The Truth About Verity Sparks

by Susan Green

  Yours, a wellwisher.

  “Good Lord, Honoria,” said the Professor. “Is this a joke?”

  “A joke! I think not.”

  “If not, it’s a lot of nonsense.” He screwed up the letter and threw it across the room into the fire. “Now that’s out of the way,” he said, “sit down and have some tea. Anchovy toast?”

  Mrs Dalrymple glared at him, and then glared even harder at me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Saddington. When you wake up murdered in your beds, don’t come crying to me.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. Me, a murderer? Mrs Dalrymple may have been a relative, but she’d gone a step too far. I opened my mouth to say something, but the Professor put his hand over mine and squeezed it gently, shaking his head.

  “It’s not worth it,” he whispered.

  Mrs Dalrymple was only just hitting her stride. “It is dangerous to reverse the natural order by elevating inferior persons. It is irreligious as well. But what can I expect from a godless scientist?” More manure under her nose. “At least I know I have done my duty.”

  “What duty is that?” It was Mrs Morcom, coming in late for tea as usual. She looked coolly at Mrs Dalrymple and held out a red and orange hand.

  “How are you, Honoria?” she said. “How’s that girl of yours? Have the pimples cleared up yet?”

  Mrs Dalrymple ignored her. “Be it on your own heads,” were her parting words, and she turned on her heel and stalked out.

  Mrs Morcom didn’t seem to care a fig about Mrs Dalrymple or her letter, but when the Professor told her about the proposed seance she got very angry. She said they should not interfere with me, and that all of this spiritualist stuff was rubbish and wrong. They had a big argument, and the next day she packed her bags and went off on a sketching trip to Cornwall.

  “That woman is impossible,” spluttered the Professor after she marched out to the carriage, nose in the air, without so much as a wave goodbye. “If she thinks anyone will miss her, she’s mistaken.”

  “I will,” said Judith.

  “And so will Amy,” I said. I felt sorry for Mrs Morcom’s dog, looking at me all lost and lonely with her big brown eyes, and so I began to take the poor thing for afternoon walks.

  The Plushes’ house, Mulberry Hill, is what they call a villa. The back of the property runs down to a little stream. There’s a bridge that crosses over it, and from there you can walk along a lane that leads past the back gardens of the other villas. It was a pretty walk, and it got me out of the house, and so I got into the habit of taking Amy out most afternoons.

  I was standing on the bridge, daydreaming a bit while Amy snuffled in the leaf litter, when I heard a voice call out my name.

  “Miss Sparks!” It was Ben O’Brien, the gardener’s boy, the one who bred the rats. He came panting up to me. “This come for you, miss,” he said, holding out an envelope.

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “An ole woman.”

  “Did she say who she was?” Ben shook his head. “What did she look like?”

  Ben shrugged. “Skinny. She had a shawl on.”

  A skinny old woman in a shawl. Ben would never make a confidential inquiry agent. I thanked him and he ran off. “Verity” was written on the front in big round letters. I opened it.

  Dear Verity,

  I am in truble. I need to see you. Dont com to me at madams, and dont tell anyone. I will mete you on the canal walk near St Johns church at five oclock on Wensday. Dont let me down.

  your,

  Beth

  Guiltily, I realised that I’d scarcely given Beth a thought lately. I’d been at Mulberry Hill over two months now, and though at first I’d missed her and Cook and Madame and the other girls something fierce, gradually I’d got so used to my new life that I’d almost forgotten about the old. What with the kindness of the Plush family and my book-learning and of course my job helping with confidential inquiries, my days were full and – I thought I’d never say it – happy. Poor Beth. What could be the matter? She wanted me to meet her tomorrow, and I wasn’t going to let her down.

  I called Amy. Even on this sunny afternoon, with the red and gold leaves fluttering from the trees and birds singing, I didn’t feel like walking any more. I tucked the letter in my pocket and went back to the house.

