The Black Opal

Castle Folly

Gertie wanted Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Harold to give a dinner-party.

“We’ll have the Rowlands, Lawrence Emmerson and his alter ego Dorothy, you, myself and the romantic Lucian. I think it will be fun. You’ve had so much hospitality … all those weekends … and you’re our responsibility. Soon we shall be cluttered with wedding obligations, so we’d better do it soon.”

Aunt Beatrice was delighted, and then she was a little apprehensive.

“Shall we be grand enough?” she asked.

“The Emmersons are all right, but what about that Sir Lucian?”

I assured her there was nothing to fear on that score.

It would have to be dinner, not lunch, said Gertie. Lunch was not quite the same. The Emmersons would be all right. They had their place close by, but what about Lucian? He lived in the country. They couldn’t put him up for the night.

I said he would stay in a hotel. He did when he came to London for a brief period. We would invite him to the dinner-party in any case.

The invitations were given and accepted. Lucian said he would stay at Walden’s in Mayfair, as he had done on previous occasions. He had some business to do in London and he would arrange to do it at the same time. So it was all satisfactorily arranged.

Gertie was in ecstasy. She was over almost everything at this time.

She was so delighted with life. It would not be long now before she was Mrs. Ragland. The house was almost ready and the future looked rosy. All she needed now was to see me in a similar state. Dear Gertie. She had been such a wonderful friend.

She and Aunt Beatrice talked constantly of the coming dinner-party.

What flowers should they have? The best china, used only on special occasions, was brought out; there was a higher gloss on the furniture than usual.

“Dorothy might notice,” I said.

“The others certainly won’t.”

The great day arrived. We had an aperitif in the drawing-room before dinner and in due course assembled at the dinner-table.

Conversation was lively and ran smoothly. Lawrence told a few anecdotes about life in the hospital to which he was attached; Lucian talked animatedly of the estate and country life and the rest of us joined in: even Uncle Harold had something to contribute, while Aunt Beatrice kept an alert eye on the food, so anxious was she that nothing should go wrong.

She need have had no qualms. Everything went according to plan and I think the guests were so interested in the conversation that they would not have been aware of it if it had not.

We had left the table and had gone to the drawing-room for coffee when Dorothy started to talk about a book she had read.

“You would not suspect Dorothy of being interested in such gruesome subjects, would you?” said Lawrence.

“But crime has always fascinated her.”

“I know she wrote a book on the subject,” I said.

“She lent it to me.

I found it fascinating. “

“It was inspired by the Jameson case,” said Dorothy.

“Do you remember it? It took place years ago. A Martin Jameson married women for their money and then, when he had arranged for it all to come to him, he just disposed of them. The interesting thing was that he was such a charmer. No one believed he could commit such crimes, and he was able to operate with success for some time. “

“The charm would equip him for the work he had decided to do, I imagine,” said Lucian.

“But it was not exactly a pose. The man was kind … it turned out that he had helped lots of people. They came forward to testify for him. He was highly respected wherever he went. And all the time, he was seeking out these women with money, going through a form of marriage with them, then murdering them. Right up to the moment of his death, he was gentle and charming.”

“There must have been some violence in him,” said Lawrence.

“And don’t forget, he did it for the money.”

“A murderer deserves to hang,” said Bernard.

“I think Dorothy wanted to understand the man,” explained Lawrence.

“To discover what his thoughts were as he put aside his gentler instincts and became a killer.”

“That’s clear enough,” put in Uncle Harold.

“He wanted the money.”

“And so he was hanged,” said Gertie.

“Anyone who kills someone deserves to hang.” She looked at Bernard.

“Especially husbands who kill their wives.”

“I’m listening,” said Bernard.

“I don’t think you’d think what I’ve got would be worth while,” retorted Gertie.

“Well,” replied Bernard, “I shall have to look into it!”

Dorothy had no intention of allowing this kind of lovers’ banter to intrude on a serious subject.

“It’s interesting to study these cases,” she said.

“It gives one a certain understanding of people, and people are fascinating. There is this case I have just been reading about. A young girl was shot in a place called Cranley Wood. It is in Yorkshire. This was some years ago. There is a possibility that they hanged the wrong man.”

Lucian leaned forward, listening.

“I don’t remember this case,” he said.

“There was not a great deal of publicity about it. I think people thought the man who confessed some time after was mad.”

“Do tell us,” said Lucian.

“I am sure Dorothy will,” replied Lawrence.

“She’s on her favourite hobbyhorse.”

“Murder is so interesting,” said Gertie.

“Briefly, this is the case,” began Dorothy.

“Marion Jackson was the daughter of a farmer. She was engaged to marry Tom Eccles, also a farmer living in the neighbourhood. A small landowner, also in the district and known to be something of a lady’s man, had been abroad and when he came back, a number of the local girls were fascinated by him, and it seems that Marion was one of those who fell under his spell. It is not a very usual story. Marion was seduced by the philanderer and became pregnant. She made an attempt to pass off the child as Tom Eccles’s. There was a scene in the woods between Marion and Tom, which was overheard. Tom had discovered that the child was not his and made Marion confess who was in fact the father. That afternoon Marion was found in the woods, shot through the heart.”

“The farmer fiance did it,” said Gertie.

“I expect he was furious.”

“Understandably,” said Bernard.

“So it was thought,” went on Dorothy.

“There was an inquiry. There was nothing special about the shot. It was fired from an ordinary sort of gun. Tom Eccles had one, so did Marion’s father and countless other people around the district.”

“What about the philanderer?” asked Aunt Beatrice.

“He too, I dare say. Several people had heard the shot. Tom Eccles could not account for his whereabouts at that time. He had, however, been heard to say, ” I’ll kill you for this,” during the scene with Marion earlier on; and he was in a rather hysterical state at the time. The trial did not last long. It seemed certain that, overcome by an excess of jealousy, Tom Eccles had killed Marion Jackson. He was found guilty and hanged. That happened more than twenty years ago. You might say it was a perfectly commonplace crime, the sort of thing that has happened again and again.”

“No crime is ordinary,” suggested Uncle Harold.

Dorothy turned to him.

“You are right. That is why it is so. fascinating to study these things. As I said, this happened a long time ago. A crime was committed and a man was hanged. Has it ever occurred to you that there might be other occasions when a person can be hanged for a crime he or she did not commit, although all the evidence may point to that person’s guilt?”

