Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (22 page)

She was safe. My heart felt as if it were going to burst with joy, but I too had tears streaming down my face.

“Oh, my dear girl, my dear girl …” Drucilla stroked my wet cheek. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. I thought … oh, I thought terrible things.” She turned her tear-stained face to Harold and I realised that for him, this must be bittersweet. We’d found Drucilla, but not Helen. As if she understood what he was thinking, she said, “I’m sorry, Harold. I don’t know where they took her. When I came to, she was gone. I was by myself in a dark room – I think it was a cellar – for hours. And then the red-headed man came. He tied my hands, put a sack over my head and put me on a horse. He brought me here, and Ben–”

“I brought you apples and rabbit stew.”

“You did, Ben. And a pack of cards.”

“I looked after you.”

“Yes, you did.”

Ben didn’t seem to realise that he had done something wrong. Anyone could see that he wasn’t quite right in the head.

“The man who brought her here – do you know him?” Harold asked Ben.

“No.” Ben scratched his head. “But he knew me. That’s a queer thing, isn’t it?”

“It is. Is he coming back?”

Ben nodded. “He’s going to bring me ten shillings. For the rabbits and the apples. For my trouble. Only, she weren’t no trouble. She’s a little red bird.”

“I know. I’ll get your ten shillings and bring it to you. Will you stay here, Ben, and not go anywhere else?”

“I’ll stay.” He got to his feet, poor old bag of bones that he was, and shuffled into the building. He plumped himself down on the chair. “I’ll stay right ’ere.”

“Goodbye, Ben.” Drucilla’s voice was gentle and sad.

“Let’s get you home, Miss Deane,” said Harold. “Can you walk?”

She said yes, but we took an arm each anyway. I wished I’d brought a shawl with me, for the air was turning cold and Drucilla was shivering. I looked anxiously at the sky. It was the colour of an old bruise and forked tongues of lightning flickered in the distance. The rumbles of thunder came more often as we made our way down the hill. Minute by minute, they were louder, closer. By the time we reached the phaeton, the first drops of rain were beginning to fall. Harold lifted Drucilla up into the seat, I hopped in next to her and Harold took the reins.

Before we set off on our journey home, he turned to me and clasped my hand in his.

“We did it, Verity.”

“Yes.”

Together, Harold and I had rescued Drucilla.

The rain was light but steady. We’d just turned onto the main road outside the hotel when a horseman appeared coming in our direction. He was riding fast, and shouting. A couple of men who’d been enjoying a drink under the verandah stood up to see what was going on. Was there a fire or a flood? Had Queen Victoria died? Then I heard my own name.

It was SP. With a clatter of hooves and a few swear words, he pulled up his horse and flung himself out of the saddle. His face was red, his hair slicked with sweat and rain – and he was furious.

“Verity! How dare you go off like that without telling me? And Harold, what do you mean by allowing her to–” He finally registered the third figure in the buggy. “Drucilla? Is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else?”

He came closer to the buggy. “You’re wet.”

“Well, yes, you goose. It’s raining.”

“I know that. Oh, Drucilla!”

Whether he reached up or she jumped down, it was hard to say, but she was in his arms and he was holding her like he never wanted to let her go. At that very moment, the skies opened. Lightning cracked and flashed with a terrifying yellow glare. Thunder boomed so close it was like cannon fire. Rain bucketed down and in thirty seconds flat we were all drowned rats. Did SP and Drucilla care? Did they even notice? Harold and I looked tactfully ahead into the curtain of rain.

When he finally let her go, Drucilla looked up at SP. “Yes, Saddington,” she said. “I will, Saddington. Oh …”

And she couldn’t say anything more after that. You can’t talk when you’re being kissed.

We took Drucilla straight to Shantigar.

Hannah opened the door. Her worried gaze took in only Harold and me at first.

“Verity! Harold!” she cried. “The saints be thanked, you’re safe. I’ve been that frightened for you. You shouldn’t have gone by yourselves and now look at you, you’re wet through …”

Mohan, who must have been keeping an ear open for our return, appeared in the hallway behind her. She turned to him and took his hand.

“Mohan, they’re safe, and–” Then she caught sight of SP helping Drucilla out of the phaeton. A smile began to dawn on her face, and then died. “Mrs Petrov?”

“She wasn’t there,” said Harold. “The kidnappers still have her.”

“Oh no…” Mohan staggered and fell sideways, crashing against the hatstand. Hannah put her arm around him and guided him to the hall chair.

“Sit,” she ordered. “Sit there, you poor man. Why, you’ve been at the master’s bedside with scarcely a break.”

It was true. None of us had seen him for days. Harold had shared the vigil with him, but I’m ashamed to say that I had barely given him a thought.

“You’re exhausted.” Hannah patted Mohan’s shoulder. “You must rest, Mohan. Harold, can you help him to his bedroom?”

Then Hannah called out for George and they sprang into action. In next to no time there was water on the stove so we could wash, a roaring fire, a hot water bottle in Helen’s bed for Drucilla and beef broth heating in a pot.

“That friend of yours went back to town,” Hannah told me. “After lunch. I gave her lamb stew with dumplings. She left a letter for you – it’s on the sideboard.”

It was just a quick note.

The other matter can wait.

