“I can read tea leaves and palms, not a person’s thoughts. You shall have to ask him. Perhaps he is afraid of what I might reveal.”
“What was revealed at the gypsy camp?”
She shrugged. “That a death would bring him money.”
Elizabeth tried to gauge Darcy’s response to that interesting little prediction, but his attention remained on Miss Jones.
“And Mr. Churchill’s tea leaves?”
“I could not make them out.”
“Why not?”
“I do not know.” She recrossed her arms. “Even Madam Zsófia cannot always read the signs.”
“Did Madam Zsófia attempt to read theirs?”
“No.”
Darcy set the wooden cottage back on the table. “When, then, was she in close enough proximity to slip Edgar Churchill the poison?”
Loretta stared at him a moment, blinking. “At one point, he seemed in some discomfort and said he was bothered by gout. Maybe she overheard and followed them afterwards to give him one of her concoctions.”
Additional questions yielded little else, and they were conscious of time passing. They soon left to see whether Mr. Knightley had returned from London.
“To hear Miss Jones describe Mr. Deal’s gypsy mother, Baba Yaga is come to England,” Darcy said as they headed back to Hartfield. “I half expected her to tell us that Madam Zsófia rides through the night in a mortar and pestle, stealing children.”
Elizabeth, too, thought Loretta’s description greatly exaggerated. “When I met Rawnie Zsófia, she did not look like an old Russian witch from legend.”
Darcy glanced at the gloomy blanket of clouds above; Elizabeth hoped the rain would hold off until he had completed his second trip to Guildford.
“Perhaps not.” Darcy’s tone matched the weather. “But she is increasingly looking like a murderess.”
“A vast deal may be done by those who dare to act.”
— Mrs. Elton, Emma
Mr. Knightley returned to Hartfield just as Darcy was preparing to leave for Guildford. After a brief update from Mr. Perry on the maid’s condition and a summary of Darcy’s findings just detailed enough to convey the necessity of another gaol visit, Mr. Knightley traded Hartfield’s coach for Darcy’s, and both gentlemen began their second long journey of the day. The only thing that might be said in favor of the drive was that it provided an opportunity for Darcy to more fully recount the day’s conversations with Mr. Deal, Madam Zsófia, and Miss Jones, and to share the letter from Lord Chatfield. Mr. Knightley had nothing to report of his investigation into Mr. Deal’s birth; he had only just begun when Mr. Perry’s message brought him home.
“In light of these new developments,” Mr. Knightley said when Darcy had done, “you lean, then, towards Mr. Deal or Madam Zsófia as the poisoner?”
“I still want to talk to Mr. Dixon again, and I have not altogether eliminated Frank Churchill, but… yes. Mr. Deal’s participation might prove unwitting, but his mother’s involvement would be entirely deliberate.”
Darcy paused. Elizabeth, perhaps beguiled by Madam Zsófia’s gypsy charms, favored Thomas Dixon as the killer. He admitted as much to Mr. Knightley. “I cannot discount Mrs. Darcy’s opinion,” he added. “She is the only one who has met and spoken with Madam Zsófia, and my wife’s instincts have served us well in the past.”
Mr. Knightley nodded. “Mrs. Knightley also has her own views on the matter. She will not hear a word against Thomas Dixon, or Frank Churchill, and still harbors hope that her favorite peddler will be exonerated. I think she would very much like to see this crime laid at Madam Zsófia’s feet.”
“And you?”
Mr. Knightley gazed out the window at the dimming landscape. “I am trying to withhold judgment until we learn all we can.”
By the time they reached Guildford, both men were weary, hungry, and thoroughly tired of the insides of coaches. They were also not inclined towards pleasantries when Mr. Deal was at last before them in the private but dreary room they were granted for the interrogation. Barely had the peddler’s face registered surprise at seeing Darcy for the second time that day — with another basket, no less — than Mr. Knightley motioned him onto a splintery wooden chair beside the table, sat down on an equally suspect seat across from him, and commenced the interview.
“Mr. Deal, is your mother — your gypsy mother — familiar with belladonna?”
Mr. Deal regarded Mr. Knightley warily. He glanced up to Darcy, who remained impassive, then back at the magistrate.
“Of course she is. I would venture to say that Rawnie Zsófia knows every plant that grows in England, and many that do not.”
“Did she share her knowledge with you?”
“She did not formally train me as a healer — she saw that my talents lay elsewhere. But she taught me some rudiments, that I might tend to myself if the need arose. And she taught me to identify many plants in regions through which we regularly passed.”
“Was belladonna among them?”
“Aye. In fact, it was one of the first. Gypsy travelers often forage to feed themselves, and when I joined the kumpania, my mother taught me which plants were poisonous and which were not. She especially made sure I could identify belladonna — she did not want me or any other child in the caravan to be tempted by its sweet berries, or mistake them for something else.”
Mr. Knightley regarded the peddler in consternation. “Are you telling me that from childhood, every member of the caravan can recognize belladonna?”
“I expect so.”
The magistrate rubbed his temples. Darcy nearly did the same. Their pool of suspects had just expanded exponentially.
However, the number with clear motive remained finite. “We have been told that Edgar Churchill and Thomas Dixon visited the gypsy camp the day Mr. Churchill died,” Darcy said. “Did Madam Zsófia speak of the event to you?”
If Mr. Deal feigned his look of astonishment, the peddler was a better player than many on stage. “No — I knew nothing about it. From whom did you hear this?”
“Madam Zsófia herself.”
“You have spoken with my mother?”
Darcy handed him Madam Zsófia’s basket, from which the medicines had been removed. “This is from her.”
His face still all amazement, Mr. Deal accepted the basket but did not examine its contents.
“We would like to speak with Madam Zsófia further,” Mr. Knightley said. “Where might she be found?”
“With the caravan, I assume.”
“And where is the caravan?”
Mr. Deal turned to Darcy. “As I told you this morning, I do not know.” He ran his hand through his hair. “By the gods, I would like to speak to her myself. I cannot believe my mother met with Edgar Churchill and did not tell me. Are you certain you understood her correctly?”
“Miss Jones has confirmed it.”