Thieves! (9 page)

“It happened only last night,” I pointed out.

“Vurma,” said Dora. “Or you could call it a gypsy phone tree. There are fixed contact points throughout the country. Someone always knows someone. Believe me, if she was a gypsy, we’d know.”

“Are you quite sure?” I asked. “The police don’t seem to care.”

“Is that why you think she’s one of us?” demanded Dora. “Because the police don’t care?”

“I didn’t mean it quite like that,” I faltered.

“We’ve had centuries of discrimination,” Dora proclaimed. “But not anymore. Times are changing. More tea?” I nodded. “And I suggest you don’t go asking questions. We don’t like talking to reporters,” Dora went on. “If you want to know something, ask me.”

“How long will you be staying at The Grange?” I asked, feeling quite flattered that I was obviously the exception to the rule.

A shadow crossed Dora’s face. “Who can say when God decides to take my father’s soul?”

“Is it”—I hesitated—“legal to stay here?”

“When I was a teenager, we’d camp at The Grange all summer,” said Dora. “My folks picked apples and helped make scrumpy. Sir Hugh said we could come whenever we liked.”

“Sir Hugh died a while ago,” I said. “I’m not sure how Lady Turberville-Spat—she inherited The Grange—would feel if it were too long.”

“The niece?” Dora gave a harsh laugh. “She’ll be in for a nasty surprise one day.”

My heart gave a jolt. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Dora said cryptically. “We have a saying, ‘In the hour of your greatest success are sown the seeds of your destruction.’ But let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Business?
Dora got to her feet, limped over to the computer workstation, and hobbled back with a thick brown envelope.

“It’s all in there. As a board member of the National Gypsy Council, I’ve written a detailed report about the disgraceful lack of legal stopping places for gypsies and the lack of sanitation and health care. We need the public to be aware that our kids are discriminated against in schools. I want this report on the front page of your newspaper, and believe me, Dora
always
gets her way.”

I was flabbergasted. “The front page is not up to me.”

“And don’t think I don’t know the little tricks you gorgers try to pull, like framing us for fly-tipping and spreading rubbish about,” Dora declared. “We follow the recycling rules, same as everybody else.”

“Actually, I believe Gipping County Council are dropping off recycling bins as we speak.”

“There is no way you can evict us, luv,” said Dora. “We’ve got the law on our side these days. The Race Relations Act of 1976 recognizes Romanies and ethnic minorities deserving of sensitive treatment, and with my dad so close to death’s door, you can’t get more sensitive than that!”

“Right. Of course,” I said.

The door opened, and Ruby poked her head in. “Whose Wellingtons are those outside? Oh.” She scowled on seeing me. “I thought we were going to pick mushrooms.”

“Ruby, this is Vicky, who works for the newspaper,” said Dora. I resisted the temptation to ask for my two pounds change. “She’s going to publish my article on the front page this week.”

Blast!
“As I was saying, it’s not really my—”

“And you believe her?” Ruby snorted. “What did you go and talk to a bloody gorger for? And a reporter, too?”

Dora opened her mouth to answer and shut it again. The two women glowered at each other. Clearly this kind of discussion would not continue in front of the likes of me.

“Actually, I just write the obituaries,” I said. “We were talking about your grandfather, Belcher Pike.”

“He’s not dead yet,” snapped Ruby.

With Wellingtons on once more, I bid my good-byes and left the luxury of the Winnebago. I reflected that things had gone rather well.

My fear that the names of hundreds of mourners would elude me were groundless. As for the gypsy woman’s inflammatory report—let Pete deal with her. The front page was out of my hands.

Yet there was one thing that bothered me. Dora didn’t seem remotely curious about the dead woman in Mudge Lane. Call it my own Romany instincts but Dora Pike was hiding something, and I was determined to find out what it was.

As I took the footpath back to my car, I had to stop to admire the view. It was magnificent. Born in the industrial city of Newcastle, it had taken me a while to appreciate the beauty and adjust to the silence of the countryside. Surprisingly, I’d grown to love it.

Gray clouds gave way to a watery sun. Below, stretching to the horizon was a patchwork of rolling green meadows divided by hedgerows, peppered with grazing sheep. Down to my right, screened by towering oak and beech trees, stood The Grange.

I could just make out the redbrick chimneys and dormer windows set into the slate roof—servants’ quarters from another century ago.

To my left, stood a forest of pine trees known as Trewallyn Woods. The tradesmen’s entrance wound it’s way past Sir Hugh’s Folly, a cylindrical tower built in Victorian times—for no reason whatsoever—to the rear of the main house.

I had to look hard to locate the two wagons and VW camper. Even the Winnebago was shielded from the road by a belt of trees and thick hedge.

From my vantage point, I tried to find Belcher Pike’s “segregated” wagon but to no avail. It was as if the gypsies weren’t here at all, although I rather doubted this would be of any consolation to Topaz.

The Morris Dance-a-thon was to be held in an enormous field on the south side of the house. The original building had been Tudor. Then, as the years passed and fashions came and went, bits were added on here and there—Queen Anne sash windows with multipaned glass, gothic gables with hideous gargoyles peering down from bargeboards—and now, the front door was reached by taking a wide flight of stone steps leading up to a Palladian portico supported by grand Corinthian pillars.

A natural sloping bank descended from the upper garden—now a wilderness—providing the perfect spot for spectators to sit, picnic, and watch the proceedings below.

