The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  Her choice of the French word wasn’t simply a slip of the tongue. It came from the Latin for gorging oneself, and the term best described such an all-consuming passion. The word forced a shudder down my spine as I imagined my solitude-loving brother at the center of a blazing pyre fed by Miss Meredith. Surely that wasn’t what I felt for Constance? I considered her my friend, but was that how Constance viewed it as well?

  “Is that what Constance is afraid of? That our friendship will burn out?”

  “Not so much be burned out as replaced.”

  “Which is why she’s so mad at Emily.” I shared with her the report about the cook’s assistant helping out with Constance’s younger siblings. “She’s afraid she’ll be replaced there, too.”

  “It seems to suggest that. Her resentment isn’t truly anger but rather fear. She values your friendship and her father’s love. Both appear in jeopardy at the moment.” The grandfather clock chimed faintly in the background. “I had no idea it was so late. I need to change before luncheon. Why don’t you finish this row for me, and I’ll see you in the dining room?”

  I had learned a long time ago that my mother had a knack not only for reading other people, but also for planting the seed needed for introspection and the time to do so. By the end of the row she’d asked me to tend, I had come to several decisions: I had most certainly failed to defend a friend, and regardless of English conventions when it came to class, I owed her more loyalty than I had displayed. Both an apology and the attention she deserved as a friend were due to her.

  Following the meal, I headed to the assistant steward’s cottage.

  When Constance’s father had accepted the position of Underbyrne’s assistant steward, the Straton family moved from a dilapidated hut on the estate of Lord Devony to a cottage on our own land. In addition to being larger, the dwelling was in a much better state of repair and was divided into various rooms and had an actual floor, not simply swept dirt. It was also much closer to the stables, to provide Mr. Straton easy access to the animals and the manor house by a path through the bordering woods. Breaking through the trees and into the clearing surrounding the cottage, I paused to consider the neat brick building with its thatched roof, smoke curling from the chimney in the roof’s center. A part of me envied the Stratons’ simpler quarters. It held a fairy tale quality missing from Underbyrne’s more massive structure.

  As I admired her home, Constance stepped outside, carrying a bucket. She pulled a shawl wrapped over her head and shoulders tighter against a sudden gust of wind. When I saw she was heading to the well, I called to her.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  She turned, her mouth and eyes rounded, but her lips quickly formed a straight line. “Don’t sneak up on a body like that. I almost dropped dead from fright. What are you doin’ here anyway?”

  I dropped my gaze, my effort to make amends starting off badly. “I-I came here to apologize. I shouldn’t have let Mycroft speak to you as he did.”

  She glanced down at the ground and kicked at the dirt there. “And I’m sorry for jumpin’ on you just now. ’Specially since you were tryin’ to help.” She held out the bucket and pointed with her chin to the pump where she’d been heading. “You can bring in the water while I start the meal.”

  The moment I returned to the house with the full bucket, her younger brothers and sisters swarmed about me. The sight of the plump cheeks on the baby straddling Constance’s hip delighted me. Four months ago, I feared it might not live. Following Constance’s directions, I poured the water in the bucket into a barrel after filling a kettle. She hung the kettle on a hook over the fire and repositioned a fire screen in front of it. Her precautions brought additional respect for my friend. The papers carried stories all the time of children who were burned by the fire or scalded when trying to drink from a boiling kettle.

  “I’ll be makin’ tea for the children. You want some?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  Following her orders again, I put some of the water into a basin for the children to use to wash their hands and faces while she gathered the tea things. The three older children settled onto a bench and waited for their sister to cut some bread and cheese to go along with the tea. I took a seat on the bench on the table’s other side and found myself staring at three pairs of wide eyes.

  “My papa works for yours, don’t he?” the oldest boy, Harold, asked.

  I nodded, unsure of anything to add.

  “And you’ve been teachin’ my sister to read,” said Mildred, his younger sister. “She’s been teachin’ us our letters too.”

  “A, B, C, D…” the youngest said, rapidly running through the alphabet.

  “Very good, Victor,” Constance said, stepping to the table. “Mildred, come take the baby. I gots to pour the water and don’t want to burn anyone.”

  Once they all had their tea, Constance flopped onto the bench next to me and pulled her own plate toward her. “Papa’s takin’ me into town with him and Mrs. Simpson tomorrow. He promised me some ribbons for my hair.”

  With no interest in ribbon shopping, I made some noncommittal noise to let her know I’d heard. Her next remark, however, forced me to ask for her to repeat it.

  With a roll of her eyes, she said, “Papa said the children can’t come because of the gypsies. They steal children, you know.”

  While I would have liked to point out that their reputation was greater for helping themselves to more easily concealed and less troublesome items than children, I held my thoughts as her remark pulled up the image of the man in the stable.

  Had the constable determined if anyone was missing from their number?

  Another comment from her banished that thought from my head.

  “I need to finish filling the water barrel. Let’s leave the children to eat, and you grab the bucket.”

  After wrapping herself in the shawl, she led the way outside. Once away from the house, she turned to me. “What’s troublin’ you?”

