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Authors: Hannah Dennison
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death,’ I said lightly.
‘You really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Annabel snapped.
Her patronizing tone stung. ‘Perhaps not,’ I said. ‘But aren’t we supposed to be a team?’
Annabel peered into her mug of tea. ‘I can’t drink this. You’ve made it too strong.’
How ungrateful! Who on earth did she think she was? Why should I retrieve the coroner’s report just to save Annabel’s hide? Lord knows I had tried to offer the olive branch enough times, but not anymore. From now on, it was each woman for herself.
8
I t was nearly 1.00 a.m. when I finally sneaked out of Rumble Lane. Mrs Poultry’s routine was like clockwork. She was a night owl and never went to bed before midnight.
Whilst my landlady was awake, it was hopeless to even attempt to leave the house unseen. She had acute hearing and kept the sitting room door ajar. It gave her a good view of the hallway and kitchen. I made the mistake once of trying to slip in for a late-night snack, but the moment my toe touched the floral linoleum, a voice materialized from the void, ‘Victoria! Out of bounds.’ I loathed being called by my full name. It always made me feel like a naughty child.
Earlier in the evening, I had tentatively broached Sir Hugh’s funeral when we had run into each other on the landing. I mentioned there had been a good turnout, taking care to watch her expression for any sign that she had actually been there under that bush.
Mrs Poultry, sucking slowly on her favourite Coff-Off cough drop, stared at me in silence. Then, turned on her heel and entered her bedroom without a word. I began to think I really had imagined it all, until I donned my outdoor clothes.
An Edwardian coat and hat stand stood against the wall to the right of the front door. As I searched for my scarf, I came across Mrs Poultry’s cloche hat stuck on a peg. To my delight, a tiny bur was caught under the brim. It was proof that she had been there in the church grounds, but why remained a mystery I resolved to look into later.
Soundlessly, I let myself out of the front door; Dad had showed me how to turn a lock so it wouldn’t click. I set off for the office at a brisk walk. Patches of fog sank down on my shoulders, filling the air with an oppressive heaviness that, just as quickly, lifted to reveal a cold, starry night and half-moon.
I shivered. Pulling my woollen scarf up around my face to keep warm, glad this was Gipping in the twenty-first century and not London in 1888. This eerie kind of weather would have provided fertile ground for Jack the Ripper’s stabbing sprees.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I liked the stillness of night when I felt I was the only person awake in the whole world. I felt no fear taking the shortcut past the ruins of Gipping Castle and through the narrow alleyways.
In no time at all I was standing outside the
Gazette
. The three-story building loomed above me, seeming much larger in the dark. Even though the High Street was empty, Dad’s voice in my head insisted, ‘
Success in an undetected, forced entry centres on one
’
s ability to look as if you have every right to be there
.’ It was the main reason why I had carefully selected a brightly coloured purple and green striped scarf to wear with my safari jacket and jeans, as opposed to dressing all in black – complete with a black knitted balaclava – so favoured by burglars. If I were spotted, I would simply be doing some late-night research.
The front door was locked and bolted. Barbara was always overzealous when it came to security. I took the cobbled path alongside the building to the rear, which backed onto a narrow lane.
This rarely used entrance to the
Gazette
was via an old wooden gate, half off its hinges and wedged into a four-foot-high slate wall. I’d have to vault over it. Backing up a few paces, I launched myself into a pretty impressive straddle without so much as touching the surface. What a perfect couple Dave
‘You really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Annabel snapped.
Her patronizing tone stung. ‘Perhaps not,’ I said. ‘But aren’t we supposed to be a team?’
Annabel peered into her mug of tea. ‘I can’t drink this. You’ve made it too strong.’
How ungrateful! Who on earth did she think she was? Why should I retrieve the coroner’s report just to save Annabel’s hide? Lord knows I had tried to offer the olive branch enough times, but not anymore. From now on, it was each woman for herself.
8
I t was nearly 1.00 a.m. when I finally sneaked out of Rumble Lane. Mrs Poultry’s routine was like clockwork. She was a night owl and never went to bed before midnight.
Whilst my landlady was awake, it was hopeless to even attempt to leave the house unseen. She had acute hearing and kept the sitting room door ajar. It gave her a good view of the hallway and kitchen. I made the mistake once of trying to slip in for a late-night snack, but the moment my toe touched the floral linoleum, a voice materialized from the void, ‘Victoria! Out of bounds.’ I loathed being called by my full name. It always made me feel like a naughty child.
Earlier in the evening, I had tentatively broached Sir Hugh’s funeral when we had run into each other on the landing. I mentioned there had been a good turnout, taking care to watch her expression for any sign that she had actually been there under that bush.
Mrs Poultry, sucking slowly on her favourite Coff-Off cough drop, stared at me in silence. Then, turned on her heel and entered her bedroom without a word. I began to think I really had imagined it all, until I donned my outdoor clothes.
An Edwardian coat and hat stand stood against the wall to the right of the front door. As I searched for my scarf, I came across Mrs Poultry’s cloche hat stuck on a peg. To my delight, a tiny bur was caught under the brim. It was proof that she had been there in the church grounds, but why remained a mystery I resolved to look into later.
Soundlessly, I let myself out of the front door; Dad had showed me how to turn a lock so it wouldn’t click. I set off for the office at a brisk walk. Patches of fog sank down on my shoulders, filling the air with an oppressive heaviness that, just as quickly, lifted to reveal a cold, starry night and half-moon.
I shivered. Pulling my woollen scarf up around my face to keep warm, glad this was Gipping in the twenty-first century and not London in 1888. This eerie kind of weather would have provided fertile ground for Jack the Ripper’s stabbing sprees.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I liked the stillness of night when I felt I was the only person awake in the whole world. I felt no fear taking the shortcut past the ruins of Gipping Castle and through the narrow alleyways.
In no time at all I was standing outside the
Gazette
. The three-story building loomed above me, seeming much larger in the dark. Even though the High Street was empty, Dad’s voice in my head insisted, ‘
Success in an undetected, forced entry centres on one
’
s ability to look as if you have every right to be there
.’ It was the main reason why I had carefully selected a brightly coloured purple and green striped scarf to wear with my safari jacket and jeans, as opposed to dressing all in black – complete with a black knitted balaclava – so favoured by burglars. If I were spotted, I would simply be doing some late-night research.
The front door was locked and bolted. Barbara was always overzealous when it came to security. I took the cobbled path alongside the building to the rear, which backed onto a narrow lane.
This rarely used entrance to the
Gazette
was via an old wooden gate, half off its hinges and wedged into a four-foot-high slate wall. I’d have to vault over it. Backing up a few paces, I launched myself into a pretty impressive straddle without so much as touching the surface. What a perfect couple Dave
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