Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (24 page)

Though I was eager for our meeting with Della, when we arrived in Melbourne there was someone I needed to see first – Mrs Brandywine. I felt I owed it to her to tell her about our rescue. Without her help, we may not have found Drucilla for days or even weeks.

The Book Bazaar was humming with customers. Mr Brandywine was at one of the counters, spruiking his new compendium of picture puzzles – “For children from five to one hundred!” he said – and when I asked for Mrs Brandywine, he waved his hand towards the armchairs in the middle of the shop.

“My dear,” she said. Her bright button eyes looked me up and down, taking in every detail. “I’ve been expecting you. Now, tell me everything.”

When I told her about Drucilla’s rescue, a smile spread over her face.

“Good girl,” she said approvingly. And when I explained that Papa and I were in Melbourne to meet Della, she positively beamed. “Excellent! Now don’t forget what the spirits said.
That damned lying red-headed snake.
” She heaved a big, satisfied sigh. “Another chapter – how encouraging.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant.

“I am writing a book, my dear. It is to be called
The Practical Uses of Psychical Phenomena
. If I had my way, the government would employ scientists to investigate the matter thoroughly.”

Such a pity, I thought, that the Professor and Mrs Brandywine were thousands of miles apart. Their shared fascination with the uncanny and the unexplained would have made them great friends.

I glimpsed Papa looking at his watch, and got up to leave.

“There’s one more thing,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “I’m not at all sure what it means. I saw you, Verity, and a veil. A long, white lace veil.”

“I know what that means,” I said, grinning. “Drucilla and SP – they’re engaged to be married – and I’m to be the bridesmaid.”

“Aha. Of course, that would be it.” Still frowning, she rose to her feet and gave me a hug. “Give my regards to Della, won’t you?”

We’d arranged to meet for afternoon tea at Della’s hotel. She was sitting at a table by a window, and the light made her pale grey silk dress shimmer like mother-of-pearl. Though I’m no longer in the millinery trade, I can’t help but notice superb work when I see it, and Della’s hat, trimmed in shades of lilac with satin ribbon ties, was as chic as anything at Madame Louisette’s. Her gloves were lilac too, and she was fiddling with the buttons as she waited. Nervous, I guessed. Her face, when she stood up to greet us, was as pale as candle wax.

“Mr Savinov.” The hand she held out to Papa was shaking. “I am so glad to meet you at last.”

Papa stared at her. I’d stressed the likeness to Mama, but now, face to face with her, he was struck dumb. Was he having palpitations? Did he have his drops with him?

“Papa, are you all right?” I whispered. “Please, sit down. I’ll get you a drink of water. Or would brandy be better?”

“No, Veroschka. Do not fuss.” He bowed to Della and then almost collapsed into his chair. The waiter, who’d been hovering, came up to take our order, but Papa waved him away. “Later.”

He could not take his eyes off her. She smoothed her hair and adjusted her hat. She peeled off her lilac gloves and put them on the table. She sipped from her glass of water. She waited.

“What is it, Mr Savinov?” she finally burst out. “You look at me as if … as if you’ve seen a …”

“A ghost.” He sighed. “But not a ghost. A living, breathing flesh-and-blood young woman. Has anyone ever told you how much you look like Isabella Savage?”

“No.”

Papa drew a deep breath. “There are differences – height, the shape of your nose, all those subtle things.” He shook his head, perplexed. “It is just not possible. Waldo Parker died when he was only sixteen, in 1842. When were you born?”

“1850.”

“You see? It is not possible. And yet there must be some connection.” He shook his head. “Tell me what you remember about your father.”

“Not a lot. I only saw him half-a-dozen times. He … he wasn’t very nice to Mama.” She bit her lip. “He used to shout at her, push her and slap her. After Mama died, he took me to Toronto to live with the Carters. I had a foster brother – Paul – who was kind to me, and I was happy there. But then I think my father must have stopped sending money because they couldn’t keep me and I went to St Severity’s Orphanage.” A shadow passed over her face. “You would not believe people could be so cruel to a child.”

“I believe you,” I said, impulsively taking her hand. “I know.” This beautiful young woman, well dressed and fashionable, sitting with us in the lobby of an expensive hotel, was once a little orphan girl. Unwanted, unloved. I only spent a short time with Uncle Bill Bird, and that was enough. I understood what Della had endured.

“Do you have anything of his?” asked Papa. “Anything at all?”

“Only the fan. The one with ‘Isabella Savage’ carved on it.”

He turned to me. “Veroschka, you had a vision when we were at the opera, did you not? When you held the fan. Tell me what you saw.” Papa’s voice was shaking. “What you heard. Tell me everything.”

So I did. I could remember every detail. The overpowering smell of flowers in the dressing-room, Mrs Vic’s long nose and grey hair, the
click-clack
as the man opened and shut the lace fan.

“He was tall and rather fat. He had whitish eyelashes and a piggy nose.” I could see him in my mind’s eye. And even this memory brought back that sense of repulsion. It wasn’t just his appearance. There was something about him; something brutal, remorseless, cruel.

