The Dark Enquiry

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “How do you think it began?” Brisbane put in.

  Aquinas replied promptly. “The lamp in the morning room window ignited the carpet.”

  Brisbane seized upon this like a dog with a bone. “The carpet? Not the draperies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So the lamp was overturned,” Brisbane reasoned.

  “It appeared to be so.” Aquinas’ expression was perfectly correct. I put my hand to his arm.

  “I know you have said nothing so as not to alarm the staff. Do not speak of this to the fire brigade. We will let them think it an accident.”

  “Very well, my lady,” Aquinas said, bowing from the neck. He moved off, and I turned to Brisbane. “We will have to give him a rise in salary for this. Everyone will think it his fault and we cannot correct the impression that this was an accident.” I sighed. “I was such a fool. When we arrived, I really did think that monstrous new kitchen stove caught fire.”

  “A bit too coincidental on the same night we were trapped in a crypt, don’t you think?” His voice still held a stranger’s coolness, but he gave me a ghost of his usual smile.

  “And you don’t believe in coincidences,” I finished. “But why set fire to the house when the blackmailer already had us in his power?”

  “Because he did not realise he had us. He thought he had me,” Brisbane explained. I had seldom seen him so somber. “He wrote such a note that I would be compelled to go myself rather than permit Bellmont to go. But perhaps the blackmailer does not realise I insisted upon taking you with me. He knows I am bound for Highgate, but believes you to be alone in the house. It was an opportunity and he took it.”

  I set my teacup down with a decided crack. “You really think the blackmailer believed I was here?”

  “He may have wanted you here,” Brisbane said slowly.

  My mouth felt unpleasant then, and I realised the bitter taste upon my tongue was fear.

  “But who? Why?”

  “That is what I mean to find out.”

  * * *

  It was my own fault for underestimating him. I had thought after such an ordeal as spending the night in a crypt and having one’s house set on fire, Brisbane would have required a bit of rest. I ought to have known better.

  The fire had not been out half an hour before he ordered me to put a few things into a carpetbag.

  “We are leaving?” I said, mystified. The rest of the house had been largely undamaged and I craved nothing so much as my own bed.

  “I think we ought to stay away from the house for a few days.”

  “You believe the blackmailer might try again?”

  “I do not know what I believe, and that is the damnable part of it. There is a pattern here, an explanation, only I cannot see it.” I heard the frustration lacing his voice, and I knew how much it must have infuriated him not to have answers.

  “I think it an excellent notion,” I informed him. “You needn’t look so surprised. I do not argue with you about everything.”

  He smiled. “No. But I think you will be surprised at where we are bound.”

  “I presumed Portia’s. Or Father’s. He is still prickly with me, but he would never turn us away if we needed shelter.”

  “Neither of those will do. They are entirely too expected, and Portia has the safety of the baby to consider. Besides that, both of those town houses have staff. We do not yet know whom we can trust, and the fewer people who know where we are, the better.”

  “Where can we go that we will be hidden away and protected?”

  The smile deepened. “The Gypsy camp on Hampstead Heath.”

  * * *

  Preparations to leave for the Gypsy camp were remarkably few. I dressed in a walking suit of country tweeds with a tidy blouse and stout boots. Brisbane permitted me one small carpetbag of miscellany, which I packed myself in order to avoid involving Morag.

  “The staff are in no danger,” he assured me. “We will make a production of leaving and setting out for the station. Anyone watching will think I am packing you off to the country.”

  We left the house that evening, the two of us and Rook. It was early, after darkness had fallen but before the slender moon had risen. Brisbane had concluded that there was every possibility we might be followed, and so he created a circuitous route for us across London. We changed carriages four times, often alighting swiftly from one to cross the street and take another heading the opposite direction. Once at the station, we hurried in as if we feared we were about to miss a train, only to lose ourselves in the crowd on the platform and dodge out a side door where still another conveyance awaited. This was a grubby cab driven by a disreputable-looking villain, whose clothes stank of gin and whose vehicle was nearly rusted through. The driver’s face was heavily muffled from the nose down, and his cap was pulled low over his brow. He hunched in his seat and waved us in with a gesture of irritation, as if he resented the promise of actual work since it deprived him of his time to drink.