Yours, Bedelia Brandywine

The other matter – Della Parker – seemed unimportant right now. Drucilla was here, with us. Safe at last. Now – where was Helen?

Drucilla was not impressed when SP insisted she go straight to bed. He’d sent George off to get Doctor Judd, too, and I could imagine Drucilla’s face when the doctor started one of his lectures about the delicate female constitution.

Nevertheless, she did what SP asked. Complaining all the while, she put on one of Helen’s nightgowns and sat up in bed. I brought her Hannah’s beef broth, and she complained a bit more.

“I’ve had nothing but apples and two plates of rabbit stew,” she pleaded after she’d gulped it down. “Couldn’t I have a lamb chop? Just a little one? And some pudding?”

“That’s my girl,” said SP. “Tough as old boots.”

“Don’t call me an old boot.”

“You’re Cinderella’s glass slipper to me, Drucilla.” She smiled. “Now, darling, if I ask you very nicely, will you try to rest?”

“I will try. And SP?”

“Yes, my darling?”

“Please don’t be harsh with Ben. He’s not all there. He was very good to me, really he was.”

SP nodded and blew her a kiss as he shut the door. A minute later she was snoring in a most unladylike manner.

“She’s not to be disturbed,” said SP, firmly. “Now, Harold, my boy – there’s some unfinished business to attend to. That is, if Ben is still there.”

“I think he will be,” said Harold. “I thought of locking him in but … well, it seemed cruel, somehow.”

“Cruel? After what he did to Drucilla?”

I put my hand on SP’s arm. “She asked you not to be harsh with him, remember?”

SP’s face softened. “Of course.”

Poor Mohan. He was near collapse, but when Harold and SP left, he struggled back out of his room to resume his watch over Mr Petrov.

“I will sit with him,” I offered. “Please, Mohan, let me help.”

Mohan sighed. “Perhaps … a little more rest …”

Mr Petrov was propped up on his pillows with his eyes shut and his hands, curled into claws, folded on his chest. The room was dim and warm, and the drumming of rain on the roof made a soothing sound.

“Shall I just stay here?” I whispered, pointing to a chair next to the door.

“No,” said Mohan. “Sit closer.” Mohan stroked the old man’s hand. “Miss Verity is here to sit with you, sir.”

“Don’t hurry back, Mohan,” I said as he left the room. “Try to sleep.”

Harold had told me Mohan’s theory about Mr Petrov’s care. We should act as if he could hear and understand. So, feeling a bit odd about it, I began to talk to him.

“Good afternoon, Mr Petrov.” I didn’t expect him to reply, and he didn’t. “This afternoon, Harold and I found Drucilla,” I said. His breathing continued, slow and laboured. I kept on, “She was being held prisoner at an abandoned quarry near the Queen of Spades mine, just out of Campbell’s Creek. Harold and SP have gone back there. They want to talk to the old man who was keeping her locked up and find out who employed him. You see, now we know that the Red Gauntlet has nothing to do with the kidnapping, we need to find out who’s behind it. The Red Gauntlet couldn’t have done it because …” I hesitated. Even though it felt like I was talking to myself, I was careful. “Well, because the Red Gauntlet is dead.”

I stopped. Mr Petrov’s lips were moving ever so slightly. Was he thirsty? I dribbled water from a cup into his mouth and he swallowed it.

“Mr Leviny, Papa and Mr Mallard are in Bendigo right now, seeing your lawyer,” I continued. I stopped again. It couldn’t be … could it? He was trying to shape words. I leaned closer. His hand shot out, grasping me around the wrist and I almost screamed.

“What’s wrong? Do you need something?”

His face was frozen, all except for his lips. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified that this was another apoplexy coming on. Should I fetch someone? I tried to stand up but his hand tightened on my forearm.

“Mohan!” I called. “Hannah! Please come quickly!”

Then I heard my name. It was slurred but unmistakable. “Verity …”

“Don’t move, Mr Petrov,” I said. “I’ll get Mohan.”

“No. Tell.”

“You want to tell me something?”

He squeezed my wrist and said again, more urgently, “Tell.” I leaned down and put my ear close to his face. “Helen. Not … Red …”

“Not the Red Gauntlet? Is that what you mean?”

His nod was almost imperceptible. Then he rasped out another word but this time I couldn’t catch on. Scar? Scarf? Cart? What could he mean?

Another word. I grasped this one immediately. It was “hand”. He repeated the two words in a harsh, cracked whisper, but the first was no clearer.

“It’s not the Red Gauntlet, it’s the … I’m sorry, Mr Petrov; I don’t know what you mean. It’s the … the hand; the something hand, but I can’t–”

The grip on my wrist was weaker now. He said each of the two syllables slowly, wearily and then let go of my arm. His eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, pleaded with me to understand.

“Is this right, Mr Petrov? It’s not the Red Gauntlet.” I finally knew what he was trying to tell me. “It’s the Scarlet Hand.”

“Yes.” His head slumped sideways.

“Mohan – oh, thank goodness you’re here. Mr Petrov – he spoke to me – but now he’s …”

I knew I wasn’t making sense, but Mohan understood right away. He strode to the bedside and dropped to his knees beside Mr Petrov. He felt his pulse, listened to his heart, lifted his eyelids and looked into his eyes. After a few seconds, he said to me, “He is asleep. He spoke to you?”