A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (29 page)

Anxious to avoid the alarm snafu, I changed the subject. ‘Goodness! You
must
have quite a sensational story to warrant that kind of sum.’

‘It’s time everyone knew the truth behind Katherine Vanderkamp,’ Chester said. ‘And I’ve got proof! If you’re not interested, I’m sure Annabel—’

‘She’s just a trainee.’ I hoped my face wouldn’t betray my excitement. Proof meant photographs! He might even have one of Lady Trewallyn prancing around naked! But how could I persuade Chester to give me the prize without paying the money?

‘Naturally, we’ve known about the goings-on in the woods for some time,’ I declared. ‘Plus, Lady Trewallyn isn’t a local, so that would lower the price.’ I pretended to consider his proposition. ‘Obviously, I’ll have to see the evidence first, but I’m sure my editor will negotiate—’

‘I don’t negotiate. Deal or no deal,’ Chester said.

Blast!
‘Give me twenty-four hours.’

‘All right,’ Chester said grudgingly. ‘After that, I’ll go elsewhere.’

He reached into his pocket and took out a scrap of paper and scribbled a number down. ‘That’s my mobile. Call me.’

I put it in my pocket. Chester started the engine. The Porsche roared into life.

As we headed back to the safety of Gipping, I considered Chester’s accusation that I’d been guilty of planting the chicken corpses ‘all over Gipping’.

‘Just one more thing,’ I said à la Columbo. ‘Those chickens. For the record, I’m a vegetarian and would never do anything to hurt one of God’s creatures.’

‘Nor would Kandi,’ Chester said. ‘She’s an animal activist. Anti-fur, campaigns for battery chickens, that kind of thing.’

Lady Trewallyn must be an eco-witch.

‘Someone was trying to frame her.’ Chester’s voice hardened. ‘But I don’t care any more. She and I are finished.’

All thoughts of Chester’s revelations vanished as the Porsche turned into Rumble Lane. I couldn’t believe it. A police car was parked outside number 10. For some horrible reason, Mrs Poultry had called the cops.

‘Y
ou did say number ten, didn’t you?’ Chester pulled up behind the police car and let me out. ‘Goddamit, I hate those sons of bitches.’

‘Me too,’ I said, unable to shake the fear that Mrs Poultry had found the coroner’s reports.

It was only when he drove off that I realized I couldn’t ring his mobile.
You idiot, Vicky!
He could be staying anywhere in Gipping – or Devon for that matter.
Damn and blast it!

I hobbled the short distance up the drive wincing with pain at every step. My blisters had been rubbed raw. To my dismay, Mrs Poultry was waiting for me at the front door. Her arms were folded across her bosom, her face stern.

‘Where have you been all night?’ she demanded. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘I walked into a door,’ I said. ‘I was with Annabel, remember?’

‘Lying is the tongue of the devil!’ she scolded. I wondered if she had seen me getting out of Chester’s car. Before I could defend myself, Mrs Poultry stared at my feet and declared, ‘My wellingtons, I believe.’

Turning on her heel and stomping inside, she said over her shoulder, ‘Detective Constable Probes is waiting in the kitchen.’

I kicked off the boots and hung my wet safari jacket on the hall coat stand.

‘And don’t go sneaking upstairs,’ Mrs Poultry shouted from the kitchen. ‘Come in here,
now
!’

Gritting my teeth, I braced myself for the inevitable interrogation. I was still baffled by what I was supposed to have done.

Probes leapt to his feet as I walked in. His eyes widened as he took in my blue flannel pyjamas – rather the worse for wear – and bare blistered feet. I looked at him, defiant. ‘Morning, officer. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

Probes cleared his throat and retrieved a small notepad and pencil from his top pocket. ‘Mrs Poultry informs me that your friend Annabel Lake seemed very upset last night. When you didn’t return home, your landlady became worried. Would you like to tell me what happened?’

‘Nothing happened,’ I said, wondering if it had been Probes who’d broken into Beaver Lock Lodge and left that poppet on Annabel’s bed.

‘That’s not what I heard or saw, Victoria,’ Mrs Poultry said coldly. Turning to Probes she added, ‘I wouldn’t have wasted police time if I hadn’t been deeply concerned.’

