Sebastian let his hand rest on his thigh. Has he? We know he went up there on Tuesday and made a big show of organizing a search for his cousins. But do we know for certain he s actually been there all day, every day, since then?
She thought about it, then shook her head. No.
For all we know, he could have been spending the bulk of his time scouring London in the hopes of finding the children and silencing them.
But if they re not dead, then where are they?
Chien nudged Sebastian s still hand, and he moved again to stroke the brown and black dog s silken coat. He was thinking about a nine-year-old boy telling Philippe he should have called his dog Rom. Not Gypsy, but Rom. He had a sudden image of a blue and white nazar worn on a leather thong around the neck of an old Gypsy woman, and an identical talisman lying on a nursery table beside a broken clay pipe bowl and a horse chestnut.
What? said Hero, watching him.
He pushed to his feet. I think I know where the children are.
You mean, you know where they re buried?
No. I don t think they re dead. I think they ve gone with the raggle-taggle-Gypsies-oh.
Chapter 49
They drove first to the Adelphi Terrace in hopes the Gypsy woman might still be there. But the angry clouds roiling overhead had already blotted out much of the light from the setting sun. The windows in the surrounding houses gleamed golden with lamplight, and the terrace lay wet and deserted beneath a darkening sky.
Now what do we do? asked Hero, shouting to be heard over the din of the wind and driving rain.
Sebastian stared out over the rain-swollen river. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the underbellies of the clouds and reflecting off the choppy water. A charlie on his rounds came staggering around the corner, headed for his box. He wore an old-fashioned greatcoat and held one hand up to hold his hat against the wind; his other hand clutched a shuttered lantern.
Sure, then, tis a foul night we re in for, he said when he saw them.
It is that, agreed Sebastian. We were looking for the Gypsy woman who s usually here reading palms. Do you know where we might find her?
Has she stolen something from you, sir? Nasty thieving varmints, the lot of em.
No, she hasn t stolen anything. But my wife Sebastian nodded to Hero, who did her best to look credulous and eager my wife here was desirous of having her palm read.
The charlie blinked. But he was obviously inured to the strange ways of quality, because he said, I think she belongs to that band what camps up around Nine Elms this time of year. I seen her leaving once or twice by wherry. The hamlet of Nine Elms lay on the south side of the river, beyond Lambeth and Vauxhall in a low, marshy area known for its windmills and osier stands and meadows of rue and nettle.
Thank you, said Sebastian, turning to shout directions to his coachman and help Hero climb into the carriage.
Funny you should be asking about them, said the charlie.
Sebastian paused on the carriage steps to look back at him.
Why s that?
Mr. Tennyson asked me the same thing, said the charlie, not more n a couple of hours ago.
They found the Gypsy camp in a low meadow near a willow-lined brook, where some half a dozen high-wheeled caravans were drawn up in a semicircle facing away from the road. Wet cook fires burnt sluggishly in the gloaming of the day, their blue smoke drifting up into the mist, the penetrating smell of burning wood and garlic and onions carrying on the wind. At the edge of the encampment, a herd of tethered horses sidled nervously, their heads tossing, their neighs mingling with the thunder that rolled across the darkening sky.
As Sebastian signaled to his coachman to pull up, a motley pack of lean yellow dogs rushed barking from beneath the wagons. A tall man wearing a broad-brimmed black hat and a white shirt came to stand beside the nearest caravan, his gaze focused on them. He made no move to approach, just stood with one hand cupped around the bowl of his clay pipe, his eyes hidden by the brim of his hat as he watched the dogs surround them.
Now what do we do? asked Hero as the pack leapt snapping and snarling around the carriage.
Stay here. Throwing open the door, Sebastian jumped to the ground to scoop up a rock and hurl it into the pack. They all immediately drew back, ears flattened, tails low.
Impressive. Did you learn that in Spain too? Hero dropped down behind him. But he noticed she kept one hand in her reticule.
Even if you don t have a rock, all you need to do is reach down and pretend to throw one, and the effect is the same.
I ll try to remember that.
They crossed the waterlogged meadow toward the camp, the tall, wet grass brushing against their clothes. They could see more men, and women in full, gaily colored skirts, crouched around the fires, pretending not to notice their approach. But the children hung back in the shadows, still and quiet as they watched with dark, sullen eyes.
O boro duvel atch pa leste, called Sebastian to the lone man standing beside the nearest caravan.
The man grunted, his teeth clenching down on the stem of his pipe, his eyes fierce. He had weathered, sun-darkened skin and a bushy iron gray mustache and curly dark hair heavily laced with gray. A pale scar cut through his thick left eyebrow.
The woman who tells fortunes near the Adelphi and the York Steps, said Sebastian, still in Romany. We would like to speak to her.
The Gypsy stared at Sebastian, not a line in his face moving.
I know you have two Gadje children here with you, said Sebastian, although the truth was, he didn t know it; he was still only working on a hunch. A boy of nine and a younger child of three.
The Gypsy shifted his pipe stem with his tongue. What do you think? he said in English. That we Rom are incapable of producing our own children? That we need to steal yours?
I m not accusing you of stealing these children. I think you ve offered them protection from the man who killed their cousin. When the Gypsy simply continued to stare at him, Sebastian said, We mean the children no harm. But we have reason to think that the man who murdered their cousin now knows where they are.
Hero touched Sebastian s arm. Devlin.
He turned his head. The old woman from the York Steps had appeared at the front doorway of the nearest caravan. She held by the hand a small child, his dark brown hair falling around his dirty face in soft curls like a girl s. But rather than a frock he wore a blue short-sleeved skeleton suit. The high-waisted trousers buttoned to a tight coat were ripped at one knee, the white, ruffle-collared shirt beneath it grimy. He stared at them with wide, solemn eyes.
Hello, Alfred, said Hero, holding out her arms.
Remember me, darling?
The Gypsy woman let go of his hand, and after a moment s hesitation, he went to Hero. She scooped him off the platform into her arms and held him tight, her eyes squeezing shut for one betraying moment.
Sebastian said, And the older child? George?
It was the woman who answered. He went down the river with some of our boys to catch hedgehogs. They were coming back to camp along the road when a man in a gig drove up behind them and grabbed the lad.
How long ago? said Sebastian sharply.
An hour. Maybe more.
Hero met his gaze. Dear God, she whispered.
Fishing his engraved gold watch from his pocket, Sebastian turned back to the mustachioed Gypsy. I ll give you four hundred pounds for your fastest horse and a saddle, with this standing as security until I can deliver the funds. And to make damned certain you give me your best horse, I ll pay you another hundred pounds if I catch up with that gig in time.