  Despite etiquette to the contrary, I stared at her. Both she and my mother somehow were able to read my mood even when I tried to mask it. Were women more attuned to others’ emotions, or did I simply lack some training? I would have to work on this skill.

  I sighed, glanced at the well, and then back at her. “I don’t know. I just feel…like things are changing. Between you and me.”

  “I feels it too,” she said and took the bucket from me to set it below the spout. She motioned to me to pump the handle. “I ’spect when you come back, it won’t be the same between us at all. You’ll be older. Met new people. Had new adventures. Me, I’ll have been right here. Nothing new for me.”

  My heart squeezed in my chest. I didn’t want to lose Constance. She said I’d have new adventures, but the ones I’d had with her had been the best. All strength drained from me, and when I lifted the bucket, it felt filled with lead rather than water.

  I trudged back to the house, feeling as if each step was ticking away the time remaining. If only—

  I stopped and turned to her, a smile breaking across my face. “Could I go with you to town tomorrow?”

  “As long as your mother agrees, I suppose so. What for?”

  “Just to get out of the house,” I said with a shrug.

  I couldn’t share that I wanted to spend more time with her, to savor our friendship a little more before the inevitable arrived.

  She cocked her head to one side, as if trying to gain a different perspective on me and my possible motives. “I suppose it best to go with me and Papa. You’re a fine pick for the gypsies.”

  “I don’t think they’d steal me,” I said, barely able to hide my amusement about her concern for her younger brothers and sisters.

  “It’s not you. It’s your pockets I’m worried about. They could fleece you before you even saw them.”

  I pushed down a retort about her having taught me the art well enough to know when someone was picking my pocket. My mentioning her own skill in that area hadn�
��t been well received that day. Instead, I hurried back to the house with the bucket to finish filling the barrel inside, now feeling lighter despite my load. My friendship with Constance had been repaired, at least for the moment, and I could concentrate on other matters—such as seeking out the gypsies she predicted I’d attract.

  Chapter Four

  Market day in our town always brought vendors and buyers from all over the county, but with the holidays fast approaching, the variety and numbers of both increased greatly. Mother readily gave her consent for me to go with Mr. Straton and Constance and didn’t even mention the possibility of Trevor being included in the trip, for which I was truly grateful. Vendors arrived before daybreak to set up their stalls in an open area just to one side of the town center. Their displays offered everything from eggs and butter straight from the farm to freshly prepared food to secondhand clothing and household items. Given the season, different stalls also offered toys, Christmas jellies, and other gifts.

  Mr. Straton had arranged a cart for our trip. He and Mrs. Simpson took the seat in front, leaving Constance and me to ride in the back. They had thought to include some blankets, and soon we were wrapped in separate tight bundles like two seated cocoons. Every time the wagon hit a rut or stone, it pitched to one side or the other. Unable to brace ourselves because our hands were bound inside the covers, we’d roll in the same direction, awaiting the next obstacle to send us to the opposite side.

  By the time we reached the town, the sun had risen higher and warmed us enough that we could shed some of our layers. After securing the wagon and horse, Mr. Straton helped each of us descend from our perches.

  Mrs. Simpson pulled out a list, studied it, and turned to Mr. Straton. “I’ll need you to help carry my purchases. Follow me.”

  The man hesitated, his gaze shifting to Constance. I could tell he was torn between his promise to his daughter and the housekeeper’s command.

  “Mrs. Simpson,” I asked, “would it be all right for Constance and me to explore on our own? Mother gave me some coins, and I do want a pasty.”

  “All right, but be back here on the hour.”

  With a nod to our elders, we were off. My nose led us straight to the row of food stalls, and we quickly purchased the meat pies, which we nibbled as we went in search of Constance’s ribbons. Upon finding several vendors in a row, the variety of colors, patterns, and textures overwhelmed me. My mind spun at the diverse ways one could categorize the specimens. Constance, however, seemed to have some clear idea of what she wanted and scoured through the offerings at a number of stalls, considering some but finally rejecting them. I soon was able to identify her preferences and helped her select possible candidates. The process took us farther and farther down the row, and the volume of shoppers increased. I found myself being pushed and jostled about by those moving past.

  We stopped at one booth deep in the heart of the market, and my friend applied herself to scrutinizing the man’s wares as she had at the others. Almost at the same moment she brandished a satin indigo band with a squeal of delight, I yelped, aware of a hand digging into my pocket. I reached down to capture the culprit, and rough cloth grazed my fingers. Before I could close down upon the pickpocket, someone shoved me from behind, propelling me into Constance, and both of us landed on the stall’s table. As we slipped on the churned-up mud in front of the stall, I caught a glimpse of a young Romani boy threading his way quickly through the crowd, leaving the row in the same direction as we had come.

  I pulled Constance to her feet and dragged her behind me in pursuit of the gypsy.

  “Sherlock, where are you going? My ribbon—” she said, twisting the arm still in my grasp.

  I pushed on in an effort to overtake the boy, speaking to her over my shoulder in quick pants. “That boy. Tried to steal my money.”

  “I told you to watch out for the gypsies.”

  “Did. Money wasn’t in my pocket.”

  “Then why are you—?”

  “Want to talk to him.”

