Deadly Nightshade (5 page)

The tall pines of the gypsy encampment towered ahead of them, and on their left a narrow dirt road wound between cornfields, and disappeared into the dark mouth of the woods beyond. Mitchell stopped.

“Here's the entrance to the short cut,” he said. “Trainor used to take this way home, sometimes, when he was bound for headquarters. He reported there before he went off duty.”

“What time?”

“No special time—usually about seven. He was late on Tuesday, account of all the extra trips to Beasley's. He was seen about seven fifteen, out Bailtown way—his regular beat. He lived in Oakport, and they were expecting him there for his supper. Cogswell says he could have died around eight.”

“Who found him?”

“Farmer going through the cut, about six on Wednesday morning.”

“Nobody miss him before that?”

“Yes, but lots of things can keep a trooper from coming home. Car trouble, accidents. They don't always report in. Use their judgment.”

“Both he and Pottle were on this beat?”

“Yes, but Pottle was doing night work. He got shifted to day duty after Trainor was killed.”

“He seems to have been on day duty last Tuesday afternoon. You said he came down here to warn the gypsies about nightshade carriers.”

“He got routed out to help search for Sarah Beasley.”

“Why did Trainor come down as far as this, instead of using the upper road?”

“Just patrolling the routes, I suppose; or giving the gypsies a look-in.”

“Do they say he gave them a look-in, or haven't you asked them?”

“They say he didn't; but they wouldn't own up to seeing him last thing before he got killed in the short cut.”

“Very annoying, they must be. Here comes Pottle; let's wait for him.”

Officer Pottle rode up, and stopped beside the car. “Glad to see you back, Mr. Gamadge,” he said. “Did you hear about Trainor?”

“Yes, and I'm awfully sorry. Mitchell thinks he may have ridden down on Tuesday evening to look in on the gypsies.”

“He may have. We kind of get them on our minds, after their men go back to Boston; there are children in the camp. These gyps ain't afraid of anything on earth except jail and their own menfolks, but we like to keep an eye on 'em.”

“He was late getting back to headquarters, Mitchell says; you didn't wait for him?”

“No, I started off as soon as I had my supper—went to Beasley's by the upper road.”

“Who's taking his shift now?”

“Bowles.”

“Queer, about Trainor getting killed that way in the short cut. He must have been well enough used to it.”

“I wish somebody'd explain to me how it did happen. Last thing I would have expected, for Trainor to fall off his bike. He could loop the loops on it.”

“There's always a last time, if you fellers will take chances,” said Mitchell, irritably. “Is the whole family in camp today?”

“All there. I guess they'll be glad to get rid of the old lady; she rules the roost, all right. She's goin' back to Whitewater, Monday. Thinks she'll take the little sick feller with her, cure him up at the shore.”

“I understand that she has delusions of grandeur,” said Gamadge.

“You bet she has.”

“Do you know these gypsies at all well, Pottle? Understand their mental processes, that sort of thing?”

“They haven't got any mental processes; I told Charlie Haines he was a fool to marry that girl Martha; but some fellers don't seem to want their wives brainy.”

“Do you think they might make some kind of mistake about a thing like this nightshade? Mix it up with some other kind of berry?”

“No, I don't. I bet they know all the poisons in these woods, and a few more.”

“Even the children?”

“I bet Martha's baby would have the colic if anybody showed it a poison berry of any kind. Don't forget they make their livin'—if you can call it a livin'—out of these woods and swamps; that sweet grass they make their baskets of, and all the rest of it. And the kids pick berries for sale before they're hardly able to talk.”

“According to your ideas, they can't very well be responsible for this nightshade business, then.”

“I don't know if they are or not; but if I had any say about it I wouldn't run Charlie Haines' wife and baby out of town without any more proof against 'em than a kid with hang-over from grippe.”

“How about coming along and introducing me? Tell the old lady I want my fortune told?”

