“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I was beginning to be a little worried about you.”
“Worried about me? Why?”
“The idea suddenly came to me. You could be putting yourself into danger.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s the news about Mrs. Stacy. When we thought she had gone off with her lover, looking for your sister seemed a reasonably safe project. But if these two disappearances are linked it appears that someone must be responsible for them. You can’t make two people disappear very well without killing them. It struck me that we have a dangerous murderer in our midst. He wouldn’t be very pleased with someone who probed into his affairs would he? And it may be that when he isn’t pleased with people he…eliminates them.”
“So you’ve marked me down for the next victim?”
“God forbid! But shouldn’t you be careful?”
“I see what you mean. Have you anyone in mind?”
“Oh yes.”
“Who?”
“The husband, of course.”
“Isn’t that too obvious?”
“Good heavens, this isn’t a puzzle. It’s real life. Who would want to be rid of Mrs. Stacy except her husband?”
“There could be others.”
“Think of the reasons. I understand she was an heiress. He gets her money. And he wasn’t very eager to marry her in the first place.”
“He had the money already so why bother to murder her?”
“He was heartily sick of her.”
“I don’t like this conversation. It’s…uncharitable. We have no right to continue with it.”
“But we must be practical.”
“If being practical means maligning innocent people…”
“But how do you know he is innocent?”
“Shouldn’t one presume a man to be innocent until he is proved guilty?”
“You’re talking about British justice. We’re not judges…just amateur sleuths. We have to look at all possibilities.”
“In that case I might suggest that you are guilty, and you me.”
“I might. But where are the motives?”
“I daresay we could think of some. You might be a cousin in disguise who wants to inherit Lovat Stacy so you murder Edith and hope her husband will be accused of the crime and hanged, which will make you the heir.”
“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. And you want to marry into the Stacy family so you murder Edith and leave the way clear for yourself.”
“You see,” I pointed out, “you can make up a case against anyone.”
“But what of your sister? Where does she come into it?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
It was at this point that I felt certain we were being observed. I looked uneasily about me. Godfrey had noticed nothing. What was it? I couldn’t say. Just an uncanny feeling—the extra sense one gets that somewhere, unseen, someone is watching…malignantly.
What was the matter with me? I could not explain this strange feeling to Godfrey. It sounded so absurd. I heard nothing. I saw nothing; I merely sensed it. And he had thought I was fanciful in the cottage.
“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t forget there may be a murderer among us.”
I looked over my shoulder and shivered.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Oh…nothing.”
“I’ve frightened you. Good! It’s what I intended. You will have to be very careful in future.”
I kept thinking of Napier in the copse and my heart refused to accept the inference which my brain insisted on presenting to me.
“I’m determined to find out what happened to my sister,” I said fiercely.
“We both will,” he assured me, “but we’ll be cautious. We’ll work together. Any little clue one of us discovers should be passed on to the other.”
I said nothing of Alice’s story which had so disturbed me; I said nothing of my encounter with Napier in the copse.
He went on: “I can’t help feeling that the answer is somewhere on the dig. It’s because of your sister. She was the first. I think we’ll find the answer there.”
I let him expound on this—anything to stop him seeking to hang suspicion on Napier.
We were startled suddenly by a little cough behind us.
Sylvia was coming silently up the aisle toward the organ.
“Mamma sent me to look for you, Mr. Wilmot. She says would you care to come to tea in the drawing room.”
The girls had invited me to ride with them. I said I should be delighted and in due course we set out.
“There are gypsies in Meadow Three Acres,” Allegra told me. “One of them spoke to me and said her name was Serena Smith. Mrs. Lincroft was not very pleased when I told her.”
“She was not pleased because she knows Sir William will not be,” said Alice quickly in defense of her mother.
Allegra rode on a little way ahead and called over her shoulder: “I’m going to see them.”
“My mother says they’re a disgrace to the place,” said Sylvia.
“She would!” retorted Allegra. “She hates anything that’s…fun. I like gypsies. I’m half one myself.”
“Do they come here often?” I asked, remembering Mrs. Lincroft’s reaction to the news that they had arrived.
“I don’t think so,” replied Alice. “They roam the country never staying long in one place. Just fancy, Mrs. Verlaine. That must be rather exciting, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure I’d rather stay in one place.”
Her eyes grew dreamy and I wondered whether she would write a story about gypsies. I must see some of her stories one of these days. It could well be that if she had no talent for music she had for literature. She read a great deal; she was extremely industrious and she had undoubted imagination. Perhaps I should speak to Godfrey about her.
Allegra called to us not to dawdle and we broke into a canter. It was not long before we reached the encampment.
There were about four gaily colored caravans in the field which was called Meadow Three Acres. But there was no sign of any gypsies.
“Don’t go too close,” I cautioned Allegra.
“Why ever not, Mrs. Verlaine? They won’t hurt us.”
“They might not like to be stared at. You should respect their privacy.”
Allegra looked at me in astonishment. “They haven’t any privacy, Mrs. Verlaine. People who live in caravans don’t expect to have any.”
The sound of our voices may have carried over the air for as we stood there a woman came out of one of the caravans and toward us.
I could not say what it was but there was a vague air of familiarity about her. I felt I had seen her before, though I could not say where. She was plump and her red blouse was stretched to bursting point over her full breasts; her skirt was a little ragged about the hem, her legs and feet very brown and bare. Big gold-colored Creole earrings dangled in her ears. Her laughter shattered the silence and while it was loud and raucous it suggested that she found life amusing. She had a bush of dark curly hair and was, in a robust and voluptuous way, beautiful.
“Hello,” she called. “Have you come to see the gypsies?”