The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy

by Liese Sherwood-Fabre

  “Who was he?”

  “The person mother had arranged as my escort. Captain Vincent Rogers. A spy. I do not know how she knew him, but he had been observing the Russians. The escape was quite long and dangerous.” She stared at what remained on her plate and turned her head as if the food were rancid. “He was…was kind, strong, and quite a gentleman, despite his trade. I was scared and grieving the loss of my brave mother. He comforted me. Please understand, my father didn’t simply allow me to leave. We were pursued. More than once, he saved my life. We grew to love each other and married.”

  “Where is the pendant now?”

  “Hidden.”

  Mother opened her mouth to ask for additional information, but before she could, the door swung back, and the matron entered the room. “The prisoners are lining up for their daily exercise. She must join them now.”

  Chanda’s gaze met my mother’s, her plea to remain with us awhile longer obvious. Mother, however, merely rose to speak to the gaoler.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Raymond, for the warning. We won’t detain her.” The rest of us stood, and Mother took Chandra’s hands in her own. “We will be back. Take heart.”

  The woman bowed slightly and raised my mother’s hands to her forehead. “Thank you, madam. For everything. But most of all, for believing in me.”

  She straightened her back, joined the matron at the door, and faced to us once again. “I truly have appreciated your hospitality, Mrs. Holmes. I must warn you, however, that some of the boards in my room are loose. It would be unsafe for the next occupant.”

  With that, she turned back around and stepped from the room.

  In the carriage ride back to Underbyrne, Mother tapped a finger to her lips. “We haven’t much time to prepare. Chanda’s trial will be at the next quarter session in January. It will be here in no time.”

  “The evidence certainly is damning. Particularly with Miss Meredith accusing her,” Uncle Ernest said with a shake of his head.

  “I’ve considered that,” Mother said. “When I examined Miss Meredith’s injury, it is quite apparent she struck her head on the worktable. Given that position, I don’t think she could have lost consciousness.”

  “Are you saying she was pretending?” I asked.

  “Recall what Mr. Moto demonstrated. To render your opponent unconscious, you must hit the head with enough force for the brain to bounce violently within the skull and at certain points on the jaw or chin, but the forehead”—she shook her head—“highly unlikely.”

  Ernest gasped. “That’s why no one was seen leaving the workshop.”

  “Precisely,” Mother said. “Almost too perfect, wouldn’t you say? Chanda did share one detail with us: we must search her room immediately.”

  Mother, Ernest, and I stood in the entrance to the small maid’s room down the hall from Mr. Moto’s room. Despite the few items Chanda had carried with her on her trip to Underbyrne, the disarray in the room rivaled that of Mr. Moto’s. Mother put her hands on her hips and studied the chaos of the dismantled bed, the mattress and coverings thrown to one corner; yards of brightly colored fabric, similar to the saffron one she’d worn the evening I met her, unfurled and strewn over furniture; papers scattered over the floor. But of greatest concern—what I stared open-mouthed at—were the floorboards that had been dislodged and thrown into another corner. I stepped into the room and stared into the shallow space now open in the floor.

  “How did they know?” I asked.

  “They didn’t,” Mother said, stepping to the corner and picking up a banner of bright blue fabric and slowly folding it. “At least initially. If they had, there would have been no need to cause such destruction. My guess is that they happened upon the boards after they had failed to find the pendant among her things.”

  “You believe the pendant is important?”

  Uncle Ernest moved to my side and studied the area at my feet. “The mangala sutra denotes a married woman. It is usually made of gold and is, therefore, valuable. I suppose someone might take it for that.”

  “Possibly,” Mother said with a frown. “She told us he said to never take it off. And he was a spy. Perhaps he hid something in it?”

  “In either case, who did this?” I asked.

  “Perhaps we may find other answers among her things,” she said, reaching for a length of scarlet fabric. “Let’s straighten up the items and see what we may find.”