  I could hear shouts behind me but ignored them, my attention fixed on the fleeing boy. He was having more trouble pushing through the crowd than we were and actually served us like a plow’s chisel, clearing our way. He must have realized we were gaining because he slipped between two stalls. We did the same, and I managed to grab his arm just as he exited onto the next row’s aisle.

  He squirmed in my grasp, but I held fast.

  “Let me go.”

  “Just want…to ask…a question,” I said, forcing my words out between rapid breaths.

  “I’s don’t have to—”

  “Will you just listen?” I said as I caught my breath. I jerked his arm. “There was a man dressed as a gypsy killed two nights ago.”

  “I didn’t kilt nobody.”

  “I know that, but did you know him? Is there anyone missing from your group?”

  “Let me go.”

  “There they are,” a man’s voice boomed from farther up the new row of stalls.

  The ribbon vendor, a rotund, red-faced man, was waving his arms and shouting for the constable as he marched toward us. Behind him was an odd assembly of vendors, shoppers, and the simply curious, primed to enjoy what promised to be some free entertainment.

  “Let him go,” Constance whispered to me from the side of her mouth.

  “But he hasn’t answered my question.”

  “And he won’t. He doesn’t know. Let him go before they get here.”

  I wanted to argue with her, but she tugged on my arm, letting the boy slip from my grip and back through the stalls. Preparing to reprimand her for letting the boy get away, I turned to her, but the merchant’s voice at my back signaled more immediate issues to be dealt with. Inhaling a deep breath, I spun back around and blocked Constance from the man. Squaring my shoulders, I braced myself for the oncoming storm.

  “You’ve destroyed my business,” the man said, shaking a fistful of muddied ribbons at me. He glanced over my shoulder at Constance. “And she ran off without payin’ for that one.”

  Only then did I realize she still held the one that had caught her eye at the same moment as my pocket had attracted the gypsy boy. To my surprise, despite all the running, the ribbon remained pristine, albeit slightly wrinkled.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” another voice boomed.

  A chill traveled down my spine. I recognized the voice as belonging to a police officer who’d almost arrested me several months ago. Thanks to Constance, our previous encounter had concluded with my escape. Given the throng about us this time, however, running off wasn’t possible. He grabbed my coat collar and lifted me to study my face. He must have had a meat pie as well. A few bits of crust clung to his lips. I prayed he wouldn’t recognize me as the same boy in apprentice clothes he’d caught spying into a hotel window.

  I swallowed hard and glanced about at the crowd around me. “You see, sir, there was this boy, and he tried to steal my money, and someone pushed me—”

  The officer turned to the still-vermillion-tinged merchant. “You want I should haul them in?”

  I swallowed again, knowing my father would not look favorably upon his son being brought before the constable, regardless of the circumstances.

  “That’s not going to pay for my losses,” the man said.

  “How much?” I asked, thinking of my coins safely tucked away in a small pouch hanging about my neck.

  The amount he named took my breath away. My little treasury didn’t cover even a fifth of it. I glanced down at the muddy grass at my feet before responding. “I don’t have that much.”

  “But I do,” a man said beyond the circle of bystanders surrounding us.

  The officer dropped me to the ground when Mr. Straton stepped up and stood beside us. I pulled my head down into my collar. For certain, this incident would be reported back to my parents. While the sum wasn’t a great burden to them, my running through the market and other actions unworthy of my station would be pointed out to me in no
uncertain terms—especially by my father.

  Our assistant steward held out his hand, and I placed all that I had in it. After adding to it, he paid off the merchant, and the officer dispersed the crowd.

  Once alone, Mr. Straton glared at each of us in turn, the two of us dropping our heads in response. After a moment, he turned on his heel and said, “Mrs. Simpson is waiting for us at the wagon. Come along.”

  The man’s long legs soon put him several strides ahead of us. As his daughter and I trudged back through the stalls, all the vendors’ and customers’ gazes burned on my back. Once Mr. Straton was well ahead of us, a young man fell in step beside me.

  After a glance at the man’s back, he whispered to us, “How come you let Cappi go?”

  “Cappi? You mean the Romani boy?” I asked and shrugged. “He didn’t take anything.”

  “But you caught ’im with his hand in your pocket. How’d you do that?”

  Another shrug. “I felt him.”

  “Cappi’s the best dipper ever. He could even steal the halo from an angel.”

  I glanced at him and realized I recognized the coarse coat he wore. “You’re the one who pushed me into the stall.”

  He bobbed his head. “I had to do somethin’ so’s Cappi could get away.” Another glance at Mr. Straton’s back. “He said you asked him about a missin’ gypsy.”

  “Do you know about it?”

  “You seem a good cove. Come to our camp, and I’ll tell you what we know.”

  “Can’t you tell me now?”

  Another glance. “Too dangerous here. Come to the camp.”

  Before I could respond or ask another question, the young man dashed off.

  Constance stopped and pulled on my arm, turning me to face her. “You aren’t thinkin’ of goin’?”

  “They might know something. I have to try.”

  “And you believe him?” she asked, shaking her head. “It has to be a trap. They wants to rob you of what they didn’t get earlier.”

  “I have to know what happened to that man.”