Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (21 page)

“I am indeed. Thank you.” Mrs Brandywine took off her hat and cloak and sat down next to me on the sofa. She looked around, taking in the carvings and elephants and brass trays and peacock feathers. “How my husband would enjoy this room,” she said. “Or would he? There’s something very sad about it, isn’t there?” She shook her head. “But that’s not why I’m here. Now, my dear, what’s the matter with you? Are you ill?”

“No. The doctor is very fussy about young females, that’s all. But Mrs Brandywine, why
are
you here?”

“My dear, I have learned something very interesting and dramatic that concerns you.”

Interesting … dramatic … Oh, how wonderful it would be if Mrs Brandywine’s gift – for I was convinced she had one – had come to the rescue. Did I dare hope? “Is it about Drucilla?” I asked. My heart began thumping with excitement. “And Helen?”

“No, it’s not.”

I slumped back against the sofa cushions.

She waited for a few seconds and then said, “Do you want to tell me about it, Verity?”

I shook my head. “Later, Mrs Brandywine.”

She began to insist, and then changed her mind. “Last Friday night, I held a séance upstairs at the Book Bazaar.” Why wasn’t I surprised? “It’s usually the same set of people, but every now and then a stranger arrives. Somehow or other they hear about me.” Mrs Brandywine gave a modest shrug. “This happened at our last meeting, Verity. She was a tall dark-haired woman, very beautiful, dressed quite strikingly in grey.”

“Della Parker,” I whispered.

“She didn’t give her name. But as it turned out, I did have a message for her. Please excuse the language. Sometimes the spirits can be rather crude.
That damned lying red-headed snake. Legal or not, it don’t change nothing. Family is family. You tell them, girl. Tell them everything you know.
”

Mrs Brandywine sat placidly while thoughts whirled around in my brain.
Family is family. Legal or not.
This was about the Parker Pork Packing fortune. Who had lied? What did she know?

She patted my hand. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Verity. There is more. We always gather for supper afterwards, but this woman left straightaway. When she shook my hand on leaving, I felt some extremely strong vibrations connecting her to you. There is deception, concealment, death and sorrow. And money. Money is definitely involved.”

My brain was buzzing.
Money is definitely involved.
“Mrs Brandywine, could you repeat the spirit message?”

“
That damned lying red-headed snake
…” she began.

The leader of the bushrangers was a red-head. Red hair, red glove, Redpath … They were all connected. But how? Was Della behind the kidnapping, after all?

The story of Helen and Drucilla’s kidnapping tumbled out.

Mrs Brandywine listened without comment until I ran out of words. Then she said emphatically, “No, no, no.”

“What do you mean, Mrs Brandywine?”

“The woman at my séance – Della, did you say? – is in no way involved. Past and future, my dear, but not the present. We shall have to look elsewhere for the solution.”

The solution? I gasped. “What do you know? Have you seen something? Oh, Mrs Brandywine, please tell me.”

She put her fingers to her lips. “Not yet, Verity. It’s coming, it’s coming …”

What was coming? Why did she have to be so mysterious? I thought impatiently, and then stopped myself. I knew how these things worked. Visions, premonitions, intuitions … they came and went when least expected. You couldn’t hunt them or force them to come.

Mrs Brandywine paused and cleared her throat. “Thank goodness, here’s Hannah with the tea. I’m parched.” I hadn’t heard a thing, but the next second there was a tap at the door and Hannah entered with the tray in her hands. Teapot, cups, sugar and milk – and two slices of cake.

“Just as I thought,” Mrs Brandywine purred. “Plum cake. Would you give me the recipe, Hannah? Or is that too much to ask?” She stopped smiling. “What is the matter, my dear?” she said. Hannah’s hands were shaking so badly that the teacups clattered in their saucers and milk slopped out of the jug.

“Here, give the tray to me,” I said. “Sit down.”

“It’s that nasty creature Melmoth. He came back, just now. Walked into my kitchen, bold as brass. Wanted to ask me some questions, he said, and I told him I was too busy and he said I had to. I told him no. We had words.”

“Oh, Hannah.”

“He’s gone now, but– Oh!” She stopped herself in time and turned to Mrs Brandywine. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s trouble in this house.”

“Verity told me. The kidnapping. Your master’s illness.”

“Yes, and the detective and Mr Leviny stirring up all this nonsense about the Red Gauntlet.” She heaved herself up out of the chair. “I must get back to the kitchen.”

“Please, stay a few minutes longer,” said Mrs Brandywine. “Sit down again.”

“There’s work to be done, ma’am.”

“Leave it, Hannah.” Mrs Brandywine took a deep breath. “You are part of this and I think you can help. Let us join hands. Close your eyes.”

Hannah’s skin was rough and her fingers squirmed in my grasp. “I have things I must do …”

“Hush,” said Mrs Brandywine.

Hannah struggled with herself for a few seconds longer and then I felt her hand go limp. A feeling of peace flowed around the circle. Peace and a sense of timeless calm. The clock stopped ticking. We were suspended, the three of us, in an eternal present.

Grey stones. The name Redpath. Drucilla turning over the cards. Over and over and over … the same card …

“The Queen of Spades,” I said.

Hannah jerked her hand up, startled. “The Queen of Spades,” she whispered. “Ben Redpath’s quarry – it’s out the back of Campbell’s Creek. Up on a hill near … Good Lord, it was near the old Queen of Spades mine.”

At last the puzzle pieces fell into place.

The old quarry – I was sure that was where Drucilla and Helen were being held. Calling for Harold, I ran out of the room.

