given to the church by Sir Hugh’s great grandfather at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It’s embedded with two large rubies and is of tremendous value.”

How odd that Topaz—supposedly so obsessed with her family heirlooms—hadn’t mentioned it?

“Distinctive silver like the chalice is relatively easy to recover,” I said—reluctant to add, unless it was to be melted down. “It’s bound to appear on the black market eventually.”

“What do you know about black markets?” sneered Stalk.

“I’m a reporter and make it my business to know.” I’d also make it my business to contact Chuffy McSnatch—my godfather, go-between, and Dad’s right-hand man. Chuffy knew everything and everyone on the black market.

With a start, I realized I couldn’t do that anymore. Having refused to follow Dad’s orders, Chuffy had made it clear that I’d been excommunicated from the family firm, and I was not to contact them ever again. He’d even changed his pager number. Mum had made an unexpected call from a pay phone in San Feliu to try to make me change my mind, but by then it was too late. The damage had been done.

For months and months I’d pretended to be an orphan, and now it was true. I was on my own.

To my dismay, I felt my eyes begin to prickle, and a solitary tear ran down my cheek.

“Don’t cry, Vicky dear,” said Whittler kindly. “Here, take a sip of brandy.”

I shook my head. “Sorry.” I gulped. “It’s so sad. I hate thieves.”

“God is all seeing and all knowing.” Whittler downed the last of the amber liquid. “The culprits will not go unpunished in the afterlife.”

“Those ruddy gypsies will steal anything not bolted down,” said Stalk grimly, echoing Whittler’s words of only yesterday. “I’ve already given orders to search their wagons this morning. But don’t be surprised if they’ve already scarpered. They could be halfway to China by now.”

Hardly, I thought. The VW camper was ancient, and those horse-drawn wagons weren’t exactly fleet of foot.

Perhaps I’d been wrong about gypsies and silver—but why rob from the church, especially since Topaz had ordered the eviction. Wouldn’t the gypsies have stolen from her, since she lived so conveniently on their doorstep?

Stalk’s phone rang and shattered the unhappy silence in the vestry.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” said Whittler. “There are no mobile phones allowed in the Lord’s house.”

Stalk scowled and walked into the nave, but we could hear his voice ricocheting around the cathedral roof. “What do you mean, they can’t get through the lych-gate?” he boomed. “
Goddamit.
Do I have to do everything myself?”

Stalk reappeared in the doorway. “Do you have any scissors, vicar?”

The moment the odious Stalk was out of earshot, I retrieved my reporter notepad and a pencil from my safari-jacket pocket. “We’ve got a Page One meeting today,” I said. “I’d like to take down some details. It was Topaz—I mean, her ladyship, who tipped me off this morning. Any idea how she could have known?”

Whittler poured the last dregs of brandy into the cut-glass balloon. “Holy Communion is at six on Thursdays.”

“Excuse me?” I had to pinch the inside of my leg. “Are you saying that her ladyship actually came to
church
this morning?”

“That’s right. A lot of the farming folk drive to Taunton for the livestock market.”

“Her ladyship isn’t a farmer,” I pointed out.

“Ah, but Lady Clarissa, her ladyship’s aunt—a Turberville-Spat—was always a regular churchgoer. Of course, Sir Hugh Trewallyn never bothered when he was alive, but it’s wonderful to have a Spat back in the congregation again.”

I had to hand it to Topaz. When she was assuming the role of a different character, she did her best to be authentic.
Wait!
What was I saying! Of course she was authentic. She was playing herself.

“Her ladyship called me the night before, offering to come early and help lay out the artifacts,” said Whittler. “She arrived shortly after I discovered the cupboard was empty. Of course we had to cancel the service.” He groaned with despair, adding, “How could I conduct Holy Communion without the sacred vessels?”

I walked over to the storage cupboard and inspected the door handle. “It doesn’t look like this was a forced entry.”

“There wouldn’t be.” Whittler’s voice sounded defiant. “I trust my parishioners. They would
never
steal from the church.”

I looked inside. The cupboard smelled musty. Apart from one empty shelf—presumably where Whittler’s “sacred vessels” had been stored—the place was a chaotic mess of pamphlets, Parish newsletters, and candle stumps.

I spotted a metal cash box labeled TREWALLYN TRIO, tucked behind a framed picture of Saint Peter. “What about money?”

“I keep very little here. Each week I pay the cash directly into the church bank account,” he said. “Did you post the check to Windows of Wonder?”

I felt my face redden. The envelope was burning a hole in my pocket.

“You really should install a safe in that cupboard,” I muttered.

“You are a suspicious young lady.” I noted Whittler’s eyes were beginning to glitter, and his usual sallow complexion had turned a little pink. “Goodness. I’m beginning to feel a little light-headed. Shall we walk to the rectory and have a cup of tea?”

Despite being absolutely parched
and
starving, I had to turn Whittler’s offer down. En route to the office, I posted Whittler’s envelope in the first pillar box I found.

This morning’s unusual robbery, the dead woman in Mudge Lane, the missing Land Rover, the stolen shoebox, and Barbara’s uncharacteristic absence from work all suggested something was definitely up.

