Thieves! (10 page)

The place smelled damp and musty and could do with a good airing.

I went through to the large inner hall. The floor was of black and white marble and resembled a chessboard. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from a domed atrium overhead. On my right, two suitcases stood at the base of the grand oak staircase. A soft woof came from above.

Looking up, I saw Topaz’s old Labrador peering down through the banisters from the landing. Slipper was exactly the kind of dog I liked—arthritic, practically deaf, and almost blind. Normally, I was afraid of dogs, but I had to admit that Slipper was a sweetheart.

I recalled Topaz mentioning that when her aunt and uncle were alive, they used a suite of rooms on the first floor. Presumably she intended to do likewise. Even though I wasn’t afraid of Slipper, I couldn’t quite bring myself to have to pass her on the staircase but fortunately, the sound of muffled voices coming from farther down the hall suggested that Topaz and Annabel were close by. I went to join them.

Suddenly there was the tinkle of familiar laughter followed by an unattractive snort. It seemed to be coming from inside the room with the daffodil painted on the porcelain door handle. A room I knew all too well.

“Oh, your ladyship, you are funny!” I heard Annabel say. I couldn’t quite catch Topaz’s response because I was in shock.

Topaz was showing Annabel her family heirlooms.

Always under lock and key—though, either would not deter any seasoned burglar—Topaz had always claimed that she couldn’t risk showing the “priceless Spat silver” and the “extremely valuable Trewallyn paintings” to anyone. I’d only seen them myself because she’d asked me to do an inventory one night.

I gently pushed open the door, unnoticed by the two women who were huddled over a table in the far right-hand corner.

The shutters on the tall sash windows were folded open. Light spilled into the usually kept dark room that afforded a view of Trewallyn Woods. Light also twinkled from the crystal chandelier above, catching the sheen of mountains of silver piled on top of the antique oak refectory table.

It reminded me of Dad’s old lockup at Newcastle railway station, which I was allowed to visit as a treat when most kids were taken out for a strawberry milkshake.

Having taken Topaz’s inventory before, I knew there should be a total of thirty-seven pieces—silver tea sets, compote services, candlesticks, candelabras, goblets, and a pair of silver swan centerpieces. But when Annabel stepped aside, I couldn’t believe what Topaz held cradled under each arm—a pair of matching Georgian tea urns.

Of all the silver that came and went in the Hill household, Georgian tea urns were Dad’s passion. He collected them and was famous for it.

I recognized the designer immediately. With the urns’ simple, neoclassical style and beaded borders, they were almost certainly made by Hester Bateman in the late 1700s.

As one of the first well-recognized female silver-smiths in England, I had always had a particular interest in Hester Bateman’s work. Being a woman in a male-dominated workplace isn’t easy these days, let alone two hundred-odd years ago.

“I just want one more photograph of the underside.” Annabel took a step back, holding her iPhone aloft.

“They’re frightfully heavy,” grumbled Topaz.

I would never have recognized Topaz as the waitress from The Copper Kettle. For a start, she was wearing a 1960s black Jackie O-styled wig, horn-rimmed spectacles, and a pair of tight-fitting stretch jodhpurs that she’d filled with lumpy padding. A cream polo-neck sweater under a green tweed jacket topped off her lady-of-the-manner attire.

Topaz caught sight of me hovering in the doorway and gave a cry of alarm. “Who are you? Get out! You’re trespassing!”

Annabel spun round. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I recognized your car outside, Annabel, and thought I should introduce myself to her . . . ladyship.”

“Out! Out!” shrieked Topaz, slamming both tea urns down on the table, seemingly not caring if she damaged either.

Flapping her hands in my direction, she yelled, “Shoo! Shoo!” before grabbing a very startled Annabel and bundling us out of the room.
Honestly!
How typical of Topaz to go over the top.

“Now see what you’ve done,” hissed Annabel as Topaz pulled the door closed with a bang.

Pulling a key out of her tweed coat pocket, she made a meal of locking the door. “I’m sorry, but there are
priceless
heirlooms in there. The viewing was for your eyes only, Ms. Lake!” she trilled.

“I’m sorry—”

Wagging her forefinger at Annabel, Topaz raged on, “You naughty girl! How
dare
you tell your friends!”

“I can assure you I did nothing of the sort,” said Annabel, throwing me a look of pure hatred.

“I’m afraid I might not want to do the interview, after all,” Topaz said with a haughty sniff. “I don’t think you can be trusted. Telling your friends—”

“She’s not my friend, and I didn’t tell her anything,” said Annabel hotly. “Right, Vicky?”

“It’s true. We just work together.” I found the whole thing amusing. Annabel had always been scathing about the waitress from The Copper Kettle, so the fact that she didn’t recognize her now, and seemed intimidated in the bargain, was actually hilarious.

“Even so,” said Topaz, ignoring both of us. “I’m not sure
television
is really my thing. It’s so common.”

Annabel turned pale. “But you agreed. Westward TV is excited. They’re sending over a camera crew and everything.”

Topaz gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll think about it, but what if the sight of cameras starts a riot?”

“I don’t think there is any danger of that,” I said mildly. “There are three wagons, a VW camper, and a Winnebago. You’d hardly notice the gypsies are here at all.”

“Hardly?”
scoffed Annabel. “Pete said there would be hundreds turning up for that old man’s funeral.”

“He’s not dead yet,” I said.

“They’re already a menace to society with all their rubbish,” said Annabel. “You should see what’s behind the pigsty! Her ladyship showed me earlier. An old mattress, a fridge, sheets of corrugated iron—”

“It’s frightful,” said Topaz.

“All that stuff has been there for ages,” I said. “Have the recycling bins arrived yet?”

“Recycling!”
said Annabel with scorn. “You expect people like that to
recycle
?”

