Even so, I had misgivings as I approached the gipsy caravan with Sally by my side, knowing that we were going under false pretences. It was a pleasant summer evening, balmy enough for me to go jacketless. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle, the blackbirds were singing, but I was apprehensive.
Apart from anything else, I recalled that Sir Ernest Shackleton had been told by a gipsy that he would die at the age of forty-eight. He had dropped dead in exactly that year even though he had seemed strong as an ox and was leading an expedition to the Antarctic. I did not believe in fortune tellers, even gipsy ones, but I should not wish to hear my fate pronounced like that.
And Skinner, usually so keen to walk into the lion’s jaws, had been spooked by the very idea of talking to the woman. He was not a superstitious man, but he did not like the idea of meeting her face-to-face one bit, though he would not explain why he was afraid. I suspected the fear had rubbed off on him from the gipsies he had known who’d made a sign to ward off the evil eye whenever something unlucky was mentioned. That sort of thing was contagious.
“Don’t worry,” Sally said, taking my arm. “I’ll do all the talking. You just keep your eyes open and look out for whatever it is you’re looking out for.”
The gipsy woman was sitting on the back step of the caravan, with a basket of sewing, under a sort of portico behind the front door. The dogs lifted their heads in unison, uncertain whether to bark.
“Hello,” said Sally brightly. “I’m Sally. You remember my note? I said around seven o’clock. I hope you were expecting us.”
“One time’s as good as another for me,” said the gipsy, putting her work aside.
“This is Harry.”
I nodded and removed my bowler.
“Pleased, I’m sure. You can call me Madam Hester.”
Up close, the caravan’s decorations proved to be highly elaborate. It was not just painted, but every panel was a different picture, making a whole parade of images, and the supports between were covered in gold leaf filigreed to a remarkable level of detail. The whole thing was as neat as a pin.
“Your caravan is quite a work of art.” I let the dogs sniff my hand. They wagged their tails energetically and licked my fingers. They seemed like friendly beasts.
“Do they bite?” asked Sally.
“Wouldn’t be much use as guard dogs if they didn’t,” said the gipsy. “I suppose you two had better come in.”
She rose to her feet and opened the door behind her. We went up the steep wooden steps after her and into the interior of the caravan.
I reached the top step and looked into the shadowy interior. “Should I remove my shoes?”
“No, no, just come in.” She was lighting a candle. “But before we start, it’s two shillings. Each.”
She laughed at Sally’s horror. Four shillings was a day’s pay in the pickle factory.
“I’ve got grandchildren and grandnieces and grandnephews. There’s no work, and gipsies don’t live on fresh air and sunshine,” she said. “Besides, the more you pay, the more you’ll listen. Four shillings, and you’ll pay the proper attention.”
I handed over the money without demur. Hester secreted the coins in a hidden pocket.
“Whose idea was it to come to me?”
“Hers,” I said, and Hester gave a knowing smile, as though she already had the measure of us.
The interior of the caravan was more spacious than I expected, the barrel-vaulted roof giving a good clearance even for one of my height. The layout was much like that of a small boat, with all the conveniences of everyday life reproduced in compact form and everything tidily stowed away. There was a stove built in to one side, a curtained alcove that had to be a bunk, and two separate washbasins. No books anywhere, though. Many gipsies, especially the older ones, were as averse to reading as Skinner. The interior was quite as ornate as the exterior; almost every surface was decorated with the most intricate woodcarvings, including the curved ceiling.
After a time, I saw that some of the carvings were of a disquieting nature, with little details that made them monstrous. I was especially struck by a carving on a pillar that showed trees with hands and twisted faces and roots coiling like serpents. Why would someone choose to live with such decoration? Lit by one candle, the caravan felt like a deep cave, the retreat of some obscure and sinister cult. Perhaps it was only menacing to outsiders.
Hester directed us to sit on a sort of padded chest, which made a comfortable and sturdy seat. After a moment, she passed us two steaming cups. Up close, I could see that her face was a mass of fine wrinkles, though her hair was jet black and I would have been hard put to guess her age. She had reached a point where the passage of years would no longer alter her appearance.
“Now then, my dear. Why don’t you tell me all about it?” Hester said.
“We want to get married,” said Sally hesitantly, looking at me and back to the gipsy. “But there is a difficulty.”
“Ah, there always is, my dear. There always is. It’s your past, isn’t it?”
Sally almost dropped the teacup in surprise.
“How did you know…?”
“It’s my business to know—ain’t that why you came here?” She laughed, and there was an edge to that laugh I did not like. “I’m sorry, my dear. Do go on, now.”
Madam Hester was shrewd, but I’d read enough Sherlock Holmes stories to know she did not need to employ psychic powers to make such a deduction. The mark left by an old wedding ring, people’s shoes and clothing, and the calluses on their hands were all marks that could be read by someone who knew how. And a person might be able to guess a few things from seeing a couple our age, after the first flush of youth, dressed as we were.
