“I agree,” said Friedrich, stretching one hand toward Rufus. Then he lifted the other hand toward Wilson. “However, I find it highly improbable that this is incidental. I despair to think it of the goodwife, but she is a fair botanist by any standard. It is also worth considering the size and extent of her garden. I am not an expert in the field, as you all well know, but I did observe several specimens which I know to be rare. Even the philodendron is hazardous in its own right. It is entirely possible that she possesses in her collection a specimen which may be used for nefarious purposes.” He paused for a moment before continuing, as if weighing the import of his words before speaking them. “Let us remember also that she admitted to drawing upon this collection for the materials of her herbal tisane.”
Weyland sat down in the chair next to Woolroy, who stared blankly at the ceiling. “As damning as this sounds, might we be jumping to an improper conclusion? Let us remember that it is wrong at all times and in all places to base a conclusion upon insufficient evidence. As I see it, we have two issues to consider. Thus far, we have assumed that the tea is the source of Woolroy’s infliction, rather than any actions which this mysterious Romani may have performed against Mr. Woolroy.”
“If that is the case, then what of Mrs. Woolroy?” asked Friedrich. “Surely her faith was not her sole protection against this alleged curse. I do not recall her indicating that the curse was directed at Woolroy only. The implication is that they were both the subject of these words, and yet she is unaffected. I know, I know, but is it not proper to examine all possibilities, and if we assume that this is a matter of the Supernatural, then would she not be affected? Furthermore, if this matter is purely psychosomatic, then would her spiritual faith not make her more susceptible to such effects than her agnostic husband?”
“It all remains to be seen.” Weyland tightened his lips as he considered the possibilities. “However, I agree with Rufus, in that we need to broaden our examination before we slander a good woman’s name with a false accusation.”
Wilson turned his head away from the window. “How then do you suggest that we proceed?”
Lifting one finger, Weyland spoke. “First, we identify the source of Woolroy’s illness. Then, assuming that the current hypothesis is correct, we seek to determine whether this is the result of criminal intent or unfortunate ignorance.”
Friedrich nodded. “I concur. How ought we to proceed? We can easily test for the presence of alkaloids, but I know of no way in which we can determine if they are beneficial or not. By Mrs. Woolroy’s own testimony she has added a substance which most certainly possesses some form of vegetable alkaloid.”
The five gentlemen stood silent for a moment. The two physicians and philosophers were deep in thought on the topic while their colleague lit his pipe and waited for some insight. After several moments, it was Niles Byron who interrupted the silent contemplation. Letting the thinkers think was taking too long for his liking, and he considered it best that a man of action set their course into motion.
“If the first task is to verify that the tea is poisoned, then the solution seems simple enough.” The four remaining men were visibly curious as they watched Niles walk toward the infirmed man.
“My dear boy, what are you doing?” inquired Wilson as Niles poured a cup of tea. Niles’ response was simple. He boldly held the physician’s gaze as he brought the cup to his lips and drained it in a single, deep gulp. Wilson took a step forward, belatedly, to stop him. “What in the name of God have you done, man? You cannot possibly be so bold a fool as this!”
Niles coolly blew a ring of smoke towards Rufus, who waved it away with irritation. “Woolroy has been ill for the better part of a fortnight. If, as you suspect, this tea is the source of his ills, then the poison is dilute enough that it can be overcome by one with a hearty constitution. My constitution, as we all know, is more fit for a sailor than a man of letters. I may become slightly ill, but that is the reason for keeping such fine physicians as yourselves among my company. Can you think of a better way to garner quick answers to your questions?” When they did not immediately answer, he continued with satisfied smirk, “You are not the only ones capable to deduction.”
Amusement and consternation warred for control of Wilson’s face. The latter was due to the concern which he felt for his friend’s safety, while he credited the former to irony. “I have a device, dear boy, one which can identify the presence of alkaloids and give us an idea as to the level of concentration. We have no means of knowing if the concentration has been increased as a result of our presence or if it has become more potent over time.”
He waited for a moment as this information settled upon his companions. “It is true that our patient has been ill for some time, but we should not assume the consistent application of any toxin. If the cause is indeed poison, then it is entirely possible that the current concentration exceeds the original dosage. This would, after-all, provide the appearance of a gradual onset of illness with a sudden conclusion.”
“Be that as it may,” said Friedrich in an effort to ease the growing tension, “it seems that our course has been set.”
“Indeed,” agreed Weyland. “Rufus, you go out to call upon Dr. Thomas and make your enquiries. Wilson shall remain here with Niles and Woolroy, in the event that our hypothesis is incorrect. I, at least, should further examine Mrs. Woolroy’s claim, in the event that we are mistaken. Friedrich shall remain here and act as a distraction to the goodwife with whom he has a good report. Perhaps he can even glean some further details.”
Friedrich nodded. “We lack motive if nothing else.”
“That is a sound point, my young friend,” said Niles. He put his hand over the bowl of his pipe and then took in a deep breath to extinguish it. “Shall we convene with you two once more in the evening?”
