Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (17 page)

Harold caught up with me and offered his arm. I nodded, grateful for his presence.

A gravelled path wound among well-tended shrubs and trees. Here and there were a few impressive monuments with marble urns, columns, statues and fancy carving, but most of the stones were simple and plain. There were even some anonymous hummocks in the grass.

“Oh,” I exclaimed. Without warning, a prickling sensation, like heat rash, passed down my arms and into my fingers. I let go of Harold’s arm. “Somewhere close …”

I ran along the narrow alley between graves. White marble, granite, tawny sandstone … no, no, no …

“Harold – here!”

It was a simple rectangle, grey and smooth, as in my vision. After more than twenty years, the deeply incised lettering was as crisp as the day it had been carved.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF EVERARD BONE
12th July 1859

And his wife Louisa, and their three children, all babies; one month, one year, three years. They had all died within two weeks of each other. I read the dates and the religious verse at the end. I put out my hand to stroke the surface.

It was cool and smooth against my fingertips.

I was jolted back into my vision.

There was something carved on it but I couldn’t read it.

But now I could. It wasn’t the sad history of the Bone family. My eyes were drawn to one word at the base of the gravestone:
REDPATH
. I crouched down and touched it.

“What is it, Verity?”

I jerked my hand back as if I’d been stung. “I don’t know. But look – ‘Redpath’. It’s here and here …” There were other grey stones, plain but beautifully crafted, nearby. Now that I knew what I was looking for, they were everywhere, each with that signature
REDPATH
carved at the base.

“It must be the name of the stonemason who made them,” said Harold. “We can ask Hannah. She’s lived here since the gold rush days. If anyone knows, she will.”

The tingling and itching died away and I stood up, brushing the dust off my skirt. “I wish … oh, how I wish that my gift worked differently. If only it could show me a trail of signs and clues, then I could go to work like a …”

“A bloodhound?”

I almost laughed. “Instead, it’s more like a code. If only I could find the key! I know the answers will come, but when?”

Neither of us said so, but I know we both thought it. What if we were too late?

As soon as we arrived back at Shantigar, I went to the kitchen. Hannah, red in the face and sweating, was stirring a pot of plum jam. George was watching her with a cup of tea and a slice of cake in his hand.

“Redpath? That would be Benjamin Redpath,” said Hannah.

“Do you know where he lives?” asked Harold. “We’d like to talk to him.”

“Well, he won’t answer,” said George with a grim chuckle. “He were crushed by a falling headstone what he’d made himself. Poor unlucky man, killed in an instant. In the twinkling of an eye. Isn’t that so, Hannah?”

“Well, it is and it isn’t.” I admired Hannah’s tact with the old man. “It was his daughter who had the accident, there in his yard, right in front of him. She died and he took it hard.”

“He died too,” said George.

“Maybe. I heard he left the district. Either way, he hasn’t been seen for years.”

“That’s right,” said George, nodding. “I remember now.”

“Are there any more Redpaths in Castlemaine?” I asked. “Any relatives?”

“Not that I know of,” said Hannah.

“Not a one,” said George.

Harold and I walked back out onto the verandah.

“Perhaps it’s not Redpath himself who’s important,” suggested Harold. “Perhaps it’s the person whose grave it is.”

It was a good suggestion, but I knew it was wrong. Mr Bone and his family had nothing to do with Drucilla.

I was disappointed. Frustrated. It was all there; I just wasn’t catching on. This had happened before – last year, when I was trying to solve the thefts at Hightop House school, it had taken me weeks to understand what my dreams and visions were telling me. There was no logic to them. They were like the pieces of a puzzle. But at Hightop House, it was just money and jewellery. Nobody’s life had been at stake.

Gravestones. Graves. I hoped and prayed they were not a premonition.

The afternoon mail brought no ransom demand. Dinner that night was a dismal affair, for Mr Mallard moaned and whined and complained throughout the meal.

“This policeman – Melmoth – it’s a mistake, I tell you. A terrible mistake … And this private detective friend of yours – Saddington Plush – I don’t like it, I tell you – it’s too risky …” He closed his eyes and dragged his hands though his hair. The man should have gone on stage and played Hamlet. “My poor sister … in danger–”

I cut him short. “And my governess, Miss Deane,” I said. “Don’t forget her.”

“Who? Oh, yes.” He shot me a dirty look and turned to Harold. “We must be strong, my boy,” he said.

Strong! He was a fine one to talk. We English are supposed to be experts at the stiff upper lip. You can go too far and act like one of Papa’s statues, but at times it’s useful to button up your feelings. You can’t fall apart when there are things to be done. Mr Mallard, I thought, could have done with a bit more buttoning.

Sighing deeply, he left the room. A few seconds later we heard him, halfway down the passage, singing to himself.

I raised my eyebrows.

“It’s the strain, I’m sure. I’ve heard it can make people behave strangely,” said Papa.

“He’s an odd fish, isn’t he?” said Harold.

I couldn’t agree more. Slippery, and more than a bit slimy.

