Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand
Page 18
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!”
33
AT LAST
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.”
EPILOGUE
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.
&n
bsp; 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.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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.
Howard and Lachlan, for their love and support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Green lives in the historic gold rush town of Castlemaine in Central Victoria with her husband, son and Gus the miniature schnauzer. She has been a teacher, radio producer, youth worker, cook and bookseller, but she knew she wanted to be a writer by the time she was eight years old. She has written many books for children and young adults. The first Verity adventure, The Truth about Verity Sparks, was awarded Honour Book for Younger Readers at the CBCA Book of the Year Awards, 2012. A sequel, Verity Sparks, Lost and Found was published in 2013. Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand is her third book with Walker Books. To find out more about Susan and Verity, go to www.veritysparks.com
Published in 2015
by Walker Books Australia Pty Ltd
Locked Bag 22, Newtown
NSW 2042 Australia
www.walkerbooks.com.au
This ebook edition published in 2015
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
Text © 2015 Susan Green
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without the prior written permission of the publisher.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Green, Susan, author.
Verity Sparks and the scarlet hand / Susan Green.
Series: Green, Susan. Verity Sparks; 3.
For primary school age.
Subjects: Kidnapping – Juvenile fiction.
Suspense fiction.
A823.3
ISBN: 978-1-925126-48-8 (ePub/mobi)
ISBN: 978-1-925126-25-9 (e-PDF)
Cover illustration © 2015 Lisa Coutts
Cover images (black-lace-floral-design ) © Incomible/Shutterstock.com
Cover image (sunset sky background ) © Olha Insight/Shutterstock.com
THE TRUTH ABOUT VERITY SPARKS
London. 1878.
Verity Sparks has an extraordinary talent: she can find lost things just by thinking about them.
When she joins a Confidential Inquiry Agency, she discovers there is a mystery lurking in her own past and that unknown forces are working against her. It soon becomes clear that veirty and her friends are in great danger.
Who doesn’t want them to learn the truth about Veirty Sparks?
The Truth About Verity Sparks was awarded Honour Book for Younger Readers, CBCA Book of the Year Awards, 2012
VERITY SPARKS LOST AND FOUND
Melbourne. 1879.
Verity Sparks has found her father. But she has lost her gift – the ability to find lost things.
Papa Savinov, eager for Verity to become a proper lady, sends her to the exclusive boarding school Hightop House. But Verity is more interested in solving the case of the missing Ecclethorpe heiress.
As the investigation deepens, danger and intrigue grow closer. Will Verity’s gift return before it’s too late?
Verity Sparks, Lost and Found was short-listed in the Best Children’s Novel category of the Davitt Awards, 2014