for Jimmy to move the tea service, push the table in, and pick up his chair so that I could squeeze past him.
I was rapidly going off wagon life. It was far too cramped.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Jimmy, all smiles once more. He opened the lower door and took in a breath of fresh air. “Now, that’s what real life smells like. Off you go back to your stuffy office.”
Jimmy stepped aside to let me pass. I swept by Noah without giving him a second glance and tramped back to my car.
Idiot reporter? Noah’s words stung. I might be an idiot for finding him attractive, but I certainly wasn’t an idiot when it came to sleuthing. Dora and Jimmy were lying about the dead woman in Mudge Lane, and maybe they were poaching, too.
I kept circling back to the same questions. If the woman was a gypsy, why would they pretend she wasn’t? If the woman wasn’t a gypsy, why did the police say it was an accident but move her body to Plymouth?
It was only when I was halfway back to Middle Gipping and had reached Plym Bridge that I realized that I’d forgotten to post Whittler’s check and drop off Barbara’s mysterious package.
Fortunately I remembered there was a pillar box opposite Barbara’s house. Barbara had been born in Gipping-on-Plym and given the scandal that she had supposedly created all those years ago, might be able to shed some light on the new residents at The Grange.
I turned the car around and headed back to The Marshes. Jimmy Kitchen’s cup of tea had been very good, but I could always do with another.
15
F ifteen minutes later I arrived at The Marshes and pulled up outside Barbara’s end-terraced house. Built on a ridge, Barbara’s two-up, two-down, overlooked a horseshoe of unattractive 1950s redbrick bungalows with metal-framed windows and corrugated iron roofing.
In the center of the horseshoe was a patch of grass that always seemed to be waterlogged whatever the weather. Rumor had it that the bungalows had been built on a landfill and were steadily sinking—hence the local nickname “Little Venice.”
Bill Trenfold’s post van was parked next to the old-fashioned cylindrical red pillar box. I checked my watch. It wasn’t even three thirty, and I knew the last collection of the day was supposed to be 5:30 P.M. Bill was picking up early.
I opened my window and shouted, “Bill! Wait!”
But he didn’t seem to have heard me. I’d no sooner gotten out of my Fiat when Bill simply drove off! It was little wonder that there were so many complaints about the postal service if the postmen had decided to enforce their own schedules.
Blast! I had given Whittler my word, and now it looked as it I’d have to drive all the way back to Gipping to post his letter after all.
Turning to the main reason for visiting poor Barbara, I went to get the shoebox. It wasn’t there.
Puzzled, I opened the rear doors and looked under the driver and front passenger seats, thinking it must have slid forward. With growing dismay, it dawned on me that the wretched shoebox must have been stolen, and I knew exactly by whom.
Blast the Swamp Dogs! No doubt they nabbed it when I was dealing with Jack Webster’s shenanigans. Of course I’d confront them, but it was annoying. Besides, what use would an old shoe and a bicycle bell have for them anyway? Come to think of it, what use would either have for Barbara?
As Mum would say, “ What you haven’t had you won’t miss .” The sender hadn’t left a note or return address. If it were that important, I was quite sure we’d hear about it, but until we did, I had other things to think about.
I was tempted to leave, but experience had shown that Barbara had eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat. She was bound to have recognized my car and heard me shout out to the postman. I also noticed the curtains upstairs were open, suggesting Barbara was no longer lying stricken in a darkened room with a migraine.
I’d just pop in for five minutes.
On the front doorstep was a
I was rapidly going off wagon life. It was far too cramped.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Jimmy, all smiles once more. He opened the lower door and took in a breath of fresh air. “Now, that’s what real life smells like. Off you go back to your stuffy office.”
Jimmy stepped aside to let me pass. I swept by Noah without giving him a second glance and tramped back to my car.
Idiot reporter? Noah’s words stung. I might be an idiot for finding him attractive, but I certainly wasn’t an idiot when it came to sleuthing. Dora and Jimmy were lying about the dead woman in Mudge Lane, and maybe they were poaching, too.
I kept circling back to the same questions. If the woman was a gypsy, why would they pretend she wasn’t? If the woman wasn’t a gypsy, why did the police say it was an accident but move her body to Plymouth?
It was only when I was halfway back to Middle Gipping and had reached Plym Bridge that I realized that I’d forgotten to post Whittler’s check and drop off Barbara’s mysterious package.
Fortunately I remembered there was a pillar box opposite Barbara’s house. Barbara had been born in Gipping-on-Plym and given the scandal that she had supposedly created all those years ago, might be able to shed some light on the new residents at The Grange.
I turned the car around and headed back to The Marshes. Jimmy Kitchen’s cup of tea had been very good, but I could always do with another.
15
F ifteen minutes later I arrived at The Marshes and pulled up outside Barbara’s end-terraced house. Built on a ridge, Barbara’s two-up, two-down, overlooked a horseshoe of unattractive 1950s redbrick bungalows with metal-framed windows and corrugated iron roofing.
In the center of the horseshoe was a patch of grass that always seemed to be waterlogged whatever the weather. Rumor had it that the bungalows had been built on a landfill and were steadily sinking—hence the local nickname “Little Venice.”
Bill Trenfold’s post van was parked next to the old-fashioned cylindrical red pillar box. I checked my watch. It wasn’t even three thirty, and I knew the last collection of the day was supposed to be 5:30 P.M. Bill was picking up early.
I opened my window and shouted, “Bill! Wait!”
But he didn’t seem to have heard me. I’d no sooner gotten out of my Fiat when Bill simply drove off! It was little wonder that there were so many complaints about the postal service if the postmen had decided to enforce their own schedules.
Blast! I had given Whittler my word, and now it looked as it I’d have to drive all the way back to Gipping to post his letter after all.
Turning to the main reason for visiting poor Barbara, I went to get the shoebox. It wasn’t there.
Puzzled, I opened the rear doors and looked under the driver and front passenger seats, thinking it must have slid forward. With growing dismay, it dawned on me that the wretched shoebox must have been stolen, and I knew exactly by whom.
Blast the Swamp Dogs! No doubt they nabbed it when I was dealing with Jack Webster’s shenanigans. Of course I’d confront them, but it was annoying. Besides, what use would an old shoe and a bicycle bell have for them anyway? Come to think of it, what use would either have for Barbara?
As Mum would say, “ What you haven’t had you won’t miss .” The sender hadn’t left a note or return address. If it were that important, I was quite sure we’d hear about it, but until we did, I had other things to think about.
I was tempted to leave, but experience had shown that Barbara had eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat. She was bound to have recognized my car and heard me shout out to the postman. I also noticed the curtains upstairs were open, suggesting Barbara was no longer lying stricken in a darkened room with a migraine.
I’d just pop in for five minutes.
On the front doorstep was a
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