by Susan Green
“But when I needed those pistols, of course I did not have them. You’ve seen my design for the presentation cup – an emu egg mounted in silver? Judge Collins had me make it for the Bishop of Sandhurst. We were on our way to deliver it when all of a sudden there was a shot, a voice calling ‘Bail up!’ and a gang of bushrangers held up the coach.” He paused dramatically.
“What happened?” I asked. In spite of myself I was absorbed in his tale. “Were you hurt?”
“Did the police catch them?” said Harold.
“I was left unharmed, but the judge was kidnapped and the egg stolen. Mrs Collins paid the ransom and under cover of darkness the poor judge was left, wearing only his underclothes, on the road. And no, Harold. I offered a reward for the return of the egg, but no one came forward. The gang was never caught, nor were their identities ever known. The leader was quite a dandy – he wore a silk cravat to hide his face, and fancy gloves. In fact, he always left a glove as a calling card. That became his motif, his signature. That’s why he was known as the Red Gauntlet.”
“Mr Leviny,” I said. “What colour was the glove?”
“Red, of course. It was always red.”
“Like that?” I pointed to the glove which was sitting on the mantelpiece where Papa had placed it. “The kidnappers left it in the phaeton.”
Mr Leviny gave a gasp of surprise. “Can it be?” he said. “Is this the return of the Red Gauntlet?”
At that very moment, the doorbell rang. Then it rang again, and we heard Hannah’s firm tread up the passage, followed by a man’s voice. A few seconds later Hannah appeared in the doorway with a worried expression on her face.
“There’s a gentleman here, a Mr Emeric Mallard. I have shown him into the sitting room.”
“We have no time for callers now,” said Mr Leviny, and Papa nodded in agreement. “Please take his card. Or if he has no card, his name and address. Then show him the door, Hannah.”
“But sir, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“He says … he says he is Mrs Petrov’s brother.”
18
THE FLASH
A tall, slim man stood with his back to the door. He was facing the fireplace, so my first glimpse of him was his reflection in the mirror over the mantel. He looked a little older than Helen. Like her, he had yellow hair and grey eyes, but he didn’t have her cold marble perfection. He had a low forehead, a big nose and a small chin. His eyes bulged slightly. His hair was a mass of unruly curls.
“The housekeeper wouldn’t tell me where my sister is. What is wrong? Is she ill?”
Mr Leviny took charge. “I am Ernest Leviny,” he said. “A friend and neighbour of your sister and brother-in-law. I have some very grave news to tell you. Your sister has been kidnapped.”
Mr Mallard’s eyes bulged even more. He tittered nervously. “You must be joking.”
“I am deadly serious,” said Mr Leviny. “There is more bad news. Your brother-in-law has had an apoplectic fit, and is dangerously ill.”
“But my sister? What happened?”
Mr Mallard shook his head in disbelief while Mr Leviny explained what had occurred.
He then turned to me. “The two of them? My sister and your governess? You were there? You saw it?”
I nodded.
“How could they? Why … why would they?”
“Money.” Papa shrugged. “It is always about money.”
“Here is the note they left,” said Harold, producing it from his pocket.
Mr Mallard read it once, twice, as if he couldn’t trust his own eyes. His shoulders slumped. “My poor sister …”
“I didn’t know that Auntie Nell had a brother,” said Harold.
“Didn’t you?” A shadow passed over Mr Mallard’s face. “We lost touch, it’s true. But we’ve written to each other – oh, two or three times this year.” There was a sob in his voice as he added, “She was so pleased to hear from me after all this time.”
“Did she know you were coming to Castlemaine?” asked Papa.
“No. It was a surprise,” he said, and began to weep. Once started, he didn’t seem able to stop and we were all a bit flummoxed. What were we supposed to do with him?
Now, don’t think I’m unsympathetic. I didn’t think Mr Mallard was unmanly for crying. Indeed, it would have been a bit odd if he hadn’t been upset, but eventually even Papa began to feel he’d gone on long enough.
“My dear fellow,” he said, sitting next to him and putting an arm around his shoulders. “Calm yourself. Take my handkerchief.”
