The space was crowded and the air stale. In front of us stood a table draped in a dark cloth with another flowered one spread over it. A woman sat behind the table, a similarly flowered scarf draped about her shoulders. A deck of cards lay on the table. Behind her, a heavy curtain appeared to mark off a part of the space, probably for sleeping.
“Drina, these are the two I told you about,” Gallius said. “The ones from the market. They want to know about the man the constable questioned us about.”
Drina now lit a tallow candle and peered at us from the other side of the flame. The candle’s smoke seemed to push all the air from the room. While I normally didn’t experience discomfort in tight spaces, the dank, oppressive surroundings raised a strong urge to turn and flee outside, if for nothing more than to breathe fresh air. I glanced at Constance and saw a slight sheen on her upper lip.
“You can pay?” When we nodded, the woman pointed to two stools in front of the table. “Sit.”
Obediently sinking onto the seat, I placed the coins on the flowered cloth. Without a glance at Constance, I said, “Like Gallius said, we want to hear about the gyp—Romani found dead in the barn.”
She squinted at me. “What’s this to you?”
“Our papa works there. In the barn,” Constance said.
“We already told the constable we didn’t know him. Anyone can put on baggy pants, a vest. That doesn’t make him Rom. I didn’t see him. The constable took Fonso to identify him, but he told us the man wasn’t Rom.”
“How did Fonso know? That the man wasn’t Rom?”
“The man’s hair was too short.”
“None of you had ever seen him before?”
“I never said that. I said he wasn’t Rom, but Fonso said he’d seen him. Wandering in the woods.”
“And he was not the only one.” Gallius spoke up from the corner where he stood. “Fonso’s seen another about as well.”
“A lot of people take shortcuts—”
“But he was not dressed”—she paused and examined me from head to foot, as if she recognized my disguise for what it was—“appropriately for such a place. Any more information, you’ll have to speak to Fonso.”
The image of the man and his blade flashed through my mind, squelching any desire to pursue the question.
I shook my head. “I’m out of coins.”
“And our papa’s going to be wondering where we’ve gone,” Constance said.
The woman’s gaze rested on the table and the two pennies there. “I think you deserve more for your coins. Before you go, I’ll tell one of you your fortune.”
Before I could protest, Constance thrust her hand forward and Drina took it. Moving the candle closer, she leaned over Constance’s upraised palm and ran a finger along a line curving around the thumb.
“This is your life line. See how it breaks here? There’s a change in your future.”
“I wants to be a singer. Is that it? I’m going to be a singer?”
She shook her head. “I cannot tell what the change is. Only that it will occur and while you are still young.”
“What else?”
“This line,” she said, drawing her finger from the base of her palm through the middle, “is the line of destiny. It is very deep for you. Your fate is being ruled by events outside your control. See how it breaks here? Changes directions? You will be pushed and shoved by these events. Your life will not be your own.”
Constance frowned and pulled her hand away. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m only telling you what your palm shows,” she said with a shrug. “Believe it or not.”
My friend popped to her feet and turned to me. “Let’s go. Papa’s waiting.”
She’d moved toward the door before I could even rise from my seat. I barely made it to the back of the wagon before she rushed outside and stepped to the ground. Gallius was right on my heels. The two of us trotted to keep up with her. She focused straight ahead and continued a quick march out of the camp and toward the trail we’d taken in. Gallius broke off from us, heading toward a group of men at the camp’s edge. He apparently convinced them our exit was no threat because they sank back to their places as he spoke to them.
Once clear of the camp but still in the woods, she finally paused and, turning her back to me, took a deep breath. She let it out in a quiet sob that shook her whole body.
“Constance,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders. I tried to turn her toward me, but she shook off my touch and refused to face me. “What is it? You said you didn’t believe her.”
She took a few more deep breaths and finally turned to me. After running the back of her hand across her eyes, she said, “You won’t understand.”
“If you don’t tell me, I won’t.”
Another deep breath that ended in a sigh. “All my life, I’ve done what others needed or wanted. I took care of the babies when Mama died. Saw to my Papa when he was sick. When I sang at church, for the first time, it was something for me.”
I waited through her pause, understanding her concern at least in part. Just as my days had been regimented, so she felt her life had been—and just as my free time had been the most precious for me, I realized: “You want to decide your fate, not have it decided by outside events—as Drina predicted.”
She raised her gaze to mine, her eyes wide, shimmering behind unshed tears. “You understand?”
“A little. You want to be a singer, but—”
“But what if something else happens? Stops me from being one?”
With a shake of my head, I indicated I had no answer. At the same time, I imagined her traveling about, singing in music halls in London and beyond. I already had a taste of what it meant to share her with others after the performance at church. The thought filled me with dread. As much as she fretted about not achieving her dream, I realized the misfortune of her accomplishing it. That small amount of attention she’d received at church would be multiplied a hundred—a thousand—fold and most likely rupture our friendship.
I swallowed, seeking for some words of comfort that I didn’t feel and grabbed on to the one logical argument which I also believed. “She’s a gypsy for pity’s sake. Most likely a thief and definitely a liar. She can no more tell your future than…than Trevor can.”
