Everything Miss Stoner has described points to the gypsies. They seem to be the only people with whom Dr. Roylott is friendly, and Julia Stoner’s dying words about a “speckled band” could very well describe the gypsies’ scarves.
You direct Miss Stoner back to the manor, and you promise to return with news of what you find.
“Now, Watson,” you say, “we pay the gypsies a visit.”
***
It takes longer than you anticipate to find the gypsy camp along the border of Stoke Moran’s property. You and Watson emerge from the trees into a clearing. Two young girls hide shyly behind the brightly colored skirt of a woman, who tends a pot hanging above a cook fire.
She looks at you and smiles. “Come.” She waves you and Watson closer. “We have been expecting you.”
Wagons line the edges of the clearing. Other gypsies emerge from behind them. Soon the clearing is filled with the bright clothing and chatter of the gypsy clan.
“I wish to talk with you about the death of Julia Stoner,” you announce.
A hush falls over the group.
“First, you eat,” replies the woman at the fire. She dishes two steaming bowls of soup. The little girls give one to you and one to Watson.
“Never pass up a good meal,” Watson cheerfully declares. He digs into his soup.
You sigh deeply. The sun is close to setting, and you still have no answers. You have not even been able to ask the questions. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a young gypsy boy run into the forest in the direction of Stoke Moran.
You quickly consume your meal as the gypsies settle around you in a rough circle.
“May we now speak of Julia Stoner?” you ask.
The woman, who seems to speak for the entire group, says, “Perhaps.”
You ask your questions but receive no better answers than “maybe” and “perhaps.”
Eventually, you have no choice but to give up. You and Watson thank the gypsies for their hospitality and take your leave.
It is too late to go back to Stoke Moran; Dr. Roylott will have returned by now. Frustrated, you and Watson check into the nearby Crown Inn for the night. You are on the upper floor. From your window, you can view Stoke Moran Manor House. You and your partner take turns watching for any mischief.
The night passes, however, without incident.
At breakfast the next morning, the innkeeper leans over your table and whispers, “Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” asks Watson.
The innkeeper looks around as if to make sure no one else is listening. “That Miss Stoner—the one that lives up at Stoke Moran—she met the same fate as her sister, she did. And just last night too. Creepy business if you ask me.”
You leap out of your chair. “Are you positive?”
“Of course,” says the innkeeper, suddenly guarded. “But you didn’t hear it from me.” He bustles to another table, no doubt to spread the sad news of Miss Stoner’s untimely death.
Watson says the words, the ones that will haunt you until the end of your days. “Holmes, we’re too late.”