Thieves! (29 page)

Annabel returned having blow-dried her hair but still in her pink robe with a rolled-up copy of the
Plymouth Bugle
.

“This just came through the letterbox, and I know how you like to read—Omigod—” Annabel turned pale. She scratched her head, and another clump of hair came away, but this time she didn’t notice, seemingly too preoccupied with whatever horror lay on the front page. “What a stupid, stupid
cow
!”

“Give it here, silly lass,” said Mr. Evans, taking the newspaper from her. “What’s happened? Aliens arrived in Gipping?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Annabel said brightly. “Excuse me, I have to get to The Grange.” Tossing the
Plymouth Bugle
onto the kitchen table, Annabel ran out of the door and thundered up the stairs.

“She sounds like an elephant,” grumbled Mrs. Evans.

Mr. Evans picked up the
Bugle.
“Bloody hell! Will you take a look at this?”

“Well I never!” said Mrs. Evans. “That’s The Grange for sure!”

Splashed across the front page was a series of grainy photographs of a figure dressed from head to toe in black. Headlines screamed TOFF TOSSES TRASH! GYPSIES BLAMED!

The first image showed a tidy courtyard with a row of recycling bins. Each subsequent image showed the contents of said recycling bins scattered on the ground until the area resembled a tip. Even more telling was a link to a YouTube clip of the incident that I resolved to take a look at when I could.

An interview with gypsy human rights activist Dora Pike claimed that it was none other than the owner of The Grange, Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat, who was determined to get the gypsies evicted. Her ladyship could not be reached for comment.

“I can’t believe her ladyship would do such a thing,” protested Mrs. Evans. “She’s upper class.”

“No one takes any notice of this newspaper, Mrs. E.,” I said—although Annabel had seemed very upset about it.

I wondered if the recycling sabotage wasn’t the only thing that her new friend Topaz was involved in. Dora had proven to be adept with a camera. What else had she been filming—a burglary or two, perhaps?

I fully intended to find out.

R
ain had given way to a light drizzle, and all roads signposted to the Morris Dance-a-thon were choked with cars, bicycles, and pedestrians.

Along the narrow lane that led to the main gate, traffic was at a standstill, and when it was moving, it seemed to be at a snail’s pace.

I must have double-checked that my homemade PRESS card was visibly displayed on the dashboard at least a hundred times.

As I edged my way up the drive, I saw the reason for the holdup. Someone had erected a STOP! HIGHWAY ROAD-WORK sign next to an open gate that led into the field allocated for public parking.

Standing at the entrance was my ex-heartthrob, Lieutenant Robin Berry, carrying a bus collector’s old-fashioned ticket machine. Dressed in neatly pressed jeans, a white shirt, and a flat tweed cap, Robin wore a red band diagonally across his chest emblazoned with PARKING £5.

This demand was excessive and seemed to be garnering a
lot
of complaints. A few cars had even managed to execute eleven-point turns and were causing a massive jam as they tried to return to the main road.

One driver stopped and wound down his window. “You’re press, aren’t you?” It was snail-racing fanatic Bernard J. Kirby and his wife, Lily. “Daylight robbery is what this is. There’s nothing in your paper that said we had to pay for parking.”

“We’ve never paid before,” chimed in Lily.

Without even waiting for an answer, which was just as well, since I didn’t have one, Bernard floored his Ford Kia, sending a torrent of muddy water over an entire family, who had been walking by on foot.

It looked like today was off to a bad start.

As my Fiat edged closer to Robin, my stomach gave a flutter of anticipation. He was handsome in that chiseled, man-cologne advertisement kind of way, but—as I’d found out—not a very nice person and always looking for ways to make a profit.

Robin peered into my open car window. “Five pounds. Cash only, please.” He gave a start of recognition. “Vicky! Where’s that little moped of yours?”

“I bought a car.”

“You should have told me,” he said. “For a small fee, I would have happily helped you find a bargain.”

“Very kind. I hope you’re not going to charge me—as in the press.” I pointed to the sign on my dashboard. “And since when have people had to pay for parking around here?”

Robin shrugged. “I’m just following her ladyship’s orders.”

It didn’t surprise me that Topaz had found another way to make money, but I was surprised that Robin had agreed to help. I made a mental note to ask her. I was beginning to have a very long list of questions for Topaz Potter.

Robin directed me to take another gate farther up the drive between a marquee and a bank of blue Port-a-loos to the VIP entrance.

I was relieved. As I feared, the field allocated for the public was already a quagmire and claiming a few victims. I could make out four figures in matching hoodies pushing cars out of deep ruts, and the day was still young.

The drizzle stopped, and a watery sun peeped through the clouds. I was pleased to see that the showground looked really professional, with a plethora of colored flags and bunting.

A rousing sound of military music drifted on the summer breeze. Barry Fir’s cover band—Hogmeat Harris and the Wonderguts—had swapped their leather and fake tattoos for the scarlet, gold-buttoned jackets and white trousers of a traditional brass band. Accompanied by several members from St. Peter’s Church Youth Group, the band was seated on a raised covered podium and sounded surprisingly good as they belted out “Coronation Bells.”

