A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (5 page)

I could only think of one eligible man to do the deed – Dave Randall, the hedge-jumping champion, whom I met last Sunday. I was just about to dwell on his manly virtues when an extraordinary thought struck me. Wasn’t Sir Hugh’s body discovered in a hedge? Wasn’t he a passionate jumper? Surely, hedge-jumping was a relatively small world. Why wasn’t Dave present, right now, paying his respects to one of his kinfolk?

It was an interesting lead, and one of which Annabel was totally unaware. Dave would become my personal informer. If Annabel had one, why shouldn’t I? If Dave and I ended up in the bedroom, so be it – to say nothing of killing two birds with one stone.

The hymn, ‘Blessed Are the Pure in Heart,’ signalled the end of the service. In a few minutes, the mourners would emerge. I took one last look at the bush and decided Mrs Poultry was either prostrate with grief or had taken a morning nap.

Positioning myself outside behind a stone buttress, I watched Whittler lead the procession towards the Trewallyn crypt tucked in the corner of the churchyard.

I scanned the grounds, startled to see Pierce Brosnan again, lurking in the shadows of the hedge.

To my annoyance, he made his way there, too. I knew it was inappropriate for me to tear over and get his name at such a late stage. Any further thoughts vanished as I watched the man barge through the crowd. Bold as brass, he positioned himself mere inches in front of Lady Trewallyn’s face. She froze, caught off guard. The man calmly lifted her veil.

There was a deathly pause. Neither of them moved. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. The mourners seemed flabbergasted at such an appalling lack of propriety.

Suddenly, Pierce Brosnan cupped Lady Trewallyn’s chin and kissed her violently on the mouth. The onlookers gasped with disbelief and horrified delight. I felt a familiar tingle in my loins – though not for long. Lady Trewallyn abruptly came to her senses. She pushed him away roughly and began to scream.

The astonished spectators did nothing but gawk as the man turned away and sauntered back towards the hedge. Lady Trewallyn, screeching like a banshee, kicked off her high heels and sprinted after him. Her athleticism was staggering. Within seconds, she’d caught up, whereupon she launched herself at his retreating back, flinging her arms around his neck and lifting her feet off the ground – probably hoping her weight would topple them both into the mud.

Lady Trewallyn might be fleet of foot, but he was definitely stronger. In one fluid motion, the man grabbed her hands from around his neck. He did a little jump and splayed his legs, then tossed her over his right shoulder. She landed hard on her bottom without so much as a cry. It was an excellent judo move.

The mourners remained in total shock as the man melted through the hedge and disappeared. Then, all chaos broke loose. Everyone, except the vicar, ran towards Lady Trewallyn, who had already got to her feet. Dismissing all efforts of assistance, she simply adjusted her hat, gave no more than a cursory glance at the mud stains on her skirt, and limped back towards the crypt where Whittler – who ran a strict timetable – had been continuing with the service alone.

I tore down the path and into the lane just as an engine’s throaty roar indicated the mystery man was making his getaway. I thought my heart was going to burst with excitement as the black Porsche – with tinted windows and no licence plate – sped past.

The Porsche stopped briefly at the main road before turning left towards the wilds of Dartmoor and disappearing from sight.

As I returned to the churchyard, I had an epiphany. Lady Trewallyn – young, beautiful, and fit – had killed her elderly husband for his money. Pierce Brosnan was her lover and accomplice.

Predictably, now the old man was dead, she no longer needed her paramour’s services, and – typical man – he wasn’t going to take rejection lying down.

In a town where everyone knew everything, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out Pierce Brosnan’s true identity.

As my mum would say, strike while the iron is hot, which is exactly what I proposed to do.

‘D
oes anyone know the driver of a black car?’ I asked the mourners as they filtered out of the churchyard. Most seemed excited by the extraordinary graveyard scrap, others gave Lady Trewallyn a wide berth. It was only when a pale-faced woman with a lavender-coloured perm turned to glower at me that I realized my faux pas. The hearse, of course, was black.