“Thank you,” said Mr Mallard, wiping his eyes. “You must forgive me. I was expecting a happy reunion with my sister, not this. Who could have done it?”
“I think I have an idea,” said Mr Leviny. And Mr Leviny explained his theory about the Red Gauntlet Gang.
“We await a ransom letter, I suppose?” said Mr Mallard. “But how can we proceed, with Mr Petrov so ill? How can we get at his funds?”
Mr Leviny reassured him. “I am his legal representative. I am empowered to act for him.”
Papa added, “And I have sent for my friend Saddington Plush. He is an experienced confidential inquiry agent – that is a kind of detective–”
“A what?” Mr Mallard jerked to attention. “A detective? But we must not involve the police. Helen’s life may be at stake.”
“He is not a police officer. He is a private detective,” explained Papa. “You must remember that not only has your sister been taken by these scoundrels. Miss Deane is my daughter’s governess and a beloved member of our household.”
“This is … overwhelming,” said Mr Mallard in a faint voice. “I’d like to go to my room now.”
His room?
Harold jumped up. “I’m sure Auntie Nell would have invited you to stay.”
“Of course she would,” said Mr Mallard, sharply.
As you know, I am a very noticing sort of person, and as Harold led Mr Mallard away, I saw how threadbare our visitor’s jacket was. The cuffs of his trousers were frayed and his boots were almost worn out. I wondered why Helen hadn’t mentioned her brother. Perhaps he was a ne’er-do-well, a black sheep. By the look of his boots, he was down on his luck. A poor brother, a rich sister – what was the real reason for his visit?
That is unkind, I told myself. And there was no doubting that his shock and surprise at the dreadful news were genuine. Papa’s handkerchief was wringing wet with tears.
The whole household was at sixes and sevens. I wanted to help, but how? Hannah shooed me out of the kitchen. George, busy milking the goat, told me (most politely) to go away. Harold was sitting with his uncle. When I saw Mohan, I asked if there was anything I could do.
“No, no, miss,” he said, looking at my sling. “Your arm is hurt.”
“But the other one isn’t.”
In the end he gave me the task of shutting up the peafowl for the night. It was early evening, and the birds were calling and shrieking in the wild garden. The sound made my ears ring. No wonder Helen disliked them so.
I rattled the canister of cracked corn as Mohan had directed me and counted the peafowl as they came scooting around the side of the house towards their enclosure. Four, five – there was another one still to come. I rattled the corn again, and the peafowl gathered at my feet expectantly.
The white bird – Mr Snow – dropped from his perch but hung back from the others. Poor thing, shut up all day while the others were free to roam. No wonder he was sulking.
The western sky was again full of brilliant red and orange clouds as the sun sank to the horizon. It took me back to our first night at Shantigar when Drucilla had made her unexpected visit.
“Oh, Drucilla!” I said out loud. “Where are you?”
The flash – when it came – was a complete surprise.
A small dark room. Drucilla was in the corner with a tattered blanket wrapped around her. Her face was dirty, and she’d been crying. The red mark and small cut on her che
ek showed where she’d been hit. Her eyes moved watchfully under lowered lids, as if she was keeping an eye on something. Or someone.
And then the scene changed. I was outside.
Grey stone. I reached out my hand. It was cool and smooth against my fingertips. There was something carved on it but I couldn’t read it. There was another, and another. All the same, all grey. They were gravestones …
The peafowl were in a ring around me, pecking at the spilt corn. I must have dropped the canister. I shooed them all into the aviary without any trouble – all of them, that is, except Mr Snow. He’d taken his chance and escaped. But he couldn’t have gone far. I looked high and low, in the trees and under bushes. I stood on the little stone wall and peered down into the neighbour’s garden. Had I lost Mr Petrov’s prized white peacock?
“Verity!” called Harold. He had come down the path to find me. “Hannah is about to serve dinner.” He looked at my face and his tone changed. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“I’ve seen Drucilla. She was cut and bruised and … oh, I think she is being held captive. She’s in terrible danger, I know it!” I tried to calm down. “And I saw a graveyard. Or rather,” I corrected myself, “gravestones. Grey stones …”
“Verity, what are you talking about?”