“We haven’t been together very long,” said Sally, and that was true enough. She’d made the suggestion that we present ourselves as a courting couple only a few hours previously. As Sally had pointed out, women quite often went to gipsies to have fortunes told, whereas men almost never did. The only way for me to get into the caravan was in the company of a woman, and the plan had more or less hatched itself from that point onwards.
Sally was telling Hester about her first husband and the child. Hester was watching her closely, taking it all in, and that gave me an opportunity to surreptitiously inspect the caravan.
My first objective was to assess the potentialities for effecting an entrance. I had examined the lock on the back door on the way in. I now inspected the window fastenings, the hatch on one side, and the small front door.
I also attempted to locate all the places we would need to take account of if we wanted to carry out a search. But every horizontal surface seemed to be a cupboard door or a drawer, and every vertical surface seemed to be the top of a chest. The maximum amount of stowage had been incorporated into the fabric of the caravan. The thing was a masterpiece of design and contained as many potential hiding places as a decent-sized house.
And there were the dogs to consider as well.
“I was on my own. No money. Debts piling up and a baby to look after,” Sally was saying. There was a catch in her voice. “I only had one thing I could sell. Lots of women do it.”
“There, there,” said Hester. “That’s all over now.”
“Harry’s family don’t know anything about it.”
“No—and what have you told them about Sally?” Hester asked, turning to me.
“Not a thing. They don’t know about her at all,” I said. “They might have an idea I’m seeing someone.”
“Harry saved me,” said Sally quietly. “He believed in me when nobody else did.”
I shrugged modestly at this embroidering of the truth. It began to occur to me that Sally might not be entirely acting and that my part in the subsequent events and the final defeat of Roslyn D’Onston really had made me a hero in her eyes.
Hester nodded sagely. “Finish your tea now. Just leave a dreg in the bottom, and we’ll see what the leaves have to say.”
Sally passed her cup over. Hester swirled it around three times, poured the tea into a saucer, and inspected the tea leaves that remained in the cup. The rings on her fingers gleamed in the candlelight as she turned the cup to inspect its contents.
I watched closely to see what she was doing and was reminded irresistibly of Mr Yang’s curious oriental divination practices. Some of those were probably empty rituals, but he did have the ability to uncover information that was not accessible to normal human senses.
“The bottom of the cup is the past, the sides are the present, and nearest the rim is what’s to come,” she said. “We have to look at the patterns the tea leaves make, that’s the art. Now, my dear, in your past I see a man and the letter C.”
“Eddie Collins,” said Sally. “He’s not coming back, is he?” Collins was the man who had made money off of Sally when she was on the streets. She’d paid for his “protection.”
“No, he’s gone for good,” Hester said. I wondered how she could speak with such quiet confidence. Collins had last been seen heading to Manchester, but it was possible that he would show up again and want to take up where he had left off. “He’s only in your past. In your present I see a veil—that means secrets—and an anvil, which means hard work and effort.”
She paused, and again Sally filled in the gaps for her.
“They’re telling the truth there. Factory work is no picnic; that’s for sure.”
“And in your future… there are clouds. That means changes and challenges. And a chain; that can mean captivity or something else…”
I wondered if she was hinting at matrimony, but before Sally could enquire further, Hester put her cup down and took up mine.
“And what do we have here?” She looked from me to the cup. “In your past—a candle, which means trials and worries. Fighting and violence.”
“I’ve had my share,” I said, unimpressed. Anyone who saw me might have made a similar speculation.
“A comet—that’s an unexpected visitor from far away.”
My jaw might have dropped open at that point.
“See—it’s right here in the cup.” She pointed out a blob of leaves that was more of a comma or a tadpole than a comet. “And a corkscrew, which means your curiosity sometimes gets you into trouble.” She gave me a sly look. “Is that right, Harry?”
“Sometimes,” said Sally.
“And in the future—a beetle.”
That made my scalp prickle sure enough. I was ready to believe that really she was a witch.
“In the language of tea leaves, a beetle means a difficult undertaking—or a scandal.” She glanced at Sally. “And a lamp, which can mean help from others or the uncovering of secrets.”
“Anything else?” asked Sally, hoping perhaps for some sign of a wedding.
“A man, a winged man—but he’s farther off. But I see a woman,” said Hester slowly. “Another woman.”
The silence in the caravan grew.
“My mother?” I hazarded.
“No,” said Sally. “It’s her.”
“I can’t see her clearly. Why is that, hey?” Madam Hester looked up sharply as though it was her fault. “Is she your rival?”
Both women looked at me.
“She’s a rich woman who wants me to work for her,” I said. “But she means well, I think.”
“Can you tell anything else about her?” asked Sally. “Her name is Estelle De Vere, and she comes from America.”
“She’ll come between you if you let her.” Hester turned the cup this way and that as though trying to make Miss De Vere’s image come clearer through the leaves. “And round her… like burning flames maybe… what does that mean?” For the first time, she seemed puzzled, almost alarmed. “No, I don’t like the look of her.”
“I don’t like her either,” said Sally.
“She’s an obstacle,” said Hester. “A danger.”
“What should we do?”