Lucian said quietly: “It has.”

Dorothy nodded at him approvingly.

“This is what has interested me about this case. Five years ago … that is, fifteen years after Tom Eccles was hanged, a man wrote a letter to the press. He was on his deathbed and for a long time, it seemed, he had been troubled by his conscience. It was just possible that he had been the murderer of Marion Jackson, although he had never known her had never even seen her.”

“Then how could he have been the murderer?” cried Gertie.

“It is very strange and yet … plausible. His name was David Crane.

He was in those woods that day when Marion died. His hobby was pigeon-shooting. His home was in Devonshire and he was on a walking holiday in Yorkshire, going wherever the fancy took him. Sometimes he’d stop at an inn; sometimes he would sleep out of doors if the weather was good enough. He’d fire a shot at a rabbit, pigeon or a hare when the fancy took him. It was a pigeon at this time. He missed and did not think much more about it, but when he realized that it was at that very spot where Marion had been killed, he began to consider.

“Some years later, he returned to the woods; he discovered that exact spot where Marion’s body had been found, and it occurred to him that his shot might well have been the one which killed her. Tom Eccles’s last words were, ” I swear to God I did not kill Marion. ” David Crane could not forget it. He went back again to those woods. He encountered Tom Eccles’s father and talked to him about the case. The old man was sure Tom had not committed the crime. He swore he was not in the woods at that time but alas, he could not prove it. True, Tom possessed the kind of gun from which the shot had been fired, but so did hundreds of others.

“Tom would never have died with a lie on his lips,” declared the old man fervently, and that was when David Crane’s conscience began to trouble him. “

We were all listening intently now. Dorothy was on her favourite topic and she knew how to hold an audience.

Lucian said: “And this old man … what did he do about it?”

“He wrote the letter on his deathbed.”

“He waited till then!”

“He would have reasoned that, if he had come forward, he could not have saved Tom Eccles.”

“No,” said Lucian firmly.

“There was nothing he could have done.”

“What a thing to have on one’s conscience!” said Lawrence.

“I can understand his feelings,” added Lucian.

“I understand absolutely.”

“Imagine,” said Dorothy, ‘a normal sort of person having to ask himself, “Did I kill someone?”

“It must have worried him for years,” said Lucian.

“An innocent man hanged for what he had done.”

“Exactly,” went on Dorothy.

“Poor man, he did not know how to act. He was afraid to come forward and accuse himself, and he would reason there was nothing he could do to save Tom Eccles.”

“He was right. There was no point in bringing up the matter,” suggested Lucian.

“Except, of course, that he would clear Tom Eccles’s name,” reasoned Dorothy.

“He was dead,” said Lucian.

“There was his family,” Lawrence put in.

“For instance, the old father. People don’t like to have murderers in the family, particularly one who has been hanged. People talk about these things.

There’s a slur. “

“Well,” said Dorothy.

“He did nothing until he was on the point of death. Then he wrote that letter to the press. No doubt it cleared his conscience.”

“After all,” said Lawrence, ‘he couldn’t be sure that he had fired the fatal shot. “

“No. That was the point. It was just that he might have. No one will ever know.”

“I suppose that sort of thing has happened before?” asked Lucian.

“It must have,” replied Dorothy.

“But I have never come across it.”

“If it were so, it is a case of accidental killing.”

“All very intriguing,” added Lawrence.

“You can see why Dorothy has this passion.”

The discussion had sobered everyone and the mood had changed. I guessed we were all thinking about that poor young man who had been hanged for a murder he probably had not committed.

After the guests had gone, I sat in the drawing-room with Gertie and the Hysons.

“Well, Aunt Bee,” Gertie was saying, “I think you can congratulate yourself on being a very successful hostess.”

“I was rather dreading that Sir Lucian,” replied Aunt Beatrice with a giggle.

“But he turned out to be ever so easy.”

“You had the right assortment of guests, you clever old thing,” said Gertie.

“Dorothy was good, wasn’t she? She’s a real entertainer.”

“My word, wasn’t that Sir Lucian interested in all that about the murder?” said Aunt Beatrice.

“As much as any of us, I’d say.”

A week after the dinner-party, I was surprised to receive a letter from Lady Crompton.

Dear Carmel [she wrote], Lucian has to go away for a few days next week and I should be so pleased if you could come and stay with me. It is always pleasant to talk to you, and when Lucian is here, he does tend to monopolize you.

I thought, if you were agreeable, we might have a quiet time together.

I have so enjoyed your visits and now that I am incapacitated, I do feel a little lonely. I should be so pleased if you could come.

Do not hesitate to say if it is inconvenient. Isabel Crompton.

I was rather intrigued by the idea, and wrote back at once accepting.

Gertie was amused.

“This could mean one of two things,” she prophesied.

“Either you are going to be granted parental approval, or you will be told some ghastly secret which is designed to warn you to keep off the grass.”

“Don’t be so absurdly melodramatic,” I retorted.

“This is just a lonely old lady seeking a little diversion.”

“Oh, isn’t it fun! Life is so amusing.”

“Particularly to people whose wedding-day is looming!”

“Or for those who have a trio of suitors.”

I was met at the station by one of the grooms, and taken to the Grange, where I was warmly welcomed.

“Lucian was so pleased when he heard you were coming. He’s very sorry not to be here. He was telling me about the delightful dinner-party your friends gave. How I wished I could have been there!”

“It was interesting, and so good of the Hysons to give it for my friends.”

“He was telling me about the doctor and his lively sister. They are very good friends of yours, I gather.”

“Oh yes. The doctor was a friend of my father, and then I met him on the ship again when I was coming over.”

“Yes, Lucian has told me.”

Later in the evening, she talked a little about Lucian’s marriage.

“It was unfortunate. So unlike Lucian. This girl, she was not right for him at all. Of course, she was very pretty. I suppose he must have been carried away. Young men do such foolish things. I knew from the moment she came into the house that it would not be a good thing. I wish he could make a sensible marriage now. The name has been in the family for three hundred years. In a family like ours, one feels there are obligations.”

“If Bridget had been a boy …” I said.

“I’m rather glad she’s not. With a mother like that…”

“She seems a very bright and delightful child.”