  I hesitated to climb into the cab, but the driver turned and gave me a broad wink.

  “Monk!” I cried softly. He made a show of taking a pull from his flask and whipped up the horse, driving away at a brisk trot. I felt infinitely better for being in Monk’s capable hands. I knew there was no one Brisbane would rather have at his back at such a time, and I settled in for the ride with rising spirits.

  It took a long while to reach Hampstead Heath, and it felt as if we covered half of London. The night was fair, for the fog of the previous night had been blown away by a brisk wind that stank of London itself as we climbed out of the streets; but as we rose towards the heath it changed. Here it smelled of late roses and oak leaves and the peculiar green odour of pond water. And when I caught the scent of campfires, I knew we were near. At the edge of the heath, Monk drew up in a discreet copse and turned to Brisbane.

  “I kept a close eye. No one followed.”

  “Excellent, Monk.” He put a hand to his majordomo and Monk clasped it.

  “I will return tomorrow with news,” he promised. He inclined his head towards me as Brisbane handed me down from the cab. “Take care, my lady,” he said softly, touching his hand to his hat.

  “Thank you, Monk,” I called. We did not wait for him to leave, but crept through the copse and onto a path leading higher on the heath. Brisbane knew his way, for he had often camped here as a boy, and he moved swiftly through the darkness, guiding me ever closer to the camp.

  The glow of the campfires beckoned us closer, but as we came near, the horses, pegged out on their lines, whickered softly, and a pair of savage-looking dogs began to bark an alarm. Brisbane gave a rough command and they subsided at once, ducking their heads. Just then an enormous fellow with great moustaches rose from his seat near the fire and called a challenge into the darkness.

  Brisbane stepped from the shadows, giving a sharp, distinctive whistle, something like the cry of a fox. The fellow gave an answering whistle, and his face split into a tremendous smile, baring great white teeth as he laughed.

  I looked at Brisbane, who flicked me a glance. “It’s how Gypsies identify each other in the dark. Each tribe has its own whistle. Rather useful at a distance, as well,” he added as the enormous Rom beckoned us in, chattering quickly to his companions, sketching broad gestures of welcome.

  He reached out and embraced Brisbane, nearly crushing him in his meaty arms. They conversed a moment in Romany and I saw Brisbane’s face go quite still suddenly and he swore, in English, not his native tongue.

  “What is it?” I prodded, coming forward to take his arm. As I did so, the enormous Gypsy caught sight of me and began declaiming loudly. He grasped me by the hand and then swung me into a crushing embrace.

  “Welcome, lady,” he said in careful English.

  “My cousin, Wee Geordie,” Brisbane informed me.

  “Oh, indeed? How do you do?” I said politely.

  The giant Wee Geordie embraced me again with a hearty laugh. Then he began to speak ra
pidly again to Brisbane, and the word I heard several times was puridai.

  It is said that the Gypsy tongue is so wild and so beautiful that its witchcraft once dragged down the moon when it came near just to listen. I knew I could have happily listened to the pair of them talk all night, for the language had all of the dark lilting beauty of Italian. But I could see Brisbane’s expression deepening to a scowl each time Wee Geordie repeated the word puridai.

  “What does that mean?” I asked Brisbane.

  He frowned. “It means this whole affair just became vastly more complicated.”

  “What is puridai?”

  “Wee Geordie is referring to the female leader of the clan. He is more than willing to give us shelter, but permission must come from the puridai herself.”

  Wee Geordie beckoned us to follow him and as we trotted along, I pressed Brisbane with more questions.

  “Why does this woman have to grant permission?”

  “Because it’s the Roma way. I am in disgrace because of my marriage.”

  I squawked in outrage. “Your marriage? Whyever so?”

