Thieves! Page 8

  Ronnie thrust out his jaw. “She would say that, wouldn’t she?”

  “This is fly-tipping. No doubt about it,” said Annabel, snapping away with her iPhone. “Did you know you could be facing fines of up to twenty thousand pounds?”

  “What’s the point of fining them?” seethed Ronnie. “They’ll only vanish in the middle of the night. Tow-bar getaways. That’s what they’re called.”

  “This rubbish has been here for a long time,” I said, pointing to a stack of rusted corrugated iron sheets. “The Romanies got here only yesterday.”

  “I told you so,” said Dora triumphantly. “Thank you, Vicky.”

  “So?” said Ronnie. “Now you people will see this as an excuse to dump your rubbish here, too.”

  “Whoever owns this house didn’t follow the rules,” Dora fumed. “Rules for them who have it all and rules for us who have nothing. That’s what’s wrong with this country today, isn’t that right, Vicky?”

  “A lot of people say that,” I said warily. Although I tended to agree, I didn’t want to get drawn into a political discussion.

  “And what’s more,” said Dora, “why put the bins here? We want a set of recycling bins outside every caravan just like normal householders. We’re entitled to it!”

  “Entitled! Entitled!” Ronnie sputtered with rage. “Over my dead body.”

  Annabel started to giggle.

  Dora turned on her. “And what’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” she squeaked, shoulders heaving with silent laughter. She caught my eye, and I had to look sharply away as laughter began to bubble inside me, too. The scene was just too ridiculous.

  “Who are you?” demanded Dora.

  “Annabel Lake,” she said, struggling to pull herself together. “I’m an investigative reporter with—”

  “Get off my land or I’ll fire!” Topaz shrieked, storming into view. She was brandishing a twelve-bore shotgun.

  “Oh Lawd! It’s her ladyship!” cried Ronnie.

  “She’s not joking,” I said quickly. “You’d better do as she says.”

  Dora spun around to face Topaz, arms akimbo.

  “Go ahead. Fire. I’m not afraid of you.”

  Annabel grabbed my arm. “Do something—!”

  Topaz fired both barrels, and the recoil from the force of the blast sent her falling back into a pile of rusting paint cans.

  Annabel screamed. Ronnie ran off. Dora stood her ground.

  A strange smile spread across Dora’s face. Quick as lightning, she snatched the gun out of Topaz’s grasp.

  Topaz was trembling violently. “Golly. I didn’t know it was loaded.” Hampered by all that padding, she was finding it difficult to sit up. “My finger slipped. Frightfully sorry about that.”

  “You’ll be sorry all right,” said Dora in a low menacing voice. “Threatening a gypsy with a gun! Firing a gun without a license.”

  “I might have a license,” said Topaz faintly. “I’m positive Uncle Hugh had one.”

  “Your uncle Hugh said we could camp here for as long as we like,” Dora declared.

  Topaz rolled from side to side like an upended sheep until Annabel gamely stepped forward and pulled her to her feet. “My uncle is dead,” said Topaz with dignity, readjusting her clothes. “The Grange now belongs to me.”

  “You really think so?” Dora gave a harsh laugh. “The Grange isn’t yours, dearie. I can prove it.”

  Color drained from Topaz’s face. “What are you talking about?”

  Dora smirked. “Not so hoity-toity now, are you? Your ladyship.”

  “You liar!” screamed Topaz, pushing Annabel roughly aside, but Annabel hung on tightly. “Get off my land!”

  Dora started to laugh.

  “Let’s go inside, your ladyship,” said Annabel. “Have a nice cup of tea.” Thankfully, Topaz allowed Annabel to lead her away, leaving Dora and I alone.

  “Is it true about The Grange?” I said.

  Dora’s expression was hard. “Put it this way, Sir Hugh liked to exercise his rights as lord of the manor.”

  Of course, I’d read all about droit du seigneur in my pirate novels, but the thought of old Sir Hugh—who I’d never met—seducing the virgins of Gipping-on-Plym was utterly repulsive.

  “With one of your people?” I said stunned.

