The Copper Kettle was part of a row of Queen Anne terraced houses that flanked the High Street. It was a former charity junk shop that Topaz—whose real name was Ethel Turberville-Spat—had converted into a café on the cheap. If it hadn’t been so conveniently located directly opposite the office, I doubt I would have ever have been tempted to step inside since the food left much to be desired.
I pushed open the door and stepped into the gloom. With its low-beamed ceiling, faded wallpaper, and dismal prints of dead game hanging on the shabby walls, the place was always so depressing. Along the original shop counter, Topaz had arranged a selection of copper kettles that she swore were used by her aristocratic ancestors.
There was no sign of the Women’s Institute members—or any other customers for that matter. Topaz was perched on a stool behind the cash register, deeply engrossed in a book. She was dressed in her usual olive-green serge medieval dress and white-lace mop cap.
“Where is everybody?” I said.
Topaz gave a yelp of joy. “Oh!
Just
the person I want to see.”
She slithered off the stool and hurried to greet me waving her book. I noted the title,
Haunted Devon
, and my heart sank. For some time now, Topaz had been convinced Gipping-on-Plym was riddled with UFO’s and paranormal happenings. For weeks she’d been begging me to ghost write—no pun intended—her research on local hauntings. Topaz harbored unrealistic expectations that this would propel us to stardom as in, “We’ll be on Oprah!” and “We’ll get our own reality TV show!”
Frankly, I didn’t mind what she did as long as it distracted her from bugging me about becoming an official staff member of the
Gazette
. I could never find the right time to tell her that our arrangement was strictly—and secretly—between the two of us.
Topaz flipped the door sign to CLOSED and rewarded me with her usual gummy smile. “So I can give you my undivided attention,” she added with a wink.
I’d gotten used to Topaz’s flirtatious behavior and still wasn’t sure which way her sexual preferences lay, but as long as I kept her at arm’s length, she usually didn’t cause me too many problems.
“I’m here on business,” I said.
“Goodie. What’s going down, boss?” Topaz watched too many American police dramas. “Wait. You look different.” She stepped closer and studied my face. I shrank back. “Your eyes look frightfully pretty. Did you do them yourself?”
“Yes,” I lied, knowing that Topaz loathed Annabel and the feeling was mutual. “Come along, Topaz. This is work.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“I thought the Women’s Institute met here on the first Thursday of the month.”
Topaz scowled. “Apparently, they prefer The Warming Pan because it has a better menu.”
This didn’t surprise me. I’d seen Topaz buying cakes from the past-sell-by-date section at Tesco Superstore. She was notoriously stingy with her portions and I’d seen her reuse tea bags until they were nothing but pale limp pads.
“But I don’t care,” she went on. “I’m working on a new menu myself. You’ll never guess what it is.”
“I don’t have a lot of time for a guessing game this morning,” I said, but since I’d had to skip breakfast, I was hungry and could easily devour a bun, stale or otherwise.
There was a tap on the front door. I recognized the face pressed against the window as one of my mourner regulars, Hilda Hicks, from Gipping Riding School. She gestured at the CLOSED sign.
“Ignore her.” Topaz grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the red and plastic fringe that led to the kitchen. I’d long grown used to Topaz’s appalling customer service. She only opened the café when she was in the mood. It was just as well she received income from her tenants who farmed The Grange estate she’d inherited from her Aunt Clarissa. Topaz would never make a living in the catering industry.
I sat down in one of the two, tatty old Victorian armchairs, noting the kitchen was even more untidy than usual. The draining board that flanked the stone sink held clumps of earth and what looked like shells.
There was also a peculiar smell that took me back to one of the rare family holidays I’d spent in a small fishing village in Cornwall. It seemed to be coming from a large pot, bubbling on one of the gas rings in the corner.
“What are you cooking?”
“Snails!” Topaz looked hugely pleased with herself.
I was appalled. “You can’t be serious.”
“It’s snail season. We should have them on the menu,” Topaz beamed. “I’ve purged them. It’s a frightfully complicated process, you know. Would you like to try a bowl?”
“No thanks.” Recalling how lovingly Ronnie Binns had spoken about Rambo, I said, “I’m not sure if they’ll be that popular.”