  “A Roma girl who marries outside the tribe can never bring her husband in. He won’t be accepted. But a Roma male can usually do so without difficulty.”

  “Then I do not see the problem.”

  Brisbane slanted me a look. “I am not fully a Rom. I am only half-blood. And when I chose to live apart, the family did not take it well. Out of respect, I ought to have got permission to marry you.”

  “Permission?” I spluttered. “What is wrong with me? I am the daughter of a belted earl whose title bears seven hundred years’ worth of history. I have more money than I could possibly spend in an entire lifetime and my godmother is the Princess of Wales.”

  Brisbane stopped and laid a quieting finger over my lips. “You are not a Rom. It was a sign of disrespect that I did not go to the puridai to inform her.”

  I huffed, partially in my efforts to keep up with Wee Geordie’s tremendous stride and partially out of annoyance.

  “I have half a mind to tell this woman what she can do with her permission,” I said darkly.

  Brisbane gave a smothered groan. “For the love of God, do not speak. Just smile and say nothing and let me handle this.”

  I grumbled a bit more, but we had drawn near to a large, brightly painted caravan, a vardo in their language. Screening the open door was a sort of curtain that had been fashioned of beads, I thought, although I realised as we came near that the beads were bones. Small, white bones that clicked and clacked in the breeze. A campfire was burning brightly in front of the vardo and on the steps was a small bundle of clothing. To my astonishment, Wee Geordie addressed a few words to the bundle; it struggled and eventually rose to its feet. It was a woman, so small and so old, she looked to be made of withered leather. But in the proud line of her nose and the arch of her brow, I saw that she had once been very handsome indeed. A heavy circlet of gold coins sat upon her snow-white hair, and the plait of it fell to her waist, festooned with more gold coins, as was the hem of her full skirts. Still more coins loaded her wrists and ears, and I saw that for the Roma, this was a woman of great wealth who clearly commanded power and respect.

  She looked at Brisbane a long moment, then her eyes went to me. I was not tall, but she scarcely reached my shoulder. She said nothing, but merely studied me, smoking a long clay pipe as she contemplated.

  Brisbane did not break the silence. He knew the ways of his mother’s people, and he accorded the lady the respect her position demanded. She turned again to him and said something. I caught the word poshrat, the Romany term for a half-breed, but she said it with a twinkle in her eye, and I realised with a start that she held some affection for Brisbane.

  He bent swiftly to her hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the leathery paw. I had never seen him perform so courtly a gesture, but he executed it with perfect gravity. The tribal elder cuffed him fondly and lifted her chin, muttering something as she looked at me. It was a command of sorts, for Brisbane beckoned me forward.

  He intoned something in Romany to the woman. She nodded and gestured for me to come closer still. I obeyed and she scrutinised me from head to foot, as I had often seen my father do when buying a horse.

  My fraying temper threatened to snap, and I rolled my eyes towards Brisbane. “Does she mean to welcome me or to buy me?”

  Before Brisbane could respond, the old woman opened her mouth and gave a wheezy cackle. Her breath was warm upon my face and smelled of apples.

  “When did you marry, girl?” she asked me.

  “The summer of last year. Midsummer Day,” I told her.

  This must have satisfied her, for to my astonishment, she reached forward and pulled me down to kiss my brow. Then she kissed me upon either cheek.

  I looked to Brisbane, who was staring at me in palpable relief. I saw a bead of perspiration at his temple and realised how very anxious he had been for the lady’s acceptance.

  She rattled off a few sentences in Romany and Brisbane came forward to finish the introductions. “The day is an auspicious one for Roma marriages and she is pleased. Julia, the puridai welcomes you as her guest.”

  I smiled widely at her to show my pleasure and she gave me a grave inclination of the head, as regal as any mediaeval queen granting a boon to a peasant.

  “What am I to call her?” I asked.

  She gave another cackle and said, “You may call me Granny Bones, child.”

  “Granny Bones?”