  Wednesday was another warm day, but by half-past four, when I set out to the canal walk, the air was cooling and I was glad of my shawl. With Amy lolloping along beside me, it should have been another lovely walk through the leafy streets and lanes of St John’s Wood. But I was worried. What was the matter with Beth? More importantly, how could I help her? If she needed money, I could give her three pounds. It was a lot of money, but would it be enough?

  I knew I was right on time, for I heard the bells as I crossed the road at the church corner. Amy and I walked through a shrubby kind of lane to the canal. A couple of elderly ladies with small dogs passed by, then a clergyman with a worried look. Then no one for quite a few minutes, until a couple of boys flashed past, running and shouting, and a couple more dog walkers. Then it was quiet again. Minutes passed, and I waited. Then a quarter of an hour. Still I waited. No Beth. Had I got the time wrong? Or the day or the place? I took the letter out of my pocket and re-read it. I had come at five o’clock. This was the canal walk, right near the church. Where was she?

  “Amy!” Her bark was so sudden and so loud that I dropped the letter.

  “You silly dog, barking at nothing,” I told her sternly. “Sit.” She sat down, trembling and whining, and then the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Someone was watching me. I knew it. I could feel it, and so could Amy. She strained at her leash. The lane behind me was dark and shadowy now, and the canal walk was deserted. There was a rustling noise in the bushes, and Amy barked again.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  Nothing.

  “WHO’S THERE?” I was gooseflesh all over, but I wasn’t going to show I was frightened. How dare someone lurk there trying to scare me? “This dog bites,” I called. “So you’d better come out and state your business or push off!”

  Nothing. Just that feeling of eyes on me. I was close to bolting when I heard someone coming along the canal walk, whistling. From inside the thicket of shrubs and small trees, I heard the crunch of footsteps on twigs and the rustling of leaves. Amy strained forward, barking like mad, and then a voice called from behind me.

  “Miss Sparks. Good evening. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Mr Opie!”

  Silly Amy instantly lost interest in the watcher in the bushes. She bounced up to Mr Opie and licked his hands.

  “Miss Sparks, are you quite well? You look–”

  “I am perfectly well, Mr Opie. It’s just … I got a letter from a friend asking me to meet her here, and she didn’t turn up, and then I was sure I was being watched, and …” I knew I was babbling, but now that I was safe, I couldn’t help it. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “Here,” said Mr Opie, taking me by the arm. “I think I’d better escort you home.”

  The family was in the drawing room.

  “Opie, my dear chap,” boomed the Professor. “Haven’t seen you for ages. I missed you when you called last week. Come in. Come in.” In the fuss and bother of offering a sherry, and Judith dropping the tray, and Amy jumping up and knocking over a pot of aspidistras, it was a little while before Mr Opie was able to come out with the real reason for his call.

  “Someone was watching you?” asked the Professor. “Did you see who it was?”

  “No, but someone was there. I could feel it.”

  “Have you still got Beth’s letter?”

  “No, I dropped it,” I said. Then suddenly I remembered something. Beth was the youngest of thirteen children from Spitalfields. She was clever with her hands, but she’d never been to school. “Beth can’t read or write. She didn’t write that letter.”

  “She may have got someone else to write it for her,” said SP.

  Of
course.

  “Hmm,” said the Professor. “Another letter. And hand-delivered, like the last.”

  “What other letter?” asked Judith.

  “That most peculiar letter that Honoria brought us. It’s been bothering me, you see. How I wish I hadn’t burned it.”

  “I got another one as well,” I confessed, and told them about it. “I thought it was probably from Miss Charlotte.”

  “Two poison-pen letters, and then this,” mused the Professor. “We must ask ourselves, are all three connected?”

  “Of course they are,” said SP. “And we call ourselves inquiry agents! We need to investigate this without delay. Opie, will you come with me to the canal walk, to see if we can find the letter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t worry, Verity,” said the Professor. “Would you like it if tomorrow you were to visit Madame Louisette’s? You could reassure yourself that your friend is not in trouble.”

