A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (27 page)

‘You can’t tell
him
!’ I was alarmed. ‘What if he ends the affair?’

Annabel looked worried. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Look,’ I said in a soothing tone, ‘why don’t you jump into bed and have a good night’s sleep? You’ll have a clear head in the morning. It’s already –
bugger
–
midnight
!’

It was, indeed, midnight. I felt the colour drain out of my face. I was already on borrowed time as far as my landlady was concerned. Even though I could sneak in the downstairs loo window, she’d probably be waiting up. I suddenly felt incredibly tired. The thought of slinking back to Rumble Lane to face Mrs Poultry’s wrath was more than I could bear.

‘Would you like me to stay the night?’ I ventured. ‘Unless, of course, you are expecting anyone?’

‘I only see Walter twice a week.’ Annabel hesitated. ‘I must admit feeling weird with that thing on my bed. Would you . . . would you mind getting rid of it?’

I perked up. What a stroke of luck. God was smiling on me, after all. I needed a poppet as evidence! ‘Of course. Can you get me a plastic bag?’

Annabel needed no further encouragement. She darted out of the bedroom to return moments later with a Tesco plastic shopping bag. Carefully, I slipped the fragile doll inside.

‘You
are
going to throw it right away, aren’t you?’ Annabel said. ‘It gives me the creeps.’

‘I’ll chuck it into the canal in the morning.’ Naturally, I had no intention of doing such a thing.

‘Oh, Vicky,’ Annabel said. ‘Do you think they might come back?’

‘I doubt it. But promise me you’ll always bolt the door.’

I returned to the bedroom. ‘Do you have a blanket and pillow? I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

Annabel turned red. ‘Look, I still feel a little nervous. You can share my bed . . . but don’t get any
funny ideas
.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said hotly.

‘It’s something that Barbara said, that’s all. Don’t get defensive. Live and let live is what I say. Come on, you can help me build a barrier.’

Annabel started banking up pillows and cushions down the centre of the four-poster bed as if she were building the Great Wall of China.

‘You take the left side.’ Annabel stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘I’m going to change in private.’

I removed my safari jacket, kicked off the Wellington boots, and climbed into bed. There wasn’t a great deal of room. It was no surprise that Annabel had deliberately divided the bed in her favour.

Minutes later, she sauntered in, wearing a flimsy, pink, transparent baby doll negligee. I felt a pang of envy. Annabel’s breasts were enormous. No wonder she couldn’t help thrusting them in men’s faces. They practically had a life of their own.

Annabel folded her arms across her chest. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, turning away from her and pulling the fluffy pink comforter up to my chin. ‘Gosh, I’m tired.’

Annabel fidgeted for ages. Although I was exhausted, I couldn’t sleep, either, and wished she would say something. As we lay in the dark, I couldn’t help remembering Brownie camp. Long summer nights sleeping out under the stars, sharing secrets, having midnight feasts, and eating chocolate until we were sick. How simple life had been back then.

Once again, I wished Annabel and I were real friends. Tonight, I had seen a different side of my rival. She had seemed vulnerable, even appealing to me for help. Perhaps I had misjudged her. After all, it can’t be nice to have a hate doll and geriatric lover, even if she did score an expensive house and car. Before I had a chance to offer some words of friendly comfort, gentle snores and even breathing signalled that Annabel had finally fallen asleep.

I lay awake thinking about the poppet for hours. Of course, it was a warning but from whom? Chester, Probes, or Lady Trewallyn? The significance of the two coroner’s reports was growing larger by the minute. If it hadn’t been for my quick thinking, Annabel might have worked out how she was connected. It was sheer genius to blame the poppet planting on Walter’s wife. Much as I disapproved of Dad’s infidelities, they gave me an invaluable insight on the way hoodwinked wives took their revenge.

I was not looking forward to tomorrow. I expected to be evicted. Perhaps Annabel would let me stay here? I could make myself scarce when she was entertaining. I’d even get a lift to work every morning. Best of all, I could keep an eye on her.

