Free Deadly Nightshade by Elizabeth Daly Page B

shovel or no shovel. Where’s that pine tree? Let’s have a look at it, and get out of this place—it gives me goose flesh.”
    The tree was some distance ahead, off the path and in a corner of the high picket fence. Irma pointed to a wide branch, laden with cones, that trailed on the bare ground.
    â€œWhere did you see the little bell?”
    She bent down and poked her finger into a spot just under the edge of the bough.
    â€œHow about the dear little black ball?”
    Irma shook her head, and indicated by a gesture that it had been lying on the path, some distance away. Gamadge lifted the branch, restrained her, by a powerful clutch at her skirts, from diving under it again, and glanced below.
    â€œWhat a nice little house,” he said. “You’d like to play there, wouldn’t you? Well, you’ve been a good child. I shall try to do something effective about the white kitten. But we still have a delicate bit of business to transact.” He lifted her to the top of a stump, steadied her with a hand hooked into her belt, and continued persuasively: “Now, don’t go off the handle; I want to borrow that little red bell.”
    Irma looked horrified, and made as if to leap off the stump into space; but his hold on her belt restrained her.
    â€œI said borrow,” he insisted. “Wait a minute! You don’t know what that red ribbon is—it’s the white cat’s necktie. Or at least I think it is; and if it fits, the animal probably belongs to you. Here—you needn’t choke me to death.” For she had seized him about the neck, and seemed bent upon strangling him. She suddenly released him, dug into the pocket of her blouse, dashed the bell and ribbon into his hand, and with his assistance leapt to the ground. Gamadge followed her along the path, through the maze, and back to the lawn. Here she began busily to dig with her shovel in a hard flower bed, while Gamadge strolled about the summerhouse, strolled to the back gate, returned, and lighted a cigarette.
    Mitchell found him sitting on a fragile-looking iron bench, watching his charge with an air of benevolent detachment. He joined him on the bench, and got out his pipe.
    â€œAll serene?” he asked.
    â€œNot so very. I have two pieces of information for you, both rather curious. In the first place, Annie thinks she knows how the children got the berries.”
    â€œNo! I had an idea she was worrying about something definite.”
    â€œVery definite. You can’t do much about it, though. Her idea seems to be that it was done by some sort of witchcraft.”
    â€œBother the silly old thing. We can’t—but see here: if she thinks that, she must have seen something.”
    â€œWell, not necessarily; it may be nothing but an idea. And the trouble is, even if she did meet what she thought was the uncanny, and in some far from agreeable form, she’ll never dare talk about it. We won’t know what she saw, nobody will ever know; unless I can prove to her satisfaction that she’s mistaken.”
    Mitchell glanced about him as if he expected to see a phantasm of the Celtic twilight gibbering at them from behind a tree or a bush.
    â€œShe even provided Irma with a charm to ward the gentry off with,” continued Gamadge, who did not seem to be amused. “Old iron does it. She gave Irma that shovel. Well, it’s an unproductive subject, at present; let’s drop it and go on to the other one.”
    â€œI would have said she was telling the truth, when she told us she didn’t see anything, that morning,” said Mitchell.
    â€œSo should I. Now, Mitchell, please look at this.” Gamadge extracted the red bell, with its wad of ribbon, from his inside pocket. Mitchell gazed at it, openmouthed.
    â€œIt’s one of ’em!” he exclaimed. “I saw the others; it’s one of ’em! Where in time…”
    Gamadge told the story of Irma,