“You met him?”
“I saw him one night, departing that first crypt. I’d hidden myself on a tree limb, to watch it happen. He seemed to ooze up out of there as if he weren’t really moving any muscles, just flowing, the way Quicklime can do. Then he stood there a moment with his cloak flapping about him in the wind, turning his head, looking at the world as if he owned it and was deciding what part of it would amuse him just then. And then he laughed. I’ll never forget that sound. He just threw his head back and barked, not the way you do, unless you’ve a special way of barking just before you eat something that might not want to be eaten, and that this pleases you, adds to the flavor. Then he moved, and it played tricks with my eyes. He was different things, different shapes, flapping cloak all about, even in different places at the same time, and then he was gone, like a piece of the cloak sailing away in the moonlight. I wasn’t unhappy to see him go.”
“I never saw anything that dramatic,” I said. “But I met him at even closer quarters, and I was impressed.” I paused, then, “Did Tekela give you anything besides the story on Lynette?” I asked.
“Everyone seems to be onto the idea of the old manse as the center now,” she said. “The vicar told her that it had served a much larger church, south of here, in the old days, one that the last Henry had ruined, as an example to the others that he meant business.”
“That makes it such a good candidate that I’m irritated at the Count’s bad taste in throwing off the calculations.”
“Have you figured the new site yet?”
“No. I should be about that pretty soon, though.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“I’ll take you with me when I do it,” I offered.
“When will that be?”
“Probably tomorrow. I was just going to walk up the road to see the Gipsies now.”
“Why?”
“They’re sometimes colorful. You can come along if you like.”
“I will.”
We headed on up the road. It was another clear-skied night, with multitudes of stars. I could hear a distant music as we neared Larry’s place. Beyond, I could make out the glow of bonfires. As we continued, I could distinguish the sounds of violin, guitar, tambourine, and a single drum within the music. We drew nearer, coming at last to a hiding place beneath a caravan, from which we could watch. I smelled dogs, but we were downwind and none bothered us.
Several older Gipsy women were dancing and there was suddenly a singer making wailing sounds. The music was stirring, the dancers’ movements stylized, like the steps of long-legged birds I’d seen in warmer climes. There were many fires, and from some of them came the smells of cooking. The spectacle was as much a thing of the shadows as the light, however, and I rather liked the wailing, being something of a connoisseur when it comes to barks and howls. We watched for some time, taken by the bright colors of the dancers’ and players’ garments as much as by the movements and the sounds.
They played several tunes, and then the fiddler gestured toward a knot of spectators, holding out his instrument and pointing to it. I heard a sound of protest, but he insisted, and finally a woman moved forward into the light. It was several moments before I realized it to be Linda Enderby. Obviously, the Great Detective was making yet another of his social calls. Back in the shadows, I could now make out the short, husky form of his companion.
Over several protests, he accepted the violin and bow, touched the strings, then cradled the instrument as if he knew its kind well. He raised the bow, paused for a long moment, and then began to play.
He was good. It was not Gipsy music, but was some old folk tune I’d heard somewhere before. When it was done he moved immediately into another on which he worked several variations. He played and he played, and it grew wilder and wilder…