Thieves! (8 page)

It looked as if trouble was already brewing. Flanked by abandoned Victorian gatehouses, the main gate had been lifted from its hinges and lay on the ground. A banner, stretching from roof to roof, said:

The accompanying massive fluorescent-green billboard listing the other attractions—hedge-jumping and hedge-laying displays, a snail racing exhibition, and a bottled-jam boil-off, had been partially sprayed with graffiti.

The words SILENT AUCTION! TAKE HOME A PIECE OF CELEBRITY MORRIS MAN PHIL BURROWS had practically been obliterated.

Phil was not in as much demand as he thought.

A flash of blue caught my attention. My stomach turned over as I braced myself for a gypsy attack, but suddenly four figures in navy hoodies and jeans, aerosol cans in hand, burst from the undergrowth and scampered away. I recognized them immediately—Mickey, Malcolm, Ben, and Brian Barker, aka the Swamp Dogs—Gipping’s answer to a street gang. No doubt they were responsible for the graffiti.

I slipped my Fiat into four-wheel drive. Even though the last two weeks had been dry, we’d had a wet summer, and Ronnie’s heavy lorry had certainly deepened the ruts in the potholed surface. I dreaded to think what kind of damage would be done to the parkland. Add that to the hundreds of revelers expected on Saturday, and the place would be a quagmire.

As I drew closer to the main house, I wondered if there had been some mistake.

I counted just two painted wagons—the green-and-yellow one I’d seen earlier and a crimson one—two horses, and one 1960 orange-and-white VW camper van.

They were backed against a vicious blackthorn hedge that I knew had been earmarked for one of the hedge-laying displays on Saturday. Even I didn’t need to have the gift of the Sight to predict trouble with hedge-layer Jack Webster.

But where was everybody? Where was the famous gypsy king, Belcher Pike? Was this
it
?

I was so preoccupied that I wasn’t paying attention and narrowly avoided hitting a pedestrian with a limp.

Dressed in a red shawl and long dirndl skirt, the gypsy was still carrying her canvas bag filled with flyers. I did hope she wasn’t planning on giving one to Topaz—or, rather, Lady Ethel, or was it Ms. Ethel? Not moving in aristocratic circles, I wasn’t sure how to address the niece of a dead aunt who had married a Duke.

I opened my window. “Can I give you a lift?”

The woman turned and regarded me with suspicion. “Why?”

“I’m going up to the main house,” I said cheerfully. I wasn’t, but perhaps the gypsies had camped on the other side of the estate. “Thought it might save you the walk.”

“I’ve seen you before.” The woman stepped up to my car and peered at the sign under my windshield. “Are you a reporter?”

“Yes. I’m with the
Gipping Gazette
.” I gave her my best smile, anxious to prove Edward wrong and that, yes, she would love to talk to the newspaper.

“Just the person I want to see!” The woman slithered around to the passenger side and opened the door. Edward
was
wrong.

Planting her muddy, sensible shoes—I recognized them from Marks & Spencer—into my foot well, the woman slid into the front seat, clutching the bag to her chest. I caught a strong whiff of cheap perfume.

“I’m a reporter, too. Editor of
Romany Ramblings
,” she said. “I go by my maiden name of Dora Pike, but just call me Dora.”

“Vicky Hill.” What a stroke of luck! A fellow reporter! I was thrilled. It had never occurred to me that the gypsies might have their own newspaper! Better still, if the dead woman
was
a gypsy, Dora Pike was bound to know who she was and demand justice.

“My newspaper is available online, in case you were wondering.”

I was. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s no mystery,” said Dora. “We use modern technology just like the rest of you. We have mobile phones and satellite TV.”

So much for a romantic life on the open road, free from twenty-first-century technology.

Dora rummaged around in her bag and pulled out a business card—MADAME DORA, EDITOR AND PSYCHIC JOURNALIST.
ROMANY RAMBLINGS
. “Do you have one?”

I handed her the same cheap card Stalk had sneered at and braced myself for a derogatory remark.

Dora studied it with a frown, then smiled. “Don’t worry, your time will come, luv,” she said. “I see big things for you.”

I could already tell that Dora and I would become the best of friends.