  She nodded, taking a deep inhalation from her pipe. “I tell fortunes, child. Some use the leaves, some the cards. I cast the knucklebones of the sheep, as pagan priests once did for the emperors in Rome.”

  I thought of the times I had had my fortune told in the tea leaves and shuddered. Tasseomancy had proven a little too accurate for my taste.

  “How interesting,” I said politely.

  She gave me an enigmatic look. “You do not think so yet, but you will. The bones never lie.”

  I started, but she only laughed again, that rusty squeeze-box laugh and turned to enter the caravan beckoning for us to follow.

  I turned to Brisbane. “She is quite a character. And she seems very fond of you.”

  His mouth twitched ever so slightly. “She ought to be. She is my grandmother.”

  * * *

  It took me the better part of the evening to reconcile this small, wholly Gypsy woman with my sophisticated husband. But as we talked, his urbanity slipped away a little, and he grew more expansive, gesturing widely and speaking the lilting Romany tongue with fluency and passion. I had met two of his Rom relations, but it had never occurred to me that his grandmother might still be alive. When she slipped out for a moment, I took the opportunity to chide him.

  “Why did you never tell me?”

  He shrugged. “Granny and I never got on particularly well after I ran away. She was upset when I left the tribe. She wanted me to marry a girl of her choosing and breed horses. I knew I could never live that life. I wanted nothing to do with any of it, the horses, the travelling, the fortune-telling…” His voice trailed off. We seldom spoke of his second sight or the terrible migraines that came when he refused to permit himself to slip into a trance. I sometimes thought the cure was worse than the sickness, for as awful as his visions were, the pain he suffered and the drugs he took to numb it were often just as vile. He had left the Roma to escape himself, and here he was, just past forty and back again, welcomed into the fold with open arms. I was not surprised to detect an air of satisfaction in him. Brisbane might have cast off the Romany ways, but Gypsy blood flowed in his veins, and blood will always tell.

  “I have seen her half a dozen times over the years,” he went on. “She has never formally forgiven me.”

  “Until tonight?” I prompted.

  “No, not even now,” he corrected. “Granny is an opportunist. There is something she wants or she would not be half so nice as she is at present.”


  I scolded him. “That sweet old woman? How can you say such a thing?”

  “Because I know her,” he returned in some exasperation. “If she were introduced to the Prince of Wales, she would curtsey to the floor and pick his pocket at the same time. No, Granny wants something.”

  I pursed my lips and declined to hear any more on the subject of Granny’s larcenous ways.

  She returned then, bearing plates of food, and the rich, savoury scent of it reminded me that I had not eaten much that day. There was a juicy bone for Rook and a meat stew for the rest of us with hunks of warm bread spread heavily with goose fat and salted. I ate heartily, sopping up the gravy from the stew with bread until every scrap was gone. Granny watched, nodding with a smile, and she said something in Romany to Brisbane, who had also cleaned his plate.

  “What was that?” I asked, wishing there had been second helpings.

  “She is impressed. Not many gorgios enjoy hotchiwitchi,” he told me.

  I knew gorgio was their term for an English person, but I was puzzled at the second word. “Hotchiwitchi?”

  Granny Bones gave me a wide smile. “Hedgehog.”

  “Oh, dear,” I murmured, surpressing a tiny burp.

  “You like more?” she asked.

  “No, no. I am quite full,” I assured her, patting my belly.

  She nodded. “Is good to be have a full belly.” I remembered then how often her people went hungry. I imagined it was difficult enough to always find sufficient food, but that was not the only trouble that beset them. It was still legal for an Englishman to turn out a Gypsy cookpot to make certain they were not cooking infants. It was an absurd law, and the injustice of it burned within me. They were unique to be sure, and they did not hold the same views on property or the same values, but some things were universal. They loved their children and wanted food to eat and a safe place to sleep. We were not so very different.

  I turned to Granny. “It is indeed very good to have a full belly. Thank you for sharing your meal with us.”

  She inclined her head again with that peculiarly gracious air and then rose. “Time to bed.”