Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (26 page)

His eyes were moist with tears, and I knew that he was thinking not just of Della, but of me.

Papa, SP and I travelled back to Castlemaine the next day. Papa and I had a small disagreement about that. He didn’t want me to return.

“There is no need,
ma chérie
,” he said. “After all, we have Drucilla back with us and you will wish to spend time with her. And the matter of Helen, it is so unpleasant.”

“But Papa, how can I let Harold receive the news about Helen alone, without a friend?”

“Of course, what was I thinking?” Papa made one of his extravagant Continental gestures. “Trust my girl to have such a kind and loving heart.”

The train journey passed in a blur of bush and paddocks and small towns, for we were trying to work out a way to send Mr Mallard to gaol where he belonged.

“He can’t be tried for blackmail unless we have evidence, and I doubt there will be any,” said SP. “I imagine Helen herself would have destroyed his threatening letters, for she wouldn’t want them found after she was gone. The ones Mallard discovered may have been seemingly innocent. They may have even been from his wife.”

“And he told us he was a bachelor,” growled Papa. “We must see if his family are provided for.” That was so like Papa. He liked to look after everyone.

“So,” continued SP. “If we can’t get Mallard for blackmail, I propose we entice him to commit a different crime. The ransom money will have been delivered to Mr Leviny. Instead of taking it straight back, let’s set a little trap. A honey trap.”

Honey? “Don’t you mean money?”

“It’s the same thing for Emeric Mallard. Sweet and irresistible.”

“Aha,” said Papa, rubbing his hands together. “We will apprehend him in the middle of a theft.” I could tell he was going to enjoy seeing Mr Mallard get his comeuppance.

“No more red herrings in this case,” said SP. “We will catch him red-handed.”

Papa went first to Mr Leviny’s, for there was much for them to talk about. SP and I went on to Shantigar together.

Harold was eating his lunch in the kitchen with Hannah. He was in the middle of telling her about his uncle when we walked in.

“Keep going, Harold,” I said.

“Uncle can move his fingers now, and hold a cup. He can speak.” Harold’s face looked bright and hopeful. “Mohan says …” Then he stopped and looked at me properly. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?” he said.

Hannah put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. “She’d not dead? Surely she’s not.”

“No, she’s not dead,” said SP.

“The saints be praised. You’ve seen her? Is she unharmed?”

SP nodded.

“I’ll get Mr Mallard.” Harold pushed his chair out and stood up.

“No, not yet,” said SP. “Verity …?”

I’d wanted to be the one to tell Harold. After all, he was my friend. SP thought it might be better coming from him – man to man, he said – but I had insisted. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I suggested we go outside into the garden. We sat on the low stone wall that separated Shantigar from the property next door. In Mr Petrov’s aviary, the small birds chirruped and hopped about. They sounded so cheerful, I wished I could shut them up for a few minutes.

It was hard to know where to start but I stumbled through the whole story.

He didn’t believe me at first. “There must be some kind of mistake,” he said.

“No, there’s no mistake. Helen confessed it all.”

He sat hunched over, looking at his hands. It was painful to watch his expression.

“How could she?” he kept saying. “How could she do this to Uncle? It’s cruel. It’s wicked.”

But I kept seeing the Helen of my vision. “What else could I do?” she’d pleaded as she’d sat at her desk. I pictured her with Harold, with Poppy, with the Leviny children. With Mr Petrov, patiently putting up with his grumps and his temper. I remembered her tenderness, her kindness. There was a lot of love in Helen. I tried to explain my thoughts to him, but Harold shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No.”

It would be a long time before he could understand or forgive.

“Harold?” It was SP, coming down the path to find us. One glance told him that Harold knew. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said in a gentle voice.

“What will I tell Uncle? He’s conscious now. Mohan says if we are patient and work with him every day, he will recover. And he will need to know about … about her.” Harold couldn’t even say Helen’s name.

