A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (25 page)

A sinking feeling was beginning to form in my stomach. Could Wilf, or Gipping for that matter, handle murders, sex fiends, and Satanists? ‘My story is still in the early stages.’

‘It can’t be too early. We go to press on Friday. I’ve reserved the front page for you,’ he said. ‘When old Reggie won half a million pounds, we gave him six whole pages. The public loved it. That’s why, what’s her name, in reception—?’

‘Barbara Meadows.’

‘That’s it. Her Salome Steel competition is a good idea.’ Wilf drew on his pipe. ‘We want something along those lines.’

I took a deep breath, adding tentatively, ‘I was thinking a nice little ritual murder might make a change.’

‘A what?’ Wilf’s pipe dropped onto the desk. Even his glass eye seemed to show alarm. ‘Murder? Good heavens, Vicky! Can you imagine the shadow of despair that would fall upon us if we believed there was a murderer in our midst? Mistrust would be rampant. Families could be torn apart by suspicion.’

‘It was just an idea,’ I said weakly.

‘Stick to tradition and you’ll make staff writer. You might even get a laptop.’ Wilf scooped up a pile of files from his desk. ‘Here, give this lot to Betty in reception.’

I couldn’t believe my luck. One of them was the fake report.

Even though I finally had it in my grasp, I left Wilf’s office with a heavy heart. It had never occurred to me that the editor would reject my front-page story. Pete was right. Wilf really did live in the dark ages.

Thoroughly discouraged, I sat down at my desk and flipped through the report. It was exactly as Annabel had claimed. Sir Hugh had died of a heart attack and was discovered in the library by Lady Trewallyn at five minutes to midnight. There was no mention of a yew hedge, poison, or chickens. The only thing the two conflicting reports had in common was Coroner Sharpe’s signature. I decided to sneak it home to compare the two to make sure. Although, seeing Lady Trewallyn canoodling with old man Sharpe outside the morgue was proof enough to me of a cover-up.

Tucking the report inside my safari jacket, I went downstairs and was about to dump the files on the counter for Barbara when I had an idea: why not offer to file them myself? It would be a good excuse to gain access to Barbara’s archive cupboard.

Since Gripping boasted an accurate record of births, deaths, and marriages, it might be prudent to do a little background check on Lady Trewallyn. Instinct told me she was guilty and it was my duty as an investigative reporter to give the town the truth, whatever Wilf might say.

A
t first, Barbara was reluctant to accept my offer of help, insisting it was my day off.

‘Actually, Wilf suggested I give you a hand.’ I crossed my fingers and prayed Barbara wouldn’t check. ‘He’s worried about the amount of work you’re doing.’ This was a bald-faced lie. Barbara seemed to spend most of the day on the phone gossiping to her friends.

‘Wilf said that?’ Barbara looked pleased. ‘Goodness. I didn’t think he noticed me at all.’

‘He thought the competition was a good idea.’ I didn’t want to add that he didn’t remember her name. ‘I insist on helping you with the filing.’

‘I
would
like to finish my display,’ Barbara said, adding, ‘I can’t believe Wilf was worried about little old me.’

Barbara lifted up the countertop for me to duck through from reception into her kingdom beyond. Other than a box of tissues, her favourite tortoiseshell mirror and comb, and a hand-knitted purple cardigan in a cubbyhole under the counter, the area was scrupulously tidy.

Since Barbara called herself
Miss
, I assumed she had never married. She appeared to be the quintessential career receptionist. Her job was probably her life.

The archive room was in the left-hand corner next to a bank of olive green filing cabinets. We stepped inside. I felt let down. Somehow, I assumed it would resemble the public records department in the library – miles of narrow paths dividing endless shelves of boxes and books. This room was nothing more than a large storage cupboard.

Barbara gestured to a narrow wooden table in the centre, where a large stack of various-size newspaper clippings and sheets of paper spilled over the
TO FILE
tray.

She pulled out a low stool-cum-stepladder from underneath the table. ‘I spread all the articles onto the table and put them into categories.’ Gesturing for me to sit down, she went on, ‘It’s a little cramped but I rather like to eat my lunch in here. It’s important to take a breather from the turmoil of reception.’

