Expose! (35 page)

“The phone call you made to me on Thursday morning at that ridiculously early hour and not bothering to leave your name.” It was a wild guess but the expression of surprise on her face confirmed I was right.

“You had to be involved. You write the obituaries!”

“Why go to all that trouble of faking your own death?” I said. “Couldn’t you just get divorced or disappear?”

“It takes seven years for a missing person to be declared officially dead,” said Scarlett. “Seven years! Dougie and I don’t have that kind of time and nor does Olive, besides—” she drew herself up to her full height—“I’m a
very
important person in the community. Someone like me can’t just be buried
quietly
.”

“The funeral
was
quiet,” I said. “No one came.”

“Ah! But you wrote about it. My photograph was even on the front page!” said Scarlett. “As a matter of fact, I rather enjoyed Dougie telling me how everyone was devastated that I’d died in such tragic circumstances.”

“I think they were more disappointed that they missed out on the slap-up meal and thirteen-pan steel band,” I said dryly. “You had a preneed funeral plan, remember?”

“It was never paid for.”

“And of course, an open casket is a rare sight in Devon.”

“Hah! But I’d suffered horrific injuries in that car crash, dear,” said Scarlett. “An open casket would have been so gruesome.”

“Why pick a yoga retreat? Why Spain?”

“Could have been the Pyrenees,” she said. “I wanted to create confusion. By the time the Foreign and Commonwealth Office collaborated and got through all the paperwork, Dougie and I would be long gone.”

“Not if the Fleming vault was exhumed.”

“Why would it be?”

“To inspect the coffin,” I said. “You and your husband were captured on CCTV stealing it from the Bards’ storage unit. Along with Friar Tuck’s costume.”

Scarlett smirked. “Nice try, dear but it would never hold up in court,” she said. “I was wearing a disguise and by the time the police get permission to exhume my body—so strange to think I’m dead—it’ll be too late.”

I knew she was right. “You’ll be far away in Rio.”

“Exactly.” A slow smile spread across Scarlett’s face. “You see, Dougie and I thought of everything.”

“Not quite,” I said. “You might have got away with murdering Sammy Larch, too, had you not had a witness.”

“You’re bluffing.” Scarlett laughed. “You can’t prove it and you can’t prove I was here, either. Olive is lying dead and Dougie and I inherit
all
her money!”

“Fleming is already suspected of murdering you. He married Olive too soon. Everyone will think the worst!”

“In case you forget, Dougie has an alibi tonight,” Scarlett said. “I do believe he’s at your house as we speak.”

“You really have thought of everything,” I said incredulously. “Everyone knew that Olive suffered from poor health—and a fright, such as an encounter with an imaginary ghost, could kill her.”

“Correct.”

“You push Olive down the stairs, Fleming discovers her body, and calls the police,” I went on. “Reeling from the recent deaths of two wives, he decides to leave Gipping-on-Plym and start a new life.”

“Almost. But not quite.” Scarlett smirked. “You’ve forgotten all about Eunice Pratt.”

“You’re right! I have!” I tried to sound intrigued but a sick feeling came over me. “What about her?”

“A woman obsessed with a man who doesn’t want her,” said Scarlett dramatically. “A woman who stalks the object of her desire. A woman who already has a restraining order on her head. What do you think such a woman would do to her rival in love?”

Suddenly, the penny dropped. “You set her up! You made sure Fleming waved at Mary Berry the morning of the funeral knowing full well she’d tell Eunice.” I shook my head with amazement. “And the phone calls!” I recalled the itemized phone records made to Dairy Cottage and Eunice’s increasing distress and confusion. “You used her. How unbelievably cruel.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m expecting her here at any minute. So it’s time for you to go.”

I came back to reality with a jolt. Scarlett would never have told me all this if she planned to let me live.

Pressing the pistol muzzle against my temple she said, “Get up and walk.” I stumbled to my feet. She frog-marched me past the closed cellar door and into the library.

Astonished, I saw the tapestry on the far wall had been drawn aside. Behind the oak wainscoting was a small, low door. It was open.

“The priest hole,” I said horrified. Too late I guessed what was in store for me. I lashed out at Scarlett’s legs but she slapped me hard across the face with the pistol. “Believe me, this might not be a real gun but I can assure you a bullet at point-blank range will kill you.”

Defeated, I crawled through the low doorway and into darkness. “And don’t bother to scream,” Scarlett said, peering through the opening. “These secret hiding places have walls several feet thick. No one will ever hear you.”

Scarlett closed the panel shut. I heard a final click. I was alone. No one could help me now.

38

I sat without moving for what seemed like hours, numbed by the very real possibility that I just might die.

I still couldn’t believe I was trapped. I couldn’t believe that Olive Larch was probably lying dead at the bottom of the cellar stairs, and I’d soon be joining her in the hereafter.

If, by some miracle, she had survived the fall I jolly well hoped she’d tell the world that I’d tried to save her but couldn’t save myself. Other than Olive, no one knew I was here. I didn’t even have my mobile—Scarlett had made sure of that.

But,
wait
! Hope soared in my breast. Chuffy promised he’d call me with instructions. Wouldn’t he realize that Scarlett’s voice wasn’t mine? Of course, she wouldn’t answer and besides, Chuffy had no idea I was on the trail of a killer. My spirits plunged.