“You will have to tell him the truth,” said SP. “But later. Much later. For now, simply let him know that she is safe. Will he be able to understand?”

“Yes.”

“She told me she would write to him and …” SP hesitated over his words, “… and try to explain.” His voice was serious and very kind. He said it much better than I could have. “Helen was trapped – by Torrance and Emeric and, I’m sorry to say, by your uncle too. She had no money of her own. Her family turned her away. She made wrong decisions, bad decisions. She was weak and easily persuaded. And she is going to suffer for all of this. Helen will go to gaol, Harold.”

SP paused for a few seconds so it could sink in.

“Tell your uncle that this is the end of the Scarlet Hand’s curse. It’s over, it’s done with. There will be no more.”

Harold took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded.

“And now, there’s something else I have to tell you. It’s about Emeric Mallard …”

In the late afternoon, we began to set the honey trap. Mr Leviny was in on it too, of course. He was almost comically solemn as he carried in an impressive package from the bank. As we expected, Mr Mallard was mesmerised by the thought of all that cash.

“Bertha and I will be away overnight, and I am not happy to leave the money in the house without us,” he fibbed. “It is better here, where you can keep a watch on it.”

Mr Mallard couldn’t keep his eyes off it. “So the money will go back to the bank tomorrow morning?” he said.

“Yes,” said Mr Leviny. “There is no Red Gauntlet, no Scarlet Hand. Just …” He trailed off. “I am so grieved by what has happened.”

“Yes, my poor sister,” said Mr Mallard. “I still can’t believe …” He dabbed his eyes, but they kept wandering to the sideboard and the package of banknotes. “It’s all there, Mr Leviny? You counted it?”

“The bank clerk counted it, and I watched,” said Mr Leviny. “It is all there, I assure you.”

“The money will be quite safe here until tomorrow,” said SP. “Shall we put it in Mr Petrov’s bureau, do you think?”

“What a good idea,” said Mr Leviny.

“Should we lock it?”

I almost giggled. SP was acting his part like a born trouper.

“Ah, yes.” Mr Leviny turned the key in the lock and then held it up. It was as good as a pantomime. “Where shall we hide it? I know – in here.” He dropped it into a brass vase and it clanged as it hit the bottom. “Don’t forget where I’ve put it, will you, Mr Mallard?”

“No, I’ll remember.”

I bet you will, I thought.

Afternoon became evening and then night. SP left after dinner. Papa drowsed over his novel and Harold studied a medical text that Doctor Judd had given him. I made myself sit and work on a half-finished jacket for Horace. Usually I found the clicking of the needles soothing, but not tonight. Mr Mallard sat at the piano, tinkling away and humming music-hall tunes.

At ten o’clock, Mrs Hannah served supper, but only Papa had a good appetite. We’d agreed to turn in early, so one by one we said our goodnights. Mr Mallard was left alone at the piano in the Indian room. After half an hour or so, he wandered out onto the verandah to smoke a cigar. Then he went to bed.

By candlelight, speaking in whispers, we gathered in Papa’s room. SP, after crunching loudly down the gravel drive, had met Mr Leviny at the garden gate. The two of them then doubled back through the garden and climbed through Papa’s window.

Mr Leviny had brought along Lord Nelson’s pistols.

“Only in case of emergency,” he said, handing one of them to Papa. “It’s loaded, so be careful.”

I hoped it still worked.

We waited until we heard Hannah go to bed, and then one by one we exited through the window. Mr Leviny slipped into the shadows under the trees to join the waiting constables. The rest of us sneaked along the side verandah to the French doors that led into the Indian room. Harold, with the spare key taken from the key safe in Mr Petrov’s desk, unlocked it and we filed in. He locked it again after us. The light of the dying fire cast a warm glow over everything but Papa and I hid in deep shadow behind one of the screens. Harold and SP crouched behind the sofa. Minutes passed. A quarter of an hour. Half an hour. I wondered if we’d been wrong.