There were many preparations to make. An arena with a hard floor had to be laid out, tents erected, Port-a-loos brought in, and parking for hundreds of cars marked off.

There was plenty of space for everyone, and frankly, as long as Belcher Pike didn’t die before Saturday, there was no reason why the Morris Dance-a-thon couldn’t go ahead as planned.

Continuing down the footpath, I came to a T-Junction. One way took me past the Victorian walled kitchen garden, which I knew led directly to the rear of the house; the other, up to Ponsford Ridge. In front of me was the entrance to a bridleway flanked by an archway of trees that looked as if they’d definitely been disturbed. Branches were broken, and the ground was full of muddy footprints and tire tracks.

Curious, I set off, promising myself that I’d walk for only ten minutes—I couldn’t afford to get lost—but just when I was about to retrace my steps, I heard the faint chords of a guitar.

Drawing closer, I came upon a grassy clearing. Less than twenty feet away stood an elaborately carved bowtop wagon in a dull khaki green. There was no decorative scrollwork picked out in gold leaf, colorful shutters, or painted wheels.

Fierce-looking barbed wire encompassed the small camp. There was even a sign reading GORGERS KEEP OUT. Dora certainly wasn’t taking any chances with Belcher Pike’s soul.

Noah was sitting on a tree stump quietly playing his guitar. A shaft of sunlight broke through the trees and shone down on him like a spotlight from heaven. My stomach turned over. I was utterly spellbound.

The song finished. Noah looked up sharply and saw me standing on the edge of the woods. I gave a shy wave, but he didn’t wave back.

Hurrying over, he gestured to the sign, whispering urgently, “You can’t come here. You must leave.”

“Sorry. I heard you playing—”

“You don’t understand.” Noah’s eyes bored into mine as he grabbed my hand and led me away from the clearing. “No one must see you here.”

“It’s okay.” Frankly, I thought he was overreacting. “Your aunt told me all about the gypsy customs. I just had tea with her.”

“Tea?” Noah frowned. “Why?”

“I work for the
Gipping Gazette
.” Really, he had to be the sexiest man alive. “I’ll be writing Belcher Pike’s obituary and usually visit the family at home.”

“Well you can’t,” he said flatly, then tensed. “Someone is coming! Go and hide behind the wagon. Quickly.”

His anxiety was contagious. I ran and squatted behind the rear of the wagon next to a small tarpaulin-covered box. A quick peek underneath revealed a shiny red, portable Honda generator, model number EU30i. I bet Belcher Pike had a television in his wagon, too. I also noted a tow-hitch receiver and a mass of crisscrossing tire tracks that continued into another belt of trees and most likely up to Ponsford Ridge.

Voices came closer. Dora and Ruby were walking toward the wagon. Ruby was carrying a bulging gunnysack.

My heart gave a lurch! Why hadn’t I guessed the obvious? The gypsies had been poaching. Nighttime rabbit shooting, which I thoroughly abhorred, was a common sight in the countryside. Land Rovers were the vehicle of choice, particularly one with the advantage of a safari roof rack and overhead lighting! I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the same vehicle that had been used to tow this wagon to this very spot. Next time I saw Dora, I’d confront her.

The two women entered the wagon, but before I had a chance to eavesdrop, Noah appeared by my side. “Quickly,” he whispered, pointing to a barely visible animal track behind me through the undergrowth. “Follow that path. It will take you back to The Grange.”

He took my hand. Our eyes met again, and he smiled. “You’ve got the most beautiful sapphire-blue eyes.”

“Thanks,” I said coyly. “Believe it or not, they’re my own.”

“Now—go!”

I darted into the undergrowth. It was thick with brambles and quite exhausting to fight my way through. Noah was right. About ten minutes later I found myself standing in the weed-riddled cobbled courtyard.

The Grange was even more rundown than I remembered. A row of ramshackle outbuildings revealed an old tractor with no wheels and an assortment of rusted farmyard machinery. There was no sign of the new wheelies or Ronnie Binns.

Annabel’s extremely muddy silver BMW was parked next to Topaz’s equally dirty red Ford Capri. Since Annabel had been assigned to interview her ladyship, there was no reason why I should be there, too. Yet, in a funny way, I felt a bit jealous.

Topaz may be as mad as a hatter but she was still
my
friend. Besides, I was curious to meet Topaz as her real self—if there was such a thing. Would Annabel see through her disguise?

As always, the back door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

There was only one way to find out.

T
he scullery was just as I remembered it—dark and soulless. A long slate-lined sink ran the length of a window that was covered in dirt and cobwebs. Bare stone counters lined the other three walls.

The kitchen was equally depressing. As far as I knew, the place hadn’t been lived in for months, following a disastrous attempt at renting out The Grange to strangers.

I shivered. Despite it being August, the place was freezing. The room had a high-gabled roof, a flagstone floor, and a large inglenook fireplace. Tacked to the wooden mantel clung an old sheet—apparently an ineffectual attempt at stopping the draft howling down the chimney.

The kitchen was divided into two by a wooden counter. On one side were countertops, a kitchen sink, an unlit Aga, an old fridge, and a microwave.

Propped under the tall sash window on the far side of the immense room stood two camp beds. Tattered sleeping bags had been rolled up and deposited in a corner—no doubt providing a very nice home for rats. An ancient Chesterfield sofa was piled with open boxes, presumably containing the former tenants’ meager possessions.