Topaz’s expression was stubborn. “Why?”
“A lot people regard their snails as pets,” I said. “It would be like eating Slipper.” I gestured to the ancient old Labrador sleeping in the basket by the fireplace.
“Don’t be silly,” Topaz said. “It’s completely different. Besides, the French eat snails.”
“French snails are specially bred for restaurants on snail farms.” I dreaded to ask where Topaz had found hers, but judging by the mounds of earth, suspected it was someone’s garden.
“Did you know that in my grandfather’s day, snail racing used to be a sport for the aristocracy?” Topaz said with a snooty sniff. “The lower classes are taking over everything. No offense, Vicky, but you know they are.”
I hated Topaz pulling social rank. She made me feel like a servant. “In that case why don’t you serve jellied eels?” I said sarcastically.
“I couldn’t. Aunt Clarissa would turn in her grave.” A timer went off. Topaz took the steaming pot off the gas flame and poured the liquid containing the pathetic creatures into a colander to drain over the sink. The smell was enough to make me gag. She ladled a heap of snails into a bowl and took the other chair. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
I shook my head. Topaz pulled out a fork from a hidden pocket in her serge apron and began deftly withdrawing the slimy gray meat from each shell.
I’d completely lost my appetite. “Aren’t you supposed to slather them with garlic sauce?”
Topaz swallowed one whole and turned a shade of green. “These aren’t quite ready yet.” She leapt to her feet and darted over to the sink, spitting the contents out of her mouth with disgust. I only just managed not to laugh. She dumped the remaining snails from the draining board into a large rubbish bin muttering, “I think I’d better start again.”
I tried to sound sincere. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. Let’s get down to business,” Topaz said, wiping her mouth on her apron. “How can I help?”
“Make me a cup of tea and I’ll tell you,” I said. “And I’d like a fresh tea bag, please.”
“I love it when you’re bossy.”
Minutes later, I sipped on a scalding cuppa and nibbled a stale cinnamon bun. “I’ve got some sad news. Scarlett Fleming died unexpectedly and I’m working on her obituary. Did you know her at all?”
“I’m afraid I’m not sorry.” Topaz wrinkled her nose with distaste. “She was a frightful snob. The ones who have no money and pretend they do are the worst. There’ll be a ghastly vulgar funeral, of course.”
How interesting.
Barbara had said the same thing. I would never rely on hearsay, but it certainly confirmed my hunch that something wasn’t quite right. “How do you know?”
“I overheard Scarlett telling Ruth Reeves she’d purchased some kind of funeral plan.” She gave a shudder. “She had a list of the most ridiculous requests. One was a thirteen-pan steel
band
! Here! In Gipping!”
“I heard that, too.”
“She wanted an excerpt from
Romeo and Juliet
read over her open casket. Let me think—” Topaz clutched her hands together and said in a dramatic voice, “‘Eyes! Look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!’ Act five, scene three. I studied Shakespeare at St. Helen and St. Kather ine, Abingdon. Where did you go to school?”
“Well, Mrs. Fleming didn’t get any of that,” I said neatly changing the subject. I always felt inadequate whenever Topaz mentioned her school days. There was no fancy independent school for me. We were always on the move.
“What are you talking about?” said Topaz.
“It’s too late. Scarlett Fleming was quietly buried this morning.”
“This
morning
?” Topaz’s eyes widened in surprise. “I thought she was in Spain.”
“Spain? Why?” My stomach flipped over. I couldn’t help it. Of course, no one knew my parents were on the lam in Spain, but whenever that country was mentioned, I felt ill.
“She’d booked herself into a fancy yoga retreat,” Topaz said. “If you ask me, I think she was going to get plastic surgery. Maybe something went wrong and she died under the knife. It happens all the time.”
I felt inexplicably disappointed. But it certainly explained why the
Gazette
wasn’t notified through the usual channels. It would explain why Douglas Fleming wasn’t forthcoming about how she died, either. He was obviously embarrassed. Perhaps he was trying to protect her reputation? Using a quickie burial company meant he didn’t have to deal with the endless gossip at the graveside, particularly now it seemed that Scarlett Fleming wasn’t as popular as I’d first thought. However, it still didn’t explain why I got the mystery phone call this morning, but perhaps that no longer mattered?
