Savage Magic (25 page)

Please note, however, that this arrangement can only possibly be preserved for two or perhaps three nights. My resources do not stretch themselves to providing individual guardianship of all the houses of those receiving this letter. For reasons of individual privacy, I am also not revealing the full list of those receiving this letter to anyone on receipt of it. No doubt, though, if your Society is still extant, communication will occur between you all.

I remain

Yours sincerely

GRAHAM, A. – Magistrate, Bow Street Public Office

NORWOOD

The coppice at Norwood is thick and ancient and now, thanks to the ministrations of ministers and commissioners, almost entirely enclosed. Land now owned by Lord Thurlow pinches down from the north, while the trees which once whispered within the Great North Wood are now the property – roots, branches and memories – of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Within the trees, in clearings and under shadows, live the gypsies of Norwood.

Aaron Graham’s carriage makes its way into the coppice, along the road which took its name from the local residents. Maggie Finch, the Queen of the Gypsies at Norwood, had made the area famous almost a hundred years before, and her niece Bridget had become Mother Bridget, the most famous gypsy in Britain, her name associated with two books she almost certainly never wrote:
Mother Bridget’s Dream Book
and
The Norwood Gypsy
. The woman herself died in her hut here on Norwood Common more than thirty years before, but her name – and the reputation of Norwood itself – still holds sufficient allure for printers to exploit it on their chapbooks.

William Jealous had visited the place yesterday, on Graham’s orders. Jealous now rides alongside Graham’s carriage, which is driven by Roberts. The young patrolman is as alive and aware as any human Graham has ever seen, clearly relishing the opportunity to involve himself in an investigation which is already the talk of London. He will take Graham’s letter to the Sybarites on to Thorpe once they have spoken to the gypsies. It is time to warn Sir Henry of the danger he is in, Horton or no Horton.

Sir John Cope’s death has filled the second and third pages of the morning’s newspapers – the front pages continue to support London’s commerce. It would take the death of a monarch or a declaration of war to shift the advertisements. But none of the stories printed by the scribblers have made any connection between Sir John and Edmund Wodehouse, other than the plain fact that both murders have happened and both victims were men of quality. There is some mild speculation that the ritual nature of Wodehouse’s death might have been repeated in Sir John’s despatch, but Graham has been careful to warn Sir John’s staff, via Burgess, that any discussion of the case with the press will lead to unspoken punishment.

Graham has attempted to lead the press by publishing his own version of events in the
The Hue and Cry and Police Gazette
. It is the first time he has done such a thing. The newspaper had been John Fielding’s invention, as
The Quarterly Pursuit
, a mechanism for alerting the public to recent robberies and assaults as means of generating information. It had been notably successful in this, going through several changes of name. By using the newspaper to address the public directly about the circumstances of Sir John’s murder, Graham is seeking to do something new: to guide the emotional responses of the street, to assert his own will upon their panic, to
calm them down
. Whether this will be effective, it is too soon to tell.

The main gypsy encampment is at the foot of the hill that rises up to Upper Norwood. It presents itself to the little road almost blatantly; this is, after all, a public attraction, a spot for those wanting their fortunes told and their palms read. Graham knows how malevolent the promises of these people are; he has arrested and locked up a half-dozen of them for the
hokkano baro
, their ‘great trick’ of taking valuables from the gullible with the promise to return them multiplied. In one case he had prosecuted, a man from Covent Garden had given one of these people eleven guineas, having been promised that two nights later three white doves would come to him and place 200 guineas, as well as a watch and a gold ring and (the detail Graham found particularly clever and pernicious) some silver buckles and shirt buttons underneath his pillow. When brought before Graham, the gypsy concerned had muttered something in the strange half-invented language these people used, and when Graham insisted he repeat it in English, the gypsy scowled and said words to the effect that non-gypsies were fools to believe their money could be multiplied, so why should gypsies not exploit the gullibility of fools? The man had been sent to Newgate to await trial in the Old Bailey; Graham assumes he is by now dead or practising his art on the shores of New South Wales. Perhaps the fools are made of sterner stuff in those parts.

Such stories as these are the common currency of folk suspicious of gypsies, yet still people flock to Norwood. They come not to have their money multiplied (though lottery predictions remain popular), but to have their fortunes read. Fortune-telling methods are varied and complex: a mermaidshaped piece of catgut held in the palm, which will curl up and indicate the nature of a future husband; an egg white dropped into a glass of water, its shapes full of meaning; fate read in the features of a face; the patterns of the stars and planets in the night sky, used to tell the most propitious time to marry, to invest, to harvest. For sixpence a time, a whole panoply of mischievous fiction can be invoked.

The huts and tents and carriages of the gypsy encampment are quiet this morning, though a gaggle of small children sees their carriage approach and runs into the wood, shouting in some tongue which sounds vaguely, but only vaguely, English. By the time Graham has climbed down from his carriage and Jealous from his horse, half-a-dozen gypsy women have appeared, all offering their own version of the timeless promises of their kind. These women are young and, presumably, inexperienced. Their older sisters stay within the trees, wary of the arrival of three men, one of whom seems dressed with obvious authority. This is not the time of day for wealthy visitors from town. They must be up to no good.

Jealous ignores the women who approach them, and heads into the woods. Graham follows him, and some of the women shout abuse and threaten dark curses. Jealous leads him to a hut next to a particularly ancient carriage, in front of which a black horse stands and waits, seemingly rooted to the same mysterious earth as the old trees of the North Wood.

Jealous raps on the hut, and from within a cracked female voice shouts angrily in return.