Entry Six
Dominic William Weyland departed the Woolroy home, uncertain as how to best proceed as his was the least definable of the group’s tasks. He was to find a woman, a Romani no less, within the confines of a moderately sized city, and then secure from her a confession of her depravity. Despite his uncertainty, however, he was determined to achieve some degree of success. After all, it could not be such a difficult task to locate such a remarkable people as the Romani. He considered it to be to his credit, more so than to Mrs. Woolroy’s, that he did not doubt for a moment the veracity of the woman’s story. Therefore, firming his hat upon his head, he strode confidently along the sidewalk.
He walked only a short distance from the dwelling before he was able to hail a dogcart. While the city’s dogcarts were a bit below his means, it was the only form of conveyance which was readily available, and it would serve well enough to take him into those portions of the city in which the Romani might inhabit. He may not himself be knowledgeable of certain things, but there were others whom he was certain would be. Among those within this category were cabbies who, by virtue of their profession, were exposed to a variety of social aspects.
The driver of said mode of transportation looked down from his relative height and asked, “Where to, fine sir?”
“Well, my good man,” said Weyland as he took his purse from his coat and removed from it a sovereign. “I was hoping that you could tell me.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, isn’t it a bit early for that sort of entertainment?” The driver grinned and pushed back his hat. A sovereign was not a slight gratuity.
“What?” asked Weyland, perplexed. “I need you to help me find a woman.”
“If the sir is certain.…” The driver shrugged, insouciance written in every movement.
“Of course I’m certain, my good man,” said Weyland with exasperation. “Why else would I be asking you?”
“Well, if I could presume to recommend, there is Kitty’s on Fifteenth Street. Many a fine young gentleman finds his lady there. Discreetly, of course.”
“What makes you think she’ll be there?” Weyland peered up at the man suspiciously. It
was obvious that he had never heard of the establishment and was becoming frustrated with the exchange. “I haven’t even told you for whom it is that I search. Are you in league with them?”
“In league with them? Ah …” the driver nodded sagely, then after a moment paused as comprehension dawned, “… a specific person then. We aren’t talking about the same thing at all, are we?”
“I’m afraid, my good sir, that I have no idea what you are going on about. I must find a particular Romani woman, and as quickly as possible—lives may be at stake!”
After a moment of embarrassed apology, the driver assured Dominic that he was the man for the job. There was none in Cambridge who knew the city as well as he, or so he attested, and if there was anything to be discovered, then he was most determinedly the man for the job. Thus engaging the dogcart for the day, Dominic proceeded on his driver’s advice.
It was during the second stop that Dominic became aware of his driver’s ability to communicate effectively with a fairly broad cross-section of the local community. When Dominic had failed to garner any results, the cabbie stepped in and was able to do so with relative ease. It occurred to him shortly after that the driver had several motivations to do so. The first was that he hoped to receive a larger sum for his assistance than that which he had already been granted. The second was that he likely recognized that he could further increase his earnings by satisfying his fare’s needs quickly and thus return to his normal rounds earlier. The ease and skill with which he manipulated the social arts, flashing his broad grin, inserting himself, and guiding conversations was not what young Weyland would have expected to find outside of the court.
Whatever the motivation, and from wherever this unexpected skill came, it was in short order that the cab was en route to a location at the edge of the city, a location which was reported to be the campground of a pack of Gypsies. This, he recognized, was a risk, but he made sure to secure his purse and drew comfort from the small pistol in his coat pocket.
While this ensured the safety of his person and property, the endeavor as a whole was fruitless. To say that the Romani were hesitant to speak would be an understatement. Upon first arriving at the camp, he noted the motley caravans, painted in gay colors. People walked to and fro amongst them, going about their daily business of mending and cooking, or crouched around crude campfires, those pockets of warmth which pushed back the winter cold. The smell of strangely spiced food wafted to him on the midday breeze. Snow crunched under his feet as he followed the well-packed paths into, and through, the camp.
As Weyland walked toward the nearest campfire, followed by the driver, he found that he was avoided by most and approached only with caution. Men looked to his fine clothing with hard eyes and suspicious miens. The women avoided his gaze altogether. If there were children in the camp, they were hidden from view. The entire encampment was eerily silent, as though his arrival had brought with it a cessation of all conversation. For all he knew, it had. If not for the cheery winter sunlight illuminating the entirety of the camp through the dappled shadows of the trees, he would have thought them a camp of wraiths and spectres.
It was clear that men of distinction were not common frequenters of such a place. He kept his eyes open for any sign of malicious magic, uncertain of what a curse might look like in particular, but in general, he endeavored to be as aware as possible of any evil intent on the part of the people he observed. He felt almost as if his care and concern were unwarranted. There was no malice in the eyes of these people, merely the suspicion of an outsider amongst their ranks. If anything, what he saw there was fear, and perhaps a touch of resentment at his intrusion.
He stopped the nearest man by the simple expedient of reaching into his purse and pulling from it a bright shilling. “Excuse me, my good man, but to whom would I speak referencing an inquiry?”