  “Never!” said Dora. “You’ll see. You’ll find out soon enough. And I’m warning you, be careful of that Annabel. She’s no friend of yours.”

  This was not news to me.

  And with that, Dora limped away.

  I retrieved my Fiat but had only gotten halfway down the drive when one of the Swamp Dogs flagged me down. The four youths descended on my car, hammering on my bonnet and windscreen.

  I opened the window. “What’s happened, Malcolm?”

  “It’s Mickey.” I could never tell the two sets of identical twins apart. “Over there. Quickly!”

  Across the field, a Land Rover was parked next to a crimson gypsy wagon. Two figures seemed to be engaged in some kind of heated exchange given the amount of arm flailing by one of them.

  “It’s Jack Webster,” cried Mickey. “He’s got a machete! He’s going to kill one of those gyppos.”

  My heart gave a lurch. Who needed the battlefields of Afghanistan when there was Gipping-on-Plym?

  “Stay here,” I shouted, and jumped out of my car. It wasn’t easy climbing over a post and rail fence in Wellingtons, but I managed it and set off across the muddy field.

  I could tell it was going to be one of those days.

  13

  The moment I saw the location of the crimson painted wagon, I knew the reason for Jack Webster’s ire. It was parked against a hedge that had been earmarked for Saturday’s hedge-cutting display. With a stab of disappointment, I realized his Land Rover did not have a safari roof rack, although obviously, it could have been removed.

  A man in his early seventies sat on the steps of his wagon, seemingly unconcerned by Jack’s foul-mouthed diatribe. If anything, he seemed amused.

  Dressed in a red-checked shirt and jeans, the gypsy wore his long, gray hair in a single braid threaded with ribbon. A large gold-hoop earring dangled from one ear.

  “Good afternoon, gents,” I said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Jack Webster swung around to face me. I sprang back, startled. Mickey wasn’t exaggerating about the machete—although in hedge-cutting circles, the instrument was called a billhook and was used for slicing through thick branches. Made of carbon steel and with a blade measuring a good nine inches, the knife could be lethal in the wrong hands—which it was today.

  Never one of my favorite people, Jack bore the telltale signs of the heavy drinker—the bloodshot eyes, the purple nose, and the flushed complexion. “Bugger off and mind your own business, you silly cow.”

  “It will be my business if you land up on the front page.”

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady,” said the gypsy mildly.

  “And you can shut up.” Jack jabbed his billhook at the gypsy and turned back to me. I caught a whiff of alcohol on Jack’s breath. “This bloody gyppo can’t stay here!”

  “Ma’am,” he said, touching his forelock. “Name’s Jimmy Kitchen. It looks like this gentleman is a little the worse for wear.”

  “Vicky Hill,” I said. “I work for the newspaper.”

  “We don’t want any trouble,” he said, “but Sir Hugh Trewallyn used to let us camp here years ago. This is my spot.”

  “And this is my hedge,” Jack Webster fumed. “See? It’s all been pegged out for Saturday.”

  To the uninitiated, the hedge looked a mess of brambles, bracken, and unruly branches. But on closer inspection, small strips of white material divided it into sections of roughly ten yards apiece.

  “We’re having a Morris Dance-a-thon here on Saturday,” I said by way of explanation. “This is part of a hedge-cutting exhibition.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Jimmy Kitchen, giving an expansive smi
le. “You mean you want me to move my wagon? The gentleman only had to ask.”

  “Why—you bloody . . . !” Jack stepped forward, billhook raised.

  “Jack, no!” I shrieked and tried to grab his weapon.

  Jack lashed out with his other hand, accidentally catching the side of my face. It hurt.

  Jimmy Kitchen leapt up with astonishing speed and grabbed Jack’s weapon, pushing him away, hard. Jack sprawled backward and landed flat on his back in a puddle of muddy water, where he lay still and in complete shock.

  “Not in front of a lady,” said Jimmy grimly. “If you want to fight with me, we’ll go elsewhere.”

  Shocked, I looked at the older, wiry man, who seemed to be bursting with vitality, versus Jack, who, quite frankly, was a corpulent slob.