‘Come out, Mother,’ the young officer shouts. Graham is once again impressed with him. He acts as if he has been a resident of the Norwood gypsies his whole life. ‘It is the patrolman from Bow Street, come with the magistrate.’

More mutterings from within, but after a few seconds the top half of the door of the hut swings open, and a darkskinned face surrounded by grey gorse-hair emerges, the face narrow and obscurely beautiful, the eyes as black as the wood behind them. The old eyes narrow as the gypsy sees the man with Jealous, and Graham sees her calculate the situation – and her likely benefit from it – within half a second. A movement behind the hut disturbs him momentarily, and he sees, with a well-dressed shiver, that the gypsy’s horse is glaring at him with the same deliberate calculation. Her old husband, perhaps, transformed into a beast by some ancient Balkan curse.

‘Mother Marcus,’ says Jealous. ‘This is the magistrate of Bow Street, Mr Graham. He wishes to hear what you told me yesterday.’

‘Ah, do he?’ asks the gypsy, and her voice is as smooth as milk warmed before a fire. Graham wonders how many fortunes have been coaxed out of how many pockets by that voice. ‘And he knows my trade, I take it, patrolman?’

‘He does,’ says Jealous, and he is smiling. It seems he, too, has been somewhat charmed by this woman, old enough to be his mother, seductive enough for his dreams.

‘Then perhaps he can demonstrate his knowledge.’ She smiles, and waits. Graham steps towards her. She watches his approach with the welcoming charm of a fatally attractive cobra.

‘Mother Marcus, I have questions I wish to ask you.’

‘Ah, questions! Well, questions cost no money at all, comes the time. But answers is not free, magistrate.’

‘You must answer my questions, madam. The law requires it.’

‘Does it, now? Then you would not be a magistrate who prints handbills and asks for statements, then? You’d be a special kind of magistrate, who doesn’t give rewards? Is that it, magistrate?’

‘There is no reward for information in this case.’

‘Is there not? Then I can see how you afford such fine clothes, magistrate, and I hope you enjoy your journey home from our little enclave. I see sadness in your face, magistrate. You must take it with you, along with your empty purse and your ignorance of what I know.’

Her face begins to reverse into the dark of the hut behind her, and the effect is eerie indeed. She is like a Delphic oracle in a cave, stepping backwards into the gloom, until all that is visible is the forest glinting back from her eyes. The horse makes a sound like an amused
harrumph
.

But she does not reverse all the way in. She waits. Graham can smell the game on her, as strongly as the stench of her old horse. Well, then. He will play.

‘A guinea, then. A guinea for what you know.’

Her face remains where it is, almost entirely obscured, but the warm-milk voice floats from the hut.

‘Ah, the guinea is a social bird, magistrate. She is never happy on her own. At least a dozen make a happy brood.’

‘Perhaps. But London guineas are made of sterner stuff. They become impatient with more than two companions.’

‘Is that indeed true? ’Tis new knowledge to me. Here in the forest, three guineas would be defenceless. Six would make a happy band.’

‘Well, then. It is your forest, madam. If six guineas are needed to protect each other, six guineas it shall be.’

He takes out his purse, counts out six coins, and lays them on the lip of the hut. One brown hand, its fingers long and narrow, its nails painted black, emerges from the gloom and pulls away, sweeping up the coins without, it seems, even clenching its fingers. Mother Marcus floats back into the light.

‘’Tis an elegant magistrate,’ she says to Jealous. ‘As you promised.’

Jealous blushes. Graham speaks.

‘Jealous described a woman to you. A gypsy woman.’

‘No gypsy she.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘She offered you the Tarot?’

‘She did.’

‘No gypsy would offer the Tarot. It is not in our lore. It is a disgusting invention of Swiss priests and Italian charlatans. No gypsy believes in it.’

‘This seems unusual to me, woman. The gypsies of my acquaintance would offer their own children if there were money in it.’

Her eyes settle on his, and in their dark circles he sees the promise of something awful and something majestic.

‘You are well acquainted with my people, magistrate?’

‘They make free with my officers’ time in Covent Garden, woman.’

‘Perhaps. But never with the Tarot. Never.’

‘Then who is this woman?’

‘I may know her. But I am interested in something she has promised people. In addition to the Tarot.’

‘And what is that?’

‘I believe she calls it the Dreaming.’

Graham recalls this from his own encounter with the gypsy.

‘And what is that?’

‘I have no idea, magistrate.’

She smiles, and Graham finds himself waiting for her to lick her lips. She does no such thing.

‘But it is intriguing, is it not? Why does she offer such a thing, if it does not exist? Or perhaps it is her own invention.’

‘And what if it is?’

‘We are a creative people, magistrate. We cherish the new.’

‘Meaning new ways to wrest people’s money from their purses.’

‘Perhaps. But this woman, and her Dreaming – she interests me.’

‘This woman has been described to you?’ Graham asks.

‘She has.’

‘And what was the description?’

‘Dark hair. Dark skin. Dark eyes. And . . .’ The gypsy runs a finger along one cheek and jaw, mapping out a scar. Graham instantly recalls the damaged face of the old gypsy woman.

‘And do you know where we might find this woman?’

‘Find her? I do not. And you have had good value from me today, magistrate. You should be on your way.’

‘But you have seen her?’

‘Aye, I have seen her. She was here.’

‘When? When was she here?’

‘Oh, she stayed a good while. In the spring it was, and when the spring turned into summer. She didn’t have much to do with the people here, magistrate. Kept herself to herself.’

‘She was alone?’

‘She was not alone, magistrate, no. She had a young woman with her. A sad and beautiful thing, she was. The image of her mother. But without . . .’