A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (31 page)

‘You know, in my job, I have to deal with the police all the time,’ I said. ‘They can be heartless bullies. He must have said
something
.’

‘Oh, Vicky, you’re so nice to me. The problem is . . .’ Topaz sniffed. ‘I’ve been told not to talk to the press.’

‘But I’m not just
press
. We’re friends,’ I declared. Honestly, we investigative reporters had a hard enough job as it was. ‘Not talk to the press? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous. Do you know what I think?’

She shook her head dolefully.

‘I think Probes is in love with you—’

‘Oh golly!’ Topaz’s eyes widened. ‘How did you guess?’

‘It
was
rather obvious.’

‘I just knew Colin would give the game away,’ Topaz sighed. ‘Please don’t be angry, Vicky.’

Colin!
How could I not be? I’d been fooled and hadn’t even seen it coming. Even though I wasn’t sure about the whole girl-on-girl idea, frankly, I felt wronged. ‘Why lead me on? Why pretend you wanted Dave Randall back?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Start talking.’ I fumed. ‘
Now!
’

Topaz took a deep breath. ‘Colin and I are first cousins. We grew up in Kenya together. My aunt was his father’s sister.’

‘So?’

‘It means we can never marry.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ I exclaimed. ‘This is the twenty-first century.’

Topaz shook her head sadly. ‘My aunt and Uncle Henry – Colin’s father – have a horrid genetic heart disease . . . and, of course, Granny went native and ended up in a lunatic asylum.’

Slipper, sensing the tension between us, clambered out of her basket and waddled over. There was something about the dog that was niggling me but I couldn’t put my finger on it. As she pushed her velvety nose into Topaz’s hand, the truth suddenly hit me.

‘You’re the niece! Ethel Turberville-Spat!’ I was incredulous.

Topaz nodded miserably.

‘But why change your name?’ I said. ‘And why the awful wig?’

Stroking Slipper, Topaz began, ‘I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. Especially Dave Randall. We had a fling last April when I was staying at The Grange but it fizzled out. Then I heard Dave was actually sleeping with
her
.’

It certainly explained why Dave had never heard of a Topaz Potter. ‘Why the disguise?’

‘I was at Maurice Wheeler’s funeral when Auntie died,’ Topaz said.

‘You just told me she had heart disease.’

‘Yes, but something else killed her. I feel it here.’ Topaz thumped her breast. ‘That’s why I’m undercover pretending to be a waitress. I mustn’t be recognized.’

‘And the cafe?’

‘Auntie left it to me,’ she said. ‘It used to be—’

‘A charity shop for the blind. I know.’ Which went a long way in explaining Topaz’s lack of culinary skills.

Topaz grabbed my hands, and said urgently, ‘Vicky, I know who murdered my aunt. I just can’t prove it.’

‘Who?’

‘Lady Trewallyn and her followers!’

A week ago, I would have agreed with her.

‘Topaz,’ I said gently. ‘Your Uncle Hugh had not even met Katherine Vanderkamp when your aunt died.’

Topaz looked disappointed. ‘Are you
positive
?’ she asked. ‘But he
always
had some mistress or other on the go. If it wasn’t
her
, who was it?’

‘Katherine met your uncle on a cruise about a month after your aunt’s funeral. I read about it in the
Gazette
archives,’ I said. ‘If you want to be an investigative reporter, you must double-check your facts before you make wild accusations.’

‘I
am
sure of my facts!’ Topaz stuck out her chin in defiance. ‘My aunt was scared. She told me she was out walking late one night and saw something going on in the woods. There was a light in Hugh’s Folly. Hooded figures, even!’

Hooded figures!
More sightings in the woods! ‘Did she tell your uncle?’

‘He told her she was imagining it,’ Topaz cried. ‘She’d even mentioned this to Uncle Henry. He knows some bigwig at Scotland Yard, so when she died, he managed to get Colin sent down here to make some inquiries.’

No wonder the force complained about lack of funds, if they sent off their men on wild-goose chases.