“I thought Whittler had put a hold on all funerals,” Topaz said with a frown.
“Douglas Fleming hired a cut-price company called Go-Go Gothic.”
“Never heard of them. Sounds horrid and so nouveau riche—though I’m not surprised. The Flemings were always living beyond their means. They were flat broke.”
“How do you know?”
“The Fleming clan has been selling off land for decades. Aunt Clarissa told me.”
I wanted to point out that the same had been true of Topaz’s ancestors and how she was always coming up with schemes to keep The Grange afloat. Even now a large poster hung on the wall of the café saying, BEAUTIFUL MANSION AND STABLES AVAILABLE FOR SHORT-TERM LET. ASK TOPAZ POTTER FOR DETAILS.
Currently the house stood empty while Topaz pretended to live in London as Ethel Turberville-Spat but actually occupied the pokey flat above the café.
“Of course, the Flemings were originally in trade,” she went on scornfully. “And before you say anything, yes, I know Uncle Hugh was in wool and textiles, but not my side of the family. The Turberville-Spats go back to the Wars of the—”
“Roses. Yes, I know, you’ve told me.” I was tired of hearing about Topaz’s distinguished family tree. “Didn’t you want to see me about something?”
“My special project. Oh!” Topaz clapped her hands with excitement. “You’ll be writing Scarlett Fleming’s obituary, won’t you?”
“Yes, why?”
“That means you have to go to Headcellars, yes?”
“I’m going to Mr. Fleming’s office,” I said. “Why?”
“Tell him you’ll go to his house instead.” Topaz did a little bunny hop on the spot. “Oh! Oh! Please let me come with you this time. You keep promising and—”
“Sorry, Topaz,” I lied. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Pete about bringing you on board officially, yet.”
“I’m not interested in obituaries, silly.” Topaz retrieved a cardboard box that was sitting on top of a case of Heinz baked beans. She brought out a tattered book that bore the title,
Reformation Horrors! Tales Beyond The Grave
, and flapped it in my direction. “Headcellars is listed in here. I’ve been
dying
to look inside.”
“I don’t think it’s a good time,” I said. “He’s just lost his wife.”
“Can’t you just ask him? Pleeeease?” she said in a little girl’s voice. “It’s for our special project. I’ve done tons of research already.” Topaz seemed so excited she was actually trembling.
“Go on,” I said with a sigh.
“Goody. Headcellars is one of the few remaining homes in Devon with an original priest hole!” Leafing through the book, she began to read aloud, “When Henry VIII abolished the monasteries to become head of the Church of England, dozens of important Catholic families built special secret rooms to hide their priests from the bloodthirsty killings of the king’s men. Rumor has it that Father Gregory sought refuge at the medieval manor house, Headcellars.”
Topaz gave a theatrical shudder and continued in a dramatic whisper, “When the king’s men raided the house they tortured and killed the family—probably gouged out eyes and stuff. But even though they never found the priest, rumor has it that Father Gregory starved to death and haunts the corridors of the house begging for food.”
“He actually
talks
?” I did not believe in ghosts. “I wonder what he asks for? Apple pie?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” Topaz said darkly. “And you’re coming, too.”
I knew better than to turn Topaz down flat and got to my feet. “I’ll think about it.”
Topaz flung her arms around me. Fortunately, I’d anticipated the move and ducked down to pat Slipper. Her kiss landed below my left ear.
“What are you going to wear to the Gala tomorrow night?” she said.
Blast!
“You’re not going, are you?”
Topaz laughed. “Of course I am, silly,”
“I didn’t think it was an Ethel Turberville-Spat kind of thing.”
“You’re quite right. It’s not. Ethel wouldn’t be seen dead at one of those frightful events,” Topaz said. “That’s why I’m going as me. Wait. Topaz, I mean.
“Not Topaz-the-vigilante, I hope?”
“The Caped Kitten, actually,” Topaz said. “That’s my official name now.” Recently, Topaz had begun to believe she was a female Peter Parker and had started prowling the streets at night trying to “keep law-abiding citizens safe.” I’d given up trying to understand her eccentric behavior long ago.
“Why?” I said. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“With it being the final year for the Larch Legacy, feelings are running high.”