Thieves! (36 page)

By the time the police found Noah’s abandoned Land Rover, his horse and his green-and-yellow-painted wagon had vanished. I couldn’t help but feel glad. Falling for rogues seemed to run in our family.

Both Jimmy and Ruby had been hospitalized—Jimmy for third-degree burns following the explosion, and Ruby, suffering from the aftereffects of having Mace sprayed in her eyes.

Rumor had it that she would be allowed to attend her mother’s funeral before being moved to Dartmoor Prison to await sentencing. With one count of first-degree murder, two of attempted murder, and counts of forgery and grand theft up the gazoo, Ruby would most likely be detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for some time to come. Jimmy faced lesser charges, but basically, the future for both looked bleak.

Dora’s funeral procession started at The Grange in Upper Gipping and along the main Plymouth road to St. Peter’s the Martyr.

Traffic was at a standstill. People came out in droves to watch a white hearse drawn by seven white horses with plumed feathers and hundreds of mourners on foot go by.

Ruby was escorted by a plainclothes policewoman, who walked with her behind the hearse. There was no sign of Noah, but given that there was a warrant out for his arrest, it was hardly surprising.

Fortunately, Elaine Pike—the young woman who had so conveniently told me there was no Belcher Pike—helped gather the names of the mourners by circulating a notebook around the site. The total this morning was seven hundred and ninety-two, but more were expected. It was a far cry from Gladys Trenfold’s funeral of one vicar plus two.

Since Church Lane was packed with gypsies and non-gorgers alike, Reverend Whittler broke one of his rules and allowed me to leave my car at the vicarage nearby.

I was struck by the pungent smell of cooking meat. Entering the car park I was startled to see an enormous fire pit had been dug and a whole pig was roasting on a spit. At the far end, someone had driven Dora’s Winnebago, where it sat in a sea of spectacular flowers, glittering gold jewelry, cases of china, and mounds of clothes. Wildflowers covered the lych-gate. Floral tributes in designs ranging from horse heads to giant teapots flanked the herringbone path all the way up to the church porch.

Whatever role Dora had played in the Pike check-scam operation, she seemed to have died with her political reputation intact. Questions about Jimmy, Ruby, and Noah’s illegal dealings were met with blank stares and not even a “no comment.” True to form, the gypsies had closed ranks.

Standing in the porch, I was pleased to find Reverend Whittler grinning from ear to ear.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” he beamed. “Of course, they won’t all get into the church.” He went on to say that Barry Fir had loaned him some of the band’s audio equipment so that the service could be heard outside.

“What’s the Winnebago doing here?” I asked.

“They’ll set fire to that after the ceremony.” Whittler rubbed his hands with relish. “Many years ago Romanies used to burn the caravan
and
the body together. You’ll be glad to know that I’ve found a nice little spot in the southeast corner of the cemetery for poor Dora.”

Noticing that scaffolding with the sign Windows of Wonder had been erected against the east wall, I asked, “When do they start work?”

“Monday,” Whittler said. “Thanks to Olive Larch’s generous donation of five thousand pounds. She really is a saint!”

I only wished Olive could have made a donation to my landlady, who felt she’d been ripped off, not just by her employers but by the justice system, too. From now on she insisted that Doing-It-Daily was a cash only deal.

Topaz arrived dressed from head to toe in black, carrying a black bag and wearing an enormous picture hat and veil. Without so much as a greeting to either the vicar or myself, she grasped my elbow and steered me behind a stone buttress, where presumably we wouldn’t be overheard.

“Something frightful has happened.”

“I’ve already told you what I think about the missing tea urns,” I said firmly.

“Urns? This has got nothing to do with
urns
,” said Topaz. “This is much,
much
worse!”

With shaking hands she struggled to undo the clasp of her handbag. Retrieving a stamped envelope, she thrust it into my hands. “The postmark says Gipping. It’s dated over a week ago and must have gotten lost with all this dreadful post business.”

Inside was a good quality photocopy of a birth certificate. I studied it, confused. “This says Robin Cuthbert Berry.”

“I know,” Topaz said. “Look at his . . . his . . .
father
. Oh God.”

“Good grief!” I had to read the name twice. In the box marked FATHER was—“Sir Hugh
Trewallyn
?”

Topaz snatched it back. She seemed closed to tears. “It must be a fake.”

“Possibly.” But I wasn’t so sure. From the dim recesses of my memory, I seemed to recall some hint of hanky panky between Mary Berry and Sir Hugh years ago, plus hadn’t Dora Pike mentioned that Sir Hugh might have exercised his rights as lord of the manor? Why else had Mary Berry been granted a lifetime tenancy at Dairy Cottage?

“And to think I’ve allowed Mary Berry and that ghastly Eunice Pratt to live on my land scot-free.”

“Did you have any suspicion?”

“You mean, did I know that my uncle was a frightful Casanova?” Topaz said. “Auntie used to say he was one for the ladies, but actually it is quite normal for the upper classes to take a mistress or two.”

Not just the upper classes.
Was there no man in England who was faithful?

“Do you realize what this means, Vicky?” cried Topaz. “Lieutenant Robin Berry is the direct heir to The Grange. Not me! It’s too humiliating for words.”

“Who else knows about this?” I said. “Apart from Robin’s mother.”

Topaz bit her fingernail. “Wouldn’t someone have tried to blackmail me by now?”