  With an odd sense of familiarity, a repeat of our actions in Mr. Moto’s room, Mother and I, and Ernest this time, collected and folded Chanda’s clothing, remade the bed, and replaced the floorboards. Throughout the process, I kept vigilant for anything that might point to the culprit but found nothing. Mother’s movements, too, seemed very deliberate. Only my uncle’s actions, while slow almost to the point of glacial, appeared distracted.

  I paused to watch him turn what appeared to be a gold hair ornament over and over in his hands. His thoughts, I imagined, were thousands of miles away. Did he recognize the piece? Had it belonged to Chanda’s mother? He had told me a few months ago he had been in love once, in India. How hard it must be to see the young woman and contemplate what might have been. All the more reason to help her. To preserve what was left of his memories of that time.

  Mother broke into both our thoughts. Smoothing out the blanket that now lay taut over the narrow bed, she said, “This exercise provided us with two bits of information. Whoever searched this room, while destructive, was meticulous and left nothing to indicate the perpetrator. All the same, it also points to Chanda’s innocence. If she were guilty of attacking Meredith or Mr. Moto, why search her room, or why not leave something to point to her guilt?”

  “We have nothing more to help her than when we arrived here,” my uncle said and glanced at the object in his hand.

  As if seeing it for the first time, he studied the ornament again before placing it on a small table serving as a nightstand next to the bed. A thought crossed my mind about how common it was for women to decorate their hair with items like that ornament and—

  “Ribbons,” I said, only realizing I had said it aloud when the other two turned to me. Swallowing, I explained. “The other day, when I went to market with Constance, we had a little mishap with some gypsies.”

  I quickly summarized our encounter with the pickpocket four days earlier. At the conclusion, I said, “The boy indicated he knew something about Chanda’s husband. I think we should find out what he knows.”

  “We certainly have no other direction at the moment,” Mother said, tapping her finger to her lips. “If anyone would be attuned to the less savory elements of the village, this group would be. If we all agree that Chanda is not behind the murders or the attack on Miss Meredith, that leaves either someone from outside…or in the household.”

  “Are you suggesting—?” I shuddered, recalling my discussion with Trevor. Suddenly, an outsider held much more appeal as the culprit than any of our guests or servants.

  Ernest shook his head. “It’s too dangerous to go to the gypsy camp. The boy may have been merely setting a trap.”

  “For what purpose? He could have robbed Sherlock there in the market. Like Sherlock, I think the offer was sincere—a repayment of a debt for not pointing out his companion.”

  “All the same, a woman of your stature can’t very well go traipsing about in the woods with a bunch of gypsies.”

  “Romani. They prefer the term ‘Romani.’ And no, I wasn’t considering going myself. After all, they haven’t invited me.” She turned her gaze to me. “They invited Sherlock…and Constance.”

  Another shudder raced down my spine. Four days ago, I’d been eager to visit the camp, to learn what the young man had promised to share there. That was before Mr. Moto’s death. Now, I wasn’t so confident. Uncle Ernest, however, was the one to express such concerns out loud.

  “Two children? Alone? Too dangerous.”

  “They wouldn’t be alone. We would go with them, just not into the camp. Close en
ough to hear if they call out.”

  “This is madness,” my uncle said, throwing up his hands. He paced in a circle and stopped only with my mother’s next statement.

  “At the moment, I see no other way to save Chanda.”

  With that pronouncement, he stared at her for a moment and then at the stack of neatly folded fabric on the bed. With a sigh, he asked, “What sort of plan do you have in mind?”

  Despite her warnings to me as well as her siblings, Constance agreed to Mother’s request to accompany us to the Romani camp. After lunch, they met in her sitting room. Afterward, my friend sought me out where I was finally playing that promised game of chess with Trevor.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” she said after we exchanged greetings.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Trevor asked, glancing first at me and then Constance. “Mightn’t I come too?”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” I said in a tone I hoped warned Constance to change the subject or at least make the appointment less appealing.