“Mind if I put this bag behind my seat?” she said.

Wedging the bag behind her, I noted that Dora looked at Barbara’s parcel. Her eyes widened in surprise. My stomach flipped over. Did the gypsy woman’s psychic powers sense there was something sinister about the contents? Or had she guessed that I’d opened something that wasn’t addressed to me?

“I’m delivering it to a friend,” I said by way of explanation, wondering why I felt the need to do so.

Dora suddenly grasped my hand and turned it over. Her fingers traced my palm. Dad thought fortune-telling was a load of rubbish, but naturally Mum believed in the Sight. She said I’d inherited a sixth sense from her side of the family, and sometimes I was inclined to believe this was true. It had certainly helped me clinch three front-page exclusives. Even so, as the saying goes,
the jury was still out
.

Finally, Dora looked up from her studies. “I thought so,” she said with deep significance. “A word of advice, luv. Be careful whom you pick for friends. Sometimes people are not as innocent as they seem.”

I didn’t need a gypsy to tell me the obvious. I could think of at least ten people I could say that about.

“You are also not what you seem,” said Dora darkly.

I felt my face turn red and tried to snatch my hand away, but she held on tightly.

“Your eyes are the windows to your soul,” Dora said nodding. “You have enemies. I see a woman. Is that true?”

“Possibly.” I recalled reading how fortune-tellers had a way of drawing information out of you. “Actually, I’m more interested in my career.”

Dora dropped my hand, swiveled around, and pulled out a copy of the
Gipping Gazette
from her canvas shopping bag. It was folded open to the obituary pages on eleven and twelve, where my photograph—inappropriately smiling, I’d always thought—bore the caption: ON THE CEMETERY CIRCUIT WITH VICKY!

“Here you are now, but don’t worry,” said Dora. “You won’t stay stuck in this dump forever. I’ll be in the market tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come, and I’ll give you a proper reading.”

“No thanks. I can’t really afford it at the moment,” I said. “I already bought some lucky heather for five pounds. It was supposed to be three, but the girl didn’t have change.”

“You can’t go wrong buying heather from my daughter, Ruby,” Dora declared. Maybe not, I thought, but I was still overcharged.

I put the Fiat into gear and we began to bump up the drive.

“I wondered if you could tell me a little about Belcher Pike?” I ventured. “I understand he’s enjoying his final days here at The Grange?”

“He’s my dad,” said Dora. “Turned eighty-nine last month, but he won’t last out the summer. He’s bedridden now.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “As you know, I write the obituary column for the
Gazette,
and I just wondered if I might be able to have a chat with him—”

“Chat?
A chat!
” Dora seemed appalled. I kept my eyes on the road ahead but could feel her fury. “Do you want to send my father’s soul straight to hell?”

“No, of course—”

“A terrible misfortune will fall upon gorgers who cross the threshold of a dying Romany!”
Idiot, Vicky!
Edward had mentioned something about gorgers not being allowed near dying gypsies.

“A vigil is kept around the clock,” Dora raged on. “They must
never
be left alone. They must be
segregated
until death comes and finally releases them from the sufferings of this life. These are our customs, and they can never be broken.”

“Sorry,” I said, desperately trying to think of something to redeem myself. “I suppose I’m nervous about his funeral—when he has one, if he has one,” I blundered on. “It’s just that I’ve heard that there will be hundreds of mourners, and I’m worried about leaving someone’s name out.”

“Is that all?” said Dora. She patted my leg. “Don’t worry. I know the name of every family in England, luv. I’ll help you when the time comes.”

“Thank you!” My relief turned to excitement. If the dead woman as a gypsy, Dora would almost certainly know who she was—or, at least, know someone who might.

“When do you expect everyone to arrive?”

“In a week or so,” Dora said. “We’re the advance party, so to speak. Tell you what—why don’t you come and have a cup of tea in my wagon? We’ll talk about how we can help each other.”

“I’d love to.”

Ha! Edward wasn’t right about everything.

As the main house came into sight, the drive split in front of a large oak tree.

“Take the right fork,” said Dora. “I’m up behind the stables.”

