Detective Keen waited in the gypsy camp, his left eyebrow arched in his typical, old Hollywood, debonair style. However, the effect was somewhat dimished as a little girl came over and asked if he was constipated.

He frowned. “No, I am not.”

“Are you sure? Because Mother Isabelle has a wonderful remedy for such things. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind-”

“That’s quite alright, dear!” he interrupted. “All I require of Mother Isabelle is that she answer a few questions.”

“Fine. But if you ever-”

Kane cleared his throat.

“Right. I’ll go.”

Kane shook his head, mildly insulted. A few minutes later, he was lead into a tent, the inside of which was covered in scarves of scarlet, gold and purple. Kane coughed on the thick, heady scent, falling with a thud onto some pillows.

A frail women sat before him. She rasped something out in Romani.

“Welcome, detective. Mother Isabelle has been expecting you…” rang out a clear, bell-like voice. Kane turned and suddenly found himself head-over-heels.