Set above the showground at the top of the bank adjacent to The Grange’s vast patio stood Mary Berry’s traction engine. Instinctively, I searched for Steve’s ambulance and was reassured to see his white vehicle marked with a red cross and parked next to the bottled-jam boil-off tent—no doubt needing to be close to the unpredictable portable gas range used for this highly volatile competition.

Steve emerged from his ambulance and was mobbed by two young teenage girls. He made them laugh, and I felt ashamed. I realized I’d judged Steve because of the size of his body, not the size of his heart.

As I drove on by, I noted that the makeshift bleachers were already filling up with spectators.

The Devon Morris teams—or
sides
, to use the correct term—were assembled in brightly colored groups, headed up by mascots ranging from dragons and rams to dogs and lions. Some dancers were warming up, tossing sticks back and forth. Others were doing squats and lunges. A banner listed the participants:

GIPPING RANIDS, TARKA MORRIS MEN, BLACKAWTON MORRIS, HARBERTON NAVY, DARTMOOR BORDER MORRIS, GRIMSPOUND BORDER, PLYMOUTH MORRIS MEN, DARTING-TON MORRIS MEN, AND A SPECIAL GUEST APPEARANCE BY PHIL BURROWS OF THE TURPIN TERRORS!

The official Dance-a-thon wasn’t due to start until eleven and was expected to run for at least six hours. There were two main categories—Side and Individual. Sponsors could rout for a side or an individual and had been given specific colored ribbons to show their support when they originally signed up. A dropped stick or handkerchief merited instant disqualification even if the dancer could have kept on going all night.

I found a good parking spot far beyond the Port-a-loos, which backed onto a small copse and next to another five-bar gate that would afford me a quick exit. The gate was padlocked, but locks had never deterred me.

Donning my Wellingtons, I started back toward the arena when I heard the sound of an angry voice coming from behind the Port-a-loos. Creeping around the side, I went to eavesdrop.

To my astonishment, I found Jimmy Kitchen pinning one of the Gipping Ranids against a tree. I could only hear snatches of conversation but managed to catch “pillar box,” “church window,” and “curse.”

Jimmy stepped aside to reveal Bill Trenfold!

I couldn’t believe it. What could Bill Trenfold and Jimmy Kitchen possibly have in common? I knew I had witnessed something significant but didn’t know what. However, I intended to find out.

I darted back to the front of the Port-a-loos just as Jimmy walked past, followed by a very worried-looking postman.

I hastened to join him. “Hi, Bill,” I said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Excuse me but I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll walk with you.”

Bill set off at quite a fast pace, which was surprising, given his bandy legs. I had to hurry to keep up.

“What’s all this nonsense about a pillar box and being cursed?” It was a wild stab in the dark, but as Mum says,
“nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Bill stopped dead. He turned pale, which against his green uniform gave him a ghoulish pallor. “Lawd have mercy,” he whispered. “How did you find out?”

“It was obvious.” I had no
real
idea what he was up to, but his reaction indicated I was on the right track.

Bill grabbed my arm, clearly frightened. “I only left them open an hour or two, I swear to God. That’s all I did. Nothing else.”

“Calling all competitors! Calling all competitors!” blasted the public address system. “The Morris Dance-a-thon will be underway in five minutes.
Five
minutes!”

“You’d better go.” I’d hunt Bill down later. “Good luck! Break a leg!”

Bill scuttled off, leaving me with a puzzle.

Dad says to look at what a man does for a living, what use he can be, and what kind of Achilles heel or secret he may have. Bill Trenfold was a post office worker who, by all accounts and purposes, was heavily in debt. If there was a service he could offer the gypsies, what could it possibly be? What could he have “only left open an hour or two?”

Did it have something to do with the new collection times? Had the pillar boxes been deliberately left open? And why mention the church window?

One way or another, I was determined to find out.

A
cacophony of feedback and screeches from the public address system was followed by an eruption of percussion instruments and the jingle of a trillion bells. The Morris Dance-a-thon had begun.

I headed toward the thick wall of people pressed against the ropes, applauding and cheering on the competitors.

Apart from Phil Burrows, who was standing on a special raised podium, all I could see were a series of leaping hats and waving handkerchiefs. Every so often the top hats and blackened faces of the Grimspound Border Morris dancers leapt into my line of vision, but frankly, after ten minutes I began to feel bored. Tony was welcome to report on this for the next six hours.

The snag was that I still wanted to talk to Steve about the sodium hydroxide but since I hadn’t finished questioning Bill, I daren’t leave this spot in case he darted off.

Reverend Whittler materialized by my side. “Vicky, a word?”

Whittler’s face was etched with worry. What’s wrong?” I said.

“Did you post that letter?”

I was filled with a ghastly premonition. “Of course,” I said. “Why?”

“Where?”

“At the post office.” I felt terrible lying to a man of God but just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that not only had I forgotten but when I
had
remembered, I’d dropped it in a pillar box.

Whittler gave me a piercing stare. “Straight after Gladys Trenfold’s funeral?”

I couldn’t look him in the eye. “Yes.”

Whittler wrung his hands. “Windows of Wonder has not received the check. They have refused to start work on Monday.”

“I only posted the envelope on Wednesday,” I said. “Maybe give it a few more days?”

“It had a first-class stamp.” Whittler shook his head. “It should have arrived yesterday at the very latest. What if it’s lost?”