With a sniff and a swipe at her cheeks, she turned to face me. Tears had turned her lashes into spikes, but her face was dry. “Do you truly believe she was making it up?”
“Without a doubt. Lines in the hand no more indicate the future than the position of the stars in the heavens. As I said, we make our future, and you can make yours.”
“When you put it that way…” She sighed. “I just so much want to do more than live here in the country like my mum. And it scares me that I won’t ever leave.”
Gone was the optimism she’d expressed on the ride over. Perhaps that hope she noted she felt at dawn couldn’t maintain itself in the light of day? A desire welled in me to reassure her, tell her what she wanted would come to pass, but I tamped it down. For the first time, I truly felt the chasm between her status and mine. I could help her develop her talent, but I wasn’t in any position to do more. Before my impotence impacted my own mood, I decided to focus on the matter at hand—the information shared by Drina and Gallius.
I waved my hand toward the road. “Come on, we need to share with Mother and Uncle Ernest what we discovered.”
She gave a little gasp. “Not about my fortune?”
“No. Of course not. I need to let them know we must search the woods. More than one person’s been lurking about out there, and we need to find out who.”
Chapter Eight
Mother, Ernest, and I stood in the center of a small clearing. In the waning light, we studied the items scattered about. Mother’s application of basic logic had led us almost directly to a small camp set up in woods surrounding Underbyrne. After leaving the Romani camp, we identified what we considered to be the attributes for someone wishing to stay i
n the woods. We determined the camp had to be accessible but not visible. This required it to be near the path that the villagers had blazed to reach Underbyrne and other large estates. Constance had shared their existence with us only a few months ago. Lastly, if the purpose was to spy on our home, it had to have a vantage point with enough vegetation to hide the individual’s presence.
From these characteristics, we narrowed the area to begin our search. By late afternoon, we had discovered the place. Branches, their dried leaves still attached, hid a small tent, and a ring of stones set not far from the tent held the remains of a fire. Both were in a hollow that would have kept any flames from being seen below. At the same time, from the hollow’s raised edge and placement between two trees, the side and front of our house, the barn, and part of my uncle’s workshop were all clearly visible. I could even make out Mycroft strolling toward the barn and opened my mouth to comment on his sudden interest in the structure as well as my surprise that he wasn’t with Miss Meredith when Mother spoke.
“A week ago, I would have said it was ridiculous to consider someone spying on us. What is here that would require such stealth?”
“My inventions,” Uncle Ernest said. Hurt tinged his voice.
He was quite proud of the devices he’d developed and was constantly sending letters to the War Office with his latest plans. While he’d never received a single reply, he always attributed it to the secret nature of his ideas. I had considered them as never of much value to a government office until Mr. Moto showed us that not all of Uncle Ernest’s designs were without merit.
Mother must have had similar thoughts because she patted her brother on the arm and said, “Quite right. Moto proved their value beyond the War Office.”
“Do you think it’s abandoned?” I asked. “I mean, if this belonged to the man in the barn…?”
Uncle Ernest knelt by the firepit and stirred the ashes. “These are less than three days old.”
“If not the man in the barn, who’s staying here?” I asked.
“We might find something in the tent,” Ernest said.
While he crouched to crawl inside, I continued about the perimeter, kicking up rocks and leaves in case something had been covered in a hurry. About a quarter of the way around the clearing, my boot toe caught on a tree root, and I fell forward, barely missing a tree trunk. Mother rushed to my side, and I pushed myself up. When I did so, I disturbed the leaves covering the ground beneath.
Mother stooped next to me and pointed to the tree’s roots. “Hello.”
Following her finger, I noticed a piece of cloth protruding from a space at the base of the tree. I swiped at the layer of loose dirt covering the cloth and uncovered a shallowly buried knapsack.
“Open it,” Mother said.
Her breath quickened, and I shared her anticipation. She called my uncle over, and they peered over my shoulder as I removed its contents one item at a time.
I withdrew first a pair of coarse wool workman pants. Below that, a heavy jacket and cap, also of wool and for a workman. No boots, but a blanket, one side dusty with several dried leaves attached to it.
Once the items were all out, I stood, and we studied them.
Mother lifted the three items of clothing one at a time and then placed them back on the ground.
“Another disguise?” Ernest asked.
“Perhaps, but I don’t think for a man,” Mother said and gestured to me to stand next to her. She held the pants in front of my legs. “How tall would you say that the man in the stable was?”
“Certainly taller than Sherlock,” Ernest said. “Those pants wouldn’t have fit him.”
“The owner of these pants was short and thin. A boy, perhaps? But older than Sherlock.”
His gaze lingering on the clothes, my uncle rubbed his chin and then raised his head to address his sister. “What do you propose we do? Line up all the young men and have them try on the pants?”
“Like Cinderella?” I asked, a giggle escaping my lips.
When Mother didn’t join in on our chuckle, we faced her. She tapped a finger against her lips. “It would be easier if we could somehow have him come to us.”
