The Dark Enquiry (21 page)

I looked to Brisbane, who was staring at me in palpable relief. I saw a bead of perspiration at his temple and realised how very anxious he had been for the lady’s acceptance.

She rattled off a few sentences in Romany and Brisbane came forward to finish the introductions. “The day is an auspicious one for Roma marriages and she is pleased. Julia, the
puridai
welcomes you as her guest.”

I smiled widely at her to show my pleasure and she gave me a grave inclination of the head, as regal as any mediaeval queen granting a boon to a peasant.

“What am I to call her?” I asked.

She gave another cackle and said, “You may call me Granny Bones, child.”

“Granny Bones?”

She nodded, taking a deep inhalation from her pipe. “I tell fortunes, child. Some use the leaves, some the cards. I cast the knucklebones of the sheep, as pagan priests once did for the emperors in Rome.”

I thought of the times I had had my fortune told in the tea leaves and shuddered. Tasseomancy had proven a little too accurate for my taste.

“How interesting,” I said politely.

She gave me an enigmatic look. “You do not think so yet, but you will. The bones never lie.”

I started, but she only laughed again, that rusty squeeze-box laugh and turned to enter the caravan beckoning for us to follow.

I turned to Brisbane. “She is quite a character. And she seems very fond of you.”

His mouth twitched ever so slightly. “She ought to be. She is my grandmother.”

It took me the better part of the evening to reconcile this small, wholly Gypsy woman with my sophisticated husband. But as we talked, his urbanity slipped away a little, and he grew more expansive, gesturing widely and speaking the lilting Romany tongue with fluency and passion. I had met two of his Rom relations, but it had never occurred to me that his grandmother might still be alive. When she slipped out for a moment, I took the opportunity to chide him.

“Why did you never tell me?”

He shrugged. “Granny and I never got on particularly well after I ran away. She was upset when I left the tribe. She wanted me to marry a girl of her choosing and breed horses. I knew I could never live that life. I wanted nothing to do with any of it, the horses, the travelling, the fortune-telling…” His voice trailed off. We seldom spoke of his second sight or the terrible migraines that came when he refused to permit himself to slip into a trance. I sometimes thought the cure was worse than the sickness, for as awful as his visions were, the pain he suffered and the drugs he took to numb it were often just as vile. He had left the Roma to escape himself, and here he was, just past forty and back again, welcomed into the fold with open arms. I was not surprised to detect an air of satisfaction in him. Brisbane might have cast off the Romany ways, but Gypsy blood flowed in his veins, and blood will always tell.

“I have seen her half a dozen times over the years,” he went on. “She has never formally forgiven me.”

“Until tonight?” I prompted.

“No, not even now,” he corrected. “Granny is an opportunist. There is something she wants or she would not be half so nice as she is at present.”

I scolded him. “That sweet old woman? How can you say such a thing?”

“Because I know her,” he returned in some exasperation. “If she were introduced to the Prince of Wales, she would curtsey to the floor and pick his pocket at the same time. No, Granny wants something.”

I pursed my lips and declined to hear any more on the subject of Granny’s larcenous ways.

She returned then, bearing plates of food, and the rich, savoury scent of it reminded me that I had not eaten much that day. There was a juicy bone for Rook and a meat stew for the rest of us with hunks of warm bread spread heavily with goose fat and salted. I ate heartily, sopping up the gravy from the stew with bread until every scrap was gone. Granny watched, nodding with a smile, and she said something in Romany to Brisbane, who had also cleaned his plate.

“What was that?” I asked, wishing there had been second helpings.

“She is impressed. Not many
gorgios
enjoy
hotchiwitchi,
” he told me.

I knew
gorgio
was their term for an English person, but I was puzzled at the second word.
“Hotchiwitchi?”

Granny Bones gave me a wide smile. “Hedgehog.”

“Oh, dear,” I murmured, surpressing a tiny burp.

“You like more?” she asked.

“No, no. I am quite full,” I assured her, patting my belly.

She nodded. “Is good to be have a full belly.” I remembered then how often her people went hungry. I imagined it was difficult enough to always find sufficient food, but that was not the only trouble that beset them. It was still legal for an Englishman to turn out a Gypsy cookpot to make certain they were not cooking infants. It was an absurd law, and the injustice of it burned within me. They were unique to be sure, and they did not hold the same views on property or the same values, but some things were universal. They loved their children and wanted food to eat and a safe place to sleep. We were not so very different.

I turned to Granny. “It is indeed very good to have a full belly. Thank you for sharing your meal with us.”

