can he? I will not believe it of him. Not our Mr. Deal! I thought perhaps Miss Jones could read it in the tea leaves, or something. — It is nonsense, I know — fortune-telling — but I simply have not been able to stop thinking about it all. I found a note from Mr. Deal today. — Nothing improper, mind you. — Gracious, it is years since a note to me from any man might excite speculation! — He must have left it before all the unpleasantness.”
“May I ask what it said?” Darcy enquired.
“Oh, he thanked me and Mother for the tea we shared on Sunday. It should more properly have been addressed to my mother, or to us both, I suppose, but it was thoughtful nonetheless. He is all consideration, Mr. Deal — though he forgets it was Wednesday we had the tea, not Sunday. Men do not have the memory for such details that we women do — is that not true, Mrs. Darcy? Pray, forgive my saying so, sir. I only mean it in good nature. But you have seen Mr. Deal, yes? How does he get on?”
“As well as can be expected,” Elizabeth said, “and he thanks you for the basket.”
“Oh!” A smile spread across her face. “I am so glad! I—”
“In fact,” Elizabeth continued, “if you care to send anything else by Mr. Darcy tomorrow, he would be happy to accept the commission.”
Miss Bates looked to Mr. Darcy. “Would you? Oh! Perhaps I should — why, yes — I shall gather some more things together right now, and you can bring them whenever you next go there. Will you be long with Miss Jones?”
“We have several errands this afternoon,” Elizabeth said. “I will call for the parcel in the morning.”
Miss Bates departed in happy occupation — leaving them in happy solitude. Darcy looked at Elizabeth with admiration.
“That was well done.”
Their luck held: Miss Jones was at home. Mrs. Todd invited the Darcys to wait in the small sitting room, then sent her daughter to summon Loretta. Alice returned a minute later to report that Miss Jones would be down to receive them directly. The child then hung about, staring at their visitors to the point where Mrs. Todd gave her a coin and dispatched her to the post office to see whether any letters had arrived from her brothers.
“She goes every day,” Mrs. Todd explained when the child had scampered off. “Since my younger son followed his brother into the militia, posting my letters or calling for theirs has become her special responsibility.” The landlady then busied herself in the kitchen, leaving the Darcys to themselves.
As they waited for Miss Jones to appear, Elizabeth wondered whether Mrs. Todd could possibly fit one more item of bric-a-brac into the tight space. Little figurines, small pieces of china, and trinkets littered every horizontal surface, each one seeming to call, chirp, or cry out for notice. She could not imagine Mr. Todd, whatever manner of man he had been, living in this cacophony of clutter. Darcy looked entirely out of place. She felt crowded herself.
Miss Jones took so long about appearing that Elizabeth was not without anxiety that the girl might have fled, but at last she found her way to them. She greeted them with a breezy “good day” and an insouciant smile, and sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door.
“We are pleased to find you at leisure to see us,” Elizabeth said. “We had feared you would be too busy peering into teacups at the Crown.”
“I was on my way over there, in fact,” she replied. “The present situation has the village at sixes and sevens, so many are seeking my insight.”
“Present situation?” Darcy asked.
“Mr. Deal’s arrest, and a poisoner about.” She rose to rescue a soldier statuette standing at attention precariously close to the edge of a shelf. She slid it back several inches to keep watch beside a painted cat with a chipped ear. “First the Churchills, now a maid — my customers want to know if they will be next.”
“If they fear being poisoned, Mr. Deal’s arrest ought to reassure them.”
“Only if he is indeed the poisoner.”
“Do you believe him innocent?” Elizabeth asked. “You know him better than anybody, I suppose, having traveled in the caravan with him.”
Miss Jones appeared gratified by this acknowledgment. “I do, indeed, and he is not a treacherous man. I blame the gypsies.”
“I thought the gypsies have left the neighborhood?”
“They have, so far as I know.” She adjusted a china creamer shaped like a dairy cow. “But they are a devious lot — one among them in particular. I told you, they have an old woman who claims to be a healer. Madam Zsofia knows everything about plants and poisons, and she is secretive and stingy with her knowledge. And Madam Zsofia dislikes the English. I would not be at all surprised if she gave Hiram poisoned physics to sell unknowingly to innocent villagers.”
“Did she poison Edgar Churchill when he visited the gypsy camp?”
Loretta accidentally bumped the cow against another figurine, knocking a shepherd boy onto his back. She murmured an indistinguishable word and righted the shepherd. When she turned to face them, she wrapped her arms in front of her as if she were cold.
“I am afraid she might have. She was hovering around us — she probably slipped it to him when nobody realized.”
“ ‘Us’—who else was there?”
“Mr. Dixon and another gypsy woman. There were more gypsies in the camp, but they left us to ourselves. All but Madam Zsofia.”
“Why did you not mention Mr. Churchill’s visit when we last asked you about him?” Elizabeth said.
“Because Madam Zsofia is a frightful old hag! I am afraid even now that she will somehow know what I told you and put a curse on me.”
Elizabeth had hardly considered Rawnie Zsofia an old hag, though she imagined the master
“Even so… I would not cross her.”
Darcy lifted a carved wooden cottage off the table beside him and turned it over in his hands. “Why did Edgar Churchill and Mr. Dixon come to the camp?”
“To have their fortunes told.”
Darcy pretended to examine the carving; Elizabeth knew that knickknacks held no attraction for him. “If Mr. Dixon was so interested in prognostication that he strolled out of the village to find the camp”—he traced his finger along the miniature roofline, then looked up at Miss Jones—“why, then, did he refuse to let you tell his fortune when he came upon you in such a convenient place as the Crown?”
“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 Zsofia cannot always read the signs.”
“Did Madam Zsofia 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 Zsofia rides through the night in a mortar and