  I smiled at him gratefully. If I could just see Beth, my mind would be at ease.

  The next day, Judith and SP took me into town and dropped me off at Madame’s. They had business, they said, and would pick me up in an hour’s time.

  It was awkward. I could see Beth and Emily and Maria staring at my new clothes and boots with envy. We were different now, and there wasn’t much to say.

  When I asked Beth if she’d written me a letter, she gave me a funny look.

  “What for?” she asked.

  She was quite well, she said. Quite happy too, and she seemed fond of the new girl, Sallie, who was sharing her room. Madame was pleased to see me, but just as pleased to see me go. Cook was the only one who gave me a smile and a hug and a bit of a welcome. I left the workshop feeling sad and a bit lonely, like a stranger in my own life.

  12

  THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR

  Three letters. One to scare me, one to make the Plushes turn me out of the house and one to lure me out to the canal walk.

  We had a bit of a conference about them the morning after I went to Madame’s.

  “We have no evidence,” said the Professor. “We can’t compare them, or inspect the paper, the ink or the penmanship. Bother! It was so careless of me to throw it into the fire. If only you’d kept the first one, Verity.”

  “If only we’d found the last one, down by the canal,” said SP.

  “Do you think they are all from the same person?” I asked. “From Miss Charlotte maybe?”

  The Professor and SP shared a look, and I could see that we’d all been thinking the same thing.

  SP said, “Miss Charlotte is a strong possibility. Opie and I are investigating.”

  “I do not think you are in any danger, Verity,” added the Professor. “But don’t go wandering off by yourself until we get to the bottom of this.”

  “I won’t.”

  Silly of me, but I felt the pricking of tears in my eyes. I’d looked after myself for so long that it gave me a funny sort of feeling to see those two so careful and concerned. I could fight my own battles if I had to, but it was good to have help.

  That afternoon, when Judith went next door to visit her friend, I went too.

  “Mr Tissot is an artist,” Judith told me. “He’s French. He’s quite famous, and very amusing.”

  “And Mrs Tissot?”

  “Kathleen’s a dear,” she said warmly.

  We found them out in the garden. He had his easel set up under some trees next to an ornamental pond, and was painting a portrait. The model was right in front of him. It was Mr Opie.

  “Oh,” said Judith. “You!”

  Mr Opie went white, Judith went red, and I felt embarrassed for the pair of them. Mr Tissot didn’t seem to notice a thing.

  “Judith, you’re just in time. I need you to read to Daniel, or talk to him, or sing to him – anything, mademoiselle, to keep him from fidgeting. No, you can’t refuse – it will be just for ten minutes – I need the angle of his wrist to be just so.” Mr Tissot was a small dark gentleman, about forty, with a strong accent. “Kathleen, chérie, give Judith your book.” I turned, and saw a lady lying in a kind of long net strung between two trees. She had a book in her hand, but it was upside down.

  “She’s quite useless at entertaining him,” said Mr Tissot in a teasing voice. “Reading puts her to sleep.”

  With a laugh, she threw the book at him, and then beckoned me over. “How rude they are.” Her voice was husky and low, Irish-sounding, and now that I was up close, I could see that she was very pretty, with dark brown curls and bright brown eyes and a lively heart-shaped face. Her hat, a tip-tilted straw trimmed with red silk poppies, was what Madame would call très chic. “But I suppose art comes before everything else, even manners,” she said.

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so I curtseyed, and murmured, “How d’you do?” as Judith had taught me. “You’re not the one with bad manners. Perhaps I am, for teasing you so. I am Kathleen. And you are?”

  “Verity Sparks, ma’am.”

  “Well, Verity Sparks, can you help me out of this hammock?” She clasped my hand, and by swinging the net sideways I managed to tip her out onto her feet. She laughed again, but then she coughed and I saw how thin she was, and how the veins in her wrists and hands stood out as if they’d been drawn on with blue ink. She stood holding my hand for a few seconds, breathing heavily, and then said, “Judith told me you were visiting. You are a friend of the family?”