‘There were also some family heirlooms missing.’ She touched the Victorian locket around her neck. ‘A frightfully valuable Georgian tea urn, pieces of silver that were taken from the walnut display cabinet in the drawing room, that kind of thing.’

‘The Gipping Cat Burglar,’ I said flatly. ‘Didn’t your uncle report it?’

‘He’d gone off on his wretched cruise by the time anyone noticed.’ Topaz’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Uncle Hugh didn’t care. He never really loved her.’

For a fleeting moment I wondered if Topaz were capable of killing Sir Hugh. Perhaps Probes was in on it, too? They’d both grown up in Africa. Wouldn’t they be familiar with witchcraft? It certainly explained Probes’s odd behaviour with Brian’s poppet. It would also give Topaz a motive to try to pin the blame on Katherine. She could easily have stuffed the feathers in Sir Hugh’s mouth, left the chicken corpses in The Grange dustbins – and on Dave Randall’s bed!

‘I still don’t understand why you wanted me to sleep with Dave,’ I asked.

‘For heaven’s sake, he
has
to know what’s going on! He lives in the
woods
.’ Topaz paused for breath. ‘If you sleep with him, you can find out.’

She had a point. Everyone knows the power of pillow talk. I got to my feet and headed for the back door.

Topaz slipped in front of me to stop me from leaving. She’d done that before. It made me feel very uneasy. ‘We could write the story together!’

‘Good idea.’
That will never happen
. ‘But for now, I need you as my High Street spy.’

‘Okay,’ Topaz said, brightening. ‘I almost forgot to tell you what I saw the other night.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Barbara and a scary-looking bald man delivered a large pot to your office.’

‘Thanks, Topaz. Bye.’

‘You see! You
need
me, Vicky!’

I wasn’t interested in Barbara’s romantic adventures or Topaz’s family problems. My scoop was due in two days’ time and I had absolutely nothing concrete whatsoever.

Despite everything that was said, I still believed Lady Trewallyn was a witch and a genius at covering her tracks. Somehow I needed to get to Trewallyn woods to look for clues.

Suddenly, I was struck by a brilliant idea. Annabel was safely in the hospital. Her car was parked outside the
Gazette
. Why not take it for a night-time spin?

H
ot-wiring Annabel’s car was easy. I broke my own record of two minutes, five seconds. I also found my watch. It was hidden in the BMW glove compartment, which promptly dis pelled any qualms I’d been harbouring about taking Annabel’s car.

Barbara had been in the loo when I left. No one else asked any questions. I simply said Annabel had asked me to go to Beaver Lock Lodge to pick up a few things for her hospital stay.

Luck appeared to be on my side at Rumble Lane, too. Mrs Poultry had announced at breakfast that she wouldn’t be back until late. ‘You can have a key,’ she’d said, adding darkly, ‘but I want it back tomorrow morning, without fail.’

As I let myself into the house, the most delicious smell of shepherd’s pie wafted through the air.

My mouth watered. Usually the kitchen door was closed, but this evening it was wide open. For one wonderful moment, I thought my landlady had left me some supper. Instead, on the kitchen table was a note simply saying:
DO NOT TOUCH MY PIE
.

At least her absence meant I could make some toast. Dad always maintained that it was career suicide to go on a night job with an empty stomach.

Without Mrs Poultry’s parsimonious eye on me, I spread thick butter on two slices of bread along with three generous teaspoons of strawberry jam and wolfed it down.

After carefully washing up my plate and making sure there were no stray crumbs, I added a little water to the jam pot and gave it a good shake to bring the level of the contents up to expectation.

As a former Girl Guide I lived by our motto: ‘Always Be Prepared.’ With that in mind, I picked out my only set of racy underwear from Marks and Spencer’s Wild Nights Millennium and snipped off the tags. Dave and I had planned for sex on Wednesday afternoon – tomorrow – but I was quite sure he wouldn’t mind me turning up earlier than planned.

Over my undies, I donned a pair of thick black tights followed by black leggings and a thermal vest under a black polo sweater, and slipped on a pair of sneakers. The best part was finally getting a chance to wear my black-knitted balaclava that Dad had bought for me one Christmas.