I was astonished. What business was it of hers? For the past few months she hadn’t cared if I’d lived or died. Now, all of a sudden, she cared.

‘It’s personal, actually,’ I announced.

‘And the bruise?’ Probes pointed to my face.

‘Annabel,’ I said solemnly. I could virtually feel waves of disbelief emanating from Mrs Poultry. I didn’t dare to even look at Probes. ‘I know I should have telephoned Mrs Poultry and told her not to worry, but . . .’ I trailed off. ‘You know how one gets swept up in the heat of the moment.’

‘Quite.’ Probes coughed and looked down at his shoes. ‘Well, I think that explains everything,’ he said, closing his notebook and carefully putting it back in his top pocket with his pencil. ‘Can I drop you off anywhere, Ms Hill? After you’ve got
dressed
, of course!’

‘There is no need, officer. I’ll take Victoria to work. It’s on my way to market.’ Mrs Poultry gave him a dazzling smile – a rather terrifying sight given that I’d never seen her upper and lower teeth exposed at the same time. ‘I’ll see you out.’

The second they left the kitchen I grabbed the plastic bag and ran up to my room. My mouth felt dry as I threw open the bedroom door, prepared for the worst. To my relief, it was exactly as I’d left it – the coroner’s reports were still beneath my pillow untouched, and the plastic-covered postcards still in the water tank.

A tap on the door startled me. I darted over and opened it a crack. ‘Yes?’

Mrs Poultry was standing on the landing with a mug of tea in one hand. For a moment, I thought it was for me, until she took a sip. ‘We’re leaving in five minutes.’

‘Thanks.’ My mouth watered. I could have done with a cuppa.

Turning back to the incriminating evidence, I decided it would be wise to hide both coroner’s reports in the water tank inside the plastic bag with Annabel’s poppet. But when I opened it, my worst fears were confirmed. The papier-mâché doll was completely crushed.
Blast!
I’d even had a good headline:
HERALD OF DEATH, DOLL OF HATE
.

‘Are you ready?’ Mrs Poultry called up from downstairs.

‘Be there in a minute,’ I shouted. I shoved the reports into the bag, opened the wooden panel, lifted the lid off the water tank, and carefully wedged the package behind the ball cock, just below the waterline. Quickly, I dragged my pyjamas off, pulled on a pair of jeans and navy blue sweater. Unfortunately, the dampness of my safari jacket meant I had to resort to my emergency fluorescent yellow cagoule.

Mrs Poultry, dressed in tweed coat and cloche hat, gave the Morris Traveller plenty of choke. It coughed to life on the fourth try. Plumes of exhaust smoke surrounded us like a blue cloud. The Morris made a grating, clanging whine, as Mrs Poultry carefully reversed out of the drive.

‘This is very nice of you,’ I said.

Mrs Poultry didn’t answer. We set off at such an excruciatingly slow speed we were even passed by an elderly man walking his dog. Driving the two miles to work was going to take ages.

Finally, Mrs Poultry spoke. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Victoria,’ she began.
Here we go
. ‘Haven’t I told you before about gentleman callers?’

‘The man in the Porsche was simply giving me a lift home in the rain.’

Mrs Poultry gasped. ‘You must
never
accept lifts from strangers.
Never
!’

‘Oh no, he was—’

‘There! You see! Already you think he is a nice man,’ she declared, taking her foot completely off the accelerator. The Morris shuddered as the engine ground to a halt and promptly stalled. ‘Given your unsuitable attire, I pray he did not compromise your purity?’

Compromise my purity?
I stifled the urge to giggle.

Mrs Poultry tried to start the engine again. The nauseous smell of petrol wafted through the air vents.

‘I think you’ve flooded the engine,’ I said even more consumed by the urge to laugh. ‘Actually, Chester—’

‘Chester!
Chester
?’ Mrs Poultry sneered.

‘That’s his name. Chester Forbes. He’s an American. In fact, he’s an old lover of Lady Trewallyn’s.’ I realized this could be the perfect opportunity to bring up the subject of my landlady’s presence at St Peter’s. ‘He turned up at Sir Hugh’s funeral and created quite a scandal at the graveside. Didn’t you see what happened?’