My spirits lifted. I couldn’t wait to see the inside of a traditional horse-drawn wagon and was positive that my new friend Dora’s would be stuffed with horse brasses and Royal Crown Derby china galore.

“Just stop by the public footpath sign,” she said.

Cutting the engine, we both got out. I changed into my trusty Wellingtons and squelched my way after Dora along the muddy footpath that led around the back of the stable block and up a slope.

Moments later I stopped dead. There in front of me was a luxuriously sleek, silver Winnebago Sightseer. So much for a horse-drawn wagon.

I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same Winnebago that Florence Tossell’s sister had seen in Brighton last month. Surely there couldn’t be two?

“I had to drive in through the Ponsford Ridge gate,” said Dora, gesturing up the hill to a distant hedge, where a five-bar gate was just visible. “She can’t handle these small country lanes.”

“She’s a beauty,” was all I could manage to say. Everyone knows that Winnebagos cost thousands and thousands of pounds, and this one looked practically new. There was obviously a great deal of money in telling fortunes! I was beginning to wonder if I was in the wrong business.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dora said cheerfully, removing her muddy shoes and gesturing me to do likewise—fortunately, my socks were new. “Times have changed. It’s called
progress
.” She unlocked the door, and I followed her up three short steps into the RV. Donning a pair of sheepskin slippers, she added, “There’s nothing romantic about sleeping in a freezing-cold wagon. Even my Ruby prefers a VW camper.”

“And the man with the ponytail?” I felt my face redden and hoped Dora hadn’t noticed.

“Noah?” Dora gave an indulgent chuckle. “That’s my nephew. Writes poetry. Plays the guitar. Now, he
is
a romantic.”

“So they’re cousins?” I asked, realizing that I was glad that Ruby and my pirate look-alike were not an item.

“Oh, we’re all related,” said Dora. “And that’s the way we like to keep it. Blood is thicker than water. That’s just our way.”

It was also the Hill way. Dad’s business activities were always kept within the family. He’d often say,
“If you can’t trust family, then who can you trust?”

As Dora boiled the kettle—she proudly pointed out a silent generator—I gave the Winnebago a once-over.

It was equipped with all the modern conveniences and reminded me of the celebrity trailers depicted on TV. Plush, wall-to-wall carpeting; sleek wooden fittings and fixtures; a state-of-the-art kitchen. There was even a flat-screen television, an expensive-looking camera, and a computer workstation complete with scanner. A glass display cabinet was stuffed with Royal Crown Derby china.

Although Dad only dealt in silver, he knew the value of everything on the black market. Royal Crown Derby was deceptively expensive. Some limited pieces ran into thousands of pounds.

Dora set down a tray containing an unopened packet of chocolate digestives, two china mugs, and a Brown Betty teapot.

Whilst the tea steeped in the pot, Dora handed me a copy of
Romany Ramblings
.

I had to admit it looked surprisingly professional. All eight pages were nicely laid out with full-color photographs. “I run off copies for those who don’t have or can’t afford the Internet. A couple of my boys take them around to other sites.”

I leafed through the newspaper, intrigued by the range of features, from gypsy campaigns to evade eviction to human-interest stories. One gypsy was even awarded an MBE from the Queen. There was a whole section dedicated to “Young Ramblers,” a column called “Peep at the Past” chronicling a different gypsy way of life one hundred years ago, job opportunities, caravans for sale, and a helpline for victims of domestic violence.

To say I was impressed was putting it mildly.

Dora poured me a cuppa and gestured to the milk and sugar. “I’m working on getting up a website with an audio stream. Get some of the old-timers to record their memories before our way of life is lost forever.”

Even the
Gazette
didn’t have a website.

“But I want to reach a wider audience. Not just limit this to gypsies,” Dora went on. “You gorgers are willing to believe the worst of us. We’re not thieves. We don’t destroy the countryside. It’s our creed to live peacefully with nature. Live and let live is all we ask for.”

We sipped our tea in companionable silence. It was now or never. “A woman drowned in Mudge Lane last night,” I said. “It’s been rumored that she might have been a gypsy. I wondered if you’d heard anything?”

“Sorry,” said Dora. “Not one of us, luv. I told you, I know everyone.”