In the morning, it was just Harold, Mr Mallard and me at breakfast. Mr Mallard was still full of doom and gloom, especially as the mail brought no letter from the kidnappers. For some reason we’d all expected a ransom demand in the post.

“Even if we pay a ransom and they return her, I don’t know that she’ll survive the ordeal. Helen’s very delicate – always was – heart trouble … or was it nerves?”

“She seemed perfectly well to me,” I said.

“Do you think she would discuss her health with a child?” Mr Mallard snapped.

“I’m sorry, Mr Mallard, I didn’t mean to–”

He ignored me. “And if Mr Leviny insists on involving this policeman … well, who knows what they might do? They might murder her, just like that.”

I could see the strain on Harold’s face. “Please stop, Mr Mallard. We’re all worried enough as it is.”

“She’s my sister. I can say what I like,” he said childishly.

Harold pushed out his chair and, leaving his half-eaten breakfast on the table, left the room.

“She is Harold’s aunt too,” I said.

“That hardly compares with–”

Sympathy and good manners deserted me. “Oh, put a cork in it!” I said and left him to eat his breakfast alone.

I found Harold sitting on the verandah in his uncle’s chair. His shoulders were slumped and there was no answering smile when I spoke to him.

“You haven’t started to believe Mr Mallard, have you?” I said.

“Him? Oh, no. It’s my uncle. There’s no improvement, no change. I’m afraid that by the time Auntie Nell is returned to us, he’ll be …” Harold steeled himself to say the word, “… he’ll be dead.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort him.

“Harold! Oh, Harold!” Hannah came running through the house and out onto the verandah.

“George brought this to me just now.” Her voice shook as she held out a single sheet of paper. It was folded and sealed with a blob of candle wax.
MR NICHOLAS PETROV
was written in capitals on the front. “Oh, dear Lord, someone must have been here in the night. He found it on the seat of the phaeton, in the carriage house.”

“What’s this?” Mr Mallard appeared on the verandah. He took in the scene at lightning speed.

“It’s from the kidnappers, isn’t it? Well, let’s open it then.”

“Should we … should we wait for Papa and Mr Leviny?” I asked.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” cried Mr Mallard, snatching it from Hannah. He flicked off the wax with his fingernail and unfolded the paper. He read, “‘Wait for instructions. We do not forget.’ Is that it? I don’t believe it.” He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it onto the floor. “How much longer must we wait?” There were tears in his bulgy, staring eyes. His whole body was quivering. “It’s unbearable.”

Much as I disliked him, I understood his emotion. I felt the same.

I picked up the paper and smoothed it out. The words were written inside the outline of a hand drawn in red. A few drops of ink had fallen on the paper and they looked like blood. I handed it to Harold. Hannah, looking over his shoulder, let out a stifled cry.

“The Red Gauntlet …”

“What’s happening?” Papa, bathed and shaved and impeccably dressed as always, appeared in the hallway. I held the paper out to him.

“So Doctor Judd is wrong,” he said.

“How?” said Hannah, as if to herself. “It’s not possible.”

“Why not, Hannah?” I asked.

She didn’t answer me. Moving like a sleepwalker, she returned to the kitchen.

“It’s a warning,” said Mr Mallard. “‘We do not forget.’ But forget what? What has my sister to do with these ruffians?”

“I do not know,” said Papa. “How disappointing this is.”

“Disappointing? It’s agony.” Mr Mallard put his hand to his forehead in an attitude of despair. “I’m going back to bed,” he said. “Verity, tell Hannah to bring me my lunch on a tray.”

What do you do when you don’t know what to do? You drink tea. At least, that’s what Papa and I did that morning, sitting in the cane chairs on the verandah in the shade, with the little birds – the ones that distressed Helen so much – hopping and chirping in their cage nearby. With Mr Mallard in bed and Harold helping Mohan with his uncle, there was nothing we could do but wait.

We were on our second pot when the gate creaked open.

“Verity? Pierre?”

“SP!” I called. “SP, we’re here.”

He must have bounded up the steps for he was with us in a heartbeat. “Verity, my dear.” He hugged me tighter than usual. “And Pierre. I was away from town. I didn’t get your telegram until last night and by then I’d missed the last train.” His haggard face and shadowed eyes told the story of a sleepless night. “Tell me, any news?”

“George found a letter this morning,” I said. “It must have been put in the carriage house during the night.”

Papa withdrew it from his breast pocket where he’d put it for safekeeping, and handed it to SP. “You see the red hand?” And he explained Mr Leviny’s theory about the Red Gauntlet. “Oh, SP, I am so glad you are here. Now all will be well. We will get to the bottom of this in no time.”

“I hope so, Pierre.”

“You will want to talk to Verity about the kidnapping.” There was a disapproving tone to his voice as Papa added, “And I will rouse Mr Mallard. No doubt you will want to talk to him as well.”

With Papa gone, SP turned to me. “Oh, Verity, this is all my fault. If she hadn’t come up here to escape my attentions … If only …” He straightened his shoulders. “None of this will help us find her. Now, Verity, you must tell me everything.” He stopped. “By the way, who is Mr Mallard?”