“The leaves don’t say,” said Hester, putting the cup down. “They never tell you yea or nay. That’s not the way of it. They just show you where you are. Give you something to think about.”
She looked at us speculatively. Human life was an old, old story to her. She was shrewd enough to see through the deceit on both sides that all too often preceded a wedding—the falsehoods and empty promises that men and women both used to secure a mate. She had seen so many anxious querents asking about their prospective husbands and the doubts they harboured. She had seen the whole sorry round of disappointments, infidelities, and crashes into poverty. I suppose she had lost some human sympathy in the process.
Madam Hester had the air of a doctor who was only interested in patients with spectacularly unusual conditions and was resigned to let the normal course of mortality overtake the others. Sally and I were, perhaps, an unusual case.
“Do you ever look at your own future?” Sally asked.
“Lord, no,” said Hester. “It’s something we only do for… the natives of the land. But I can see things others can’t.” She raised her voice. “Like when a spy wants to sneak in and steal my secrets.”
Her gaze was cold steel, stabbing into my eyeballs like a stiletto, and I drew my breath. She possessed that lethal power known as the evil eye, which could paralyse the strongest man.
“I’m not scared of you,” she said, or rather sneered, as I managed to look away.
“I should hope not,” I said. “I’ve never made a habit of intimidating women, and don’t plan to start. You’ve no cause to fear me. I’m on a mission of mercy.”
That gave Madam Hester pause. She had been ready to deliver a speech about spies and sneaks, perhaps had been looking forward to it, but the line of discussion had been diverted.
“There’s this man,” I said, “an acquaintance, who has been suffering from something, and the doctors don’t know what it is.”
“What’s that to me?”
“His mind has gone, and his body is withering away. His skin is as white and dusty as chalk.”
That took her by surprise too, but after a second, she cackled. It was an ugly laugh, and she carried on for longer than was needful as though she found the news genuinely funny.
“Nobody can save men from their own folly,” she said at last. “That’s beyond my powers, or anyone’s. But don’t you worry; your friend won’t die. No, he won’t die.”
“This thing,” I said. “It’s dangerous, and I have reason to believe it might spread.”
“Of course it’s dangerous,” she said mockingly. “That’s why it has to be kept secret. And if it spreads, so much the worse!”
She cackled again, even more mirthfully than before, but when she had finished, her face was stern.
“Please, madam—”
“You’re not getting my secrets! Now, you two, get out of my home. You’ve had what you paid for.” She waved a hand. “Go. Go and get married if you think it’ll do you any good.”
I tried to apologise, but she shooed us out. “Go, go.”
I negotiated the wooden steps with slight difficulty in the dark and helped Sally down after me. One of the dogs gave a small “wuff” as we passed, and then he was silent.
“Well, you had to try,” said Sally. “Did you see anything?”
“Not much. I don’t think there’s anything there to see.”
“At least we did get our fortunes told.” She turned to me, all serious. “Do you think she really can see the future?”
“Maybe she sees something sometimes, but mainly, she’s a shrewd guesser,” I said. “I bet she knows all the ins and outs of love affairs and what people are really thinking.”
“I wouldn’t go back there. That laugh made me shiver.”
“You did a good job of keeping her talking.”
The lane was quiet; there was not another soul about.
“I was scared when she looked in the tea leaves,” she said, taking my arm in agitation. “I was worried she was going to say something about my boy. I kept th
inking of that story, the one where a man goes to a fortune teller, and the gipsy looks at his hand and straightway gives him his money back and refuses to tell him anything. The man keeps asking him, but the gipsy gets angry and turns him out. And as soon as he goes onto the street, he gets run over by a bus and killed.” She laughed. “It’s only a silly story…”
“Stories about fortune tellers are always like that,” I said. “The message is always, ‘No good can come of this.’ Whoever circulates these stories wants to discourage people from ever trying the experiment.”
“Why does she do it? Fortune telling, I mean. D’you think it’s because she likes prying into other folks’ lives?”
“That and the money,” I said. “Though as to that… I was reading about witchcraft, and one of the old witch finders said the powers the devil gave witches were all a delusion. Otherwise, they wouldn’t all be ugly old crones living in hovels—they’d make themselves young and beautiful and rich.”
The night sky was velvety black, but the more I looked, the more tiny blue-white points of light appeared. Still tinier stars emerged in the gaps between. Stafford would surely be able to count his five thousand stars with his telescope that night.
“Let’s sit down a bit,” Sally said as we reached a bench. “I wouldn’t sit out in the dark, but it’s such a warm night. And I feel safe with you. You’re so strong.”
“You’re a game girl, Sally. I don’t believe that this enterprise, harmless as it may seem, is at all free from risk.”
“Mr Skinner seemed to think it was all a lark.”
“Skinner has a want of seriousness,” I said then relented. “If you take his pronouncements at face value.”
“Life’s too serious to take too seriously.” It was a quote from musical comedy and usually said flippantly, but Sally said it so wistfully that I had an uncomfortable glimpse of the life behind her.
Alien Stars: A Harry Stubbs Adventure Page 13