I glanced back at the house, and my gaze fell on the schoolroom windows on the third floor and drew in a sharp breath.
“I may know how to call him,” I said.
I shifted on the ground and tried to adjust the weight on my backside in the tight space. Despite my wool pants and coat and Uncle Ernest’s close proximity, the air in the tent was frigid enough I would have been able to see my breath—if any light had existed for me to do so. The tent was close quarters for the two of us, and I wasn’t even fully grown. Could two grown men ever share such a shelter and in the middle of winter? It certainly provided minimal protection against the elements. Having read the history of Napoleon’s defeat at the hands of the Russians, I was all too familiar with the concept of gelure, frostbite, and its effects on a soldier’s extremities. If they were forced to bed in such meager defenses against freezing temperatures, no wonder so many suffered as they had.
A cramp seized my leg, and I pushed it forward to ease the muscle.
“Will you keep still?” Ernest whispered.
His harsh tone cut worse than a slap. My uncle rarely lost his temper with me, but the waiting seemed to have taken a toll on him as well. He pushed open the front flap and peered out through the slit. In the slice of wan moonlight on his face, I perceived the sheen of sweat on his brow. How could the man be perspiring when I was thinking about frostbite?
He let the tent flap drop back into place.
“Anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They might not come tonight.”
A sigh escaped me. I had hoped that the candle in the schoolroom window would signal the man I’d followed the other night to come to the camp. Of course, we had no way of knowing if Mother had been successful in communicating with the person. If no one came tonight…
“We might have to do this again?”
When I’d offered to assist my uncle in this vigil to capture whoever had been using the campsite in the woods, I’d imagined a less frustrating task than I’d endured up until now. Sitting in a tent awaiting the rogue had sounded…adventurous. Up to this point, it had only been uncomfortable and a little…boring.
“Did you do this often? In India?”
“More than once. Of course, we were waiting for an armed party of thieves or rebels.” He drew in a shaky breath. “Hours of holding ready for minutes of battle.”
I could feel as much as hear him grip the pistol in his hand even tighter. At that moment, I understood the origin of the sweat on his face—this was no escapade for him, but an all-too-real return to the combat he’d experienced during his time in the military.
“That’s where you learned your patience,” I said, hoping to calm him as much as I could. “What you’ve taught me about taking deep breaths, finding my center, and keeping my thoughts outside.”
“Right,” he said with a sigh, tension dropping from his voice. “Right.”
Following his lead, I took in and let out a deep breath. My ears fairly rang as I sought to hear a sound that didn’t belong. Unlike the woods in summer, the same area in winter lay quiet under the moonlight. No insects, the scurry of small creatures, or leaves rustling in the trees to mask the breaking of a twig or crunch of dried grass or leaves underfoot. As much as my muscles burned to be stretched or at least readjust, I remained immobile and found my eyelids threatening to droop. I forced my head up, willing myself to remain vigilant. My chin drifted toward my chest, only to jerk to attention when my uncle tapped my shoulder. The rhythmic tramp of feet through the brush signaled someone approaching.
The slight click of my uncle’s pistol let me know he was preparing for some sort of confrontation. The footsteps drew closer. A shift next to me also signaled he was moving toward the tent’s front flap.
The plan was for me to remain inside with a rifle to cover my unc
le once he was outside. I put my hand on the weapon, ready to take my position.
My uncle’s speed in exiting our canvas enclosure startled me as much as I’m sure it did the person outside. Despite the tight quarters, hours of confinement, and advanced age, the man’s agility astounded me. He was out of the tent and on his feet before I had a chance to grab the rifle and throw myself onto the ground to point it out of the flap.
The pitch blackness of the tent’s interior made the moonlight shining through the leafless limbs almost as bright as day. Beyond my uncle and his raised arm, I could clearly make out a young man in dark trousers and a hat pulled low over his brow. The man was unarmed, his hands held high in the air. Something familiar struck me about the hands…
“Don’t shoot,” I said, scrambling from the tent and leaving the rifle inside.
Without dropping the pistol, my uncle glanced toward me. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”
“That’s Miss Bowen. Trevor’s governess.”
Before he could respond, another crack of twigs pulled our attention behind us. My heart rose in my throat. Would I never learn Mr. Moto’s most important lesson? With my attention focused on Trevor’s governess, I’d dropped my guard and allowed someone to sneak in behind us. My inattention had placed me in a vulnerable position. Again.
Thankfully, Ernest had been alerted as well and spun about, pistol in hand. He aimed it at a man’s dark form at the edge of the clearing.
“Come forward slowly. Hands over your head,” he said, an authority in his voice I’d heard only on rare occasions.
The crunch of dry leaves marked the man’s movement into the clearing’s moonlight. He appeared older than Mycroft and was wearing country hiker’s tweed, complete with cap. He said nothing, only stared past us to the governess now sniffling behind us.
“Oh, Richard,” Miss Bowen said, “we’ve been found out.”
Both Ernest and I checked both the governess and her…
The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy Page 14
