A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (34 page)

‘My landlady would never agree,’ I said quickly. ‘Can’t Walter look after you or pay for a nurse?’

Annabel made a strange gulping sound. ‘We’ve broken up.’

‘Broken up? Poor you!’

‘Yes, poor me. I can keep the car but . . .’ Her bottom lip quivered, and I swear I saw a tear in her eye. ‘I have to move out of the lodge by Christmas.’

‘To be honest, I’m not surprised,’ I said.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘There were rumours about Rawlings and Lady Trewallyn,’ I said, recalling Mrs Evans’s comment. ‘I’m afraid you were replaced.’

Annabel turned pale. ‘He told me they were just good friends.’

‘And you fell for that old line?’

‘That woman has slept with half of Gipping!’ Annabel cried.

‘It’s not too late,’ I said. ‘She’s in Spain now. You can easily win Walter back.’

Annabel shook her head miserably. ‘Not now that I’ve told his wife.’

‘You silly thing!’ I cried. ‘Married men don’t like to be nagged. That’s what their wives are for. That’s why sex sirens like Lady Trewallyn make perfect mistresses.’ I pointed to her photograph. ‘No offence, Annabel, but look at her. She’s hot.’

Annabel sniffed and pulled a tissue from her robe pocket. ‘Walter’s wife was vile and called me all sorts of names. Of course she
denied
breaking into the lodge.’

‘That’s because she didn’t,’ I said, adding casually, ‘I popped into the Pavilion the other night for a chat with the Eco-Warriors. Barry told me one of them had put a doll on your bed as a practical joke. Got the idea from
Voodoo Vixens
.’

‘You spoke to Barry?’ Annabel said with disbelief. ‘I’ve been trying to get to him for weeks.’

‘I shouldn’t bother now,’ I said. ‘With Lady Trewallyn exposed as a fraud, the Folly isn’t hers to sell anymore. That story’s dead.’

With a pathetic whimper, Annabel reached for the chocolates. Ripping off the wrappers, she picked out two chocolate caramels and stuffed both into her mouth.

For a moment I felt a tiny bit sorry for her until I remembered how she hid my wristwatch in her glove compartment. ‘I’ll ask my landlady about the spare room if you like, but don’t hold your breath. Best be off. I’ve got a scoop to write.’

As I stood up, a distinguished-looking man in hospital whites, swinging his stethoscope, sauntered towards us. He was the spitting image of Bill Clinton.

‘Oh goodness.’ Annabel turned scarlet and quickly spat out the remains of her chocolate caramels into a tissue. ‘It’s Doctor Frost!’

She handed me the soggy clump. ‘Quickly! Take it. Take it. And don’t bother about asking your landlady, Vicky. I’m perfectly happy here.’ Tucking her hands beneath her silk robe, Annabel rearranged her breasts and turned to give the doctor a dazzling smile.

As I strolled back to Rumble Lane, I tried to keep calm. It was unfortunate about Chester going to the
Bugle
but there wasn’t time to cry over spilt milk.

My story was due in twenty-four hours and as yet, I only had theories, not proof. Thank God Annabel hadn’t guessed the Eco-Warriors were just a smokescreen for the coven, whatever Freddy might say.

If Barbara wasn’t involved in the coven and Lady Trewallyn had bolted, then there was only one person I could think of who could be High Priestess.

Mrs Poultry.

T
hat evening, after eating a Tesco cheese and pickle sandwich sneaked into my room, I took out the coroner’s reports once again.

It was clear to me now. Sir Hugh had been murdered in the woods; Dave Randall had found him but Lady Trewallyn had paid for his silence with torrid sex, unaware that Brian had already slipped the coroner’s report with the true verdict to the
Gazette
. So as not to arouse suspicion as to her dubious past, Lady Trewallyn then seduced Sharpe who forged a
new
report stating Sir Hugh died from a heart attack – which of course, the
digitalis purpurea
had caused him to have anyway. They had a fling and promptly ran off together.

Brian’s shenanigans would have completely supported my story had his brakes not been deliberately cut. True, I had seen Lady Trewallyn and Sharpe leave the morgue only minutes before Brian bolted – but I had also noticed Mrs Poultry in the area, too.