I hesitated and then it all came out. “I have a … a kind of gift. I see things. I suppose you could call them visions. Lost things, usually.” I glanced up at him. He’d taken off his spectacles. His hazel eyes were locked steadily on my face. Would he think I was crazy or even lying when I told him? I rushed on with my explanation. “But sometimes it’s more complicated. It’s as if a curtain opens and I see something in a kind of flash. Perhaps you’ll think I’m making this up, but just now–”
“You had a flash? Tell me about it.”
I let out a long sigh of relief. He believed me. I described what I’d seen.
He frowned. “Where was Auntie Nell? Was she with Drucilla?”
With a pang of guilt I realised that I hadn’t even thought about Helen. I shook my head.
“Surely they are together.”
I said nothing because there was nothing to say.
“Gravestones, you said.”
I nodded. “But I’m sure she’s not …” Dead. I found I couldn’t say the word. Because, the truth was, I wasn’t sure at all. I didn’t understand the connection between Drucilla and the stones. I was scared.
Harold continued. “There is a large cemetery just out of Castlemaine. Would it be worthwhile visiting it? I could drive us out tomorrow, if you feel well enough.”
“Yes. Yes, let’s do that. Tomorrow, first thing, if we can.” Then that awful knot of fear in the pit of my stomach might go away.
“There’s one more thing,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I let Mr Snow escape and Mr Petrov will be so …” Disappointed, I was going to say. Or upset. I stopped myself. Unspoken between us was the thought that Mr Petrov might never even know.
“Let’s try to find him,” said Harold.
We called and rattled the tin; we looked all around the garden and up into the trees, but he was nowhere to be seen.
19
WHAT I OVERHEARD
There was something about Mr Mallard. Don’t ask me what. I knew he couldn’t help his rubbery features and his eyes that bulged like those of a Pekinese dog. He couldn’t help being sensitive, and it wasn’t his fault that when he was upset his voice turned shrill or that he licked his lips constantly, showing a very pointed pink tongue. I tried to put prejudice aside. After all, at their best, everyone is a worthwhile human being.
Only, with him, that “best” was hard to find. That evening at dinner Papa – acting as host – tried to draw Mr Mallard out of himself.
“What is your profession, Emeric?”
“I am a music teacher.”
“Ah, wonderful. I admire so much those who can not only master an instrument, but also teach. And your instruments are?”
“Piano, flute and voice.”
“And you teach in Sydney, perhaps? For I think you said it was from Sydney that you came to us?”
“Ah, no. I was teaching at a boys’ school in Cape Town. At the minute I am between positions.”
That accounted for the state of his suit and shoes, I thought.
“So you come from a musical family?” Papa persevered.
“No.”
Making conversation with him was like pulling teeth. I tried. “And are you married, Mr Mallard? Do you have a family?”
For a few seconds I thought he wasn’t even going to answer. Perhaps he thought a young girl shouldn’t be asking him questions. “No,” he said in a cold voice.
I tried one more time. “So you have not seen your sister for a while?”
“No.”
The silence extended until it was awkward, so Papa and I gave up. I turned to Harold. “How is your uncle? What does the doctor say?”
“His whole left side is paralysed and he can’t talk. Doctor Judd isn’t hopeful.” Harold’s brows knitted together. “Mohan disagrees. He says Uncle can recover. He’s asked me to sit with him, hold his hand, talk to him or read.” Harold’s voice shook slightly. “Mohan says that my voice or touch might just bring him back.”
“Oh, Harold,” I said.
“Doctor Judd says it’s rot but it can’t hurt. I can tell he thinks Uncle is a hopeless case. If only Auntie Nell were here. Maybe … maybe … just hearing her voice …”
After dinner, Doctor Judd and Mr Leviny visited again. They, along with Harold, Papa and Mr Mallard, adjourned to the drawing room to talk. I was not invited.
