A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (9 page)

Why would he want to know where I lived? A more horrible thought occurred: what if this
wasn’t
about the Trewallyn family at all? What if – I could hardly dare think – it was connected to
my dad
!?

All further theories stopped when Pierce Brosnan found the envelope containing Dave’s hedge-jumping photographs and tipped them out. He scrutinized both by flashlight, before slipping them into his top inside pocket. I was stunned. What on earth could he want with Dave’s photographs?

Recalling Dave’s hasty exit at the mention of the Porsche, it was obvious the two men were connected. Could Lady Trewallyn have
already
taken a new lover? The woman must be a shameless nymphomaniac – poor Sir Hugh was not even cold in his grave – to say nothing of her selfishness in snapping up what looked like the only eligible bachelor in Gipping.

Suddenly, Pierce Brosnan froze. I’d seen a fox do that once, ears pricked, sniffing the air for danger.

I shrank from sight, curling myself into the smallest ball possible – and promptly dropped the envelope. In my heightened sensitive state, I may as well have dropped an atom bomb.

Pierce Brosnan swung the flashlight in my direction. I closed my eyes, hoping in some childish way that if they were shut, I couldn’t see him, so he couldn’t see me. He took a step towards me, playing the beam on my face. I was caught in the spotlight. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. Any moment now he would be hauling me out from my hiding place by my hair.

I took a shallow breath to stave off unconsciousness and began to pray silently to God, hoping that the changes I suggested in my behaviour might instil His mercy. I promised I wouldn’t read the coroner’s report because deep down, I knew it did not belong to me. I vowed to be nicer to Annabel, because research showed that overachievers generally had hard, unfeeling parents. I’d buy Topaz a drink because she was lonely and it was a nice thing to do. And finally, the biggest sacrifice of all, I’d be content to remain a virgin for the rest of my life – even enter a convent if necessary. Resigned in the knowledge that I had done all I could in my power, I sat back to see if my prayers would be heard and only hoped death would be quick.

To my astonishment, my would-be attacker suddenly snapped off the flashlight, turned on his heel, and left the room. I listened as his footsteps went downstairs and faded away to silence. His reaction was so unexpected that it took me a few moments to realize I’d got away with it.

How extraordinary! There really
was
something to this religion lark, after all.

As I crawled out of my hiding place, I wondered if Pierce Brosnan was still in the building. I assumed he had what he wanted but perhaps he was merely luring me into a false sense of security? Yet, I could hardly stay here all night without admitting to the break-in.

Stiffly, I got to my feet and straightened my shoulders.
Courage Vicky!
What was a girl to do? First, I must go to the loo.

Thankfully, my would-be attacker was not on the landing, as I had feared. I crept downstairs and into the tiny bathroom, next to the door that led down to the basement. There was no sign of him there, either. He had gone.

After my trip to the loo, I felt considerably better and wondered if much of my anxiety had been connected to my waterworks. It’s hard to concentrate on anything if one has to go. As I washed my hands, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the washbasin, and gasped. I couldn’t believe it! The face that stared back at me was blackened with
newsprint
! It must have come off on my hands when I was stacking the newspapers.

Obviously, I had some subconscious instinct for survival. My confidence soared. I had a natural flair for espionage. It was in my genes! Pierce Brosnan hadn’t seen me at all.

A new dilemma arose. I had made that rash deal with God. Wouldn’t the fact that I had been, unwittingly, camouflaged all the time cancel our arrangement? Anyway, wasn’t God all-seeing and all-knowing? No doubt He’d been highly amused by my behaviour and took my promises in the manner in which I made them – as a bit of a joke. Surely He didn’t think I was serious about the virgin-convent deal?

Returning to my desk, my euphoria evaporated. My reporter notebook lay open, prominently displaying the heart-shaped doodle with
Dave Randall Is HOT and I Should Know
in purple felt-tip. Dave’s address was conveniently – and childishly – noted alongside:
Cricket Lodge, Old Road, Upper Gipping, Devon, Great Britain, The World, The Galaxy, The Universe, The Solar System
.

