Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (27 page)

Then Papa tapped my arm and pointed to the door. The handle turned silently and Mr Mallard slunk into the room. I could see him through the gaps in the carved wooden screen. He carried a carpetbag and was dressed for travel in his overcoat and hat. He must have just smoked another cigar, for I could smell the tobacco as he passed. He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man about to steal a thousand pounds. Walking on the balls of his feet and making scarcely a sound, he moved over to the French doors, unlocked and opened them and placed his bag outside on the verandah. He was making himself ready for a quick escape.

Then, as silent as a cat, he slunk across the room to the mantelpiece. There was a tiny clink as he took the key out of the vase. Next, he went to the desk and put the key in the drawer lock. Easing open the drawer, he removed the package.

This was the moment we’d been waiting for. SP and Harold rose from behind the sofa. Papa and I came out from behind the screen.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked SP. For a few seconds, Mr Mallard froze. A grotesque grin appeared on his face.

“What are you all doing here?” I could tell he was forcing himself to sound calm.

“Waiting for you,” said SP.

“I was just–”

“Just stealing your brother-in-law’s money?” I said.

He shot me a look full of venom. “Not at all. Why would I do that? I was just checking that it was still there. All that money in the house; naturally I was worried …” He looked at each of us in turn. “Do you think I’d do something like that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Especially since you’ve been blackmailing your own sister.”

“So you know about that, do you?” he hissed. “Well, what had she ever done for me? If she’d waited, she’d have been rolling in money. The stupid cow.”

So this was the real Emeric Mallard. Selfish, cruel and without a kind thought for his poor tragic sister. I stepped forwards. “You beast–” I began.

Beast was right. Emeric sprang like a wild animal – a tiger or a panther – and the next thing I knew his hands were around my neck. In that split second I cursed myself for being so impetuous and putting myself in danger. It was my own fault. Choking, gasping for breath, I struggled but it was too late. Mr Mallard dragged me backwards towards the open French doors.

“Verity!” Papa’s voice was like a knife in my heart.

“Stay back, Savinov.” Mr Mallard’s voice was icily calm. “I can strangle her in an instant, you know. Little Miss Interference – it would serve her right.” He tightened his grip and my eyes began to fog over as he pulled me out onto the verandah.

I heard footsteps. Voices.

“Stop, I order you, in the name of the law.”

A constable? Yes, I remembered. Our plan involved two constables waiting outside with Mr Leviny. But it didn’t matter now. Those cruel hands were still around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I was losing consciousness, slipping into a mist where I felt no pain and no fear. Was I dying? And then, from nowhere, I heard Mrs Brandywine’s voice. A veil, she was saying. White lace …

An eldritch scream ripped through the night air. So close, so loud, so unearthly, it startled Mr Mallard. He let me go and I fell, panting and wheezing, to the ground. Mr Snow, high up in the cedar tree, shrieked again. With his enormous tail cascading behind him like a swag of white lace, he dropped from his perch, right on top of us. Mr Snow was a surprisingly heavy fowl. The next scream was Mr Mallard’s: a scream, and then a howl of rage as one of the constables pulled his hands behind his back and the other applied the handcuffs.

I could have cheered. In fact, I tried to, but all that came out of my bruised throat was a croak. Papa swooped down to take me in his arms. Harold held one hand, SP took the other.

“Veroschka, you’re all right? You’re not hurt?”

I shook my head.

“You pack of fools!” Mr Mallard was struggling to break free of the two policemen. “You stupid interfering old men–”

“Now, sir, behave yourself,” said one of the constables.

A string of swear words was his answer.

“Language,” said the other constable. “There’s a lady present.”

“Lady!” Mr Mallard was quivering with rage. “That wretched meddling girl, and …” He kicked out as the constables dragged him away. “That bloody peacock!”

It was a month later and there we all were, at another lunch party at Alhambra. This was also a celebration – for SP and Drucilla’s wedding. There were a few extra guests. Della, the Brandywines – for once SP knew about Mrs Brandywine’s part in Drucilla’s rescue, she was his friend for life – and Mr and Mrs Leviny. They’d brought Harold with them.

I’d missed him. After all, we’d been through so much together. We’d rescued Drucilla, saved Hermann Schroeder from Mr Melmoth and caught Emeric Mallard red-handed. On my last day in Castlemaine we’d even managed to get Mr Snow back into the aviary with the other peacocks.

We’d said goodbye in our favourite spot, the low wall facing west near the aviary. It was late morning; Papa and I were leaving on the noon train. There wasn’t much time.

“You will write to me, won’t you, Verity?”

“Of course I will.”

“And I’ll write to you.

We stood together for a minute or so, without speaking, watching the birds flit around in their enclosure.

“And Verity …” Harold’s voice sounded gruff. “We will always be friends, won’t we?”

“Oh, Harold!”

Harold is tall and I am short, so my hug landed somewhere around his middle waistcoat button. But it was a proper Savinov bear hug. I looked up at him, smiling through my tears, and repeated his words back to him.

“We will always be friends.”

Now, seeing him again in the drawing room at Alhambra, he seemed like a tall and serious young stranger. In spite of the letters that we exchanged once or twice a week, I felt shy.

“How are you, Verity?”

“Very well, thank you,” I said. I sounded just like a proper young lady. Where had our easy friendship gone? “And you, Harold?”

“Very well also.” We shook hands.

Oh, dear, I thought. We’d been so close. And now we were simply awkward with each other. Ill at ease, with nothing to say. I felt disappointed in myself, and in him.