  “Gentlemen, please,” I said quickly. “Let’s be civilized and sort this out. I don’t want to call the police.”

  I was quite sure that Jimmy Kitchen wouldn’t want the cops around, and Jack had clearly been drinking. Given that he’d been listed as MOTORIST MENACE OF THE WEEK on two occasions, it was a miracle he still kept his license.

  “She’s right.” Jimmy extended his hand to Jack. “No reason to call the cops.” After what seemed like eons, Jack reluctantly took it and was helped to his feet. The billhook was returned to its rightful owner.

  All the wind had gone out of Jack’s sails as he stood in his muddy clothes.

  Jimmy Kitchen gestured to a glossy-coated piebald pony hobbled some yards away. “Bess and I have been on the road these past weeks, and she’s gone lame. I’d thank you kindly if I could move tomorrow—having taken her out of harness and all.”

  At hearing her name, Bess raised her head and whickered. She limped toward us.

  “What’s wrong with the mare?” said Jack. “She’s favoring her off hind.” I remembered that Amelia often complained that Jack cared more about their farm animals than he did about her.

  “Must have picked up a stone. She’s bruised her sole badly,” said the gypsy. “We came all the way from Brighton once we heard about Belcher Pike being taken poorly.”

  “You should put a poultice on it,” Jack said gruffly. “Rest her up a bit.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” said the gypsy, giving me a wink.

  Another Land Rover—minus a safari roof rack—bumped across the field toward us. Emblazoned on the door panel was the slogan LET’S GO OLYMPICS! JUMP 2012! My heart sank.

  As Devon’s champion hedge-jumper, Dave Randall and Jack Webster were sworn enemies. Since both hedge-jumping and hedge-cutting displays were two of the main attractions this Saturday, there had already been some territorial wrangling over a highly desirable stretch of blackthorn that had ended in a fistfight and both guilty parties spending a night in the slammer. The magistrate ruled that the hedge in question was off-limits and ordered that both events be held at opposing ends of the field.

  I felt one of my rare headaches coming on. Honestly, what with Dora and Topaz, Jack and Jimmy, and now Dave—today had been utterly exhausting.

  Dave Randall pulled up alongside us and wound down the window. Dressed in a black T-shirt, his muscular arms were bare and browned by what little sun we had managed to have this summer.

  With a curt nod at me and another at Jack, he said, “The Dogs told me Jack was in trouble.”

  “It’s all sorted now, thanks, Dave,” said Jack.

  I was relieved, though not surprised, to see two sworn enemies become instant friends in the face of a hostile force. I’d seen it happen with Dad when the cops were involved. Once—rumor had it—Dad even sided with the Mafia.

  Dave got out of his Land Rover and made a show of cricking his neck and rolling his shoulders. “Isn’t this your patch?”

  “It’s handled, Dave,” said Jack, mirroring Dave’s neck crick and shoulder roll. “This gent said he’d move this wagon on tomorrow. Horse is lame.”

  “We can’t afford for anything to go wrong on Saturday, Jack,” said Dave. “A couple of my guys are on the radar for Olympic selection this weekend.”

  “You already told me, Dave, and we’ve got some scouts for the British national team coming down from Norfolk.”

  “So you said a hundred times, Jack.” A vein began to pulse on Dave’s forehead.

  I sensed that the unconscious truce could soon be forgotten. “Good. That’s settled,” I said brightly. “Is it true that the Nag and Bucket has all-day drinking?”

  “Is that right?” said Jack Webster brightening. “Fancy a snifter, Dave?”

  “Yeah. Why not?” With a last nod at me and a scowl at Jimmy Kitchen, Dave clambered back into his Land Rover.

  Jack followed suit, and the two men drove off in convoy.

  “Fancy a cup of tea?” Jimmy said, breaking into a grin. “I think I owe you one for saving my life.”

  How could I possibly refuse? At last I would see the inside of a gypsy wagon.

  14

  It was just as I had imagined the inside of a gypsy wagon to be. “What a wonderful home you have!”

  I was seated on a buttercup-yellow three-legged stool. Jimmy was sitting on another that was painted a dark green. In front of him, an old kettle boiled merrily atop what I gathered was called a “queenie” stove.

