A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

hairpins to whole civilizations. I have sometimes thought that if we could stop oxidation we could stop time, and perhaps be able to—

My pleasant thoughts were interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek.

“Gypsy! Gypsy!”

A large, redheaded woman in a sweat-stained cotton housedress came windmilling out of the house and across the yard towards us. The sleeves of her cardigan were rolled up above her rawboned elbows as if for battle.

“Gypsy! Gypsy! Clear off!” she shouted, her face as red as her hair. “Tom, get out here! That Gypsy’s at the gate!”

Everyone in Bishop’s Lacey knew perfectly well that Tom Bull had cleared off ages ago and that he would not likely be back. The woman was bluffing.

“ ’Twas you as stole my baby, and don’t tell me you didn’t. I seen you hangin’ round here that day and I’ll stand up in any court o’ law and say so!”

The disappearance of the Bulls’ baby girl several years earlier had been a seven-day wonder, but the unsolved case had gradually crept to the back pages of the newspapers, then faded from memory.

I glanced at the Gypsy to see how she was bearing up under the ravings of her howling accuser. She sat motionless on the driving ledge, staring straight ahead, numb to the world. It was a response that seemed to spur the other woman to an even greater frenzy.

“Tom, get yourself out here … and bring the ax!” the woman screeched.

Until then, she had seemed hardly to notice me, but now my gaze had become suddenly entangled with hers, and the effect was dramatic.

“I know you!” she shouted. “You’re one of them de Luce girls from over at Buckshaw, ain’t you? I’d rec’nize them cold blue eyes anywhere.”

Cold blue eyes? Now, here was something worth thinking about. Although I had often been frozen in my tracks by Father’s icy stare, I had never for an instant thought of possessing such a deadly weapon myself.

I realized, of course, that we were in a dangerous situation, the sort of predicament that can turn nasty in a flash. It was obvious that the Gypsy woman was beyond counting upon. For all practical purposes I was on my own.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” I said, lifting my chin and narrowing my eyes to achieve the greatest effect. “My name is Margaret Vole, and this is my great-aunt Gilda Dickinson. Perhaps you’ve seen her in the cinema? The Scarlet Cottage? Queen of the Moon? But of course, how foolish of me: You wouldn’t recognize her in this Gypsy costume, would you? Or in her heavy makeup? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Miss …”

“B-Bull,” the woman stammered, slightly taken aback. “Mrs. Bull.”

She stared at us in utter astonishment, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bull,” I said. “I wonder if you might offer us assistance? We’re thoroughly lost, you see. We were to have joined the cine crew hours ago at Malden Fenwick. We’re both of us quite hopeless when it comes to directions, aren’t we, Aunt Gilda?”

There was no response from the Gypsy.

The redheaded woman had already begun to poke damp strands of hair back into position.

“Damn fools, whoever you are,” she said, pointing. “There’s no turning round hereabouts. Lane’s too narrow. Straight on to Doddingsley you’ll have to go, then back by way of Tench.”

“Thanks awfully,” I said in my best village-twit voice, taking the reins from the Gypsy and giving them a flick.

“Ya!” I cried, and Gry began to move at once.

We had gone about a quarter of a mile when suddenly the Gypsy spoke.

“You lie like one of us,” she said.

It was hardly the sort of remark I should have expected. She must have seen the puzzled look on my face.

“You lie when you are attacked for nothing … for the color of your eyes.”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose I do.” I had never really thought of it in this way.

“So,” she said, suddenly animated, as if the encounter with Mrs. Bull had warmed her blood, “you lie like us. You lie like a Gypsy.”

“Is that good?” I asked. “Or bad?”

Her answer was slow in coming.

“It means you will live a long life.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, as if a smile was about to escape, but she quickly suppressed it.

“In spite of the broken star on my Mount of Luna?” I couldn’t resist asking.

Her creaking laugh caught me by surprise.

“Mumbo jumbo. Fortune-teller’s rubbish. You weren’t taken in by it, were you?”

Her laughter set off another round of coughing, and I had to wait until she regained her breath.

“But … the woman on the mountain … the woman who wants to come home from the cold …”

“Look,” the Gypsy woman said wearily—as if she were unaccustomed to speaking—“your sisters put me up to