I took a walk down beside the boundary fence to look for Mr Snow again, and this time I found him. He was perched in a cedar tree at the side of the house. I called, I coaxed. I talked to him, I even sang a lullaby. He would not budge. It was growing chilly, and I had to admit defeat.
As I walked back around the house, I passed the drawing room. The curtains were drawn, but I could hear quite easily because Doctor Judd was shouting.
“Red Gauntlet – stuff and nonsense! After nearly twenty years? The whole theory is absurd and you, Ernest Leviny, should know better.”
A door banged.
Mr Leviny spoke next. “That is Doctor Judd’s opinion. I happen to disagree, and I know for a fact that the detective in charge of the case would give his right arm to capture the Red Gauntlet. Melmoth is his name – Tiberius Melmoth. He is retired now, but he still lives in Bendigo. I have already sent him a telegram.”
I drew closer. I hadn’t been invited to this confabulation – quite wrongly in my opinion, for it concerned me too – so I didn’t feel guilty about eavesdropping.
“No police!” Mr Mallard’s voice was high-pitched and hysterical. “They said she would be harmed. No police, I beg of you …”
“Now, sir, you mustn’t worry. I propose to involve Mr Melmoth in a private capacity. He will advise us.”
After that I could only hear the occasional word and then Mr Leviny’s “goodnight”. A door opened and closed. I was just about to go back inside when I heard Mr Mallard again.
“… financially embarrassed. Do you think you could …?”
“My dear sir, the situation, it is so very awkward for you. I quite understand.”
So Mr Mallard was borrowing money from Papa. He must be desperate if he had to ask a stranger. I felt a wave of sympathy for him. I knew what it was like to be poor.
I had my supper with Hannah in the kitchen and then, rubbing Doctor Judd’s liniment – which smelled indescribable – onto my shoulder, I went to bed. After a while, I opened the window wide to let fresh air in and the aroma out.
“Veroschka?” Papa, with a lamp in his hand, opened my door a crack.
“Papa!” I sat up in bed. “Oh, Papa, please tell me what you gentlemen have decided.”
“Of course …” He sniffed. “Chérie, what is that smell?”
“Never mind that, Papa.”
I knew much of what he told me from my eavesdropping, but Papa gave me his opinion. “I think Ernö’s idea is a good one. This Mr Melmoth will have local knowledge and if all goes well, we will recover not just our two ladies but catch these criminals. SP, must be involved as well. But the police – not yet. Hopefully, it will all be managed without them.
“And now, my child, it is time you were asleep. You have had a terrible experience; what you need is rest. You must not worry too much. There is a plan.”
“I have a plan too. Papa, earlier this evening I had itchy fingers.”
Papa frowned.
“I saw Drucilla. And I saw gravestones.” Papa shuddered and I took his hand in mine. “She’s alive, Papa. I know she is,” I said with more confidence than I really felt. “Tomorrow Harold is going to drive me out to the Castlemaine cemetery to see if … if …”
“To see if your fingers itch? Not tomorrow, Veroschka. Doctor Judd said you are not to exert yourself in any way. The shock to the delicate female constitution–”
“What tosh,” I said, borrowing one of Mrs Morcom’s pet phrases. “Doctor Judd is old-fashioned, Papa. I may be small, but I am as strong as an ox.”
He laughed. “An ox? That I do not agree with, chérie.” He sighed. “I will not stop you. You know I don’t like it but I understand that this ability you have is indeed a gift. You may go, but only if your shoulder is better.” Papa leaned down to kiss me goodnight. “That smell … it’s …”
“It’s goanna oil, Papa. In Doctor Judd’s liniment.”
He looked bewildered.
“A goanna is a lizard,” I explained.
“Lizard, you say? And you put it on your skin?” Papa raised his eyebrows. “In that case, chérie, I think I will just blow you a kiss. Sleep well.”
20
GREY STONES
Doctor Judd’s liniment may have smelled like nothing on earth, but it worked wonders. In the morning my sprained shoulder felt as good as new and I no longer needed the sling.
I was tucking in to eggs and bacon when Mr Mallard appeared at the breakfast table late, yawning and bleary-eyed.