Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (14 page)

Judith was silent.

“Lucky for me I had some money and a trade. I had a chance, even without the kindness of your family. But Poppy …”

I thought of that grimy backstreet, with its piles of rubbish, overflowing gutters, and who-knows-what lurking in the shadows – and a little girl like a fairy sitting on a white horse.

“Please, Judith.”

“We must talk to this Granny Piggybottom,” said Judith, decisively. She stroked the bump at the front of her dress. “This baby of ours is so lucky, Verity. Horace has not only two parents, but a family and friends. I am very proud of you.” Judith’s eyes had gone all funny. Was she crying?

“Proud? Why?”

“Because you truly want to do good. Come on, let’s go and see what Poppy says.”

There have been a few times over the past two months when I thought back to Judith’s words and wondered if I was really cut out to be a do-gooder after all
.

Granny Piggybottom – whose real name is Nurse Higginbottom – turned out to be a fat, jolly lady, kindness itself. Her house is clean, the six children are well-fed and cared for, and as if she hasn’t enough to do, she gives a bed and food to a couple of street children like Poppy. She was quite happy for Poppy to come to us for a visit
.

“Though, I warn you,” she said. “She’ll just take off when she feels like it, and live rough for a bit, and then come back again filthy and often enough, lousy as well. She’s a wild little bird, that one.”

A truer word was never spoken
.

Mrs Reilly nearly had a conniption fit when I brought Poppy to the kitchen
.

“Lice!” she screamed. Well, straightaway it was a hot soapy bath and the fine-toothed comb for Poppy. She yelled quite a lot, and it’s a wonder she didn’t run away as soon as she got out of the tub
.

But she’s taken a great liking to Mrs Reilly in spite of the lice comb, and when she’s not with me or Miss Deane, she’s in the kitchen, “having a chatter” as she calls it. She has Mrs Reilly in stitches with the things she says
.

She loves animals, so Miss Deane has given her the responsibility of feeding and caring for Lucifer. She also likes to spoil the kitchen cat, and help Thomas with the horses. Miss Deane says that since she’s here as my governess, she may as well teach Poppy as well. They are starting with ABC, but it’s slow because Poppy can’t sit still for very long
.

Then there’s the matter of beds, bedrooms and bedtimes. Poppy doesn’t see why she has to go to bed if she’s not tired. If she wakes in the night, she’ll go wandering around the house, disturbing the servants. When she feels like it, she’ll curl up on the hearthrug, on the sofa or in another bedroom. A few times, she has even dragged her blankets into my room and lain down to sleep beside my bed
.

She doesn’t like hairbrushes, baths, porridge, corned beef, white sauce, closed doors, rules or routines. I do hope that by the time Papa returns, Poppy will be a bit more civilised
.

I wrote to Papa asking his permission to have Poppy with us. The letter he sent back nearly made me cry.
When I think what could have happened to you, homeless and without family
, he wrote.
It makes my blood run cold in my veins. So, Veroschka, you must look after this child
. He knew, as I did, how lucky I’d been.

And while I was on the subject of luck, Daniel now had a job.

After finding out that Daniel was trained in the law, Mr Usher asked him to be his personal assistant. He and Judith are very happy about it, but it leaves SP all alone to work on the Ecclethorpe case. Which seems to be going nowhere
.

His Ballarat informant was full of gossip and information. But unfortunately she didn’t know the lady’s present whereabouts. She did have some idea that she’d remarried. Perhaps to a Mr O’May. But so far, there are no definite leads. I do hope there is some way in which I can assist. Time seems to go very slowly without something real to do
.

I put my pen down. There was nothing more to write about. Those last words meant that my journal – no longer in code – was up to date. Papa’s letters were all answered, and my novel was sitting, with THE END on the last page, in the drawer of my bureau. Maybe some day I would send it to a publisher. Surely it was time for a new adventure to begin.

It seemed as if my wish was granted, for the very next day, SP arrived at Alhambra early enough to breakfast with us. He told us that he had a favour to ask.

“I expect to be out of town for several days,” he explained. “In Ballarat. Do you remember me mentioning the Reverend Smith? His sister is that nice teacher from Hightop House, the one Mrs Enderby-Smarke tried to diddle out of her pension. Anyway, he has asked me to investigate a little matter of missing funds from St Sycorax’s Orphanage. And I have an interview with another prospective client as well. It never rains, but it pours.”

Poppy looked out of the window. “It ain’t raining.”

“I was speaking metaphorically, Poppy,” said SP.

She looked at him suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“Well, Poppy, last week I had only one investigation to work on, and now I have two. Or even three. D’you see?”

She thought for a few seconds. “Three?” Her voice was full of scorn. “That ain’t wot I’d call eggzackly a
downpour
.”

Miss Deane and SP looked at each other and burst out laughing. Poppy, deeply offended, picked up her plate and left the room with a backwards comment aimed at the pair of them. “There’s no need to be
insolvent
.”

“She means insulting, I think,” I said. “Or perhaps insolent.” Poppy collected big words like a magpie, but she often used them in the wrong place.

“Back to business,” said SP. “Daniel is fully occupied with Mr Usher today, and so I wondered, Miss Deane, if you and Verity would like to do a little professional work for me?”