What about Mrs. Evans? Hope soared again! Perhaps she’d been her usual nosy self and opened the confidential envelope. She’d get help, wouldn’t she? My spirits rose again. Even if help came, they’d never find me. No one found Father Gregory, either.

But,
wait
! My moped!
Blast!
Even if it were discovered in the undergrowth, Annabel’s exposé would soon put paid to that. I could see the headline now: DAUGHTER OF NOTORIOUS CRIMINAL, THE FOG, VANISHES! No one would care. They’d
expect
me to disappear—just like my parents had.

I drew some comfort from knowing that Chuffy would protect Dad’s identity. He’d tell my parents that I had followed his advice and taken a new name and moved to a new location. It would be months before they wondered why I hadn’t been in touch. I’d be dead in three weeks or less!

Oh, God!
It could be
years
before the truth was discovered—most likely when old houses like these were no longer valued and torn down. I stifled a sob of self-pity. My skeletal remains would be found lying on the floor and the superstitious locals would believe they’d finally located their missing medieval monk.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I recalled Mum’s stern words,
“Crying won’t help.”
She was right. It wouldn’t. I couldn’t just sit here waiting for the grim reaper to call.

At the thought of the Reverend Whittler another wave of self-pity hit me anew. There would be no funeral or after-service party for me. Not even a headstone at St. Peter’s the Martyr commemorating the short life I had lived. It would be as if I had never existed.

I wiped a tear away from my cheek. There had to be some way I could let the world know what really happened. Then, when my bones were found, the truth would be out. I’d get my front-page scoop all right. I’d be on every newspaper in the world—just like the famed Lindow Man who was murdered in the first century A.D. and discovered lying facedown in a peat bog.

Lindow Man’s murder remained a mystery—but mine, would not. Wasn’t I journalist? All I needed was paper, pencil, and a little bit of light.

I’d been reluctant to use my Mini Maglite only because of my fear of enclosed spaces. Who knew how tiny this place really was.

“Courage, Vicky!” I said aloud, and pulled the flashlight out of my pocket.

Thankfully, the room was a little bigger than I expected. At least I could stand up.

A quick sweep around the walls revealed a narrow camp bed, a pillow, two chenille blankets, an oil lamp, and a box of matches. I also discovered three bottles of water and a granola bar.

I struck a match and lit the oil lamp. There was a pop and puff of acrid smoke. I turned up the flame, grateful for the yellow light. It made the tiny room a little friendlier.

Throwing a blanket around my shoulders, I sat on the camp bed and ate the granola bar. I wondered what small comforts Father Gregory had enjoyed all those years ago. How long had it taken him to die?

The oil lamp flickered, casting eerie shadows across the walls sending a shiver down my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I had to admit I sensed some kind of presence.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said aloud. Anyway, hadn’t Topaz mentioned that when the priest hole was finally discovered, the old man had vanished?

I went very still as my mind grappled with the remote possibility that perhaps, just
perhaps
, he’d escaped.

Hadn’t Sadie mentioned secret
passages
? What if Father Gregory hadn’t vanished? What if he’d dug his way out?

Casting the blanket aside, I fell to my knees and began the painstaking process of checking over every inch of the floor and walls.

At an early age Dad had trained me in the art of opening combination safes, so my hearing was finely tuned for any telltale clicks or subtle changes in depth and sound.

I’d been tapping away on solid walls for what seemed like forever when I struck gold. The tone became hollow.

Like most old houses in Devon, the walls were made of cob—a mix of earth and clay. Relieved, excited, and utterly exhausted, I pulled out my Swiss Army penknife and stabbed manically at the plaster.

The blade went straight through. There was a cascade of stones and pebbles as part of the lower wall began to crumble. I lay on my back and with both feet, kicked as hard as I could.

I’d discovered Father Gregory’s tunnel.

39

The secret passage was so low I could only wriggle forward a few inches at a time on my elbows. It was so narrow my shoulders scraped the sides. I couldn’t have turned back even if I’d wanted to.

I tried to grasp the Mini Maglite between my teeth but it was too heavy. I felt my safari jacket tear. My mouth and eyes were full of grit and dirt. I couldn’t breathe. I felt suffocated. Had Father Gregory really escaped this way or would I come across his bones right here in this hell-hole?

Crawling through the tunnel was the most horrifying thing I’d ever had to do. I prayed as I had never prayed before and my prayers were answered.

Finally, I felt cool air on my face and saw a pinprick of light in the distance, growing larger inch by inch.

Sobbing with relief, I came to the end of the tunnel only to discover that it opened into a vertical, cylindrical shaft. I was halfway down a well but all was not lost.

Iron rungs covered in green moss and slime were embedded into the curved walls. Below me was dank water—I had no idea how deep—and above, light.

I’d lost track of time and had been under the impression I’d been stuck here for hours. It had only been twenty minutes.

Reaching across the void, I grasped the nearest rung and rattled it to see if it was rotten. It held firm. With joy and gratitude in my heart, I began my climb to freedom.

At the top I took in deep breaths of air but was dismayed to see my exit blocked by a metal grill and padlock. I couldn’t believe it! All this way and still trapped.

Wedging my body on either side of the well’s walls, I pulled out my Swiss Army penknife once more. The lock was rusted and easy to pick. It snapped open and fell, tumbling into the water, landing with a faraway plop. I tried not to think that could have been me.