Expose! (32 page)

I’d be lying if I didn’t say that cemeteries gave me the creeps. A part of me almost wished I’d persuaded Topaz to accompany me tonight. She seemed to suffer no qualms about ghost hunting and her mindless chatter would have steadied my nerves.

A fox’s strangled cry made me jump. It was all I could do not to turn tail and flee.

I took the main pathways through the graveyard and up to Albert Square. The wrought-iron gate seemed unnecessarily noisy when I pushed it open. A rustle of wind through the leaves and the hoot of an owl only made me jittery. A ghostly moon peeped behind the clouds.

Arriving at the Fleming vault, I retrieved my Mini Maglite from my fanny pack and switched it on. The beam lit up the narrow stairway, which led down to the heavy iron doors.

Dad says,
“There’s nothing to fear from dead people”
and that
“It’s the living you have to watch out for.”
Even so, my hand shook as I slipped the key into the lock and turned it.

With a click, the door swung open and I stepped down into claustrophobic gloom.

The vault was deep and not how I imagined at all. On both sides, marble plaques marked the final resting places of Fleming’s ancestors stacked three high. My heart sank. I’d assumed I’d see coffins nestling in alcoves, not sealed in individual tombs. If Fleming had already sealed up Scarlett, I was doomed.

Moving in deeper, I played the flashlight over ancient walls—“Cuthbert F. Fleming 1801-1895” and “Florence W. Fleming 1775-1856” to name just a few—and marveled at the sense of history here. I could only trace my family tree back two generations.

Suddenly, my stomach flipped over. A hollowed out section toward the rear lay empty and gaping—presumably these three shelves were ready to receive the next generation of Flemings.

On the top shelf was a new coffin. Heart pounding, I moved closer.

Just as Neil Titley had said, it was decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphics, but I couldn’t find the Gipping Bards stamp of ownership. It had to be under the bottom.

I had to see it. I had to know. But what if I was wrong? A horrific vision of Scarlett’s disfigured remains tumbling out made me pause for thought. But wait! Hadn’t Probes said that decaying bodies smelled dreadful?

Taking a deep breath I inhaled deeply. It was just dank, stale air. Wedging the flashlight in a gargoyle’s mouth opposite, I grabbed the corner of the coffin and tried to move it. Without warning, the shelf crumbled away. I leapt aside as it—and the coffin—crashed onto the ground, shattering into pieces.

To my joy, not only was the cavity jammed with newspapers and sandbags, my flashlight illuminated PROPERTY OF THE GIPPING BARDS stamped in red ink.

I leaned against the cold walls, exhausted.

At last I had proof. Scarlett Fleming was very much alive. But the future sure looked bleak for Olive.

34

To my dismay, as I drew close to 4 Factory Terrace, Topaz’s Capri was parked outside number four. It was past midnight. She was the last person I wanted to see tonight.

My thoughts were consumed with Scarlett Fleming. She must have been hiding at Headcellars all the time. Had she known I’d been there and rifled through Fleming’s desk?

I stopped a few yards away and cut the moped engine. All I could see was the top of a flat cap. Topaz must have reclined the driver seat. Hopefully she was still asleep.

A cowbell sounded the moment I pushed my moped into the drive. All too late I saw the black nylon thread that Topaz had stretched between the gateposts and fed back through the car’s rear window.
Damn and blast!

Topaz sat bolt upright and flung open the driver’s door. I gave a start. She was dressed in her farming disguise.

“I was waiting for you,” she said. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Keep your voice down,” I whispered. “I could ask the same of you. Get back into the car.”

Leaving my moped on the kickstand, I got into the passenger seat and narrowly missed sitting on a thermos flask. “Is there any hot chocolate left?”

“No.” Topaz pulled the driver’s door shut. “Well? Where have you been?”

I was about to tell her to mind her own business when I suffered one of my brilliant flashes of genius. “I have a confession to make,” I said. “I think you are right about Headcellars being haunted. Didn’t you mention something about a priest hole?”

“You went ghost hunting
without me
?”

“I came by the café to get you but it was closed.” This was true. “Where did
you
go?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“You’re right. I can’t. Surprise me.”

“I followed Annabel to Dartmoor prison.”

I went very still. “The
prison
? What on earth was Annabel doing there?”

Topaz grinned. The light from the street lamp illuminated her teeth. Together with the false mustache, she looked like a caricature of Groucho Marx. “Guess.”

“I really can’t. Please, Topaz.”

“She was seeing someone!”

“Who? How do you know?”

“I followed her inside but they wouldn’t tell me. It was visiting hours and she was gone a long time. But that’s not all. Guess what happened next?”

“Get on with it,” I snapped.

“Annabel drove all the way to London. Have you heard of Wormwood Scrubs prison? It’s very famous.”

“No. Why?” I was beginning to feel light-headed. Of course I knew Wormwood Scrubs! I knew it very well. Dad had been in and out for years.

“She visited someone there, too!” said Topaz. “Don’t you see the obvious?” When I couldn’t answer, she gleefully went on, “Annabel’s handbag operation is
huge.
She’s obviously got dealings on the inside. She might even have some handbag ring going on.” Topaz seized my arm, nodding manically. “This is the biggest scoop ever, isn’t it? Have you any idea what the fall-out might be?”

I most certainly did and I had to do something about it. I
had
to get hold of Dad’s great friend and partner-in-crime, Chuffy McSnatch. Since he dealt in handbags, he might be implicated. Surely Annabel wasn’t stupid enough to visit her suppliers or informants openly in prison?