She inclined her head again with that peculiarly gracious air and then rose. “Time to bed.”

Brisbane and I followed her outside, where she gave him quick instructions.
“Ava,”
he told her, the Romany word for agreement, and she returned to the caravan, emerging after a moment with a length of canvas and a few sticks, along with several quilts and a feather pillow. She waved and went back inside, banging the door tightly behind her by way of good-night.

“What now?” I asked Brisbane.

“Now, we camp,” he informed me. Around us the rest of the camp had settled in to sleep. The fires had burned low, and in the distance, I heard the croon of a lullaby. I sat upon the steps of the
vardo
with Rook as Brisbane worked swiftly.

First, he moved the fire several feet from where Granny had built it. He shoveled a thin layer of dirt over the hot earth left behind and then pitched the tent atop it. The quilts were fashioned into a mattress of sorts, holding in the warmth of the earth. I removed my boots and my coat, wriggling into the small tent. Brisbane had saved us one quilt to draw over ourselves, and I was astonished at how warm and cosy a bed he had made for us. He whistled to Rook, who came and lay across the opening of the tent as we settled inside.

“It is very nearly as comfortable as our bed at home,” I told Brisbane sleepily.

He drew me close, pillowing my head upon his shoulder. I realised then that he had kept the feather pillow for himself. I did not mind. There are few finer cushions than the well-muscled shoulder of one’s beloved, and I curled into his chest, falling deeply into sleep. It was not until later that I learned that Brisbane lay awake the whole of the night, one hand wrapped around my back, the other gripping a loaded revolver as he peered into the night.

I awoke early the next morning, cold and stiff as a corpse. The romance of a Gypsy bed palled swiftly, and it took several minutes before I managed to persuade all of my limbs to function properly. Brisbane had already bestirred him self and presented me with a steaming tin mug of bitter tea. I drank it down, grateful to cup my hands around the warmth of it.

“What is your plan?” I asked him. He looked every inch the Gypsy this morning, his black locks tumbled over his brow, his shirt open at the throat and the sleeves rolled back to reveal his strong forearms. It was a rather arresting picture, and it occurred to me—not for the first time—that if Brisbane had lived half a century earlier he might well have given Byron cause for jealousy.

Brisbane sipped at his tea. “There is a line of enquiry I wanted to pursue regarding Madame’s past.”

“When do we leave?” I demanded, my mind dashing ahead to the question of how to make myself presentable for society with the limited means of ablutions at hand.

“We don’t. The information I want might well be here in the camp.”

“But I thought we were here for our safety.”

He gave me a quick grin. “Two birds with a single stone. You said Agathe revealed to you that she and Madame worked in a travelling show on the Continent. Only later did it occur to me that world is a very small one.”

“You mean, they were Gypsies? But your family work as hop pickers and horse traders. They are not circus folk.”

“The fellow I have in mind is. He married my cousin and brought his bears with him.”

“Bears! We slept in a camp with bears,” I said slowly, trying to remember if I had heard any suspicious growls in the night.

“Tame bears,” Brisbane assured me. “Ludo is a member of the
ursari
. They are a clan with special talents with the bears. They capture them as cubs, teach them to dance and do tricks. Ludo had a falling out with his brother and took his bears from the travelling show and came to London. He met my cousin and married her and the bears came, too. Come,” he said, rising and taking my hand. “I will introduce you.”

I insisted upon taking a few minutes to attend to my appearance. There was no call to be untidy even if were only going to meet bears, and as soon as I had sorted myself, we were on our way. Brisbane pointed sharply at Rook, and the dog sat with an air of resignation to await our return.

“The bears won’t like him,” Brisbane explained as we walked. The camp awoke slowly, I saw, for the campfires were just being stoked into life by yawning women and their husbands were emerging from tents, scratching their bellies and cuffing their children with affectionate smiles. The smell of woodsmoke and the contents of the cooking pots hung heavily in the air, and I heard the thin whine of a violin as an old man tuned his fiddle.

There was no sign of Granny Bones or Wee Geordie, but the others stared with frank curiosity as we passed, and one or two called a greeting to Brisbane. He replied with quick fluency, and very shortly we presented ourselves at the far edge of the camp at a brightly painted
vardo
parked some little distance from the others. Behind it were a pair of stout cages, and at the bottom of each was curled a small brown bear, sound asleep and snoring gently.