“Children can be delightful. No, I am glad she is a girl. I wouldn’t have wanted that woman’s child to have inherited. I did wonder whether she was Lucian’s child, you know.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. It was all so hurried and wrong from the start. I don’t think he really cared for her. I imagined he was caught up in some way. It was a horrible time. I was most unhappy.”

“Does it distress you to talk of it. Lady Crompton?”

“No, my dear child. I want you to know. He never really cared for her.

There are some things I do not understand. There is something rather secretive about Lucian at times. He used not to be like that. He was such a frank sort of boy, if you know what I mean. So serene. He took everything in his stride. Now he has changed. All of a sudden he became . well, moody. I think introspective is the word . reflective . as though something worried him. I am so glad he enjoys your company. “

“I’m glad to hear it. I enjoy his.”

“And that friend of yours, the doctor … ?”

“Lawrence Emmerson?”

“The one with the clever sister. Lucian wondered about them. I’m not sure whether he likes them or not. The doctor is a bachelor, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Attractive, presentable … dominated by his sister. Is that so?”

“Well, not really dominated. They are very fond of each other, and she looks after him. She gives herself entirely to the task. She is a very strong-minded person. She would tell you what she thought ought to be done, and you’d find that she was right most of the time. She is very practical and really is a wonderful person.”

“And they are obviously great friends of yours.”

“Yes, very good friends.”

“As friendly as Lucian and myself, I suppose?”

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s difficult to make comparisons.”

“Lucian is a good man, you know. That marriage was so wrong. That sort of thing has an effect on people. Nothing would please me more than to see him happy. He ought to be. He has a great capacity for happiness.

But that wretched affair hangs over him. I’d like to see a complete break from the past. It is difficult, because there are always . consequences. “

“Do you mean Bridget?”

“Not so much Bridget. That woman in the nursery.”

“Jemima Cray.”

She nodded.

“While she’s here, we shall never be able to put the past behind us. She’s a constant reminder.”

“I understand that, but this is your house. I suppose if you told her to go, she would have to do so.”

“I would send her straight away and tell her to go, but Lucian won’t hear of it.”

“Why not?”

“Some promise she gave to Laura to stay. She holds that over us, though it isn’t mentioned often. I have said to Lucian, ” Laura is dead. We care for the child. Why do we have to keep that woman here?”

But he says it was Laura’s wish, so the creature stays. I don’t like her at all, but I suppose, because of this deathbed promise . “

“She is very fond of the child, and the child of her.”

“I don’t doubt that. All the same …” She put her hand over mine.

“I think, my dear, that between us, you and I might do something about all this. “

I was astonished, but she smiled at me serenely.

I knew then that, if Lucian asked me to marry him, I should have the whole-hearted approval of Lady Crompton.

I spent the next morning in her company, but she made no further reference to Lucian’s marriage. Instead she showed me some of the tapestry work which she did before it became such a strain on her eyes.

In the afternoon her rheumatism was very painful and, apologizing profusely, she told me she would have to retire to bed and rest. Could I amuse myself ?

I said I could quite happily, and decided to take a walk.

It was inevitable that my footsteps should turn towards Commonwood House. It was the first time since my visits to the Grange that I had been out alone. Had I been, I should probably have found the impulse to take another look at the house irresistible. Now was my chance.

There it was sad and derelict, yet so familiar. Mingling emotions rose in me at the sight of it.

Walk past it, I advised myself. What good will be achieved by going closer? It only saddened me. But when I approached, I found myself turning in at the gate. Just a quick look, I promised myself, and then I would hurry away.

I walked up the drive. I could scarcely see the house for the overgrown shrubs. It had that eerie look of old ruined houses. I could imagine that eyes watched me from the cracked windows. Eyes of those who had once lived there in the past-Mrs. Marline, Miss Carson, the poor, sad doctor.

Go back, I told myself. What point is there? But I went on.

I approached the door. I saw the broken hinge. I stopped myself from pushing the door open and instead walked round the house. I noticed the damp on the walls, the smudges of dust on the windows. I wondered to whom it belonged now? Henry? Why did he leave it like this? Where was Henry now? Lucian did not know. They had lost touch when Henry had gone to Aunt Florence with his sisters.

I was in the garden where Tom Yardley had found me under the azalea bush. It was withered now, smothered by the weeds. There was the spot where Tom Yardley used to wheel the chair. I looked back to the french windows of the room in which she had died.

It was too depressing. It was foolish of me to have come. What was I achieving by this?

I looked towards the woods and saw a column of smoke rising to the sky.

The gipsies, I thought. They must be there now.

My spirits lifted at the thought. I had to see if it was the same clan who had come before. I wanted to escape from this feeling of desolation which the house had cast upon me. I wanted to see the children playing round the caravans.

A hedge separated the garden from the edge of the wood. I remembered there had been a spot where I had scrambled through as a child. I found it. I did the same and walked through the trees until I came to the clearing.

There were the caravans. The children were playing on the grass: women were squatting around, chipping wood for their clothes pegs. Nothing had changed.

Could it really be that they were the same band? I had heard that gipsies returned to the same spots all over the country. If this were so, and I could see Rosie Perrin and Jake, it would be most interesting.

As I approached, I saw the caravan on the wheels of which sat a woman.

She looked remarkably like Rosie Perrin, but then there was a similarity among these gipsy women.

The children had noticed me. I knew that because of the silence which had fallen on them. They were watching me. The women looked up from their chipping.

Then a voice I remembered well cried out: “Well, if it isn’t Carmel come back to see us!”

I ran forward. The woman sitting on the steps was indeed Rosie Perrin.

She came down the steps and we stood smiling at each other.

“Where have you been, Carmel?” she said.

“To Australia,” I answered.

She gave that hearty laugh which I remembered so well.

“Come up. Come up, and tell me all about it.”

I followed her up the steps and into the caravan. It was just as I remembered it. She bade me sit down, her eyes gleaming with pleasure and excitement.

“You went away when the trouble started. I heard all about it. It was big trouble. Commonwood is a house haunted by tragedy.”

I told her about Toby who was my father and how we had gone to Australia.

She nodded.

“He did not want you mixed up in that. You, a child. And the other children went away too.”

I told her everything that had happened to me, that I knew that Zingara was my mother, and how I had come to visit the Grange.

“And you have been coming here ever since?” I asked.

She nodded.

“We have seen the house falling into decay. What good is it now? It is a ruin. Nobody will live there. It will fall right away into nothing.”

“Why? Why?”