  “That’s right. We’ll just be practicin’ some more. Mrs. Holmes still wants us to perform after your Aunt Rose arrives.” She glanced at us and the board. “I can tell you’re concentratin’ now, and I’ve got to get back to the children. See you later.”

  After she’d gone, my cousin stared down at the board and picked up a pawn he’d captured from me. He rolled it between his two palms. “I’m not sure we’ll be here when Aunt Rose comes. Mummy wants to leave. Miss Bowen told me.”

  He set the piece down with a sigh. I gazed at the board but found my thoughts kept returning to this bit of news. Despite all that had happened, I saw no prospect of Meredith or the colonel leaving soon. While she was no longer confined to bed, she appeared less than hardy and required help from her uncle or, at times, Mycroft’s arm when a bout of dizziness hit her. I now had to consider she might be acting. And maybe not just for pretense sake—perhaps to ensure Mycroft’s attention as well.

  If Aunt Iris left, however, it would mean new sleeping arrangements could open up. Iris’s departure would mean Miss Meredith could abandon my room and move into my aunt’s. A few days ago, the idea would have caused me great joy.

  Now, however, Aunt Iris’s parting would mean Trevor’s as well, which struck me as…regrettable. I glanced at the boy. His head was down, and his lower lip protruded, not in concentration, but in melancholy. We both were upset about the prospect of him leaving. His presence had been a constant this past week and, although at times annoying, had provided some pleasant pastimes. Not to mention some valuable observations on the night of Chanda’s husband’s murder.

  “I don’t think your mother will be ready to travel for at least a few more days,” I said, hoping to raise his spirits. The woman remained in bed, and Mother continued to send up pots of tea to keep her nerves calm. “By then, who knows? She might change her mind.”

  “I hope so,” he said, picking up his knight and placing it on a space occupied by one of my own. “There’s so much more to do here than in London.”

  Ernest arranged with Mr. Straton the use of one of the wagons the next morning on the pretext of bringing some supplies for his workshop from town. He, mother, and I all dressed as laborers, using some of the costumes we kept for playing charades during family visits. When she’d opened the trunk, a small tremor traveled down my spine. The last time I’d worn a disguise, the midwife’s murderer had kidnapped and almost killed me.

  Mother must have noticed my reaction because she put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll be within shouting distance. One call, and we’ll come running.”

  While their presence nearby was comforting, I kept my concern that I might not be able to call out to myself.

  Mother and Ernest took their places on the driver’s bench, and my uncle slid a rifle onto the boards underneath his feet. He winked at me when he saw I’d observed him. “Can never be too cautious, I say.”

  Constance and I lay in the back of the wagon, cocooned in blankets once again. As we moved onto the road, she placed her hands under her head and focused her gaze on the brightening sky.

  “This is my favorite part of the day,” she said with a sigh. “When everything is peaceful, waitin’ like. When you can ask, What’s this day goin’ to bring?”

  I grunted in response and stared at the sky, trying to see it from her perspective. I considered whether I had a favorite part of the day and decided I’d not given it much thought. For most of my life, my days had been regulated in one way or another. My parents and social convention determined a regimented schedule of schoolwork, meals, and evening activities. My private time, time in which I determined what I did, I realized, were the moments I most cherished. They were not necessarily spent alone, but they were mine to choose to use as I saw fit. Even at Eton, although my time there had been short, I found the “free time” the most enjoyable.

  The rocking of the wagon bed lulled me into a half-stupor, and I found myself drifting off in the semidarkness. After what seemed only a short time later, the pace slowed, and I could hear other traffic moving about us on the road to town. Constance and I raised ourselves on our elbows to see over the tailgate.

  Carts and other wagons similar to the one we were in carried all manner of items. I also caught the scent of smoke and the aroma of meat grilling over an open flame. My stomach rumbled. Despite the breakfast I’d eaten before we left, I knew now I should have had more.