I popped my Canon Digital Rebel – retrieved this afternoon from Ken’s Kamera – into a small nylon rucksack, along with a flashlight and a bar of Kit Kat.

Downstairs, I checked my reflection in the hall mirror and was pleased to see I looked a bit like Catwoman. The sleek outfit accentuated my figure. Unlike Annabel, who had to be a size 34 DD and was top-heavy – poor girl – my hips and breasts seemed perfectly in proportion. Even though I say it myself, I looked quite irresistible. Dave was in for a treat!

Annabel’s BMW was a joy to drive. I approached the signpost to the Cricket Pavilion and turned into the narrow road. The beam from the car headlights carved out an eerie tunnel, illuminating broken branches and stray boulders.

On the left, just before the giant puddle Annabel had roared through so rashly, a black Harley Davidson motorbike was propped against a tree. My stomach turned over. Tonight was a full moon. Of course, there would be a coven meeting!

I reversed, left the BMW in the undergrowth, and decided to proceed off the main track on foot.

On reaching the clearing in front of the Cricket Pavilion, I thought I’d expire with excitement. There were three cars parked on the apron – a dented Golf Polo, a black Ford Fiesta, and a white Mazda with a bumper sticker saying
PLYM VALLEY FARMERS DO IT IN BARNS
.

Mrs Evans must have meant the Pavilion, not the Folly. I tiptoed closer. Sure enough, I could hear the murmur of voices coming from inside.

With a pounding heart, I crept up the wooden steps and onto the rickety veranda. Fortunately the windows were boarded up. I edged my way round to the front entrance and slipped inside undetected.

My investigative reporter’s mind spun with possible headlines.
WITCHCRAFT RIFE IN SLEEPY MARKET TOWN: A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE
! Or, if they got round to having sex:
ORGY DISCOVERED IN CRICKET PAVILION – GIPPING’S DEADLY SECRET
.

The voices were coming from behind two double doors that led to the main hall. Shafts of moonlight illuminated a small kitchen on the left strewn with litter, and to my right, a narrow staircase.

Many of these old village halls had minstrel galleries. If my hunch paid off, it would afford the perfect view. I slithered up the stairs and crouched behind the balustrade, grateful for my all-black ensemble. I was completely invisible.

The room below was lit by dozens of candles. Seven figures in black hooded cloaks sat in a circle on empty orange crates drinking Heineken and passing round a family-size bag of crisps. One of them had a sickle embroidered on the back of his cloak. An eighth stood below me at the double doors smoking a cigarette. There was no sign of Lady Trewallyn and the remaining five sorcerers to make up the magical thirteen, but it wasn’t midnight yet.

Against the back wall stood a trestle table covered in a black cloth – the altar obviously. I saw no other occult equipment – cauldron, instruments of torture, or those poor chickens – but suspected they’d be kept under lock and key and brought in for the really serious stuff.

I mentally prepared myself to witness some horrors. No doubt there would be an orgy, though frankly, despite the floor being covered in sawdust, the ground looked a bit hard.

It wasn’t quite what I expected, but what is these days? This was modern witchcraft, after all.

Carefully, I retrieved my camera and got it ready for the money shot, then settled down to wait. I knew I’d only get one chance and wondered what would provide the best shock value on the front page – an orgy of Gipping citizens or a naked, blood-sprayed Lady Trewallyn holding a sacrificed chicken aloft?

‘It’s nearly ten fifteen,’ grumbled a female voice with a lisp. ‘I say we start without him.’

‘I’m freezing my balls off,’ said the man below me, jiggling from foot to foot. ‘If he can’t be here on time, he’s out.’ Three loud knocks sounded on the door downstairs. ‘You’re late!’ he growled. ‘Password?’

‘Beacon Zap, whatever.’ A stocky figure strode in sporting an impressive handlebar moustache. His shaved head gleamed in the candlelight.

‘For God’s sake, put your hood up,’ Sickle Cloak snapped, and got to his feet. ‘This is a top secret meeting.’

‘Not so secret,’ said the newcomer. ‘There’s a bloody BMW hidden in the undergrowth.’