Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (16 page)

“Verity!” called Harold. He had come down the path to find me. “Hannah is about to serve dinner.” He looked at my face and his tone changed. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“I’ve seen Drucilla. She was cut and bruised and … oh, I think she is being held captive. She’s in terrible danger, I know it!” I tried to calm down. “And I saw a graveyard. Or rather,” I corrected myself, “gravestones. Grey stones …”

“Verity, what are you talking about?”

I hesitated and then it all came out. “I have a … a kind of gift. I see things. I suppose you could call them visions. Lost things, usually.” I glanced up at him. He’d taken off his spectacles. His hazel eyes were locked steadily on my face. Would he think I was crazy or even lying when I told him? I rushed on with my explanation. “But sometimes it’s more complicated. It’s as if a curtain opens and I see something in a kind of flash. Perhaps you’ll think I’m making this up, but just now–”

“You had a flash? Tell me about it.”

I let out a long sigh of relief. He believed me. I described what I’d seen.

He frowned. “Where was Auntie Nell? Was she with Drucilla?”

With a pang of guilt I realised that I hadn’t even thought about Helen. I shook my head.

“Surely they are together.”

I said nothing because there was nothing to say.

“Gravestones, you said.”

I nodded. “But I’m sure she’s not …” Dead. I found I couldn’t say the word. Because, the truth was, I wasn’t sure at all. I didn’t understand the connection between Drucilla and the stones. I was scared.

Harold continued. “There is a large cemetery just out of Castlemaine. Would it be worthwhile visiting it? I could drive us out tomorrow, if you feel well enough.”

“Yes. Yes, let’s do that. Tomorrow, first thing, if we can.” Then that awful knot of fear in the pit of my stomach might go away.

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I let Mr Snow escape and Mr Petrov will be so …” Disappointed, I was going to say. Or upset. I stopped myself. Unspoken between us was the thought that Mr Petrov might never even know.

“Let’s try to find him,” said Harold.

We called and rattled the tin; we looked all around the garden and up into the trees, but he was nowhere to be seen.

There was something about Mr Mallard. Don’t ask me what. I knew he couldn’t help his rubbery features and his eyes that bulged like those of a Pekinese dog. He couldn’t help being sensitive, and it wasn’t his fault that when he was upset his voice turned shrill or that he licked his lips constantly, showing a very pointed pink tongue. I tried to put prejudice aside. After all, at their best, everyone is a worthwhile human being.

Only, with him, that “best” was hard to find. That evening at dinner Papa – acting as host – tried to draw Mr Mallard out of himself.

“What is your profession, Emeric?”

“I am a music teacher.”

“Ah, wonderful. I admire so much those who can not only master an instrument, but also teach. And your instruments are?”

“Piano, flute and voice.”

“And you teach in Sydney, perhaps? For I think you said it was from Sydney that you came to us?”

“Ah, no. I was teaching at a boys’ school in Cape Town. At the minute I am between positions.”

That accounted for the state of his suit and shoes, I thought.

“So you come from a musical family?” Papa persevered.

“No.”

Making conversation with him was like pulling teeth. I tried. “And are you married, Mr Mallard? Do you have a family?”

For a few seconds I thought he wasn’t even going to answer. Perhaps he thought a young girl shouldn’t be asking him questions. “No,” he said in a cold voice.

I tried one more time. “So you have not seen your sister for a while?”

“No.”

The silence extended until it was awkward, so Papa and I gave up. I turned to Harold. “How is your uncle? What does the doctor say?”

“His whole left side is paralysed and he can’t talk. Doctor Judd isn’t hopeful.” Harold’s brows knitted together. “Mohan disagrees. He says Uncle can recover. He’s asked me to sit with him, hold his hand, talk to him or read.” Harold’s voice shook slightly. “Mohan says that my voice or touch might just bring him back.”

“Oh, Harold,” I said.

“Doctor Judd says it’s rot but it can’t hurt. I can tell he thinks Uncle is a hopeless case. If only Auntie Nell were here. Maybe … maybe … just hearing her voice …”

After dinner, Doctor Judd and Mr Leviny visited again. They, along with Harold, Papa and Mr Mallard, adjourned to the drawing room to talk. I was not invited.

I took a walk down beside the boundary fence to look for Mr Snow again, and this time I found him. He was perched in a cedar tree at the side of the house. I called, I coaxed. I talked to him, I even sang a lullaby. He would not budge. It was growing chilly, and I had to admit defeat.

As I walked back around the house, I passed the drawing room. The curtains were drawn, but I could hear quite easily because Doctor Judd was shouting.

“Red Gauntlet – stuff and nonsense! After nearly twenty years? The whole theory is absurd and you, Ernest Leviny, should know better.”

A door banged.

Mr Leviny spoke next. “That is Doctor Judd’s opinion. I happen to disagree, and I know for a fact that the detective in charge of the case would give his right arm to capture the Red Gauntlet. Melmoth is his name – Tiberius Melmoth. He is retired now, but he still lives in Bendigo. I have already sent him a telegram.”

I drew closer. I hadn’t been invited to this confabulation – quite wrongly in my opinion, for it concerned me too – so I didn’t feel guilty about eavesdropping.

