Free Thieves! by Hannah Dennison

dropping off recycling bins as we speak.”
    “There is no way you can evict us, luv,” said Dora. “We’ve got the law on our side these days. The Race Relations Act of 1976 recognizes Romanies and ethnic minorities deserving of sensitive treatment, and with my dad so close to death’s door, you can’t get more sensitive than that!”
    “Right. Of course,” I said.
    The door opened, and Ruby poked her head in. “Whose Wellingtons are those outside? Oh.” She scowled on seeing me. “I thought we were going to pick mushrooms.”
    “Ruby, this is Vicky, who works for the newspaper,” said Dora. I resisted the temptation to ask for my two pounds change. “She’s going to publish my article on the front page this week.”
    Blast! “As I was saying, it’s not really my—”
    “And you believe her?” Ruby snorted. “What did you go and talk to a bloody gorger for? And a reporter, too?”
    Dora opened her mouth to answer and shut it again. The two women glowered at each other. Clearly this kind of discussion would not continue in front of the likes of me.
    “Actually, I just write the obituaries,” I said. “We were talking about your grandfather, Belcher Pike.”
    “He’s not dead yet,” snapped Ruby.
    With Wellingtons on once more, I bid my good-byes and left the luxury of the Winnebago. I reflected that things had gone rather well.
    My fear that the names of hundreds of mourners would elude me were groundless. As for the gypsy woman’s inflammatory report—let Pete deal with her. The front page was out of my hands.
    Yet there was one thing that bothered me. Dora didn’t seem remotely curious about the dead woman in Mudge Lane. Call it my own Romany instincts but Dora Pike was hiding something, and I was determined to find out what it was.

10

    As I took the footpath back to my car, I had to stop to admire the view. It was magnificent. Born in the industrial city of Newcastle, it had taken me a while to appreciate the beauty and adjust to the silence of the countryside. Surprisingly, I’d grown to love it.
    Gray clouds gave way to a watery sun. Below, stretching to the horizon was a patchwork of rolling green meadows divided by hedgerows, peppered with grazing sheep. Down to my right, screened by towering oak and beech trees, stood The Grange.
    I could just make out the redbrick chimneys and dormer windows set into the slate roof—servants’ quarters from another century ago.
    To my left, stood a forest of pine trees known as Trewallyn Woods. The tradesmen’s entrance wound it’s way past Sir Hugh’s Folly, a cylindrical tower built in Victorian times—for no reason whatsoever—to the rear of the main house.
    I had to look hard to locate the two wagons and VW camper. Even the Winnebago was shielded from the road by a belt of trees and thick hedge.
    From my vantage point, I tried to find Belcher Pike’s “segregated” wagon but to no avail. It was as if the gypsies weren’t here at all, although I rather doubted this would be of any consolation to Topaz.
    The Morris Dance-a-thon was to be held in an enormous field on the south side of the house. The original building had been Tudor. Then, as the years passed and fashions came and went, bits were added on here and there—Queen Anne sash windows with multipaned glass, gothic gables with hideous gargoyles peering down from bargeboards—and now, the front door was reached by taking a wide flight of stone steps leading up to a Palladian portico supported by grand Corinthian pillars.
    A natural sloping bank descended from the upper garden—now a wilderness—providing the perfect spot for spectators to sit, picnic, and watch the proceedings below.
    There were many preparations to make. An arena with a hard floor had to be laid out, tents erected, Port-a-loos brought in, and parking for hundreds of cars marked off.
    There was plenty of space for everyone, and frankly, as long as Belcher Pike didn’t die before Saturday, there was no reason why