“That is him exactly,” breathed Della. “That is my father!”

“Verity.” Papa gripped my hand so hard it hurt. “Did he have red hair?”

“Yes, he did. How did you know?”

“Because I know who that man was. The man in Isabella’s dressing room – the tall fat man with red hair – it was her brother Hiram. Della, it was Hiram, not Waldo, who was your father.”

She still didn’t understand. “But Mr Savinov, the name on Mama’s marriage certificate is definitely Waldo Parker.”

“Della,” I said. “I think your father pretended to be Waldo. I think he used his dead brother’s name in order to trick your mother into a false marriage.”

“The unspeakable pork packer.” Papa spat out the words. “Ah, this is bad news indeed.”

Bad news? No, Papa was wrong.

Della’s face glowed. “It’s the best news I could possibly have.”

I knew why. In a strange, roundabout manner, Della had finally achieved her heart’s desire.

She turned to Papa. “Now I have you and Verity. I have family.”

Papa gazed at her for a few seconds, struggling to say something. But the words wouldn’t come. Actions speak louder than words, anyway. Papa held out his arms.

We must have made an odd sight, the three of us hugging with tears rolling down our cheeks. It was quite a few minutes before we stopped crying, and a few minutes more before we were able to speak. It was then Della told us that this happy ending was all Papa’s doing.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Do you remember, all those years ago when I first wrote to you? You sent me some money.”

“I remember, my dear. I felt for you.”

“Well, with that money, I was able to travel to the United States and find my foster brother Paul. He was the only person who’d ever been kind to me,” she said. “And he accepted me as if I was a real sister.”

He was a mining engineer, and Della had joined him and his wife when they came to Australia. Sadly, Paul had died a little over a year ago. Della was in half-mourning and that accounted for the grey costume she always wore. Paul’s wife had recently decided to return to Toronto to live with her daughter and her family. She’d invited Della to go with her.

“I was still wondering what to do when I read the name Savinov in the newspaper, and realised who you were. Something seemed to snap inside me.” She blushed. “I must apologise to you, but after Paul died I felt so alone in the world, always an outsider, never truly belonging. I was desperate and unhappy. I did watch you, Verity. I followed you. I eavesdropped on you at the station when you were seeing your governess off. I frightened you and I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself.”

“And did you employ that man too? The one who argued with our coachman?”

“No, I did not. Why would I?”

I wondered yet again at how appearances can be deceiving. There had been no plot. Della had no idea that Hiram Parker had died, leaving me his fortune. She didn’t want money, for she had a small fortune of her own. She’d told us how her foster brother Paul had left her shares in a mine. She now had more than enough money to live on.

I’d often wondered why I’d been given this gift of mine. Now I knew. I was
meant
to find Della. She’d been alone in the world – just as I could have been if Papa and I hadn’t found each other. Now, the story was going to be rewritten. There was going to be a happy ending. That was what my gift was for.

“No more weeping, my dears,” said Papa. “This calls for a celebration. It is not every day one gains a new member of the family.” He gave Della one of his crushing bear hugs and then summoned the waiter. “Champagne, my good fellow! The very best you have.”

We were still having afternoon tea when SP arrived. He and Della greeted each other like old friends. We had to tell him the whole story again – as much of it as we could make out.

“You mean Hiram Parker assumed his dead brother’s identity so that his marriage to Della’s mother wasn’t legal?” said SP. “Why?”

“Because he was a greedy, tight-fisted
cochon
. That is ‘pig’, Verity, though it insults a noble animal. Hiram didn’t want Della’s mother to have any claim on him and even worse, he abandoned his own child,” said Papa. “What a monster.”

“A red-headed snake,” said Della. “That’s what Mama called him once.”

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.

So it was Della’s mother who had spoken through Mrs Brandywine at the séance. And now Della had told us everything she knew, she had what she wanted. Not money. It was never about money. It was Papa and me.

As we said our goodbyes, Papa gave Della a parting hug. This time it knocked the hat right off her head.

I picked it up for her. It was so beautifully made I was sure it must come from Paris or London. I couldn’t resist peeking inside at the label.

ADELINE

A shock shot through me.

I saw the piece of paper dissolve to ashes and blow away in the wind. I saw the gloved hand reach for the brass doorknob. I heard the man’s voice. “I’ll meet you at Adeline’s.”

It was the vision I’d had when I’d picked up the red glove. It wasn’t “Meet you at the line”. There was no line. Railway line, telegraph line, clothesline – all wrong. It was Adeline, the milliner’s. That was where Helen was.

Papa, SP and Della – they were all staring at me. I gasped.

“Do you need smelling salts,
chérie
? Or a glass of water?”

I looked around the circle of faces. “I know where she is,” I said.

They all looked bewildered.

“Helen, of course!” I stamped my foot. “SP, we must go there immediately. Della, what is the address of the milliner’s shop, Adeline’s?”