The young man eyed the coin and then looked Weyland over once more. After a moment, and with a speed which surprised Dominic, he took and pocketed the shilling. Another moment passed before he asked, in accented speech, “What do you want?”
“I am searching for a particular woman who would have been within the borders of the city a week or so ago. She came into contact with a man and a woman, and I seek to understand the occurrences of that night.” Weyland was careful to keep any mention of a curse from his explanation. He was unsure whether merely mentioning such a thing would bring a similar event upon himself.
Instead, he continued his inquiry thusly, “It is of some importance. A man lies ill.” He then hastened to explain further as the Rom before him became defensive. “I am not here to cause you or yours any hardship. I am not seeking to assign blame or anything of the sort. I wish only to understand what occurred so that I might better address the needs of the ill man. I assure you, sir, that I mean you no ill will.”
The man’s gaze grew darker for a moment, and Weyland hurriedly fumbled in his purse for another coin, bringing up a second shilling. With another motion, fast as lightning striking, the second coin vanished, and the Romani man nodded. “You will speak to Andrzej.”
Other men came up then and, smiling, patted him on the back, leading him deeper into the camp. He found his reception to be much warmer and thus found it more necessary to keep an eye upon the hands which sought to embrace him. The young man who had taken his money led the way without looking back but spoke quickly and dizzily. He was either confident that Weyland’s quest would ensure that he continue after, or he did not care. Dominic was unable to discern which.
Such was his concern for being stranded among these people that Weyland turned then and spoke briefly with the driver of the dogcart, stressing that the vehicle was not to be commissioned by any other, and that the driver was to await his return no matter the situation.
What followed was a series of short, and often incomprehensive, encounters. Dominic was at times able to follow the inquiries of his guide, but as often as not was left scratching his head as to what words had been spoken. The camp was much larger than he had expected, extending into the trees more deeply than he had first calculated, and he was soon mildly disoriented by the maze-like layout of the camp. His guide, on the other hand, had no difficulty navigating the warren, although Dominic was soon aware that the young man was, at times, intentionally taking him by the least direct route.
The encampment was filled with an array of colors and smells which contributed to a disorienting effect upon the gentleman. Between these and the manner in which his guide seemed to navigate without reason, he was soon unable to speak with certainty as to in which direction laid the dogcart. If this was enough to befuddle him, then he could hardly begin to imagine what experience the Woolroy’s had undergone in speaking to a member of this community at night. It was simply the tangible elements which weighed upon him; rather, it was as though the very air itself seethed with magic.
The process became a somewhat repetitive ordeal, and it occurred to him more than once that his guide had no real method to his direction, but instead, took him to various parts of the encampment seemingly at random. He would arrive at a new location, whereupon his guide would introduce Dominic’s cause.
Those to whom he was introduced would then do one of two things. They would either deny any knowledge of benefit, or they would express energetic interest in assisting his cause. In either case, he was usually inundated with one form of solicitation or another. The only exceptions were those who would immediately redirect the curious Englishman to another person who might or might not be of assistance to the investigation. While it did not take long, Dominic Weyland was humbled by the amount of time that it took for him question whether or not there was such a person as possessed the moniker Andrzej.
In these encounters, Weyland met tinkers, smiths, and merchants of any number of rubbish. There was even one particularly skilled lad who could be called nothing less than a horologist. Within his wagon were dozens of watches and chronographs, many of which had clearly been broken at one time or
another. As Weyland approached, he was working on what appeared to be the early stages of a small automaton. His table was littered with components and tools, which included a set of sheers and punches which he apparently used to fashion gears from sheets of copper.
Aside from this singular matter of intrigue, however, the gentleman was most often concerned with the effort of keeping his property about himself as he was frequently startled to find a new and unknown person uncomfortably behind or beside him.
After a substantial period of time, Weyland found himself in front of a caravan which had been converted into a roughhewn coppersmith. An older man sat beneath the awning of the wagon, huddled close to the fire as he pounded dents from a copper kettle. Weyland’s guide smiled expansively as he gestured to the older man. “Does the English sir find need of a new pot? They will be as good as new.”
“Ah.” Weyland looked upon the older man, who smiled at him expectantly. “I would really prefer to know if he possesses any information about the woman in question.”
The man’s visage darkened, and not for the first time, Weyland wondered if it was improper to be inquiring about this community’s female population. Certainly if a stranger came asking about a female relation of his, he would undoubtedly be as taciturn. Nevertheless, he pushed forward his agenda. “She would have been in town some nights past, a friend of mine and his wife encountered her?”
“There are many women in this camp. All good Christians.”
“I have no doubt,” said Weyland placatingly, “but I am looking for one woman in particular, there is an allegation of …”
He found himself strangely hesitant to say the word "curse," as if afraid to give the word credence. Surely here, in the bright winter sunlight, there was no chance of such a thing occurring to him, and yet he discovered that it was hard to shake an unfamiliar itch which had grown between his shoulders, an itch which was no doubt a result of a superstitious fear that such a thing might be possible.
The Dandy Boys Mysteries (Vengeance Book 0) Page 4