“Because houses have lives of their own. Something happened there and the memory lives on. I feel it when I go near. Sometimes I look that way and a sighing comes to me.”

“Sighing?”

“It is in the wind … in the air. It is an unhappy house.”

“It is only bricks and mortar, Rosie.”

She shook her head.

“We gipsies feel these things. It will be like that until…”

“Until what?”

“Until it can be made happy again.”

“It would have to be razed to the ground and another house built there. A new Commonwood.”

“And made into a happy house.”

“It was never a really happy house, Rosie. Mrs. Marline would not let it be.”

“She is dead now,” said Rosie.

“Rest her soul. She made unhappiness in her life and in her death. There was more pity for the poor doctor than for her.”

“I cannot bear to think of him. Even before I knew what had happened to him … all through the years, when I have been so far away, even now and then I would remember.”

“Ah, my child, what happened yesterday can at times decide what will happen today. There are never-to-be-forgotten yesterdays in all our lives. But this is a happy meeting between us. Let us enjoy it. Tell me what has been happening to you.”

So I told her in detail about the trips with Toby, and of Elsie, who had been a surrogate mother to me; how Elsie was, in fact, Toby’s wife and how, though they were fond of each other, they were not contented to live together as husband and wife.

She nodded wisely.

“He was that sort of man. I know that from Zingara. Many loved him. He was a man who gave much and received love in return. You had a wonderful father, Carmel, and you have a wonderful mother. I say that, though perhaps all would not agree.”

“Where is Zingara now?”

“She is no longer on the stage. She gave that up. I shall tell her that I have seen you again. Tell me where you are living and I will let her know. Then she will write to you. She is clever. She can write. A gentleman had her taught, He came here to study us at first hand. He was going to write a book about the gipsies. He rented one of the caravans and lived among us for a whole year. We did not mind. He paid us well and he amused us. Of course, he noticed Zingara. She would have been about eight years old at that time. The loveliest creature you ever saw.”

Rosie paused and smiled into the distance.

“He taught her to read and write. She loved that. She always liked to know that bit more than anyone else. She read and read. And when this man went away and wrote his book, he did not forget her. He brought a man down and she danced and sang and that was how she started. She comes back to the camp to see me now and then.”

“I wish she were here now. Should I write to her?”

She paused.

“I tell you what we shall do. You will write down where you are staying and I will have it sent to her. She will then do what she thinks is best to do.”

“I think that is a good idea.”

I took a pencil from the little receptacle I carried and tore a sheet from a small notebook.

“I’m Carmel Sinclair, not March, now,” I said.

“My father thought I should have the same name as his.”

I wrote down the Hysons’ address and gave it to her.

She nodded and put the paper in her pocket.

Then she made some fragrant tea like that which I had had before in this caravan, and we sat drinking and talking. There was so much I had to tell her still and she asked many questions.

Then I realized that I had been absent for a long time and Lady Crompton would be wondering what had become of me.

Gertie was married the following week. There was breathless excitement throughout the house. It had all been planned, down to the smallest detail. The reception was to be at the house after the ceremony, and then Gertie and Bernard were going to Florence for three weeks’ honeymoon. When they returned they would settle into the house which was waiting for them.

Lucian, Lawrence and Dorothy were present and the Hysons had invited numerous friends; and then there were Bernard’s connections. Aunt Beatrice was worried as to how they were all going to get into the house.

Gertie was in a state of ecstasy and Bernard was clearly a very contented man.

It was two days before the great event when I received a letter in an unknown handwriting. My heart beat fast as I looked at it, for something told me it was from Zingara.

I was right.

My dear Carmel [I read], I was delighted to have your address from Rosie. For so long I have wondered about you. You will see from the address above that I am living at a place called Castle Folly in Yorkshire. It is not a real castle, but you will see it when you come to visit it-which you will soon, I hope.

You would have to stay a while, for you could not make the journey there and back in a day. Send me a note please and say when you will come.

Zingara (I am Mrs. Blakemore now).

I re-read the letter and I thought: I will write to her at once. I will go just as soon as I can. I should have to wait until after the wedding, of course, and then perhaps I could hardly leave Aunt Beatrice immediately. She would miss Gertie, although it would only be for a short while. But I would write and fix a date . perhaps a week ahead. That would give time for the wedding and a little interval.

So that was what I did.

There was an enthusiastic reply from Zingara. She was greatly looking forward to seeing me. As for myself, I could hardly wait to go.

The wedding was over. There had been none of those hitches which Aunt Beatrice had greatly feared. The married couple had left for Florence, and we all missed Gertie very much. I had always known what a difference her coming had made to Aunt Beatrice, but now I saw it was even more than I had realized.

She admitted to me that she was a selfish old woman because good fortune had given her Gertie while robbing her own mother of her; and she could not help rejoicing in that.

“Gertie and I were always such pals in the old days,” she said, ‘but now, to have her here so close . like my own daughter, really. It’s my gain . but I do think of my poor sister. “

“She has James,” I said.

“I never thought they would go gallivanting off to Australia. Now I’m going to stock the young people’s house with everything they’ll want when they come home. You must help me, Carmel.”

“I will, but I have to pay this visit to Yorkshire. It is someone I have to see.”

I did not say it was my mother. I had told no one that. I should have to wait until I had understood Zingara’s reactions before I imparted that information.

Lucian thanked me for visiting his mother.

“She said she so much enjoyed having you there. It was good of you to go.”

“I enjoyed it. She was charming to me.”

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“There’s a good deal I want to talk about,” he said.

“We must meet… some time soon.”

I thought: Weddings have an effect on some people. There was some purpose behind that remark. Perhaps it was because of all the hints I had received from Gertie that I wondered if he really did care enough about me to want to marry me. I was unsure of myself and of him. There was something that held me back . something I did not understand.

When I remembered the boy he had been and how I had adored him then, I wanted him to be just like that now. He had changed. Something had happened . there was his marriage, of course. What was it Rosie had said? Our yesterdays must leave their mark upon today.

How different it was with Lawrence! I felt I knew exactly what he was thinking, exactly how he would react to any situation. There was no mystery about Lawrence.

Dorothy was saying: “There is something so affecting about weddings.

How happy they both seem! “

She looked at me wistfully. She did not expect marriage for herself, but she wanted it for Lawrence, and I felt that she was hoping that I would grant her wish.