“Yes, you’re right. They would.” The odious Eunice Pratt for one and Dora Pike for another had she not been mown down by Mary’s traction engine. “I think you should burn it.” Though I wondered where the original could be.

Topaz gave a heavy sigh. “Really. This is most inconvenient.” She swept back down the path, acknowledging “her people” with a gracious bow as they parted for her like the Red Sea.

As the solitary bell tolled in the Norman church tower, accompanied by the various screeches and feedback from Barry Fir’s public address system, the gypsies filed into the church, and those who could not fit sat on the grass outside.

I moved to the rear of the crowd mainly because the awful audio system was giving me a headache.

To my delight, Steve was waiting for me at the bottom of the path with a manila envelope in his hand. My heart gave a little jump for joy. Perhaps I’d finally been forgiven for breaking his heart, and we could now be friends.

“Can we go and talk somewhere quiet?” he said. “Away from all that noise?”

“Of course!” He
had
forgiven me! I followed him out into Church Lane. “Where’s your car?”

“I followed the procession on foot.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” I said. “Doesn’t the pork smell delicious?”

“Got something for you, Vicky.” Still no “doll.” “Would you give this to Barbara?”

He handed me the envelope—
gosh
, everyone seemed to be giving me envelopes this morning! “It’s the coroner report you were asking about.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Maybe we could have a drink so I could thank you properly?”

“I don’t know.” Steve regarded me with his blue puppy-dog eyes. “Are you saying you want us to get back together?”

Looking at his earnest, honest face, I hesitated. Was I afraid of love and just using my parents as an excuse not to get close to anyone? Did I want to be alone forever? “Can I think about it?”

“Take all the time you need,” said Steve. “You can let me know in the morning, okay?”

Steve walked off with a spring in his step. My heart sank. What had I just done?

I tore open the envelope, glad to find the coroner report from 1963. It stated that Mildred Veysey had suffered an aneurism before her body hit the ground. The tire marks over her legs were caused five hours later. The only thing Barbara and Jimmy had been guilty of was failing to report and leaving the scene of an accident. I couldn’t wait to give Barbara the good news.

“You’ve got quite a job cut out for you here with all these mourners,” said Probes, startling me. I hadn’t heard him creep up. He was beginning to do that quite a lot. “Very nice front page exclusive by the way.”

“Thanks,” I said modestly. In fact, my story—HILL DOES IT AGAIN: SCAM SCANDAL SOLVED!—had run for four pages in last Saturday’s
Gazette
, garnering me a prime-time interview on Westward TV as well as coverage in all the national newspapers. Naturally I gave some credit to the Devon Police Constabulary, with a special mention to D.I. Probes’s part in the successful denouement of Operation Pike. Bill Trenfold turned witness for the prosecution and revealed that Jimmy, Dora, Ruby, and Noah had actually infiltrated the national postal system, offering small kickbacks in exchange for leaving the pillar boxes unlocked for an hour or two.

With regard to Dora’s coveted special report, Pete decided to run it alongside her obituary, which would come out in this Saturday’s edition.

“I thought you’d like to know that Jack Webster has been arrested for manslaughter for his part in persuading the Swamp Dogs to release the brake on The Gordon showman traction engine,” said Probes. “Apparently John Reeves was involved, too.”

“Stalk
believed
them?” I said, stunned.

“No, Mr. Leonard Evans stepped forward and said that Jack Webster had told him all about his plan to frighten Phil Burrows,” said Probes. “Speaking of Phil Burrows. We were able to get a sample of DNA from the anonymous note he received. The strange thing is that the DNA is very similar to his own. Quite possibly a family member? We want to run more tests, but apparently Phil has gone off to America. Something about being on a television show.”

“I shouldn’t worry in that case.” I’d suspected that Steve might have been responsible for that note. Was Brian Baker the only person who could spell
confidential
? Apart from me, of course.

Probes started to fidget and clear his throat. “Vicky,” he said, “I don’t know how to say this, but you can’t run forever—”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, laughing heartily and swiftly changing the subject. “Whatever happened to Mary Berry?”

“She’s had her driver’s license taken away—for heaven’s sakes, why do you do that?” Probes sounded exasperated. He took a deep breath. “I don’t care who your father is. None of us can choose our parents—”

“My parents are dead,” I said, far more coldly than I intended, but truthfully, I was scared. “Excuse me. Is that the time? I really must go.”

“Vicky! Wait!”

But I couldn’t. I just had to get home. Probes’s words had shaken me to the core. How could he
possibly
know?

With everyone at the church, I was hoping the house would be deserted. When I pulled up outside 21 Factory Terrace, a red post van drew up alongside. It was a new postman—clean-shaven, bright-eyed, and with a big smile. “Got a package for a Vicky Hill?”

I joined him at the rear of his van as he handed me a tall box wrapped in brown paper. It was big and quite heavy, with my name and address written in a black Sharpie and marked CONFIDENTIAL.

I stared at it for several moments. It wasn’t my birthday, but maybe it was a gift from Steve—the get-back-together kind.

Up in my bedroom I tore into the wrapping with scissors. Inside were handfuls of packing straw. Delving down into the depths of the box, my fingers met something cold and hard.

I saw the gleam of a silver top. Then—a second one. I burrowed deeper, tossing out the paper straw. And there they were.

Topaz’s Georgian tea urns.

Inside one of them was a note.

A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE!
SCOOP!
EXPOSÉ!
THIEVES!