  That’s what the Plushes had been telling people. It was simpler than going into the experiments and the confidential inquiries. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “No, no, don’t call me ma’am; it makes me feel as old as the hills. You call our friend over there ‘Judith’; call me ‘Kathleen’ and then I’ll feel as young as she is.” She looked across to Judith. “Dear Judith,” she said, and her voice was very gentle. “She’s a darlin’ girl. But so unhappy. You know, Verity, there are many obstacles for the respectable. Almost as many as there are for the thoroughly bad. Shall we have some lemonade and cakes, just you and me?”

  “Yes, please, ma’am,” I said happily.

  Kathleen Tissot was a little strange. With her playful ways, she was more like a girl my age than a grown-up lady, but I liked her at once.

  “Oh,” she said, glancing over my shoulder. “Here is another visitor.”

  Who should it be but Mr Savinov, wearing a pale linen suit and a shady hat, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums in his hand? I smiled and waved to him.

  “It’s darling Pierre. Shall we invite him to join our picnic?”

  “Oh, yes.” I liked his noble lion’s head and kindly manners. It was a treat to see him again.

  “We meet again, Miss Sparks.” He bowed over my hand, and kissed Kathleen’s. “How are you, Kathleen? What a ravishing hat.”

  “You’re a flatterer, old friend. Have you come to see how the portrait’s getting on?”

  “I’ve come to see you, of course. But I may as well take a look.” He turned to me. “It is a likeness of my son, you see.”

  “Mr Opie’s your son?” I was astonished.

  “No, no,” said Kathleen. “Daniel is merely providing the body. Alexander is Pierre’s son. He posed for the head months ago, but we were never able to get him to sit still after that.”

  “It’s true,” said Mr Savinov. “Alexander must be always in motion.” He smiled as he walked with us to the terrace where chairs and a table and tea things were set out. Kathleen went in search of cakes, and he leaned closer to me and said in a low voice, “I hope the meeting the other night did not tire you or distress you?”

  I shook my head.

  “You have remarkable abilities, Miss Sparks. Finding lost things – this is a truly useful gift.” He sounded sad. “But things are not so important, I find. It is people who are. Can you find lost people, Miss Sparks?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but continued in a chatty tone. “And how are all at Mulberry Hill today?”

  “We’re very well, thank
you,” I said. “Even the snakes.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Antony and Cleopatra, the fatal lovers of the Nile!”

  Lovers of the Nile. I didn’t understand what he meant but I did know that pythons weren’t fatal unless they squeezed you to death. I was starting to explain this to Mr Savinov when Kathleen came back followed by a maid with a plate of little iced cakes.

  “What are you two talking about so seriously with your heads together like that?” she asked.

  “Snakes, my dear Kathleen,” replied Mr Savinov. “We were talking about snakes.”

  “There are no snakes in Ireland, you know. Our darlin’ St Patrick shooed them all out.”

  “Then they all went to Canada,” he said. “One day, many years ago in Manitoba, Alexander somehow stumbled into a den of garter snakes – they sleep all winter, you see, in holes in the ground – and he fell in among thousands and thousands of little snakes all tangled up together waiting for the spring. He screamed like a … like a …”

  “Like a banshee,” suggested Kathleen.

  “Did he get bitten?” I asked.

  “No, no. They were too sleepy, and I am not sure that their bite is dangerous, anyway. But Alexander never forgot his adventure. He still jumps at a coil of rope, or a worm.”

  “It’s amazin’ what can scare a person,” said Kathleen. “Imagination can be a mighty dangerous thing.”

  “Imagination.” Mr Tissot, smelling of oil and turpentine, strolled over to join us. “Where would we be without it?”

  “A lot better off,” said Mr Savinov.

  “You can’t believe that,” said Mr Tissot, but Mr Savinov shook his head very sadly, and Kathleen tactfully changed the subject.

  “I suppose Canada was very wild, Pierre?” she said. “The people as well as the places?”