Since Pierce Brosnan stole Dave’s photographs, it was logical to assume the bit of scribbling he’d been doing had involved copying out Dave’s address, not mine. I had, inadvertently, signed Dave’s death warrant.

Without wanting to appear heartless, there wasn’t much I could do for Dave at this precise moment. Cricket Lodge was at least a three-mile walk from the office, and, with no phone reception, his mobile was useless.

I settled into my chair and switched on my banker’s desk lamp. The green shade cast a ghoulish light over the damaged papers. The good news was that only the title page was scorched. The bad news was that I didn’t understand the legal jargon and lofty, incomprehensible sentences. It may as well have been written in Russian. I skimmed through, looking for anything that looked remotely decipherable.

Halfway down on the third page, a familiar phrase leapt out:
Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectroscopy
or GCMS.
This
was the test old Sharpe had been waiting for. It had to be significiant.

I turned on my ancient computer and typed in my password. I couldn’t wait until I was a full-fledged reporter and was given a snazzy high-powered laptop. Even Annabel wasn’t allowed one of those.

Google described GCMS as ‘A separation technique that can positively identify a substance narcotic, poison, or similar.’

Returning to the coroner’s report, I read on. ‘Traces of digitalis purpurea found in victim’s stomach. Probable Cause of Death: Digitalis Intoxication.’

Poison! According to the report, Lady Trewallyn had discovered her husband at five minutes to midnight, sprawled in the middle of a yew hedge on the estate. No wonder Pete and Annabel had wanted to get their hands on this before the obituary interview tomorrow. They’d be in the perfect position to ask incriminating questions.

I could imagine Lady Trewallyn preparing the deadly concoction and slipping it into Sir Hugh’s brandy and milk nightcap. He’d watch her with eyes filled with trust and love, unaware that she had been planning to get her hands on his millions since the day they met. She’d kiss him goodnight, gently smoothing back the hair on his head – if he had any, I personally had never met Sir Hugh – and lurk somewhere out of sight but within earshot. He’d stay in the library, reflecting on his luck at having such an attentive young wife.

A little later, there would be an anguished cry and the sound of a body falling to the floor. Lady Trewallyn would hurry to his side to check that he was stone-cold dead. From behind the curtains, her accomplice – and lover – Pierce Brosnan would emerge.

The two heartless killers would drag the dead man out of the house into the night and artistically arrange his body in the yew hedge. Sir Hugh would
appear
to have been out jumping alone. It would look as if he had misjudged a leap and fallen forward with his mouth wide open in surprise. Just as the yew branches cushioned his fall, he would have accidentally swallowed a sprig of scarlet yew berries, which everyone knows are deadly poisonous.

But I was puzzled. Thanks to Dave’s lesson on the merits of the English yew, I knew
taxus baccata
was not
digitalis purpurea
.

On searching Google for
digitalis purpurea
, I was even more puzzled to find it was the common purple foxglove, which when ingested can cause ‘uncoordinated contractions of the heart leading to cardiac arrest and finally death’. The article went on cheerfully, ‘Thus, the
digitalis purpurea
has earned several more sinister monikers: “Dead Man’s Bells” and “Witches Gloves”.’

No doubt Dave was out doing some late-night jumping and witnessed the disposal of the body, hence his terror of the man in the black Porsche.

Satisfied with my findings, I couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. These murders were quite simple to solve if one had a logical mind.

As I switched off my computer and put the report back into the envelope, I spotted something that chilled me to the bone.

Written on the back page under
Miscellaneous Observations
was the following: ‘Deceased’s mouth contained six chicken legs complete with feet, claws, and feathers bound by a black silk cord, placed after death.’

I felt hot and cold all at the same time. It didn’t require a brain surgeon to realize there was a connection between these limbs and the three corpses Ronnie had found at the local tip.