  As if following the scent, Ernest pulled the wagon to a halt by the side of the road and let us jump out before moving on. Our plan was to appear as if we’d walked into town. After the wagon passed a slight bend in the road, we moved on foot toward the Romani’s fires.

  I glanced at Constance. Her mouth was a determined line. I didn’t share her unease. While I knew I had to be vigilant, I was also quite eager—and more than a little curious—to actually see the camp. Before my brush with the pickpocket at the market, I’d never had more than a glimpse of the Romani secondhand stalls on market day and only from a distance. Father warned us the items had probably been stolen from another village. He’d actually had a case where a gentleman had tracked a band to our market and identified several objects taken from his home only three days earlier.

  Because we didn’t want to appear as if we were sneaking up on the camp, we tramped through the woods without any attempt at stealth. I wasn’t surprised, therefore, when five men stepped forward to stop our progress on the edge of the camp. They wore the same type of colorful pants as the man in the stables had. Dark vests covered blousy-sleeved white shirts, and short-brimmed hats topped off their long hair. Behind them, about twenty colorful wagons circled five fires set about to cook their meals in a large clearing.

  Constance moved closer and slightly behind me.

  I swallowed at the sight of the heavy blades they carried at their sides. At that moment, I wasn’t sure the decision to come here had been a prudent one, and my earlier curiosity dampened considerably. Forcing a bravado I didn’t feel inside, I met their stares with one of my own.

  The oldest, a gruff man with a rather greasy, unkempt beard, eyed us from beneath the brim of his hat. “You have no business here. Turn back.”

  “We were invited,” I said a little more loudly than needed, “by a friend of Cappi’s.”

  The men glanced at each other, and the one who’d spoken to us shouted over his shoulder. “Cappi? Get over here.”

  A door to one of the wagons opened and slammed shut. The boy who’d tried to pick my pocket hustled down a short set of stairs by the wagon’s door and across the grass. Two of the men stepped aside to let the boy through. He glanced at me and turned to the apparent leader.

  “You know these two?” the man asked.

  He squinted at me and said, “The girl, I saw in the market the other day. The boy, I don’t recognize.”

  “He tried to pick my pocket,” I said, raising my voice. “I got him, but I let him go before the police office
r arrived. Another boy invited us.”

  “That’d be Gallius,” the boy said. “He was my crow.”

  Crow. The word brought back an incident only a few months before when I’d been Constance’s crow, keeping watch for trouble, when she’d spied on the constable. Now I understood better what Gallius had been doing in the market that day.

  Following another scrutinizing squint, the bearded man called out again. “Gallius?”Another brief wait as the young man exited the same wagon and trotted to our little group.

  “Did you invite them two here?”

  “They wanted their fortunes told, Fonso. They asked on market day,” he said after he studied us for a moment.

  Fortunes? I opened my mouth to protest but caught his steady gaze on me. Pushing down my first reaction, I held up a penny instead. “We have coins to pay.”

  The man’s huge hand wrapped itself around my fingers with the money. “Of course you do.”

  He squeezed hard, and I released the coin into his grasp. He studied it as it lay in the palm of his hand and dropped it into his pocket. “You got more?”

  I paused, knowing if I answered affirmatively, he would take what I had in my pocket. If I denied having more, he’d probably search me, and it might go worse when he found them.

  Constance must have sensed my dilemma because she spoke up for the first time since we got off the wagon. “They’re for our fortune.”

  The men chuckled, but Gallius pointed toward another trailer. “Then you need to see Drina. This way.”

  The men parted, and we followed him into the camp proper.

  As we passed the man, Constance slipped her hand into mine. Her palm was damp in my grasp, the only indication she wasn’t as confident as she appeared. Crossing the camp, I knew the men continued to stare at us the whole way, their suspicions weighing on my back.

  We crossed almost the entire camp before Gallius ascended the steps of one wagon. He pulled open the dark-green door painted with a large eye and waved us inside.