It was a bright autumn day when I arrived in Yorkshire.

Zingara was at the station to meet me. She had changed a little from the last time I had seen her. That must have been about ten years ago.

She was more serene. Her hair was still magnificent-black and glistening coils piled up on her head. Heavy Creole earrings swung from her ears, and her dark eyes were as bright and beautiful as before. She was dressed in a midnight blue cloak under which was a scarlet dress. One would have noticed her immediately in any crowd.

She came to me with arms outstretched.

“My darling child!” she said.

“I am so happy that you have come.”

Then she held me at arm’s length and looked at me.

“You have grown up,” she said.

“You are no longer a little girl. And I… I have become the old lady.”

I laughed.

“What nonsense! Nobody could call you an old lady.”

“My life is changed. I no longer sing, no longer dance. But that is for later. Now, here is the trap. I drive this myself and I shall take you to my home at Castle Folly.”

“It is so exciting to be here.”

“We have much to tell each other. But first I will prepare you. I am Mrs. Blakemore now. I have a husband. He is very old and he owns Castle Folly. It is not a real castle. He wanted a castle, so he built one a ruin of a castle in his own grounds. We have the battlemented towers scattered here and there, the remains of the old banqueting hall. I can tell you, it is a most wonderful ruin of a castle, and it suits Harriman very well because he always wanted a castle and now he has one all of his own.”

“He sounds as though he is a very interesting man.”

“He is indeed. And he has been good to me, and when the time came I let him carry me off to his castle. You will like him and he will like you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it is what I want, and he always does what I want. But we will save our talks for the right time. Now, this is your luggage?

Come. “

I sat beside her and we started off.

“We are close to the moors,” she said.

“Have you ever seen the Yorkshire moors? They are the best moors in the world. The wind is fresher here and to let it buffet you is as exciting as an audience clapping and shouting Bravo. To me that is, but then, I am a gipsy.

Give me the feel of the wind in my hair! Sometimes I take out the pins and let it blow about me. I tell you, my darling, this conventional attire is to come to that station and collect you. You will see me change. “

I laughed with pleasure. I had not expected a visit to Zingara to be a conventional one and this was certainly going to be unusual.

We drove on for about fifteen minutes before I saw the beginning of the moor wild open country with boulders rising here and there and little streams glistening on their rocky surface. It was awe-inspiring.

“We’re on the moor now,” she said.

“There are one or two houses round us, but not many. Look over there. Do you see that grand building?

When you get closer, you will see that it is a ruin. Castle Folly!”

I could see it clearly now remains of towers and turrets. It certainly had the appearance of a once magnificent edifice now in ruins.

Zingara laughed.

“Well, if you can’t inherit one, build your own!

What’s wrong with that? “

“Nothing at all, I’m sure.”

“The house is in the grounds-it is rather insignificant after the castle … but comfortable. We have a couple looking after it. Then there are just Harriman and myself. Life is queer. I never thought this could be my destiny. “

I saw the house then. It appeared to have been built in the mid-century, when Georgian elegance had been replaced by the heavy style of the industrial era. It looked solid, built to withstand the weather, which I imagined could be bleak on the moors in winter. There was an air of strength about it.

“This is the house, known as Castle Folly. Doesn’t fit somehow, does it, until you look round and see what it’s all about.”

She drove the trap up to the house and, as she did so, a man came out.

“This is Tom Arkwright, and here’s Daisy. Hello, Daisy. This is Miss Carmel Sinclair. You know she’s staying with us for a while. And this is Tom and Daisy, Carmel. They’re my mainstay.”

Tom, rather dour by nature, I imagined, twisted his mouth into a grin, rather reluctantly.

“And how are you. Miss?” said Daisy, who was small and energetic-looking and had an air of strength and immense capability.

“Welcome to Yorkshire.”

“These two keep the whole show going,” said Zingara, beaming on them.

“I just don’t know what I would do without them.”

“There’s hot coffee and buns waiting for you, Mrs. B,” said Daisy.

“Happen the young lady will want a bite after that train journey.”

“That’s wonderful. Come along and taste Daisy’s buns and have the coffee while it’s hot. Then I’ll whisk you up and introduce you to Harriman. Daisy makes the best buns in Yorkshire.”

“You get along with you, Mrs. B,” said Daisy.

I was taken into a room where there was a large pile of buns set out on a table with cups, saucers, plates and a coffee pot with jugs of hot milk.

“Tom will take your bag up while we eat the buns. Then I’ll show you your room and you can meet Harriman after.”

As the door shut on us, she lowered her voice and said:

Tom and Daisy are wonderful, but they have to be obeyed. They’re gruff. They stand no nonsense and you have to remember they are as good as anyone if you want to get along with them. And by the way, they expect you to eat. Good food and plenty of it is the way they show their welcome. Daisy is a wonderful cook and you could trust her and Tom with everything you have. Now, you must do justice to her buns.”

They were hot, spicy and delicious.

“Not too much of an ordeal,” said Zingara with a grin.

The coffee was hot and good.

“They think I’m a little mad,” said Zingara, ‘but they make excuses for me. “

She went on to tell me how she came to be here.

“The last place in the world I should have thought I’d land up in. You see, I’m getting old. You’re going to contradict that, but I am getting old, for a dancer. And it was a dancer I really was. The singing … well, that went along with it, but on its own it wasn’t quite good enough. I wanted to leave at the height of my glory. You understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Harriman was always a good friend to me. I have many friends, but Harriman has always been the one I relied on and trusted. And when you are no longer young, it is reliance that you want. I have known him since I was a child. He came to the camp to study us. He stayed for a year. That was when we formed this great friendship.”

“Rosie told me.”

“There was one night … on the stage… I felt a pain in my leg. I knew I could not stretch far enough. I hid it, of course. It was not so much then, only a sign. I went to the doctor. He said I was straining my muscles. If I stopped doing that, all would be well. I must slow down. That was enough. I said to Harriman, “I cannot wait until they shoo me off.” He said, “Rosaleen, you must marry me.” He always called me Rosaleen.

That is my true name. Zingara is for the stage. This was sudden. I had not thought of it. But Harriman makes quick decisions.

“I want a castle,” he said, “and the only way I shall ever get one is to build one.”

“Rosaleen must leave the stage,” he says, “so she will marry me.”

“And so you married him?”