Mrs Brandywine urged us not to act in haste.

Hannah flatly forbade us to go. When that didn’t work, she tried the weather. “Look at those clouds. It’s going to rain, sure as eggs.”

They looked harmless to me. Besides, what was a drop of rain compared to Drucilla and Helen?

Even Harold was unsure. He wanted us to delay our mission.

“Your father and Mr Leviny won’t be long. SP too. Why not wait till they return?”

But I insisted. I know I am only small, but when I’m sure I am right I can be very determined.

Beauty and the phaeton flew down the long hill from Castlemaine into Campbell’s Creek. It was only when we stopped at the bottom of the hill near the old mine that I began to have second thoughts.

“Should we have waited, do you think?” I said.

“Perhaps.” Harold was wavering too. I could see that he was weighing up the situation. There was no way he could guarantee we wouldn’t run into danger. Was it sensible for the two of us to attempt this by ourselves?

Then I thought of Drucilla and I couldn’t bear to delay one more minute. I jumped out of the phaeton and Harold scrambled after me.

The road that wound uphill behind the abandoned mine was full of ruts and holes, with bushes and even young saplings growing on it. We toiled upwards, slipping and sliding on the loose gravel. The bush on either side was littered with pieces of roofing iron and rusted metal, old timbers, smashed bricks and piles of rock. A crow surveyed us from a treetop.

Waaaah
, it wailed, and that lonesome cry sent a chill through me. That crow didn’t choose its black feathers; it couldn’t help looking sinister. But in this broken, desolate place it felt like a bad omen. Harold must have felt something like that too, for he took my hand. We increased our pace.

Hannah had been right about the weather. Those puffy clouds sailing across the sky were now a dark mass lowering above us. From the south came a low rumble of thunder. The air was so still and breathless that the swarms of midges and buzzing mosquitoes sounded uncannily loud.

“Here it is,” said Harold. “Look.”

The track turned sharply to the right and halfway across it were the rotting remains of a wagon. It was smothered by a tangled mass of blackberries. Behind it, looking out of place in the bush, were a pair of grand stone gateposts and an iron gate. A roughly painted sign on the gate said
DANGER KEEP OUT
, but the gate itself was sagging on one hinge and the fence was a straggling, broken-down post-and-rail. The quarry must be up ahead, just around the bend.

“Harold.” I was whispering and I didn’t know why. “My fingers are itching. Drucilla is close by.”

We stood very still. A bird called out one loud ringing note and then fell silent. The thunder growled again, closer this time. Walking slowly, careful not to make any noise, we picked our way along the track until we came out into a clearing. One side was the rock face where the grey stone had been hacked out of the hillside. It lay everywhere in sheets, slabs, blocks and piles. Small shattered pieces littered the ground.

It was what I’d seen in my vision. Grey stone.

At the far end of the clearing was a tall wooden structure mounted with a kind of pulley and hung with rusted chains. It looked like a gallows and I shuddered. There was another building behind it, tucked in among the trees. Built of brick, with a slate roof and a couple of chimneys, it too looked abandoned.

Harold pointed to the pile of firewood stacked against the wall. “It’s freshly cut.”

It was so still and quiet I could hear my own pulse. This, I knew, was Drucilla’s prison.

Still holding hands, picking our way carefully through the piles of stone, we approached.

“Look.” Now Harold was whispering too. On the doorstep, sitting on the mat, was a saucepan containing a mess of small bones and gluey gravy. Flies clustered on its surface.

“Someone’s been here recently.”

The wooden door was barred by an iron grille but the chain hung loose. Harold opened the grille. The creaking of its rusty hinges seemed to echo around the quarry. Suddenly, I couldn’t be quiet and careful any longer.

She was there – she was close – she was waiting for me. “Drucilla?” I shouted. “Drucilla, are you in there?”

“Aaaarghhh!”

From out of the trees, a whirling, screeching figure, swinging a heavy chain, rushed towards us.

Harold hurled me sideways and with a horrible clashing sound the chain hit the barred doorway. Yelling like a madman, the figure lunged at us again. This time the chain got Harold’s raised forearm. He fell, clutching his arm.

“Run, Verity!”

Perhaps I should have done, but instead I grabbed the nearest weapon – which turned out to be the saucepan – and threw it. I hit the man behind the knees. He half-turned, but by then Harold had scrambled to his feet again. He grabbed the chain, and the man just crumpled. He staggered backwards and collapsed, lying flat on his back with all the fight gone out of him.

Old, gnome-like, grimy, wearing filthy patched and tattered clothes, with boots all splitting and open at the toes, he looked worse than the most pitiful old beggar you’d see on the streets of London. Where did he get the strength to attack us?

As he lay mumbling and groaning, I became aware of a voice calling from inside the building.

It was Drucilla. “Help me! Help!”

“Where’s the key?” I asked.

The old man just stared at me blankly. “I kept ’er safe.”

“Yes,” said Harold in a slow, patient voice. “But now we have to let her out.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The man began to cry. “She’d be flown away by now if I’d let ’er out.” The tears made streaks down the dirt on his face. “I kept ’er in, I kept ’er safe.”

“But is there a key?”

“I kept ’er safe …” He was quivering like a beaten dog.

“I give up,” said Harold. “Should I bash the door in?”

“No,” I said. “Just look under the mat.”

When the door swung open, Drucilla stood there for a second or two as if stunned.

Then she did the strangest thing. She began to laugh. Laughing and crying at the same time, she half-walked and half-fell into my arms. We clung together.