“Glad to.” Pottle turned his machine and preceded them to the camp in a stately and official manner; with the result that when they arrived, no gypsy was to be seen. The old horse champed stoically at the hay in his nosebag, and ragged clothes flapped on the line; otherwise there was neither sound nor motion, and the pines crowded darkly up like an army. Pottle raised his voice:

“Hey, come out of it, everybody; I brought a gentleman to call on you.” And as this brought no response, he added: “Wants Mrs. Stuart to tell his fortune.”

Three women and a boy materialized suddenly from the gloom in the background, and stood gazing blankly, but with alert eyes, at the visitors. Gamadge had never seen passive resistance so perfectly illustrated. He took a good look at them.

The women, as is the wont of the modern tribes, managed to look both outlandish and dowdy. There was a very old one, an octogenarian, perhaps, although her hair was coal-black, and her spine a good deal straighter than Gamadge's own. She wore a long black silk dress with black lace ruffles at her neck and wrists, gold hooped earrings, and a long gilt chain, the ends of which were tucked into her belt. A black net veil was arranged on her head with a corner of it coming well down on her forehead, which gave her an air at once regal and nunlike. She stood immovable, her yellow hands clasped across the middle of her fitted basque.

A forlorn hag wavered irresolutely near the matriarch; she was ochre-skinned, almost toothless, and of uncertain age, and she wore a gray calico dress, a large black straw hat trimmed with poppies, and a Paisley shawl of unimaginable antiquity. Beside her stood a boy of nine or ten, who resembled any barefooted, undernourished country boy; except that he was dark beyond sunburn, and that his thin face wore an uneasy scowl.

Martha, without the baby, looked about eighteen. She was slim and neat in a faded pink gingham dress, the exotic note in her case being supplied by somebody's red satin evening shoes, and somebody's West Indian bandanna. The bright colors set off her pale skin and soft eyes to an extent that accounted for Mr. Charlie Haines' experiment in exogamy.

Gamadge took off his hat.

“I'm very glad to find you here, Mrs. Stuart,” he said. “I think you tell fortunes at Whitewater. Pottle said you might be willing to tell mine. Pottle, will you introduce me?”

“Mr. Gamadge,” said Pottle. “Mrs. Stuart, Georgina Stanley, Martha Stanley, and William Stanley.”

Georgina, Martha and William Stanley stared; Mrs. Stuart bowed, in a formal and condescending manner.

“I will tell your fortune, gentleman,” she said. “Come into the tent.”

“Why not do it out here? It's such a nice day, and I don't at all mind an audience.” Gamadge picked up a soapbox, placed it in friendly juxtaposition to a stump, and asked: “What is your fee?”

“Fifty cents, gentleman.” Mrs. Stuart sat down on the soapbox, and Gamadge, adjusting himself to the top of the stump as best he could, produced two quarters. These he placed reverently in the old lady's hand. She drew a quick, complicated sign in the air with them, placed them in a bag that hung from her waist, and fixed Gamadge with a glittering eye, as bright and as black as jet. It seemed also to be as shallow as jet, but there was an unfathomable sharpness to it. She made no attempt to take his hand.

“You were born under a dark star, gentleman,” she said, indifferently, her accent a strange combination of cockney, Scottish, and something vaguely European. Gamadge, looking interested, nodded.

“Curious,” he said. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stuart—did I understand that you have Scots blood?”

“I am descended in direct line from King James of Scotland, Mr. Gamish.”

Feeling obscurely Levantine, Gamadge continued: “Then you have second sight, no doubt, as well as the usual gifts of the gypsy.”

“I have the second sight; and I am also the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, Mr. Gamish.”

“No wonder you saw at once that I was born under a dark star. But do you know its name, Mrs. Stuart? Do you know its name? Ah! I see that you do not.” For the old lady, slightly taken aback, was looking at him with some annoyance.

“I cannot tell the name of the star,” she said at last, with insufferable condescension, “until I know the day and hour of your nativity.”

“Then I'll tell it to you,” said Gamadge, “and save you all the trouble of figuring it out. It's the companion of Sirius.”

Mrs. Stuart continued to fix his eye with her stony black one; he continued:

“There is no darker star in the heavens. It is so dark that no mortal eye has ever seen it; no, not with the biggest telescope ever fashioned by the hand of man. It is an astronomer's guess, Mrs. Stuart; a heavenly inference. Can there be a darker star than that? I don't think so.”

