Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (15 page)

How could I rest? I kept seeing Drucilla’s face. I kept hearing Helen scream.

“You’re to do as I say.” He packed up his bag. “To bed, lass – doctor’s orders.” He turned to Hannah. “Please give her a cup of chamomile tea.” He patted her hand before he picked up his bag to leave. “Have courage, my dearie.”

Hannah put the kettle on the hob and went to the dresser for a teacup. But somehow in getting it down she fumbled and it fell. Her hands were shaking as she picked up the pieces.

I tried to reassure her. “Papa has called in our friend Saddington Plush. He’s an experienced detective. He’ll find them, Hannah.” Was I just trying to convince myself? “He might even be able to catch the kidnappers.”

My words didn’t have the effect I’d hoped for. Hannah went white. She stared down at the smashed cup as if she was seeing something else. “Oh no,” she whispered. Then she came to herself again. “I’ll bring you your tea as soon as the kettle boils.” She sounded cross. “Off to bed with you, right now.”

I was sure I wouldn’t sleep, but I did. Deeply, heavily, for almost an hour. When I woke, my shoulder still ached but I felt better. More like myself. I knew that we faced not a nightmare but a real-life challenge. Did I really have to stay in bed? Doctor’s orders – pooh! I thought. Like many men, Doctor Judd thought females couldn’t cope with excitement or danger. Well, I could tell him a thing or two about both that would curl his hair.

I put my arm into the sling Hannah had made for me from a torn-up sheet, and went to find Papa.

He was sitting with Harold and Mr Leviny in the Indian room.

“Oh,
ma pauvre petite
! Look what they did to her, Ernö.”

Mr Leviny nodded sympathetically.

“Why are you not in bed?” said Papa. “You should be resting.”

“I had a sleep, Papa. Now I feel quite well again.” There must have been something convincing in my voice, for after a feeble attempt to make me lie on the sofa, Papa gave up fussing and began to tell me what was happening.

“Ernö came at once, as you can see,” said Papa. “We are discussing how to proceed.”

“I have power of attorney over Nicky’s affairs,” said Mr Leviny. “This is good, because it means we will be able to get the money for the ransom.”

Money? I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The kidnappers would demand money before they returned Helen and Drucilla.

“Mr Leviny and Uncle both think that we mustn’t involve the police at this stage,” said Harold. I could tell he disagreed.

“And we will keep this a secret among ourselves. I will tell Mrs Leviny that Miss Deane was suddenly called away,” said Mr Leviny.

“Won’t she suspect something?” I said. “After all, Drucilla’s things are still at your house.”

“No, no, she won’t even think about it. You see, Doctor Judd has confirmed that Kate has the measles and no doubt soon all the others will have it too.”

“And it is good that Poppy and Connie are with Judith,” said Papa. “We will be able to keep this to ourselves for a while longer.”

“Indeed,” said Mr Leviny.

“So we can do nothing?” asked Harold. Like me, he wanted to take action.

Mr Leviny nodded. “We must be patient.” He took a sip of sherry and settled back into his armchair. “Did you know, Pierre, that I was bailed up once? It was twenty years ago. The goldfields were rough and dangerous in those days. Why, when I left London one of my friends, thinking I would need to protect myself, gave me a pair of duelling pistols.” Mr Leviny stroked his silvery beard. “He said they once belonged to Admiral Nelson.”

“Astonishing!” said Papa.

Were they going to sit there, patting their beards and telling tales? I shifted restlessly in my seat.

“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.”

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 cheek 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?