“At last I saw that it was a good thing to do. I needed Harriman. I was downcast. I had lived the life of excitement in the theatre for so long. How could I give it up? I had some money, yes. But what should I do? Go back to the gipsies? That had always attracted me. All through my life, I had never forgotten them. Harriman said, ” No, you will not be content. You will think of the old life in the theatre, just as before you thought of life with the gipsies. You must marry me and come to my castle in Yorkshire. You can walk on the moors and feel the joy of the gipsy’s life and at the same time enjoy the comfort you have come to expect. “

“And so you did.”

“You will see how it works. Now, you have eaten two buns. Well, that is something. They will not be too disappointed. Now I shall show you your room. You can unpack, wash your hands and then I will introduce you to Harriman.”

My room was large, with big windows overlooking the moor. I was delighted with the view and filled with exhilaration. I was completely fascinated by my mother and I longed for more revelations.

Harriman was the next surprise. He was indeed old. He told me later that he was seventy. He was tall and thin, with a craggy face rather like an eagle’s.

He held out his hand, grasped mine and studied me intently.

“Can’t rise,” he said.

“I am something of an old crock these days.

Rosaleen will tell you. “

“He’s not in the least,” said my mother.

“Just a little bit weak in the knees.”

It was obvious that Harriman Blakemore was a most unusual man. The folly in itself was evidence of that, and the more I saw of this unusual household, the more eager I became to discover more.

Harriman and my mother were two of the most lively-minded people I had ever met. They talked continuously. My mother astonished me by her knowledge of various subjects. I guessed that this stemmed from her relationship with Harriman. They had known each other since she was a child when he had come to the gipsy camp and found her there. He said once that he had gone to discover the true gipsy and had found Rosaleen, who was unlike any other. It was he, of course, who had tutored her, moulded her character, made her the woman she was. It was through him that she had met the impresario who had developed her talents. Harriman had guided her through life.

He was a man of means. He had been involved in several business concerns; he had travelled widely and, in his fifties, had retired from business life and devoted himself to his hobbies. Studying the gipsies and writing a treatise on them was evidently one of these building Castle Folly was another. Now his body was inactive but his mind was as lively as ever.

He told me that he had had a good life and that he was as content now as he had ever been.

“That, my dear Carmel,” he said, ‘is a successful life. Success is contentment. Is that not what we are all striving for? It is not fame and fortune, it is not the pleasure of the moment. Of what use is something so ephemeral? What every human being wants is happiness. The mistake most make is that they seek those things which can only bring a fleeting satisfaction. I have had a good life and now I have come to my old age I have my castle, which I can see from my window. My folly, they call it. I think it sums up my achievement, my success. You see me, Carmel, a happy man. “

It was not that he talked a great deal about himself. His interest in others was great. My mother told me he was interested in everyone he met. He wanted to know all about them. He could tell you details of the lives of Daisy and Tom Arkwright which he had extracted from them, to their own amazement, she was sure, for neither Daisy nor Tom was noted for loquacity.

He wanted to hear about my life in Australia, and I found myself going into details about the Formans, including the episode of the sundowner and James’s search for opals.

I was so completely fascinated by everything I found at Castle Folly that I believed, for the first time since Toby’s death, I had not thought of him once.

My mother took me to see her caravan. Harriman had arranged for it to be installed.

“He says there is so much of the gipsy in me that I’ll never lose it.

I’ll never forget that I was born in a caravan and I lived my early life in one. I have gipsy blood in me. And that means, my darling, that you, who are part of me, must have too. Sometimes I want to be alone. I come here and sit on the steps. I feel the silence all round me. I am quite alone with nature. Then I go back to the house, and Harriman is there, my guide, my guardian, as he’ has always been. And then I know that he was right. I belong to two worlds . and he has made it possible for me to live in both, for he knew that I could not be completely happy with one alone. “

“And you are completely happy?” I said.

“It must be a great contrast to the days in the theatre when you were the toast of the town.”

She laughed.

“I was never that. Mine was a success of a moderate nature. But I have heard the applause in London, Paris and Madrid. It was intoxicating. But Harriman has always made me aware of the danger of caring too much for ephemeral success. He reminded me that public approbation is fickle. Favourites come and go and it is demoralizing to become a fallen idol. Better never to have been an idol at all. He taught me how to regard that kind of success.”

“What a wonderful teacher he must have been!”

“I bless the day when he decided to come to our encampment.”

“I think he does, too.”

“But you think it is strange, do you not? This old man and this woman such as you can guess I must have been. Well, Harriman is not old.

He never could be. He has the most lively of minds and he can never fail to enchant me. As for myself, I have lived what would be called an adventurous life and at forty-five I have settled down to what would be called retirement from the world. Is that not amazing? Oh, Carmel! There is so much for us to tell. “

Each day was full of interest. Rosaleen - I thought of her by that name now, for Zingara was the dancer was right when she said we had much to tell. We belonged together. We were mother and daughter and we desperately wanted to make up for all the years we had lost.

We walked a great deal. She wanted me to know the magic of the moors.

She unbound her hair and let it flow loose in the wind: we found a boulder which made a rest for our backs, and we sat and talked. Often she took me to the caravan, and there she would make tea of herbs such as Rosie Perrin had given me. She talked of Toby and I was surprised that I could join in without that overwhelming sorrow which I had felt before.

“He was a wonderful man,” she said.

“I loved him and he loved me in his way. He was a man who could love many people at the same time. The great love of his life was for his daughter. I was not so very young when we met twenty-three, in fact.

That is older than you are now. I was making my way on the stage.

Although Harriman was in the background of my life, we were not as we became later. He was interested in me, but he had many interests. He was out of the country at the time. All my life there have been times when I have hankered for the gipsy way . wandering from place to place . the open road . the fresh air. the freedom. I went back. I expect you have guessed that Rosie is my mother. She always understood. She was so proud of what I had done. I think she believes it was a great deal more than it really was. She was always happy when I visited her.”

“And it was when you were visiting her that you met Toby.”

She nodded.

“I met him in the woods. We talked. There was an immediate attraction between us. I was lighthearted. So was he. We were young.

We were both the sort who would slip into a relationship carried along by the desire of the moment. He was not my first lover. There had been several. But he was different. We met again and again. For people like us it was natural. Toby did not know about you until some time later.

By then you were safe in Commonwood House. He said he would have married me if he had not already had a wife in Australia. He often told me how it was at Commonwood. He was very sorry for the doctor.