“No police!” Mr Mallard’s voice was high-pitched and hysterical. “They said she would be harmed. No police, I beg of you …”

“Now, sir, you mustn’t worry. I propose to involve Mr Melmoth in a private capacity. He will advise us.”

After that I could only hear the occasional word and then Mr Leviny’s “goodnight”. A door opened and closed. I was just about to go back inside when I heard Mr Mallard again.

“… financially embarrassed. Do you think you could …?”

“My dear sir, the situation, it is so very awkward for you. I quite understand.”

So Mr Mallard was borrowing money from Papa. He must be desperate if he had to ask a stranger. I felt a wave of sympathy for him. I knew what it was like to be poor.

I had my supper with Hannah in the kitchen and then, rubbing Doctor Judd’s liniment – which smelled indescribable – onto my shoulder, I went to bed. After a while, I opened the window wide to let fresh air in and the aroma out.

“Veroschka?” Papa, with a lamp in his hand, opened my door a crack.

“Papa!” I sat up in bed. “Oh, Papa, please tell me what you gentlemen have decided.”

“Of course …” He sniffed. “
Chérie
, what is that smell?”

“Never mind that, Papa.”

I knew much of what he told me from my eavesdropping, but Papa gave me his opinion. “I think Ernö’s idea is a good one. This Mr Melmoth will have local knowledge and if all goes well, we will recover not just our two ladies but catch these criminals. SP, must be involved as well. But the police – not yet. Hopefully, it will all be managed without them.

“And now, my child, it is time you were asleep. You have had a terrible experience; what you need is rest. You must not worry too much. There is a plan.”

“I have a plan too. Papa, earlier this evening I had itchy fingers.”

Papa frowned.

“I saw Drucilla. And I saw gravestones.” Papa shuddered and I took his hand in mine. “She’s alive, Papa. I know she is,” I said with more confidence than I really felt. “Tomorrow Harold is going to drive me out to the Castlemaine cemetery to see if … if …”

“To see if your fingers itch? Not tomorrow, Veroschka. Doctor Judd said you are not to exert yourself in any way. The shock to the delicate female constitution–”

“What tosh,” I said, borrowing one of Mrs Morcom’s pet phrases. “Doctor Judd is old-fashioned, Papa. I may be small, but I am as strong as an ox.”

He laughed. “An ox? That I do not agree with,
chérie
.” He sighed. “I will not stop you. You know I don’t like it but I understand that this ability you have is indeed a gift. You may go, but only if your shoulder is better.” Papa leaned down to kiss me goodnight. “That smell … it’s …”

“It’s goanna oil, Papa. In Doctor Judd’s liniment.”

He looked bewildered.

“A goanna is a lizard,” I explained.

“Lizard, you say? And you put it on your skin?” Papa raised his eyebrows. “In that case,
chérie
, I think I will just blow you a kiss. Sleep well.”

Doctor Judd’s liniment may have smelled like nothing on earth, but it worked wonders. In the morning my sprained shoulder felt as good as new and I no longer needed the sling.

I was tucking in to eggs and bacon when Mr Mallard appeared at the breakfast table late, yawning and bleary-eyed.

“Is there any coffee?” he asked, reaching towards the pot.

Just then, Hannah entered the room with the mail on a silver tray. Mr Mallard pounced.

“The ransom letter will be here, I know it will,” he said, snatching the tray from her. He dumped the letters onto the table, sat down and began shuffling though them, slitting each envelope open with his butterknife and scanning the contents. I wondered if he had the right to do that. But who else did? Harold? Papa? He was Helen’s brother, after all.

“This is from Mr Petrov’s wine merchant … Here’s one from the hospital committee … And this is for me. It’s from my tailor; I had my bills redirected.” He crumpled it and threw it into the fire, where it flamed up briefly and collapsed into a pile of ash. “Nothing,” he said.

“There’s another delivery this afternoon,” I said.

“Yes, yes, that’s true.” He sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Harold appeared in the doorway. He’d breakfasted early so as to help George get Beauty harnessed to the phaeton. “Ready when you are,” he said.

“Where are you going?” asked Mr Mallard.

If I’d told him it was the cemetery, he would have choked on his coffee, so I said vaguely, “Oh, out for a drive.”

“A drive? At a time like this?” He curled his lip in disgust and muttered, just loud enough for me to hear it, “Unfeeling girl …”

I could have defended myself, I suppose. But did I really care what Mr Mallard thought?

The Castlemaine cemetery was actually in Campbell’s Creek, a village a couple of miles out of the town. It was a sleepy little place in the morning sunshine. We passed several churches and hotels, a large school and a hall, and then turned off the main road and crossed over a bridge. There, set between two hills, was the graveyard.

My eyes travelled up the valley. The headstones went on and on.

“During the gold rush there were thousands of miners right here,” said Harold. “They were Chinese, Danish, German, Irish, English …”

I couldn’t pay attention.
Drucilla. Helen.
I could see their faces, but they were wavering and faint, like reflections in water. Memories, not visions. A vision isn’t just itchy fingers and a picture in my mind – it’s real. I can feel it in my whole body. I jumped down from the phaeton and walked through the gates. I looked down at my hands. I concentrated.
Drucilla, where are you?
My only answer was the sighing of a breeze through dry leaves.