Tucking the coroner’s report into my safari jacket, I wondered if I’d been wrong about Annabel. Perhaps
she
hadn’t silenced Ronnie with money – someone else had. What if Ronnie had tried to alert us to evil goings-on in Gipping but we’d shot him down? Was Lady Trewallyn dabbling in the occult?

There were dark forces at work here in Gipping and it was my duty to the townsfolk to expose them all.

A
drenaline surged through my body as I hurried down the stairs towards the basement. For the first time, I didn’t relish the walk home alone through those dark alleys.

Should I have a chat with Whittler? Though I doubted his eagerness to get involved with the devil. The more I thought about my brief conversations with him over these past few months, the more I wondered if he was all that bothered about good versus evil. Whittler was probably one of those fair-weather vicars. As long as things ran along smoothly, and people died from natural causes, he was everybody’s best friend. But just hint at the dark forces, and he was gone.

In the basement kitchenette, I was surprised to see the outside door closed. I could have sworn I’d left it ajar. Pierce Brosnan must have exited the building this way. The moment I opened the door, I practically had a heart attack.

An earth shattering clanging erupted from the bowels of the building. The alarm worked, after all! It went on and on, seemingly growing louder by the second.

What a stupid oversight! Thank God Dad was not here to witness my faux pas. Obviously, Pierce Brosnan had disabled the alarm
before
I arrived, then switched it back on when he left.

The shrill ring continued. My heart was beating so rapidly I feared I’d become hysterical if I didn’t take action. In five minutes, the police would arrive. I tore outside, grabbed a handful of stones, and flung them haphazardly at the ringing bell. Even though most hit their mark, they made no difference at all.

Ducking back into the basement, I grabbed a wooden long-handled mop and raced back. I thrust the pole, mop end first – to muffle the sound – into the belly of the alarm, praying it would jam. The bell gamely shuddered to a halt and expired altogether with a pathetic
phut!
There, the mop stayed, providing ample evidence of my guilt.
Blast!
I couldn’t reach it, and my newspaper tower had long collapsed. I’d have to leave the mop there.

I bolted out of the alley and into the High Street. Stopped dead.
Blast!
I’d left my scarf and gloves outside the basement door. They weren’t exactly run-of-the-mill, either, being a fluorescent lime green and vivid purple stripe. I may as well have left my name and address, too. How could I even
think
I was my father’s daughter?

Paralysed, I stood outside The Copper Kettle as a police car, siren blaring, blue and red lights flashing, barrelled towards me up the High Street. My God, the cops were on the ball tonight. It couldn’t have been more than two minutes since the bell went off.

Suddenly, firm hands grabbed my shoulders. I struggled to escape, but a hand clamped firmly over my nose and mouth. ‘Quickly. In here!’ cried Topaz, dragging me backwards through the door of the tearoom. With surprising strength, she threw me facedown onto the floor and hurled herself on top of me.

Winded, I took in deep gulps of air, utterly confused by the turn of events and my unexpected rescuer.

‘Don’t move,’ Topaz said.

I refrained from telling her I couldn’t. She was actually heavy. Her breath was hot on my neck, and her body moulded into the contours of my back.

‘We’ll wait until the coast is clear,’ she whispered into my ear.

Luckily, Topaz could not see my horrified expression. How much had she seen and why rescue me?

‘I can’t breathe, Topaz,’ I groaned, trying to jostle her off. ‘Please!’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said, rolling onto her knees. ‘Follow me, but keep down!’

Topaz crawled, leopard-style, beneath the window over to the table where I had sat only hours earlier. ‘Good view from here.’

I duly followed, noting she was wearing her mob cap and wondering if she slept in it.

We both knelt by the window, peeping over the sill as another panda car screamed to a halt, ejecting two more coppers, who swarmed all over the
Gazette
as if there’d been a bank robbery. I felt sick. No doubt they’d find the mop – covered in my fingerprints – and my scarf and gloves. As the old saying goes, it’s a ‘fair cop’.