Satisfied with my plan, I finally drifted to sleep, imagining how wonderful it would be to live at Beaver Lock Lodge.

I
t was the distant drone of a Hoover that eventually woke me up from a deep slumber. For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. Mrs Poultry never vacuumed this early. Then, I remembered this wasn’t Rumble Lane.

Opening my eyes, I came face-to-face with a wall of pillows. I was in Annabel’s luxurious four-poster bed at Beaver Lock Lodge.

As I lay there languishing in her pink satin sheets, I thought how considerate of my new best friend to let me sleep in. No doubt she was clearing up the mess left by the intruder in the living room. With any luck, she would have put the kettle on so we could enjoy a leisurely breakfast before leaving for work together.

My morning stretch ended abruptly as the bedroom door flew open and an elderly woman with light brown frizzy hair and dressed in a pink floral housecoat roared in with the Hoover.

Startled, I leapt out of bed. Annabel’s business on the side must be doing very well to afford a daily help.

‘Oh!’ the daily exclaimed as she turned off the machine. ‘I didn’t know Annabel had company.’

I recognized the woman instantly – she was one of my mourner regulars.

‘Mrs Millicent P. Evans, wife of Mr Leonard R. Evans? We’ve met before,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘Vicky Hill,
Gipping Gazette
.’

Mrs Evans stared at my chest and began to back away. I realized the top three buttons of my pyjama top had come unfastened. Her eyes darted towards the unmade bed.

‘This isn’t what you think it is,’ I said, deftly doing the buttons back up. Annabel might not care about her reputation, but I certainly did. I pointed to the wall of pillows that divided the bed and laughed. ‘Annabel and I work together. We’re just friends.’

‘Well, you never know these days.’ Mrs Evans looked relieved. ‘Annabel needs a good
friend
. That’s what I keep telling her. Annabel, I say, you need—’

‘I expect my friend is in the kitchen making some tea,’ I said hopefully.

‘Oh no.’ Mrs Evans shook her head. ‘She’s already gone.’

Gone?
A horrible feeling started to form in my stomach. I began to cast around for my wristwatch. I could have sworn I left it on the bedside table. ‘You wouldn’t have the time, would you?’

‘I start at nine—’

‘
Nine
!’ I shrieked. ‘Excuse me.’ I charged past her and into the living room – now spotlessly tidy – having distinctly remembered seeing an ornate grandfather clock standing in the corner.

To my horror, it was nearly ten thirty!
Blast!
How could I have slept so late? Surely, there must be a misunderstanding. Annabel knew I had no clothes or means of transportation. Perhaps she’d forgotten I was staying? I was a quiet sleeper and the feather barrier between us was so high, she can’t have noticed I was there. I was determined not to take it personally. Once she realized her mistake, I was certain she’d be full of heartfelt apologies.

That aside, I had to get to work quickly. Although I didn’t relish going home to Rumble Lane to face the music, I needed a change of clothes. There was no question of me squeezing into Annabel’s stuff. She was half my size.

I headed for the front door where Mrs Poultry’s Wellington boots were standing on a fresh sheet of newspaper along with the Tesco shopping bag. I retrieved my safari jacket that was draped around the back of the chair and was about to put it on when Mrs Evans emerged from the bedroom brandishing her duster and carrying a can of Pledge furniture polish.

‘They’ve forecast rain,’ she cried. ‘Oh! You’ll catch your death dressed like that.’ She whipped off her housecoat to reveal a faded Gipping Growlers football shirt and grey leggings clinging to robust thighs. ‘Why don’t we pop this over the top of your pyjamas? We need to keep that bottom of yours warm.’

Another comment about my bottom, I thought. ‘My jacket’s just fine,’ I said, pulling it on and thrusting my bare feet into the Wellington boots. Catching a glimpse of my reflection in Annabel’s full-length mirror next to the front door, I shuddered. Could that really be me? I looked a fright with my unbrushed hair sticking up in spikes and crumpled pyjamas.

Mrs Evans grasped the front of my safari jacket and began doing the buttons up, yanking the fabric tightly as if I were a small child. ‘There we are. Let’s keep out the draught. Have you got gloves, dear?’