‘It’s certainly snug.’ Lit by a solitary naked light bulb and with no windows, it was stuffy and horribly claustrophobic.

‘If you have any questions, let me know.’

Floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves stood on three sides, packed with dozens of labelled cardboard boxes sorted by subject and year. Funerals took up one entire wall, weddings and births, the second. The third was shared equally between social events including the Women’s Institute, flower shows, jumble sales, and court transcripts. One of the boxes was bright yellow and labelled:
WINNER FOOTBALL POOLS
1990 –
R. SHARPE
.

‘I didn’t realize it was the
coroner
who won the pools,’ I said, pointing to the box. I’d forgotten Coroner Sharpe’s first name was Reginald. ‘Wilf said he got half a million.’

‘He never married, you know. Didn’t want to be tied down,’ Barbara declared. ‘Quite the ladies’ man. Women can’t get enough of him. He’s—’

‘I’d better make a start.’ I knew what was coming – another of her trips down memory lane. In the beginning, I had been genuinely interested – you can learn a lot about life from the elderly – but after hearing the same story a dozen times, tedium sets in.

Barbara seemed disappointed. ‘I’ll leave the door ajar. If you need anything, just shout.’

To Barbara’s credit, her archaic filing system was highly organized. In twenty minutes I’d put away Barbara and Wilf’s papers and could now turn my attention to the Trewallyn nuptials.

Working backwards, it didn’t take long to locate the wedding feature. To my surprise, Sir Hugh had remarried a mere two months before I had moved to Gipping myself. Apparently he and Lady Trewallyn had met on board
The Golden Dawn
, a luxury cruise ship specializing in the recently bereaved, whose slogan was
THE LOVING DOESN’T HAVE TO STOP
.

A black-and-white photograph with the caption
SIR HUGH REMARRIES ON THE OCEAN WAVES
showed the new Lady Trewallyn wearing a minuscule bikini top that barely contained her bosoms and a sarong. Her hair was pulled back tightly off her face and decorated with a large hibiscus flower. Sir Hugh stood by her side, clad in traditional English tweeds and deerstalker hat. They made a strange couple. Apparently, Sir Hugh was ‘thrilled to find love again at seventy-five’ and Katherine Vanderkamp said he was as ‘cute as a button’ and that ‘true love only sees the soul within’.

The article went on to say how Sir Hugh, grief-stricken following the tragic death of his first wife three months prior, had taken a Caribbean cruise and met American socialite Katherine Vanderkamp on board ship. Mrs Vanderkamp had recently lost her husband, famed anthropologist and expert on African tribal rituals, in a car accident.

Eureka!
Here was further confirmation of Lady Trewallyn’s guilt – right down to the African connection – except for one thing. If she were a wealthy widow already, why would she poison the penniless Sir Hugh?

Think, Vicky, think!
Of course, it was obvious. Lady Trewallyn had dabbled in the dark arts with her first husband and got a taste for it – orgies, in particular. Mum says once married couples deviate from normal sex there is no turning back. Maybe that’s where Dave Randall, and others of his ilk, fitted in? Lady Trewallyn was insatiable. Sir Hugh had been an old-fashioned gentleman. Perhaps he discovered her sordid secret and wanted to expose her. Lady Trewallyn had to get rid of him to avoid a scandal. Chester Forbes was a ghost from her past and threatened to tell all unless she paid for his silence. It certainly explained her horrified reaction at the graveside. All I needed now was proof.

Satisfied with my findings, I turned to the funeral files. Within minutes, I had found Lady Clarissa’s obituary and was almost overcome with pride at being associated with a newspaper that kept such scrupulous records. It seemed I hadn’t understood the fundamental philosophy behind the
Gazette
at all. I had regarded being a funeral reporter as a chore and a curse instead of what it really was – preserving history for all mankind.

I unfolded the newspaper and turned to the obituaries on pages eleven and twelve.

