Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand

by Susan Green

  “What about your brother?” asked SP. “He seems very fond of you.”

  “Emeric? Fond of me?” Her voice was full of scorn. “He’s fond of money, that’s all. He’s been sending me letters for the past six months, threatening to tell Nicholas about my past.”

  “He was blackmailing you?” I was genuinely surprised. Shocked. I’d disliked Mr Mallard from the first but I’d thought he was harmless. This explained what he was doing in Helen’s room. He was looking for letters and destroying them. I remembered, too, that on his first morning at Shantigar, Mr Mallard had riffled through the mail, extracted one letter and tossed it onto the fire. He’d said it was from his tailor. Perhaps it was really one he’d written himself.

  “The first time,” said Helen, “I sent him twenty pounds to shut him up, but that was a mistake. He wanted more. And more. I knew he’d turn up. I’m glad I won’t have to see him.”

  SP’s lip curled. “His own sister. How could anyone be so low?”

  “Low? Even as a boy, he stole from our parents. He forged cheques. Low? He abandoned his wife and family. Three children …” Helen shrugged, as if the subject of Emeric Mallard was of no interest.

  Helen sailed to India to take up a position as nursery maid with the Petrovs. After the children died, she stayed on to look after Mr Petrov as a nurse and companion.

  “But people began to gossip, even though he was a sick old man. So … so he suggested we marry and I … I accepted. When he decided to emigrate to Australia, I was so happy. It was to be a new start …”

  “When did you realise that your husband was still alive?” SP asked gently.

  “It was before we left India for Melbourne. Gilbert had been framed for a crime he didn’t commit – he’d been in jail – he’d been ill. It had taken him years to track me down and … I was married.” She sighed and looked down at Torrance’s face. She stroked his cheek and he stirred slightly.

  “Gilbert convinced me to stay with Nicholas. After all, the poor man didn’t have long to live … and then Gilbert and I could be together again. It didn’t seem so very wrong. Nicholas was sick; I cared for him – I really did.” She paused. “But Nicholas didn’t die. Gilbert grew impatient. So he came up with a plan.”

  A plan to gain himself a rich widow for a wife. Helen had always seemed so kind and gentle, so tender-hearted. This deception was ruthless and cruel. How could she have agreed to it?

  As if she read my thoughts, she said, almost wildly, “My life was wasting away. Sometimes I felt as though I was going mad. I wanted happiness, I wanted children!” She turned to face me. “I told Gilbert about the Scarlet Hand. How the letters kept coming even after Mr Petrov left Russia. Threats, curses. Even after his wife died.

  “It wasn’t hard for Gilbert to hire three men to fake the kidnapping and leave the red glove as a clue. Mrs Leviny was supposed to be the witness but that morning Kate was sick. Everything was in place, I couldn’t call it off, so I asked you to come along, Verity – remember? – but then you insisted on bringing Drucilla with us. How was I to know she’d fight like that? Or that I’d faint? With the two of us in pink, the stupid men had no idea who to take, so they took us both. And then the business of hiding Drucilla delayed our plans. She nearly ruined everything.”

  SP suppressed some kind of swear word, and I stared at Helen, astonished at her coldness. Drucilla could have been seriously injured. She could have died.

  Helen blushed. “You don’t understand. I was desperate.”

  “Helen,” I said. “So many people have been hurt. Not just Mr Petrov and Drucilla, but Papa and Harold and SP – Hannah and Mohan – me–”

  “It was wicked,” said SP, harshly. “Unforgivable.”

  Helen stared down at Torrance’s face. He opened his eyes and she stroked his cheek again. “Was it?”

  32

  A HONEY TRAP

  It was after dinner, and we were sitting in the drawing room at Alhambra. Flames crackled in the hearth, polished wood shone in the firelight and all around me were beloved family and friends. Della was with us now too, for Papa had insisted she move in with us straightaway. It was as if he could not bear to have her out of his sight.

  I thought of Helen. Was she alone in her prison cell? Would they let her keep her sewing bag and her embroidery? Probably not. I saw her long white fingers fluttering, her eyes darting here and there, looking for escape. I sighed.

  “What will happen to her?” I asked.

  Daniel knew what was on my mind. “She will go to gaol,” he said. “They both will. Bigamy and kidnapping are both very serious offences.”

  Drucilla nestled against SP and they smiled at each other. At least there is one happy ending in this story, I thought.

  “We need to tell Harold what has happened,” I said.

  “Ah, poor lad. He will take it hard,” said Papa. “He loved his aunt very much.”

  And she loved him, I added silently. Helen could be kind and loving, as well as cruel. Nothing was simple. Nothing was black and white. Grown-up life, I thought once again, is very complicated.

  Papa smiled at me from across the room. “Come here, Veroschka,” he said. I pulled up the footstool and snuggled up to him, with my head against his knee. He stroked my hair. “My dear child,” he said. “You have seen too much of the ugly side of life. Lies, deceit, greed – you know, it is not all like that.”

  “I know, Papa.”

  “Look at SP there, with our Drucilla. Whatever life flings at them, they will answer it with truth and goodness. There are horrors in the world and there always have been. But in our own small world, all is well.” He looked across to Della, who was now chatting with Poppy and Connie. “And look what can happen. A little girl, abandoned and unloved, nevertheless grows into a fine person and – almost a miracle – she finds her family.”

  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 telli
ng 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.

  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 …