‘Sorry, I mean a black Porsche. You know, a sports car?’ I adopted my most friendly expression and cast around the crowd for a flicker of recognition. All I got were blank, hostile stares.

‘Typical press,’ snapped lavender perm. ‘Poor Sir Hugh not even cold, and already they’re sniffing around for dirty laundry.’ She gave me a venomous glare. ‘Vultures.’

‘Now, now, Mrs Pratt,’ said old Coroner Sharpe, ‘Vicky is only trying to do her job.’ Lavender perm scowled and walked off.

I liked the old coroner. With his immense belly, white bushy eyebrows and beard, he reminded me of Santa Claus. Next to Whittler, Sharpe attended as many funerals as I did. I thought it touching he liked to see a job through, literally, to the bitter end.

‘Thank you, Mr Sharpe.’ I gave him a grateful smile. ‘I’m glad someone understands.’

‘Only too well, dear,’ he said. ‘We both serve the public in our own way.’

Seeing Sharpe reminded me of the imminent arrival of his report. I felt uncomfortable. Was he aware there was a traitor in his morgue? Shouldn’t I hint that something underhanded was afoot?

Sharpe muttered something about Lady Trewallyn and headed over to where she stood leaning against one of the black sedans. The unfairness of not being present for the interview tomorrow at The Grange hit me afresh. Why couldn’t I ask Lady Trewallyn who her young friend was? Right now. This minute. I hurried towards them.

Lady Trewallyn’s smart suit was caked with mud – as were her knees. To my surprise, Sharpe promptly took out his handkerchief, spat on it, and began to rub them vigorously. Lady Trewallyn seemed indifferent to his feverish efforts. In fact, she seemed lost in some private world of her own.

‘Lady Trewallyn!’ I said. ‘May I talk to you for a moment?’

Lady Trewallyn snapped out of her reverie, pushed Sharpe away, jumped into the sedan, and locked the car door. The engine burst into life and peeled out of the car park.

Sharpe chuckled. ‘Katherine doesn’t like the press.’

I had never before been so patently rebuffed, but supposed I had better get used to it. I was the press. The
paparazzi
. Perhaps, even someone to be feared?

Sharpe had called Lady Trewallyn by her first name. Perhaps he knew who the Porsche driver was?

‘Sorry, Vicky.’ Sharpe had read my mind. ‘No questions.’ And with that, he turned on his heel, got into his new black Mercedes CL550 Coupé, and drove away.

I had to lay my hands on that coroner’s report. No wonder Pete and Annabel were so desperate to get it. As far as I was concerned, Lady Trewallyn’s flight had confirmed her guilt. Perhaps Sharpe was involved, too? What was the significance of the mutilated chickens? And why had Mrs Poultry decided to watch the funeral proceedings from under a hawthorn bush?

It was time to do some serious investigating.

A
s I crawled beneath the branches of the sprawling hawthorn, admi ration for my landlady’s nimbleness soared. Prickly burs caught in my hair and, twice, my safari jacket got snagged on thorns.

Needless to say, Mrs Poultry had gone. I wriggled into the interior and managed to manoeuvre into a sitting position. Through a small gap in the foliage, I could see the Trewallyn crypt – now sealed shut. Perhaps Mrs Poultry had merely decided to pay her respects to the dead man in private?

I scrambled out, determined to broach the subject of Sir Hugh’s funeral next time our paths crossed. I’d definitely mention Ronnie’s high regard for her clean dustbins. I quite liked the idea of playing Cupid to the elderly.

Glancing at my watch, I realized I might still catch Ronnie at Cowley Street. I was sure he’d share his chicken theories with me if we were alone.

I was in luck. Ronnie was emptying the very last dustbin when I caught up with him.

‘Mr Binns!’ I called out with a cheery wave.

Ronnie finished tossing the contents into the rear of the truck, and put the bin back on the pavement.

‘Remember me? Vicky Hill,’ I said warmly. ‘We met this morning at the tip?’

Ronnie, flushed from his exertions, shook his head and frowned. ‘No. Can’t say I do.’