William Stanley spoke, from the shelter of Georgina's skirt: “How do they know it's there?”

“They know it's there, William, through the perturbation of orbits. If you are interested, I shall explain fully some other time. Just now, I want to explain to this gifted lady exactly what it is that my nativity means to me: it means that I was born to perturb the orbits of others, myself remaining unsuspected and unseen. I will make a confession to you, Mrs. Stuart: I came here to find out whether you really had extra-sensory perception; I see that you have, and that I can discuss this nightshade mystery with you on equal terms.”

The old lady, staggered to find her dupe endowed with a line of patter even more outrageous than her own, surveyed him steadily; in fact, the glance they now exchanged somewhat resembled that of two Roman augurs. But Mrs. Stuart found nothing to antagonize her in the personality of the eccentric in well-tailored tweeds who sat quietly in front of her, hands in the pockets of his coat, face serious, legs crossed, one shoulder higher than the other, eyes screwed up against the sun. His blunt features looked amiable; he was not the sort who ever came into her booth at Whitewater Pier, even on a bet. She said politely, and with apparent candor: “We know nothing about the nightshade, gentleman.”

“If you say so, I believe you, of course. And none of your children here got any of the berries, because they know all the poisonous shrubs. You wouldn't pick nightshade, would you, William?”

He swung around on his stump to toss this question casually in William's direction. William, accustomed to blanket negation on all subjects, shook his head; adding for good measure: “Or the speckled mushrooms; or the poison ivy; or the poison sumac.”

Gamadge, feeling rather than hearing a slight stir behind him, where Mitchell stood, continued with some haste:

“And you wouldn't take such things as poison berries from a stranger, either; not even from a lady in a car.”

William lapsed still further; he became informative: “She only gave me a piece of candy, and started to take my picture.”

“Oh.” Gamadge was again conscious of that slight, involuntary shuffle of feet behind him. He said: “Started to take your picture, did she?”

“Yes, and she had the littlest camera I ever saw.”

“When was this?”

William suddenly became aware of a certain tenseness in the atmosphere about him. He looked around him at the expressionless faces of his relatives, kicked the pine needles beneath his feet, and shook his head.

“Yesterday? The day before?”

Silence.

“Can you tell me what she was like, William?”

Silence.

“Or what kind of car she drove?” Gamadge waited a moment, and then said, rising: “Not that it matters; but here's a quarter for answering my questions; some of 'em, anyway. And if you can remember anything more about that lady, there's a reward out.”

William's disinherited face was turned up to him hungrily.

“A reward,” said Gamadge. “Grown people get money; boys get anything within reason that they happen to want most. Have you a bicycle, William?”

Poor William almost sank under this question; he glanced at Mrs. Stuart's forbidding countenance, and back at Gamadge. His shake of the head was desolate.

“Well, you think it over, and talk it over with your family. See if you can't remember something about this kind lady that gave you candy and nearly took your picture. Why didn't she entirely take it, William?”

But William's informative mood had definitely passed. He now looked as witless as the rest of the tribe did. Gamadge turned to old Mrs. Stuart.

“Too bad about the little Bartram girl, wasn't it?” he said. “Did you know old Mrs. Bartram, Mrs. Stuart?”

Mrs. Stuart raised two fingers in a pontifical gesture, lifted her eyes to heaven, and said: “Mrs. Bartram was a spirit!”

This encouraged William to make another desperate bid for favor. Associating all proffers of information, relevant or irrelevant, with currency, he said in an eager tone: “She gave Grammer that dress and that chain.”

Georgina coughed. Gamadge ignored William's remark, and addressed Mrs. Stuart cheerfully:

“Well, it's been a great pleasure meeting you all. I don't see the baby, though; and I don't see your other grandson. I meant to leave a little souvenir with each of them. Here's William's.”

He placed the promised quarter in William's hand. Mrs. Stuart said, equably: “Take him into the tents, Georgina.”

“I won't disturb them?” asked Gamadge.