Enter Chester – spurned ex-lover-cum-pimp from Las Vegas – to put a spanner in the works. I’d always wondered why Chester hadn’t told the
Bugle
about Lady Trewallyn dabbling in the occult but now I knew. Quite simply, she hadn’t.

Was there a connection to Sir Hugh’s death and Topaz’s claims that her aunt was murdered because of ‘something she’d seen’ in the woods? The Folly was definitely a love nest, and I was quite sure Mrs Poultry had been one of Sir Hugh’s lovers. Didn’t Barbara mention that Henrietta had been shocked at Sir Hugh’s new nuptials? I hadn’t connected it at the time, but I was positive Mrs Poultry’s first name was Henrietta. When Topaz’s aunt died, perhaps Mrs Poultry believed he would marry her? It would explain her bizarre behaviour at Sir Hugh’s funeral when she hid under that hawthorn bush.

I thought back to the early hours of the morning where Mrs Poultry had uncharacteristically brought a man home. And then, today, there was a padlock on the basement door. Maybe, just maybe, whatever had been stored on the ground floor of the Folly just might have been shifted into her basement.

I looked at my watch. It was not quite six in the evening. I knew it was risky. I’d wait until Mrs Poultry was tucked up in bed and go and take a look.

F
ortunately, Mrs Poultry went to bed early. I picked the padlock and put it in my pocket, not wanting to risk being locked in.

Closing the door quietly behind me, I felt my way down the stairs in the darkness. It was hot and stuffy with an overwhelming smell of dampness.

At the bottom, I switched on my flashlight and swept the room. The walls were covered in black mildew. On my left stood a large freezer. I opened it immediately and peered inside. There were the usual catering supplies – cartons of frozen vol-au-vents, salmon pinwheels, and sausage rolls. I delved deeper, and there, to my delight, discovered a plastic bagful of chicken claws. Ha!
Excellent!
I closed the lid and turned my attention to the rest of the room. What I really needed was occult equipment – a cauldron, instruments of torture, something
witchy
.

Behind me stretched an old pink sheet covering what looked like a mini Loch Ness monster – all lumps and bumps. I lifted up a corner and jumped back in astonishment.

There, caught in the beam of my flashlight, sparkled that Georgian tea urn with a nicely turned spigot. I whipped off the sheet to find boxes and boxes piled high with silver treasures – tankards, platters, candelabras, and various knickknacks.

Good grief!
Not only was Mrs Poultry a witch, she was the notorious Gipping Cat Burglar, too! It made total sense. Who else had access to people’s homes without question? Whilst the family was paying their respects in church, Cradle to Coffin Catering was doing more than laying out the finger buffet.

Yet, this was no ordinary burglar. Mrs Poultry probably had psychic powers. She might even sense that I was down here right this minute.

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash. The entire basement lit up as if by a nuclear explosion. I screamed and dropped my flashlight.

‘Victoria!’ Mrs Poultry, dressed in her tartan nightgown, limped down the stairs clutching an iron poker. ‘What are you doing down here? How did you get in?’

Keep calm, Vicky!
‘Oh, hello, Mrs P,’ I said in a friendly voice, as if being caught with my fingers in the pie was the most natural thing in the world.

Mrs Poultry stood at the bottom of the stairs blocking my exit. She had a peculiar glint in her eye. For a horrible moment, I thought she might strike me.

‘Well?’ she demanded, taking out her lace handkerchief and dabbing at her nose. I noted it was red raw.

‘I’m researching an article about cellars, particularly
Stachybotrys
,’ I said wildly. ‘I noticed the door was ajar and just couldn’t stop myself.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’ve got mould down here.’ I retrieved my flashlight and switched it back on, playing the beam over the black walls. ‘That’s why you have that runny nose and nasty cough. It’s not an allergy. It’s mould.’

‘Mould.’

Warming to my theme, I chattered on, thanking Dad for one of his favourite stories on how to gain access to scope out an underground vault by pretending to be a building inspector. ‘
Stachybotrys
is particularly lethal. You need to do a home test. Would you like me to get one?’