‘Mrs Poultry’s lodger?’ Good lord, I thought. It was only two hours ago. What was wrong with the man? ‘You remarked on her clean dustbins always being a joy to empty?’

Ronnie’s expression remained blank. Had my appearance altered that much since my foray under the hedge?

Self-consciously, I patted my hair, yanking out several small brown prickles. ‘I had a question about the chickens.’

‘Chickens?’

‘The chickens you showed me at the tip?’ I said, adding helpfully, ‘The white fluffy ones? You know, the ones with their throats cut?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he mumbled, looking down at his green rubber waders.

Reminding myself that journalism was all about persistence, I pressed on. ‘They were under a piece of black plastic.’

Ronnie shook his head. ‘No. Sorry. Good day to you.’ And with a curt salute, he clambered into the cab and drove off.

Flabbergasted, I watched the truck disappear from view. Naturally he was lying. In the short time since we last spoke, someone had got to him. I knew the signs – the lack of eye contact, the fascination with footwear, and of course, a convenient attack of Alzheimer’s.

Ronnie’s denial confirmed my suspicions of foul play – no pun intended. What’s more, I knew who had warned him off. Annabel must have double-backed to the tip after dropping me at the church. Her money had bought his story and his silence.

Blast Annabel!
I thought back to her clumsy attempt at throwing me off the scent: her feigned disinterest in the chicken corpses and how she dismissed Ronnie as a time waster. Annabel may have won this battle, but that did not mean she had won the war. I wasn’t quite done with Ronnie Binns, yet.

W
hen I reached the High Street, a huge commotion was taking place outside the
Gazette
office. Raised, angry voices, car horns blaring, and the inevitable group of curious bystanders, who seemed to emerge from the ether at any sign of trouble, were present.

Annabel had obviously stolen the one remaining parking space on this congested one-way street – much to the fury of an elderly woman in a brown woollen hat. Hurling obscenities, the old lady was showing considerable strength as she leaned against Annabel’s driver door, supposedly to prevent her from getting out. I had to admire Annabel’s sangfroid. It would seem her intestines had calmed down. She seemed indifferent to the verbal attack, being far more concerned with touching up her lipstick in the rear-view mirror.

An old red Mini, presumably the outraged pensioner’s, remained in the middle of the street, holding up the traffic, which had backed up all the way to the public library. The last thing I wanted was for Annabel to notice me, or even worse, drag me into the melee. I darted across the road and into the sanctuary of The Copper Kettle.

Despite the fact that the cafe was opposite the office, I’d never been inside. It was a bit of a disappointment.

The Copper Kettle was part of a row of Queen Anne terraced houses that flanked the High Street. The tearoom was obviously a former shop of some description. Copper kettles were arranged along the length of the old counter. Cheap prints of dead game hung from shabby walls. The whole place had a neglected air. There wasn’t a customer in sight.

I took a table by the window, which afforded an excellent view of Annabel and the High Street. A quick glimpse outside revealed the traffic warden had arrived and was attempting to act as a mediator between the old lady – still gesticulating wildly – and Annabel, who had refused to get out of the car and was looking bored with all the palaver.

A young, pasty-faced waitress in heavy black eyeliner, wearing an olive-green serge medieval dress, and lace mob cap, hurried over to greet me. ‘I’m frightfully sorry,’ she said, ‘that table is reserved.’

I looked around the cafe. ‘There’s no one else in here.’

‘I like to keep this one vacant. You never know . . .’ The waitress frowned, then brightened considerably. ‘You work for the newspaper, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Why?’ I said warily. People will do anything to get their names in print.

‘You’re Vicky Hill!’ she said, giving me a brilliant smile exposing acres of gums.

Should I be flattered or alarmed? My mother despised nosy neighbours, and had insisted the Hill family keep themselves to themselves. What later transpired with the police and Dad’s nocturnal activities more than explained her caution.

The waitress pulled out a chair and flopped down. ‘I
knew
I recognized you. I’m Topaz Potter.’