“Ludo says they must sleep apart from the rest of the camp because the bears like a bit of privacy,” Brisbane told me as we approached. An aggressively bosomy woman with enormous hips stood at the fire, stirring a pot that hung over the flames. She looked up at Brisbane and froze. A long moment passed and then she dropped her spoon into the fire and fairly hurdled the pot to get to Brisbane. I would not have expected a woman so large could move so swiftly, but in the blink of an eye she had gathered him up into an embrace so ferocious I thought his spine would crack. She was chattering excitedly in Romany—at least I believed she was, for she was missing several teeth and the result was softly slurred vowels that might have belonged to any one of a dozen languages.

Brisbane patted her shoulder and she put him down, kissing him soundly on both cheeks, then slapping each one hard. Without waiting for a response, she hurried off, calling loudly to Ludo.

I raised a brow at Brisbane, who looked rather pale after the experience. “That is Lala, a very distant cousin.”

“She seems very fond of you,” I observed.

“Yes, well, Granny Bones tried to arrange a marriage between us when we were children.”

I tipped my head to the side. “I cannot see it. To begin, she looks ten years your elder.”

“Two,” he corrected. “And that was her objection.”

“Do you mean Lala refused you?”

He cleared his throat. “She did. I was ten and she was twelve. Lala thought I was too much of a child for her. Shortly after that, I ran away and the following year she married Ludo.”

“At thirteen?” I barely suppressed a screech of surprise.

Brisbane shrugged. “It is not unusual for the people.” It was a sign of their pride that the Roma referred to themselves as “the people.” It was also a sign that Brisbane was slipping, at least partly, back into his early ways as a Rom.

“So your grandmother wanted you to marry at ten?”

“No, and that was Lala’s problem. I would not have been permitted to marry until I was sixteen or seventeen. Lala did not want to wait for me.”

“And so she threw you over? For a man who dances with bears?”

I could scarcely contain my mirth and Brisbane gave me a darkling look. “You are enjoying this a trifle too much.”

“You say she was pretty as a girl?”

“Extremely.” He bit off each syllable sharply. “But a lifetime of travelling and eleven children have a way of leaving their mark.”

“Eleven children?”

Brisbane did not reply. He did not have to, for at that moment, the door of the
vardo
opened and the entire brood erupted, shouting and jumping and falling over one another to greet Brisbane. Their mother controlled them as best she could, which is to say not at all, and came to shake my hand, bearing in her arms her newest child, an infant of some two years, whose mouth and nose were in desperate need of washing.

She took my hand and pumped it as if she were hoping to strike water, all the while chattering swiftly in Romany. I understood none of it save the sentiment, which was “welcome.” Just then, one of the little bears roused itself and began to make a fuss, and a small man emerged from the
vardo,
rubbing his eyes and buttoning his shirt. He only managed half the buttons and the rest hung open, revealing a chest almost as furry as one of his bears.

“Who comes and disturbs my bears?” he demanded in mock seriousness.

Brisbane extricated himself from most of the children—one still clung, limpetlike to his leg—and moved to embrace the man.

“Ludo!”

“Nicky!”

They exchanged greetings and eventually the child was pried from Brisbane’s leg and the others were shooed away, except the one in Lala’s arms. She beckoned us into the
vardo
and locked the door upon the rest of the children.

She turned to give me a smile. “My mother will give them breakfast,” she assured me, and she waved me to take a seat at the small table. The
vardo,
like most others of its kind, was as cleverly fitted as a ship, with everything neatly contained and the most made of every square inch. This one had a cunning little table with a board at either side to serve as benches. A wide bed stretched the back width of the caravan, and various other piles of bedding had been formed into pallets for the children. The smell of warm sleep and unwashed bodies still hung in the air, but it was comfortable enough, and I settled in to hear what Ludo could tell us.

“It is a long time,” he said to Brisbane, who nodded slowly.

“The years have been good to you and Lala. You have been blessed with many fine children,” Brisbane began, and I realised there was a formula to be followed, courtesies that must be observed. It was odd to think that a Gypsy camp might have protocol as strict as that of the royal court, but the proprieties must be observed and Brisbane spent half an hour asking after various relations and friends.

As the men talked—in English for my benefit—Lala bustled about her tiny home, making tea and feeding the youngest child, which she did with an air of complete casualness, thrusting the infant under her blouse without preamble. The child seemed lost for a moment and I worried it might smother, but it must have found what it wanted, for I heard a contented sigh and mother and child seemed to relax.

By then the conversation had turned to the matter at hand, and I made myself attentive.

“You know that to earn my living, I ask questions,” Brisbane began.

“You solve problems for the
gorgios,
” Ludo said proudly. He smiled broadly at me to show he meant no offence, and I returned the smile to assure him none had been taken.