‘I’m not cold. Thanks. Must go.’

Picking up the plastic carrier bag, I stopped dead. A note was stuck to it with tape –
For Vicky
.

I stared at it for several moments. Why would Annabel put my name on it if she expected to see me in the morning? The cold truth hit me hard. Annabel had deliberately let me sleep in. She must have hidden my wristwatch, too. What a rotten trick to play. Well, two can play at that game.

I opened the plastic bag and peered at the poppet inside. ‘Oh no!’

‘What’s the matter, dear?’

‘I expect Annabel just forgot.’ I adopted a worried frown and pointed at the note
For Vicky
. ‘She was supposed to have left some papers in this bag.’

Mrs Evans’s face was etched with concern. ‘Were they important?’

‘Yes. Very. It’s that story she’s working on with Mayor Rawlings.’

Mrs Evans made a strange clicking sound of disapproval that I realized came from her ill-fitting dentures. ‘No good will come of that, you mark my words.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’ I wasn’t sure if Mrs Evans was talking about Annabel’s affair or the story but to my delight, sensed the daily was eager to chat. What would it matter being another five minutes late in the great scheme of life?

‘I said to her, Annabel, I said,’ Mrs Evans went on, ‘be careful of men who promise to make you a star.’

‘He said that?’ I felt a twinge of envy. Mayor Rawlings was a powerful man in Devon with a lot of influence. He’d even been on
Westward Television Celebrity Squares
.

‘Oh yes. It all starts with the promises.’ Mrs Evans sat down on the hall chair, clearly ready for a long gossip about her employer. ‘That’s what happened to my daughter, Sadie.’

‘Sadie Evans is
your
daughter?’ Everyone at the
Gazette
had heard of Sadie Evans’s performance at The Banana Club on Plymouth Hoe. According to Pete, Sadie’s pole-dancing skills made grown men cry.

‘It’s the lure of the older man, you see. They’ve got money and a nice car, thank you very much, but they never leave their wives.’

‘Men never marry their mistresses,’ I said firmly.

‘Oh, I
know
. I kept telling—’

‘I’m worried that this story they’re working on together could be dangerous,’ I said. ‘I wonder what it could be . . .’

Mrs Evans’s brow furrowed in concentration. Her teeth clicked three times. ‘It might be something to do with that Folly up at The Grange.’

‘Hugh’s Folly in Trewallyn Woods?’
Blast!
So Annabel really
was
working on a story with Rawlings.

Mrs Evans nodded. ‘I overheard her on the phone. Something about comings and goings in the middle of the night.’

My God!
Was it possible Annabel was pursuing the very same story as myself? ‘Naturally, Lady Trewallyn is involved.’

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Evans declared. ‘I believe it was her idea. I clean at The Grange. Fridays. The mayor was up there one morning when I was cleaning the windows.’

‘The mayor
met
with Lady Trewallyn?’ This was a severe blow to my plan.

‘Very chummy, they were. Yes, I remember now. I thought to myself, I thought. That man’s going to break Annabel’s heart but who can blame him. Lady Katherine is such a lovely woman.’

‘Men certainly do seem to fall in love with her.’ My glee at knowing Annabel’s heart could be broken by a very real rival was suppressed by the very real knowledge that Lady Trewallyn must be recruiting all the available men in Gipping to frolic in her coven.

‘Her ladyship knew all about Sadie’s profession,’ Mrs Evans said. ‘We had a lovely chat. They call them exotic dancers now, you know.’

‘It must have been a terrible shock to her when Sir Hugh died,’ I declared.

‘Oh yes. Devastated, she was. They were devoted, you know.’

‘Apparently, Dave Randall found the body in a hedge,’ I said innocently.

‘What rubbish.’ Mrs Evans snorted. ‘Her ladyship told me
she
found Sir Hugh in the library.’

She would say that
.

‘Randall was always hanging around all loved up, but then again, she had that effect on men.’ Mrs Evans got to her feet. ‘Well, I must get on.’