  The upper half of the wagon door was wide open, affording a spectacular view of open fields and woodland. I could hear the cry of birds and the rustle of the wind through the trees and, frankly, couldn’t think of anything more romantic than living life in one of these beauties.

  “It’s all so neat and compact,” I enthused. “Where do you sleep?”

  Jimmy pointed to the rear of the wagon. Beneath a casement window and atop a bow-fronted glass cabinet was a neat bed reminding me of a berth at sea.

  It was definitely cozy. The actual living area couldn’t be larger than a prison cell—but thanks to an abundance of cut-glass beveled mirrors on all three sides, it didn’t feel remotely claustrophobic.

  I caught sight of my reflection, feeling decidedly out of place with my shoulder-length hair, jeans, and light sweater. A long flowing gypsy skirt, peasant top, and shawl, with my hair tumbling to my waist, seemed far more fitting.

  Every surface was painted in two-tone greens and yellows with delicate grape and apple motifs except for the bowed ceiling, which depicted a pastoral river scene. There were masses of scrollwork covered in gold leaf.

  A display cabinet was filled with Royal Crown Derby china.

  There were a few photographs framed in silver plate. I gestured to one. A young couple smiled at the camera, arm in arm. The man was unmistakably a younger Jimmy with his ribbon-threaded braid. “Is that you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s very beautiful. Was that your wife?”

  “Yes, but she wasn’t the love of my life.” Jimmy pulled a tattered photograph of a woman from his shirt pocket and passed it to me. “She was.”

  The “she” couldn’t have been more than sixteen and was sitting on the step of what looked like this very wagon. The woman was stunning and reminded me of Bizet’s Carmen from a poster the Gipping Bards bought on eBay to promote one of their more ambitious productions.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Gypsies and gorgers can’t be together,” Jimmy said sadly. “Ever.”

  “That’s ridiculous in this day and age,” I said. “Do you know where she is? Can you find her?”

  “I’m not sure she’d want that. It’s too late.”

  “Rubbish!” I cried. “You should follow your heart.”

  Jimmy raised an eyebrow. He seemed amused. “You are young. What do you know about love?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “But enough to know that outdated customs and traditions would never hold me back from someone I truly loved.”

  “Some of our customs can only be broken by death,” Jimmy said quietly, but before I could press him further, there was a shrill whistle as the kettle came to a boil.

  Jimmy took a
tin tea caddy down from a rack of shelves set into the wall above the stove. He added three heaped spoonfuls—one per person and one for the pot—of real tea leaves into a Brown Betty teapot and poured on the boiling water. Given the amount and different brands of tea I consumed every day on my travels, I considered myself a tea connoisseur and had high hopes for this cuppa.

  I was glad to see a packet of my favorite chocolate digestives join two mugs and a bowl of sugar on the pull-out table between us. These days I seemed to survive on a diet of tea, biscuits, and cake.

  Jimmy leaned over to his right and opened a small fridge to retrieve a pint of milk. “These wagons are collector’s items nowadays.” Clearly our conversation about love and longing was over, but not for me. The thought of being reunited with the love of one’s life in later years was something I felt sure my mourner readers would go for. Perhaps I could have my own column? I made a mental note to mention it to Pete.

  Jimmy poured the tea and gestured for me to help myself to a biscuit. “This wagon is over one hundred years old. It used to belong to my grandfather.”

  “Was he part of the Pike clan?” I said.

  “We’re all related. ‘Our caravan is our family, and the world is our family,’ a gypsy proverb,” said Jimmy.

  “Why would anyone want to swap a beautiful wagon like this for a hideous camper?”

  “Most of the youngsters these days prefer the modern conveniences,” Jimmy said. “Electricity, running water, mobile phones, and those ugly satellite dishes!” He shook his head. “There’s a growing divide between traditionalists and those who want us to be something we’re not. We are what we are. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  Dad would have agreed with him. I could still see the expression of acute disappointment when I announced I wouldn’t be joining the family business. “Going to work for the papers? Collaborating with the cops? You’re no daughter of mine.”