“Good work, Topaz.”

“You said we needed to catch her red-handed. I took some photographs.” Topaz opened the glove box and retrieved a disposable camera. “I’ll get them developed at This-And-That Emporium tomorrow.”

“Pity you couldn’t get the names of whom Annabel was visiting at those prisons,” I said.

“Of course I did.” Topaz pulled up her rucksack and unzipped it. She retrieved a scrap of paper. “It was frightfully good fun. I just joined the queue of people and must say blended in very well with the crowds. No one took any notice of me, at all. When I came to sign the visitor book, I just looked at whom Annabel went to see, pretended I didn’t feel very well and just left. Here—” She handed me the paper. I glanced at the names—Wayne Henderson in Dartmoor, and Nigel Keeps in Wormwood Scrubs. I’d never heard of either.

“I’ve also got the address of the warehouse,” she said. “I wrote it on the back. It’s close to the Imperial Hotel, just like I thought.”

“You’ve done really well, Topaz. Thank you.”

“She’ll go to prison, won’t she?” Topaz grinned. “Do I get to share a byline?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” I was only half listening. “We still need to catch her physically receiving stolen goods.”

“All in good time, boss,” said Topaz. “I’m going back to the warehouse every night until I catch her on camera!”

Promising Topaz I’d be in touch the next morning, I bid her goodnight.

Sleep wouldn’t come. For some reason I just couldn’t buy Annabel’s handbag endeavor. Hadn’t she dreamed of her first front-page scoop? She wanted to be a serious reporter! Why jeopardize her career? Whatever Annabel was up to, she was a fool to fraternize with known criminals.

My thoughts turned to poor, gullible Olive. Fleming wouldn’t be the first husband who knocked off his wife on their honeymoon for monetary gain.

I tossed and turned for hours. I couldn’t help feeling that I should have tried harder to stop Fleming because I’d suspected him all along. Even though the police would never act on a hunch, if Olive died it would be all my fault.

35

I grabbed my moped and raced out of the house early the next morning, anxious to get to the office. If there was any bad news, Barbara was bound to hear it first.

At the end of the road Mrs. Evans was waiting at an empty bus stop. I had a sudden thought and pulled up alongside, cutting the engine.

“The Reverend Whittler is back from Disney World tomorrow,” she said, before I had a chance to bid her good morning. “I’m just popping in to give the rectory a quick spit and polish.”

“Does the name Sydney Pember ring any bells?”

Mrs. Evans frowned. “It does seem familiar.”

“Perhaps you saw it on an airline ticket somewhere?” Fleming’s desk drawer had been locked but that would never have deterred my nosy landlady.

“No. Not there,” she said slowly.

“Maybe at Dr. Frost’s surgery?”

“Are you suggesting I look in confidential files?” Mrs. Evans sounded hurt.

“Of course not,” I said smoothly. “It’s terribly important. My editor asked me to ask you. He said you knew everyone in Gipping.” He hadn’t.

Mrs. Evans turned pink with pleasure. “I’ve never thought of myself as an informant,” she beamed. “Now, let me think.”

I looked at my watch praying she’d hurry up—not that getting to the
Gazette
any earlier was going to change Olive’s fate. “Perhaps he’s someone in the Gipping Bards?”

“That’s it!” Mrs. Evans snapped her fingers. “It’s not a he, it’s a she. Scarlett didn’t like the name Sydney. Said it was too manly. Pember was her maiden name before she got married.”

“You see! You do know everyone!” Thanking her profusely, I went on my way deeply troubled. If I’d needed further proof that Scarlett was alive, I had it now. There must have been a second airline ticket in that desk drawer and I’d missed it.

Convinced that Olive must now be dead, I steeled myself for scenes of grief in reception. When I arrived I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Olive Larch was very much alive. She and Fleming—holding a bottle of champagne—were chattering to Barbara. All three were holding green plastic cups—no doubt left over from Friday’s pre-Gala party.

“Just in time. We’re celebrating.” Barbara waved me over. “Olive’s got her wedding photos.”

I was overjoyed
.
“Congratulations!” I said, engulfing her in a warm hug.

She stiffened and tried to push me away. “I can’t breathe, dear.”

“Sorry! I’m just so surprised . . . I mean,
pleased
to see you.” I looked over at Fleming who had the nerve to smile and looked perfectly at ease.

“Goodness, Vicky,” said Barbara. “You only saw them on Sunday! What a romantic you are.”

“We’re having a glass of champagne.” Fleming hastened over to the counter to fetch me a plastic cup. “We insist you have one, don’t we Olive?”

I said yes despite the early hour, though what I really needed was a stiff brandy.

Barbara and I toasted their health. “I thought you would be gone for ages,” I said. “No honeymoon?”

“We’ll take a proper holiday at the end of snail season,” said Fleming, moving over to Olive and rubbing her shoulders. “Olive fancies a cruise, don’t you dear?”

Olive blushed. “I’ve always wanted to go to Greece.”

“A
cruise
?” said Barbara shooting me a knowing wink. “All that time cooped up in a cabin. Whatever will you two do with yourselves?”

“I like playing Scrabble,” said Olive.

“Me, too,” I chipped in, anxious to steer Barbara away from her pet subject. Sex.

“We would have stayed a few days longer,” said Fleming. “Unfortunately, Gipping Manor demands an inquiry into what happened at the Gala. As Chief Marshal I’ve called for an extraordinary committee meeting to get to the bottom of it all.”