“Yes,” Brisbane said. “I solve problems. And the one I am solving now involves a medium called Madame Séraphine. She used to tell fortunes in a travelling show with her sister. Do you remember such a woman?”

Ludo stretched himself, scratching his chin as he thought. “A Frenchwoman?” Brisbane nodded and Ludo continued to think. He closed his eyes and sat very still, for so long I began to think he had fallen asleep. But just when I darted Brisbane a look to see if he ought to wake Ludo, the fellow opened his eyes and snapped his fingers. “In Bavaria. I spent a little time with a travelling show that had a fortune-teller, also a Frenchwoman. She made very little money as I recall. No one much liked her. But her sister—” He broke off to give a soundless whistle. “She was a beauty and free with it, she was.”

I glanced at Lala, but she and the baby were still basking in a haze of contentment. If she minded hearing about her husband’s youthful peccadilloes, she gave no sign of it.

“But her name was not Séraphine,” Ludo continued. “She was called something else. I cannot think of it. I remember them well. The winter had been a hard one here, and I left Lala and the babies with her parents to make some money in the travelling show. The fortune-teller, she read the cards for me and told me my wife would be unfaithful to me whilst I was gone if I did not purchase her charm.” He and Lala exchanged a look of mutual affection. “I told her to go to hell. Little did she know I had left Lala with another child starting, and she was sick as a calf!” He laughed uproariously, slapping his knee and nudging Lala. She gave him an affectionate glance and he pulled her in for a resounding kiss.

When they pulled apart, Lala was pink with pleasure. “I have known women with the true gift of the sight,” Ludo went on. “Your grandmother is the best I have ever known. This woman, she was a fraud. And the frauds have one trick only. They create fear and then ask you to pay them to get rid of it. It is a child’s game, but a dangerous one.”

“Did this medium ever get herself into trouble from it?” I put in quietly. Ludo canted his head and scratched himself lavishly.

“There was a bit of trouble with the local constabulary. She tried her little game with someone a bit too important and found herself in gaol for her trouble. The travelling show left without her. Pity, for the younger girl was a nice enough girl, but she stayed to help her sister. I think she would have preferred to go with us. But she was loyal and this is good. Family must be loyal,” he added firmly.

“But you say her name was not Séraphine,” Brisbane said, stirring his tea thoughtfully. He dropped his voice still lower, pitching it to a soothing register that was oddly calming. He stirred, his movements even and graceful, and I saw Ludo’s eyes rest upon Brisbane’s hand as it moved to trace the same circle with the spoon over and over again.

“I wonder if you would remember her name,” Brisbane suggested softly. “You must think back to Bavaria, many years ago, when you were a young man. Lala is back in England with the babies, good strong babies that you miss. You miss Lala, too. You have only your bears to console you.”

To my astonishment, tears began to well in Ludo’s eyes, and one great, fat teardrop rolled down his cheek.

Brisbane never faltered. “It is cold in Bavaria, and the people are not always friendly. There is a girl, a French girl, and she is kind, but her sister is not. Her sister tells cruel fortunes for her own profit. She preys upon people, this sister, and you do not especially mind when she finds herself in trouble. Perhaps you say goodbye to the kindly French girl and tell her to be good. She wishes she could come away from this town with the cold people who have locked her sister away. But she must be loyal to her sister. She has a good heart, and she is loyal. She is loyal,” Brisbane intoned again. “She is loyal to—”

“Agathe.” The word dropped from Ludo’s lips as easily as ripe apples will fall from the tree.

Brisbane stopped stirring his tea and smiled at Ludo. “I knew you would remember.”

Ludo shook himself, as if shaking off a dream, and gave a broad smile. “I have a good memory, no?”

I nodded and smiled in return, feeling a shiver in spite of myself. It was not the first time I had witnessed Brisbane dabble in hypnosis, but it never failed to seem like some bit of sorcery to watch a subject slip unknowingly into a different place. We finished our tea and afterwards, Ludo introduced us to his bears, making them bow to me, which troubled me, for I did not like to see such beautiful wild creatures bent to the will of men. But I complimented him on the stoutness and handsomeness of his bears, and he seemed satisfied. Brisbane and I took our leave then, an undertaking of almost half an hour, for the children had returned and insisted upon being taken up in turn and kissed, and Lala pressed me to her immense bosom several times, calling me her sister.

I was exhausted and starving by the time we made our escape, but exhilarated.

“You realise what he said,” I put to Brisbane as soon as we were out of earshot. “Agathe was the fortune-teller, not Madame Séraphine. Sometime after Bavaria, Madame must have adopted the role of medium and changed her name. What do you think it all means?”