An odd smile – more a grimace, really, appeared on Mrs Poultry’s face. ‘How thoughtful of you to think of my welfare, Victoria. What’s your article called?’

‘
TOXIC MOULD: KILLER SPORES
,’ I said quickly. ‘Didn’t you hear about Alice Potts? She had mould in her basement and sued the council for thousands.’

Mrs Poultry nodded, and her mouth smiled again yet her eyes remained cold. ‘How fascinating, Victoria. Why don’t you tell me more about it over some hot chocolate? And perhaps, I can take a look at that nasty bruise?’

Relieved she’d fallen for my story, I followed her back to the kitchen. Mrs Poultry disappeared into the walk-in pantry – supposedly to retrieve her medicine chest. I sat down at the table surprised to find a well-thumbed copy of
Voodoo Vixens
. Several pages were dog-eared.

Mrs Poultry emerged with a tin of hot chocolate and a vile smelling paste. ‘I only use herbs,’ she said. ‘None of that man-made filth.’

After administering the concoction to my face, she busied herself heating up milk in a saucepan and carefully measuring one level teaspoon of Bourneville. She even gave me a plate with one Cadbury’s Chocolate Finger before taking the seat opposite me.

‘You’ve got some wonderful silver,’ I said innocently. ‘Some looks quite valuable, especially that beautiful tea urn. I’m not surprised you would want to keep it in the basement – what with the Gipping Cat Burglar on the prowl.’

‘Silver plate is not worth stealing,’ Mrs Poultry declared.

Silver plate? My eye!
A curious silence fell between us. I took a sip of hot chocolate. It tasted bitter.

‘I heard on the grapevine you know where Salome Steel lives,’ I said, pointing at the book.

‘That’s right,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to show you where?’

‘Now?’ I said, surprised. ‘Won’t she be asleep?’

‘Goodness, Victoria, it’s only ten thirty.’

Tonight was proving to be utterly astonishing. Not only was the stolen loot from the Gipping Cat Burglar downstairs in the basement, I was soon to find out exactly where Salome Steel lived as well as her identity.

Now that I had wooed Mrs Poultry into a false sense of security, it would only be a matter of time before she invited me to join her coven. I was fairly bursting with excitement. Pete was going to have a shock. Instead of my one scoop, I’d have three!

F
ive minutes later we were in the car. Mrs Poultry had brought a tartan blanket ‘in case you get cold’ and a fresh thermos of hot chocolate ‘in case you’d like more’.

My landlady’s new attitude towards me was so warm and caring I began to wonder if I’d misjudged her all these months. Didn’t my father have a similar trade? Did it
really
matter that she had stolen all that silver? Good for her! With her acute arthritis, she wouldn’t be able to manage Cradle to Coffin Catering forever. With no family to look after her, surely she needed to make provisions for her old age? As for being a witch, not
all
were bad. Some even cared about the environment and global warming.

Ten minutes later, we had left Middle Gipping and crossed Plym Bridge. It would appear that Mrs Poultry’s view of ‘around the corner’ was quite different from my own.

‘How did you find out where Salome Steel lives?’ I said, surprised that the words coming out of my mouth sounded slurred and far away. I couldn’t hear Mrs Poultry’s answer. There was a peculiar ringing in my ears. I felt tired. Perhaps I’d close my eyes. Just for a second.

*

I was awoken by the sound of tearing paper and a strange sipping noise. I opened my eyes. My head felt like cotton wool; my tongue, thick and furry. I was freezing.

With a jolt, I realized I was still in the Morris Traveller but the car had stopped. It was dark outside with a full, bright moon that shone through the windscreen illuminating my landlady. She was drinking from her thermos and eating a sandwich. A ripped paper bag lay open on the tartan rug that was tucked around her legs. She looked as warm as toast.

Had I been
drugged
? The idea seemed far-fetched – yet, Mrs Poultry
had
disappeared into the pantry to retrieve her medicine box, giving her the perfect opportunity to slip a Mickey into my hot chocolate. I should have known her generosity was too good to be true.