In the bottom right-hand corner was a grainy, full-length snapshot of an elderly woman with a perm and twinset with a Labrador sitting at her feet. A short article followed saying that Clarissa Turberville-Spat had been born in Kenya where her father, Colonel Turberville-Spat, owned a coffee plantation. Lady Clarissa had met Sir Hugh during her annual visit home to England for the Cheltenham Gold Cup in 1963.

After placing the winning bet on Mill House, Sir Hugh proposed. They spent forty-five happy years together. Her ladyship liked collecting stamps and was an avid supporter of Guide Dogs for the Blind. Ethel Turberville-Spat, her niece and sole heir, was included in the list of mourners.

Apart from the niece, I was familiar with all the names though, personally, I thought the article dull and wondered who wrote it. There was none of the human insight I liked to include in my obituary writing.

‘I was there when she died, you know.’ Barbara’s voice made me jump. I hadn’t heard her come in. ‘Everyone said she had a weak heart, but frankly, it was absinthe that did her in.’

‘Goodness! Do people still drink that stuff?’

‘It’s supposed to heighten the sexual experience, though it didn’t do much for me.’ Barbara’s eyes assumed a glazed expression. ‘Apart from—’

‘You say you were actually
present
when Lady Clarissa died?’

‘What, dear?’ Barbara dragged herself away from whatever torrid memory she was reliving. ‘Oh yes. Clarissa keeled over at Maurice Wheeler’s funeral wake –
right
in front of me. One moment she was laughing at some joke and the next . . . well . . .’

‘Sir Hugh runs off and marries an American heiress on the rebound,’ I said flatly. ‘That must have come as quite a surprise.’

‘It certainly did to Henrietta.’ Barbara nodded and took a deep breath, clearly getting ready for the next round of revelations. ‘Of course,
Henrietta
—’

‘Is that the time?’ I looked at my watch. I’d had my fill of Barbara’s gossip today and had no interest in listening to one of Barbara’s friend’s sob stories. ‘I really must dash. I must say your filing system is excellent.’

‘It’s what I do best.’ Barbara beamed with pride.

I left Barbara locking up the cupboard, and slipped out. I couldn’t get home quick enough. I had a busy night ahead. As an investigative reporter, it was all about gathering facts. Although concrete proof that Katherine Vanderkamp had killed her husband through sorcery still eluded me, I knew I was on to something.

As for the coroner’s reports, I needed to compare the two signatures. If they matched, it confirmed my hunch that Coroner Sharpe was part of the coven, too. How convenient! Lady Trewallyn could murder whom she pleased and have her crime covered up by the coroner, who, in turn, was protected by the police. It made me wonder about the countless funerals I had attended over the past few months. Could it be that half of them were human sacrifices?

With that horrible thought in mind, I hurried back to Rumble Lane to change into my blue flannel pyjamas and do some serious bedtime reading.

I
n the privacy of my attic bedroom, I extracted the original coroner’s report from the plastic Tupperware in the water tank.

From my underwear drawer, hidden beneath my woollen socks, I retrieved a jeweller’s loupe – a useful gift from Dad on my sixteenth birthday – and vital for studying forged signatures.

I turned to compare the back page of both reports. My suspicions were correct. The two signatures were not only identical, but signed with the same fountain pen.

As a member of the medical profession, Coroner Sharpe wrote in an illegible doctor’s scrawl, which even a seasoned forger could not duplicate. The initiating S had matching intricate swirls; the H and P had unusual loops and hooks. One of the reasons Dad stopped dealing in art was because good forgers were too expensive.

This was all well and good, but what was my next step? I could hardly expect Sharpe to confess to being part of the coven. With Brian six feet under, it looked like I’d reached a dead end – no pun intended. Getting hold of Brian’s poppet could have been used for evidence but, of course, Probes had that safely tucked away in a shoe box. Maybe Annabel was right: I wouldn’t be able to pull it off, after all.

Depressed, I put the coroner’s reports under my pillow and climbed into bed, hoping for a flash of inspiration.

I was just about to nod off when a loud knock on the door startled me. I sprang out of bed.