His sister was a termagant, he said. The women of his family were like that efficient, practical, but hard to live with. I loved to hear about Commonwood. I knew it was the place for you-and, after all, you belonged in a way. I used to see the good doctor going out in his carriage, visiting his patients, and occasionally his wife, very formal, very proper; and the children with their nanny. They were all especially interesting to me because of Toby’s connection with them.

One day he gave me a pendant. It was a Romany pendant and it had “Good Fortune” on it in our language. “

“I have it still,” I said.

“I knew the doctor would recognize it, and I put it round your neck.

Toby told me of the time when he had bought it. The doctor had seen it and had warned him to be careful. He knew how it was between us, of course, Toby and me. When I was going to have a child, I went back to Rosie and I wanted you to be brought up as Toby’s child should be. I knew they would give you that sort of life at Commonwood, and, well, you know the rest. “

“You left me under the azalea bush and Tom Yardley found me there.”

“I watched. I saw that you were taken in. I knew then that I had done the right thing. And when Toby came back, I would tell him. I wondered what he would feel to learn he had a child. As you know, he was overcome with pride and joy.”

“How did you feel when you left me?”

“Heart-broken. Do you believe that?”

“I do.”

“I want you to know that I watched you … from outside. I knew you would have the right sort of home. If it had not turned out as it did, I should have taken you away. With Harriman’s help I would have looked after you. But it was better that you should be brought up conventionally-as you would be at Commonwood House. And there you were, with Toby’s nephew and nieces. You were one of them. I thought that was the easiest way. I said to myself, ” There she will be as the doctor’s daughter, and she will grow up as a lady. “

The tears were falling down her cheeks as she talked. Tears and laughter came easily to her, but I knew she was deeply affected.

She went on: “I knew that Toby was watching over you. I saw him when we came to Commonwood. He was so happy. He said you were the most enchanting child. He was proud of his daughter and he said too that he was glad I was your mother. He always knew how to say those things that people wanted to hear. I said it must not be known that your mother was a gipsy, and he said that if you knew me you would be proud of me. “

She was. choking with emotion and I put my arm round her and dried her tears, and soon she was smiling.

“And here we are, on the steps of my caravan, talking of the past which can never be changed, and we are together and, what is important to me is you. There is much I have to know.”

It was not long before we were talking of James, his search for opals and his rather nonchalant offer of marriage.

“He is the good, practical man,” she said.

“He will cherish his wife, but not excite her. It is good … in a way.”

Then I told her of Lawrence Emmerson, who had saved Gertie and me from disaster all those years ago, and how he happened to be on the ship which was returning to England.

She cried: “It is fate. When fate takes a hand, we must take notice.”

There were times when she became the gipsy, her eyes alight with an assurance of her special powers, and she seemed to be probing the future.

I laughed.

“So, dear Gipsy Rosaleen, it was fate, was it?”

“Tell me more of him. I like this man. I like him very much. And the sister? She is good, too. She will see that the servants are kept in order and that the household is run as a house should be. Why do you smile? I am not laughing at this. It is important.”

“I am smiling because you have assumed the manner of the seer. Tell me, did you learn to tell fortunes from Rosie?”

“Of course. It is part of a gipsy girl’s upbringing.”

“But you do not believe in it really?”

She was thoughtful.

“It can be … and it can not. You must know all you can of your subject. You must find out, and it must be done quickly. Sometimes it is shut against you, but not always. Then you think: ” What does this one want? What will she do? ” And sometimes you guess. But there are moments … wonderful moments … when something passes between you … a flash of understanding. It is there and you believe you know what is to come. I cannot say how it happens, and it is rare. Perhaps it is what they call telepathy. But it could be something. There are wonderful things here all around us of which we know nothing. You must talk to Harriman about this. He will talk of the unknown universe of which our earth is but a fragment. He has many theories and he will remind you that with nature all things are possible. Perhaps, now and then, it may be that the gipsy sees into the future. But tell me more of this Lawrence because I like him.”

“Perhaps I should bring him to see you.”

“That would be very enjoyable. And the sister, too.”

“They would naturally expect to come together.”

“And you think that the sister wants you to marry her brother?”

“I am sure she does.”

“She will not be a little jealous of her brother’s affection for you?”

“I am equally sure she is not.”

“But you are not sure … about him … although it would be such good sense. He would be a good husband and reliable in every way. But there would not be this-what shall I say? this enchantment.”

I thought of Gertie’s ecstasy, and how excited she had been about the most trivial things, simply because she was so happy.

She watched me closely, and I told her about Gertie.

“I know,” she said.

“That is love. It will not stay like that.

How could it? But love will stay if they cherish it. So there are this James and this Lawrence. “

“And,” I said, ‘there is Lucian. Lucian Crompton of the Grange. “

“The Grange near Commonwood?”

“Yes.”

“And he, too, wants to marry you?”

“He has not said so. It is just that Gertie and her aunt cannot see a man and woman friendly together without assuming that there is some romantic attachment.”

“And they see it with you and Lucian?”

“They would see it with anyone.”

“And what of you? Do you see it?”

I was silent for a moment while she watched me intently.

“He is very friendly. I met him when I returned to England. He was very kind to me in the old days. He has changed somewhat.”

I explained how my desire to see Commonwood House had been irresistible and I told her in detail about my visit to Easentree, how I had gone into the house and been startled by the two boys, how, in the town, I had met Lucian at the roadside and we had lunched together.

“It is interesting,” she said, ‘and once again we cannot ignore fate.

You could so easily not have met. Then you would not have met Rosie again, and we should not be sitting here, reunited. You see, it is indeed the hand of fate, and look what it has given us! Now, tell me more of Lucian. “

It was so easy to talk to her. She seemed to understand every nuance of my mood. I told her of the boy Lucian had been, how he had always been kind to me, drawn me into the circle and become a hero to me.

“You were in love with him then … in your child’s way,” she said.

“How could I not be? The boy from the Grange! The Grange family was very important in Mrs. Marline’s eyes.

He seemed tall, handsome, strong and powerful. Even Henry was in awe of him. And he was so kind to me. Toby had given me a pendant. I lost it and Lucian not only found it but had the clasp repaired for me, and he insisted on my joining them for tea which Nanny Gilroy had thought I was not worthy to do. After that, he always made sure that I was all right. It was no wonder that I adored him. “

“And then you did not see him again until you were about to cross the road and the frisky horse appeared. Undoubtedly fate! I am getting excited about Lucian … and now you are less enchanted with him.”