But then, with that familiar furrowed brow that was not really a frown, he asked, “Verity, why did the prawn guard its treasure?”

“The prawn? A treasure?” I said, flummoxed.

Poppy was much quicker on the uptake. “Why? Why?” she demanded, jumping up and down.

“Because he was a little shellfish.”

After three or four more riddles, I was doubled up with laughter.

“It is good to see you laugh,” said Harold.

After that, it was just as it had been before.

Tea was served in the drawing room, where Connie entertained us with an hour of Chopin and Beethoven and Liszt. Poppy turned the pages and Mr McTavish, Connie’s father, looked on so proudly I thought he’d burst.

I haven’t told you about Connie, have I?

Her oldest aunt had died, leaving Connie all her money. After the Exhibition concert, Connie was going to Europe to study music. Her papa planned to install a manager at Riverbend and accompany her. And – this was the best bit – Poppy was going too.

Papa, I knew, had worried about Poppy’s future from the very first.

“She can always continue to live with us – but a girl like her needs something to do,” Papa had said to me. “But what? We cannot send her out to be a servant. It would not be right and moreover, can you imagine Poppy taking orders?” He shook his head, and I laughed in agreement. No, Poppy would not make a good maid.

But she adored Connie, and as her companion she would be useful, happy and loved. It was just the right thing for her. They were to leave Australia in January of next year.

Connie ended Beethoven’s
Pathétique
with a thundering of chords, and amid the clapping and congratulations, Papa got up and slipped quietly into his study. I followed, and found him reclining in his armchair with a cigar.

“Happy, Papa?”

“Yes,
ma chérie
. Very, very happy.” He drew me close and kissed me on the forehead. “That sonata was so emotional that now I need a rest. Ahh …” He gave a long, satisfied sigh. “I am glad that our Poppy will have a future. And Connie. As I have always said, that one is a true
artiste
.”

“Sometimes,” I confessed. “I feel jealous of Connie. I wish I had a talent like hers.”

“No, no, Veroschka, you mustn’t think like that. Come here, sit on my knee.” I snuggled up to him. He smelled, as always, of cigars and his own special cologne. “You have many talents, many gifts.”

“You mean teleagtivism?”

“Tele-aggy … Pah! I cannot even say it. No, my dearest child, that is the least of your gifts. You are clever and sensible and brave and loyal. But most of all, my child, you are loving.” He stroked my hair. “You have a loving heart, and what better gift is there on this earth?”

“Oh, Papa, just because I am a girl doesn’t mean I don’t need to strive, to try, to achieve something.”

“This has nothing to do with your being a girl.” He sounded stern. “Some of us – male, female, it doesn’t matter – have a destiny. I know you will find yours. As the proverb says, ‘Those who wish to sing will always find a song.’”

“One of your Russian proverbs, Papa?”

“No, I don’t think so. Perhaps it’s Swedish.” His eyes twinkled. “Perhaps I made it up. Listen – Connie is playing a waltz. They are dancing. Go and join them, my dear. Dance with Harold.”

“Coming, Papa?”

“In a while. I think I will just sit here for a moment and contemplate. I am a very lucky man,
chérie
. I am counting my blessings.”

“All right then, Papa.” I kissed his cheek and jumped off his knee. “I will come and get you when it’s time for tea.”

When I returned to his study, Papa was sound asleep in his chair.

“Papa,” I said softly, so as not to startle him. “Papa, afternoon tea is ready.”

He didn’t stir and even before I touched him, I knew.

“Oh, Papa,” I whispered.

He was gone. His body was there, but Papa wasn’t. He was with Mama now. Perhaps this was what my dreams had been telling me. Papa listening to Mama sing. Mama holding out her arms to him. The two of them, arm in arm, with Mama’s old-fashioned bell-shaped skirt swaying as they walked together into the distance. Now, after all those years, they were together at last.

“But oh, Papa,” I sobbed, stroking his cold cheek. “I will miss you so.”

Papa was buried in Melbourne General Cemetery under a grey sky. It didn’t rain, but a bitter wind whipped the last dead leaves from the branches and whirled them in gusts around us. In our mourning black, we looked like a flock of crows alighted among the tombstones.

It was time for the gravediggers to begin shovelling dirt back into the grave. I let go of SP’s arm and walked up to the edge. I looked down. The gaping hole and the shining coffin now half-covered with clods of earth had nothing to do with Papa. My lovely old lion. That was what I called him to myself for he reminded me of those wonderful statues in Trafalgar Square. Papa was a deep fruity voice, rumbling laughter, twinkling eyes. Papa was the smell of cologne and cigars, immaculate evening clothes and a silver-topped cane. He was Russian proverbs and French exclamations. He was milk before bedtime and turning me into a young lady and letting me grow up to be who I was.

I had known him such a short time.

“Goodbye, Papa,” I whispered.

Della came up behind me and took my hand in hers. “Come on, Verity,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”

I’d like to thank: Mary Verney, my gem of an editor at Walker Books. This is our third book together and, as before, it’s been an absolute pleasure.

Brianne Collins, for copyediting with such care and attention to detail.

Lisa Coutts, for the distinctive Verity cover art.

Historian Doctor Marjorie Theobald. Her book
The Wealth Beneath Their Feet: A Family on the Castlemaine Goldfields
(Arcadia, North Melbourne, 2010) was an inspiration during the writing of this novel. When Marjorie kindly offered to check over the manuscript for me, I was delighted.