There was no way I could risk missing a minute of this morning’s Page One update meeting.

“
Y
ou can’t do that! It’s just not fair.” Annabel stamped her foot and continued to pace back and forth in front of Pete’s desk.

The atmosphere in Pete’s office sizzled with tension as what had started as a normal Page One update had dissolved into Annabel having an enormous wobbly.

“If you don’t like it, take it up with Wilf,” snapped Pete.

“This is the second time I’ll have canceled the camera crew,” she cried. “I’ll never be taken seriously again!”

“Get over yourself.” Tony wore a huge grin on his face and was practically bouncing with glee on the tartan two-seater. He was clearly enjoying the show.

“Oh, shut up,” said Annabel.

Edward and I were also squashed onto the sofa, but whereas he calmly leafed through his reporter notepad, I was becoming increasingly nervous about the prospect of pushing Pete’s temper over the top.

Tucked inside my safari-jacket inner pocket was Dora’s report, which I was having second thoughts about giving to Pete in his current mood.

“Her ladyship will go ballistic when she finds out, won’t she, Vicky?” Annabel raged on. “You were there. You saw her fire that gun.”

“It was an accident,” I pointed out. “But, yes, I don’t think she’ll be happy.” And boy, was I glad to not be the bearer of that bit of news.

“Her ladyship has already been informed by the police,” said Pete. “The eviction is off, and that’s final. Do you understand?”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Annabel persisted. “Vicky? Come on. What do you think? Really.”

Although I was relieved that Annabel’s debut as anchorwoman for Westward TV had been canceled, I, too, was confused.

“Has it been called off because the gypsies are legally entitled to stay at The Grange,” I asked gingerly, “or because they’re suspects in the robbery at the church and have been told they can’t leave town?”

“Who cares? Pete,
please
listen to me.” Annabel flicked her auburn Nice ’n Easy tresses and slithered onto the edge of his desk. As she leaned toward him, he got an eyeful of cleavage whereas we were rewarded with the rear view—the Y of a lilac-colored thong peeping above the waistband of her low-rider jeans.

“Don’t you understand that having a camera crew here with the police is good television?” Annabel pleaded. “We could film them searching the caravans and everything.”

“There will be no searching of caravans,” Pete said coldly. “Now get off my desk and go and sit down.”

Annabel childishly flung her pencil across the room and flounced back to the sofa.

“Conducting a search, a
televised
search, would throw up all sorts of legal issues,” said Edward.

“But they’re thieves!” shrieked Annabel. “If they didn’t steal them, who did?”

“Gypsies are very superstitious,” said Edward. “They’d never steal holy artifacts from a church, especially at night.”

“The Swamp Dogs?” I suggested, but even I knew their parents were atheists and would never set foot in a church.

“No,” said Annabel slowly, and turned to look straight at me. “My instincts tell me this could be the work of a professional thief.”

“Don’t start that The-Fog-is-in-Gipping nonsense again, Annabel,” warned Pete. “I won’t save your job next time.”

My heart began to pound in my chest. I
had
to steer the subject away from Dad.

“Take a look at this.” I handed Dora’s envelope over to Pete. “Dora is on the National Gypsy Council,” I said, “and believe me, she knows her rights.”

“The woman with the Winnebago?” said Annabel with a sneer. “Have you any idea how expensive those things are to buy? I bet she didn’t get the money from telling fortunes!”

Pete pulled out the newsletter. “
Romany Ramblings
?”

“It’s for gypsies and travelers,” I said. “Dora has an office set up in her Winnebago with a printer and a scanner. She said a lot of the younger folk have computers and iPhones so can get it online.”

Annabel hurried around to Pete and snatched it out of his hands. “God. Listen to this. It says here that the Queen awarded an MBE to a gypsy called Gloria Buckley. I quote, ‘We are part of the human race, a microcosm, and there is good and bad in our community as there is everywhere else.’ Blah-blah-blah. Apparently, they’re organic conservationists—”

“Let me see that,” said Tony.

Annabel tossed the publication onto his lap. “Be my guest.”

Tony skimmed the contents. “I don’t like them any more than you do, but last night I sneaked up to The Grange to take some photographs of all that rubbish behind the pigsty—”

“Don’t tell me they’re using the recycling bins?” scoffed Annabel.

“They sure are. Couldn’t believe my eyes. The stuff that couldn’t fit had been sorted into neat piles. Scrap metal. Paper. Even cardboard boxes had been broken down,” said Tony incredulously.

“I don’t care about recycling or about Belcher Pike!” Pete slammed his hand down on his desk. “Right now all I care about is Page One. We’ve got no bloody lead story!”

“How about a reward for the missing silver?” Annabel and I chorused, then looked at each other with distaste.

“I’m the one who has the relationship with Lady Ethel, and it was the Trewallyn chalice that was stolen,” said Annabel.

“And the artifacts,” I said. “The church is my area of expertise.”

Pete drummed his fingers on his desk. “What else have we got?”

“But that’s a great lead!” said Annabel.