I was silent, and she added quietly: “Yes, still a little, I believe.

But he has changed, you say? “

“He was so lighthearted in those days. He seemed invincible.”

“The perfect hero, yes. And now?”

“There seems to be something. You see, he was married and his wife died. There is a child. The wife died when she was born. She is looked after by a ghoulish old nurse. It is all rather melodramatic. On her deathbed the wife made the nurse swear to stay to look after the child, so she stayed, although both Lucian and his mother would like to be rid of her. The nurse spoke to me. Do you know, she accused Lucian of murdering his wife … or at least she hinted at it.”

Rosaleen was alert.

“I see,” she said.

“No wonder you’re unsure. Do you think he was responsible for his wife’s death?”

“No … no! I would not believe that of him, any more than I can believe Dr. Marline is guilty of murder.”

“The Commonwood affair, you mean. My darling, what dramas you have .. well … not exactly been involved in, but been on the fringe of!

This is very interesting. You like Lucian. I can see that there is something rather special about him. Then there is this hint of suspicion. Now, Lawrence would always be above reproach. It is interesting because you wonder whether Australian James did have a hand in despatching the sundowner, but you do not feel the same about him as you did about Lucian. “

“Perhaps James would have said if he had been responsible for the death of the man. But maybe not. He might feel that if one is caught up in something like that it is better to remain quiet. I suppose people sometimes commit murders and remain undiscovered. Do you think this venomous old woman is throwing out hints because she does not want me there? Perhaps she is looking at it as Gertie and her aunt do I mean, that Lucian is contemplating asking me to marry him.”

“Why should she go to such lengths?”

“Because she might fancy her position would be threatened. A new wife might not be impressed by that deathbed promise. Besides, the child, Bridget, has already shown a liking for me.”

“And you are telling yourself that you do not believe this woman. She is lying, you say. You find reasons for her to lie. There is a difference in you when you speak of Lucian. I do not see this for James, or even Lawrence. It is very interesting. I have learned so much .. and I shall learn more.”

We sat for a long time on the steps of the caravan, and we talked more of Lucian. He had caught her imagination and I think she was telling me as well as herself that Lucian was the man for me.

We used to sit long over dinner. Harriman was a great talker, but he liked to listen too. He was obviously very interested in me, as Rosaleen’s daughter, and because I had been brought up in that house which had some time ago figured in a murder case.

“You were there,” he said, ‘when the drama was building “And I knew nothing of the outcome until a short time ago.”

“That is amazing.”

“Toby thought it wouldn’t be good for her to know what had happened there,” said Rosaleen.

“So she was whisked away before the trial took place. Carmel is convinced that Dr. Marline did not commit the murder.”

“I have often said so,” I told them.

“But people tell me that the most unexpected people will commit murder in certain circumstances.”

“That is true, of course. And you have this strong conviction

“I do. I knew him. He was a man of kindness and extreme gentleness. I know he was very unhappy and there was a relationship with Miss Carson.

But I still believe he did not do it. “

“There was the motive and the evidence,” Harriman pointed out.

“Mistakes can be made,” said Rosaleen.

“And Carmel has this strong conviction.”

“You were only a child, Carmel,” said Harriman.

“But children sometimes see more clearly than their elders,” added Rosaleen.

“I should like to know for certain,” I told them.

“But that is not possible.”

“Everything is possible,” said Harriman.

“This seems not to be. Dr. Marline is dead. He cannot defend himself. I wonder what happened to Miss Carson?”

That would be interesting to know. She disappeared, as people usually do in these cases. “

“Poor girl!” said Rosaleen.

“Just imagine what agony she must have endured! Her lover hanged for murder, and she herself at one time in danger of such a fate. And she was to have their child. What must her life have been like?”

“It would be revealing to know,” said Harriman.

“Do you think she would have the answer as to whether he was guilty or not?” I asked.

“It is a possibility that she might.”

“How I should like to know what became of her!” I said.

“We were all very fond of her. I cannot believe she would ever have been involved in murder, any more than I can the doctor. They were both the very last people you would associate with a crime.”

“She must be somewhere,” said Rosaleen.

“She may have gone abroad,” -suggested Harriman.

“I dare say she would want to get as far away as possible.”

“There was someone who was interested in her case,” I told them.

“Dorothy Emmerson told me about him. It was some criminologist who was sure of Miss Carson’s innocence. He campaigned for her acquittal.”

“Who was he?”

“I can’t remember his name, but Dorothy did mention it.”

Harriman was thoughtful. Then he said: “It might well be that Miss Carson would like to hear from you.”

I stared at him.

“You were fond of each other, you say. If you could find her, get in touch with her in some way, tell her that you are convinced of the doctor’s innocence, you could discover whether she wished to see you, and if she did not… well, there is little harm done.”

I was excited. I thought of her sweet, kindly face. I remembered how she had looked when she comforted Adeline. The accomplice of a murderer? I would never believe that.

Harriman was saying: “There is this man the man who campaigned for her. He is presumably some person of importance. Suppose you could get in touch with him?”

Rosaleen was watching us, her eyes round with excitement.

She said: “Miss Dorothy would remember who he is.

Did she not once write to him? And he replied, I believe. “

“Oh yes, she did.”

“Then might it not be that she would have his address?”

“Yes,” I repeated.

“Oh, it would be wonderful to see Miss Carson again.”

We sat over dinner that night talking for a long time. I was deciding I would go to Dorothy. I would explain everything to her. I was sure she would help if she could. It was just possible that she might still have the letter this man had written to her. If she had, I could write to him and ask if it were possible to get in touch with Miss Carson.

He could not fail to remember her. Yes, I could see that this was a possibility.

I was feverishly excited by the idea.

We talked of it for the rest of the visit and it was decided that, as soon as I returned home, I should consult Dorothy.

I should have left Castle Folly with great regret, had I not been so eager to pursue my inquiries.

Rosaleen made me promise that I would come again soon and that I would keep them informed as to what happened. I must remember that there would always be a welcome for me at Castle Folly. We had been separated too long. We must make plans, for I could not stay at my good friends the Hysons’ for ever, and Castle Folly would be my home for as long as I wanted it.