I shrugged. “They insist they’re environmentally friendly.”

Annabel turned to Topaz. “
And
we’ve got the Morris Dance-a-thon to think about, your ladyship.”

“I am perfectly aware of the Morris Dance-a-thon,” said Topaz. “That’s why the eviction service is coming first thing Friday morning.”

I’d heard of eviction crews in the past. They arrived with their bulldozers and were basically thugs-for-hire. “But Friday is when all the tents for the Morris Dance-a-thon will be going up. It’ll be chaos.”

“My mind is made up,” Topaz declared.

“I’m sorry, but I think that’s a really bad idea,” I said.

Annabel’s eyes bugged out as if I’d answered back to the Queen of England. “Surely her ladyship is entitled to do what she wants on her land.”

“You can’t evict a dying man and his grieving relatives,” I said, although, frankly, I hadn’t seen that much evidence of grief. “It’s a race relations and human rights issue.”

“I don’t care,” said Topaz stubbornly. “I want them off.”

“I spoke with a member of the gypsy council—”

“Is that the frightful woman in the Winnebago?” said Topaz with a sneer. “If she can afford one of those, she can afford to live like a normal person in a proper house.”

“I agree,” Annabel chimed in.

“Apparently, Sir Hugh Trewallyn said they could camp here whenever they wanted,” I said. “There is a public right-of-way from Ponsford Ridge and—”

“I don’t care about the public right-of-way,” Topaz snapped. “This is my land now, and I’ll do what I like.”

“There are laws and—”

“Never underestimate a Turberville-Spat.” Topaz’s voice was icy. “I
will
get them off my land, and that’s final. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some unpacking to do. You may both leave.”

“But you’ll still do the interview, your ladyship, won’t you?”

“Come on, Annabel,” I said, shepherding her in the direction of the kitchen.

“Ms. Lake? Wait!” commanded Topaz.

Annabel shook off my arm and stopped in her tracks. “Yes?”

“Is it true that you live in Mrs. Evans’s sewing room?”

“How did you know that?” Annabel seemed taken aback. Of course, it was me who had told Topaz. “And it’s not Mrs. Evans’s sewing room anymore. I moved all her stuff out.”

“Whatever.” Topaz gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I trust she still runs her charlady business?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Do you have her telephone number? I need to hire her services immediately.” Topaz gestured expansively to her surroundings. “I’d forgotten how enormous my ancestral home is.”

“Won’t you be returning to
London
?” I asked pointedly.

“I must stay on the premises until this rabble have been evicted. There could be stragglers, and I can’t risk anything being stolen.”

“Aren’t you insured?” I said.

“Insurance is not the point,” said Topaz. “These family heirlooms are irreplaceable—but I don’t expect either of you to understand that. Some of the silver pieces were personal gifts from George III.”

“Like the Georgian tea urns,” said Annabel, turning to me with a bright smile. “Which was why I suggested a few additional photographs just in case there were any problems.”

There was something in Annabel’s expression that made me uneasy. Knowing that she had made a thorough study of all of Dad’s foibles, she was bound to have discovered his penchant for a handsome tea urn with a nicely turned spigot.

“I thought gypsies only collected Royal Crown Derby china,” I said lightly. “Antique silver is too distinctive and complicated to move on the black market without the right contacts.”

“And you should know,” Annabel said slyly.

Careful, Vicky!
Annabel continued to try to catch me out.

“How fascinating.” Topaz turned to me. “Ms. Hill, I’d like a quick word with you. Alone.”

“Why? She’s just the obituary writer.”

“How dare you question me!” Topaz pointed her finger at the kitchen door. “Go and wait in the scullery, otherwise, there will be no television interview.”

Annabel opened her mouth and shut it again. Without a word, she slunk off and disappeared into the kitchen.

Topaz started to bray with laughter. “What an absolute hoot!”

“Keep your voice down,” I said. “She’s bound to be listening.”

“Fancy her not recognizing me,” said Topaz.

“Why did you show her the silver?”

Topaz shrugged. “I told her that all gypsies were thieves, and she asked if I had anything valuable in the house, and one thing led to another. Why? Did you think I’d lured her into the daffodil room for a naughty reason? Were you jealous?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Just surprised. You never mentioned you had any Georgian tea urns.”

“You didn’t ask,” said Topaz.

“And she did?”

“Who cares!” Topaz laughed again. “I say, does this outfit make me look fat?”

“Yes. Very. I’d better go,” I said. “Annabel is bound to be eavesdropping.”

But Annabel wasn’t. She was outside in the courtyard, scrutinizing the grimy scullery window.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“I told her ladyship she ought to have a burglar alarm installed.” Annabel rapped the glass with her knuckles. “With all that silver, it would be easy to break in. And she should have a surveillance system, too.” Annabel cocked her head, adding thoughtfully, “Especially if it becomes common knowledge that there is a treasure trove of
silver
inside.”

“Why should it become common knowledge?” I said. “I’m not going to spread the word around.”

“Aren’t you?” Annabel smiled sweetly.

My skin began to prickle—perhaps that trace of Romany instincts in my blood was kicking in. Annabel was up to something, and I didn’t like it one bit.

Fortunately, all further comments were forgotten as the sound of angry voices drifted toward us. They seemed to be coming from behind a row of outbuildings.

“I told you the gypsies would cause trouble,” said Annabel with ill-disguised glee.

It would seem that this time, she could be right.

R
ounding the corner, we discovered Ronnie Binns and Dora embroiled in a heated argument. Dressed in his regulation gabardine overalls and thigh-high waders, Ronnie stood next to a neat row of colored wheelies—blue, brown, gray, and a dirty white—quivering with rage.

The courtyard may well have been a mess, but the situation behind the pigsty was a hundred times worse.