‘Cradle to Coffin Catering was not asked to provide refreshments at the house after the service,’ Mrs Poultry declared, neatly sidestepping the question.

‘What do you think of Lady Trewallyn?’ I said. ‘She’s very beautiful.’

For an answer, Mrs Poultry turned the key in the ignition, and with a jolt, we were off once again.

‘She’s nothing like his first wife, Lady Clarissa, is she?’ I pressed on. ‘Apparently, Sir Hugh was devastated when she dropped dead at Maurice Wheeler’s funeral party. Wasn’t that one of your shindigs?’

‘If you’ve been speaking with Barbara Meadows, she’s a notorious gossip and never gets her facts straight. Lady Clarissa was a drunk. The marriage was a sham.’

Mrs Poultry’s outburst surprised me but I’d have to grill her later. An ambulance was parked outside The Copper Kettle. Its blue lights were flashing, rear doors open. A small crowd had already begun to gather on the pavement.

‘Oh no,’ I whispered. ‘Topaz!’ Something awful must have happened to her. My first thoughts were she’d been murdered. Or committed suicide? Topaz had seemed depressed. I knew she had not seemed her usual self, but instead of showing sympathy, I had callously disregarded the signs. If something had happened to Topaz, it was my fault.

‘I’ll drop you here,’ Mrs Poultry declared, disinterested in the drama ahead. The Morris mounted the pavement with a violent thud so she could let me out.

As I headed for the cafe, I realized the excitement was centred on the opposite side of the street at the
Gazette
, not The Copper Kettle. What’s more, the cafe was actually open for a change – obviously taking advantage of potential new customers. I resisted the temptation to stop and congratulate Topaz for taking my advice and instead pushed my way through the surging throng outside the
Gazette
. I had to brandish my press card to reach Barbara where she stood guard at the glass front entrance waiting for me.

‘Quickly,’ she said, opening the door a crack, as if expecting a saleroom rush from those outside. ‘What’s happened to your face?’

‘Door,’ I said, gawping at Barbara’s. She’d painted two blue stripes down each cheek. ‘What’s happened?’

I slid through the gap. Barbara closed the door and flipped over the sign,
GONE TO LUNCH
, even though it was not quite 11.30 a.m.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said, gesturing towards the door that led to the inner hallway. ‘Annabel’s been asking for you. There’s been a terrible accident.’

T
ony, Edward, and Pete stood in an anguished bunch in the doorway that led down to the basement. Barbara’s pink bicycle lay on its side in the hall.

I grabbed Tony’s arm. ‘What happened?’

‘The paramedics are—’

‘Tripped over Barbara’s bloody bike, that’s what happened,’ Pete said.

‘It’s not going outside,’ Barbara retorted hotly. ‘Someone will steal it.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Pete demanded.

‘Helping police with their inquiries,’ said Probes, miraculously materializing by my side. ‘I’m afraid I had to steal her away.’

Pete cursed under his breath. ‘What kind of inquiries, officer? Anything I can help you with?’

‘Whilst you two chat, I must go to Annabel,’ I said, struck by a sudden thought. Was it possible Annabel’s accident was connected to the crushed poppet in my possession?

It was difficult to see much in the gloom below. I could make out two men in white coats. Steve’s vast bulk virtually spanned the width of the kitchenette. He was kneeling awkwardly over my fallen colleague. The basement door was open where Tom, framed in the doorway, was preparing to give her oxygen.

Steadying myself, I descended the steep, wobbly stairs carefully avoiding a solitary brown three-inch platform shoe three steps up from the basement floor.

The cramped kitchenette was stifling and stank of body odour. It was coming from Steve, who was perspiring heavily through his white coat. I peered over his shoulder and saw Annabel lying on her back with her head towards the open basement door. She looked awful.

Steve swivelled round. His face lit up. ‘Oh hello! Remember me? Steve? We met on the combine-motorbike job? That’s a nasty bruise on your face. Do you want—?’

‘’Annabel!’ I said, giving Steve a brief nod. ‘It’s me, Vicky.’