Miss Deane clapped her hands. “Oh, I’d love to,” she said. “Verity’s told me so much about her work with the agency. I’ve been quite envious.” With sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, Miss Deane looked extremely pretty, and I could tell that SP noticed. He cleared his throat before he went on.

“I will quickly summarise the Ecclethorpe case for you, Miss Deane,” he continued. “And don’t be afraid to ask questions.”

Well, she asked so many questions SP got flustered.

“You have grasped the essentials of the case very swiftly, Miss Deane. I am most impressed.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Deane, brushing a stray curl off her forehead. I think SP was rather distracted by those curls, for I had to give him a nudge to make him start again.

“A Mr Andrew Ross has written in reply to our newspaper advertisement. He knows a lady whose Christian name is Lavinia. She originates from the north of England, and he seems to remember that she has mentioned Eccle Court.”

Miss Deane’s face fell. “It doesn’t sound very promising, does it?”

“No,” said SP, unfolding a letter. “But listen to this.” He read aloud: “
I think she could be the lady your agency is seeking, even though her surname is not Randall, but O’Day
.”

“Didn’t Mrs Randall’s old cook tell you she thought her mistress had remarried? Was the name she mentioned O’May?” I said.

“What a memory you’ve got, Verity,” said SP, nodding. He read on: “
As I am a busy man, I would like to deal with this matter as soon as possible. I can be at your disposal at my offices in East Melbourne on Tuesday at two o’clock precisely
.

“Sounds like a fussy old gentleman, doesn’t he? I expect he’d like the reward. But I shall be in Ballarat. What about it, Miss Deane? Can I rely on you?”

“Yes, Mr Plush, I would be pleased to assist,” said Miss Deane. Her voice was prim, but I could tell she was nearly jumping out of her skin with excitement.

“Splendid. Verity will accompany you, of course, and take notes.” He took a long look at me. “You might like to put your hair up, Verity, so you look a bit older. Just so Mr Ross doesn’t think he’s dealing with a child. It’s only at times like these that I realise how young you are. Most of the time, you seem as grown up as the rest of us. Sometimes more.”

That’s as may be, I thought, but had SP considered that a fussy old gentleman may not like to talk business with women, young or old? Some men are rather old-fashioned that way.

“You’d better let him know,” I said.

“Good thinking. I shall send him a note.” He took out his card case and extracted one of his visiting cards. “Have you a pen and ink handy?”

“I have,” I said, and rushed off to get them.

When I got back, SP was showing Miss Deane the photograph of Lavinia Ecclethorpe.

“It’s several years old, but I don’t see how she can have changed all that much. I’ve also prepared a list of questions to assist with identification. Ah, thank you, Verity.” SP quickly wrote our names on the back of his card and gave it to Miss Deane. “Use that when you arrive at his office.” He handed me a couple of banknotes. “That’s the reward.” Then he pulled out his pocket watch.

“Good Lord,” he said, standing up. “I must be off or I’ll miss my train.” He kissed me on the forehead and shook Miss Deane’s hand. “Thank you, ladies. And good luck!”

The address Mr Ross had given SP was in East Melbourne, and since we had time to spare, Miss Deane asked the cab driver to let us out early so we could stroll through the public gardens. Did I say stroll? Miss Deane strode along quickly, even running off here and there to look at a statue or admire a specimen plant. I kept as much as I could to the shade.

“It’s so hot,” I panted. “And it’s only November. It’s not even summer yet.”

“I think it’s very pleasant,” said Miss Deane.

I turned and looked at her. I could feel myself perspiring and there she was, as cool as a cucumber. Perhaps colonials didn’t feel the heat.

As we emerged onto the road, to our right I could see the vast shape of the Royal Exhibition Building with its massive dome. It was still being built, and I felt sorry for the poor workmen on such a day. Out in the sunlight the heat was scorching.

“You’ll get used to it,” said Miss Deane.

“I wish wide-brimmed hats would come back into fashion,” I grumbled. My little bonnet offered about as much shade as a hairpin.

“Here, take my parasol,” Miss Deane offered.

Even with a sunshade, I was hot and rather damp by the time we reached the offices of Ross and Fairchild, architects. I was nervous as well. After all, Mr Ross thought he’d be meeting with Mr Saddington Plush Junior, an experienced confidential inquiry agent; and here we were, two agents in skirts. I hoped SP had remembered to send that note.

“Wait a minute.” Miss Deane reached into the valise she was carrying and brought out a pair of spectacles. “Do they make me look older?” she asked, perching them on her nose.

I shook my head, and Miss Deane laughed. “Let’s hope the old fellow’s short-sighted,” she said as she rang the bell. A few seconds later an office boy opened the door. He stared at us.

“We have an appointment to see Mr Andrew Ross,” she said, giving him SP’s card.

He kept staring, and I guessed that ladies didn’t often visit an architect’s office.

“Please wait here, ma’am,” he said. There were a couple of chairs in the hall. “And miss.”

Through a doorway, I could see a couple of men in shirtsleeves with their waistcoats unbuttoned working at drawing boards. It was stuffy, and so quiet that we could hear the blowflies bumbling around on the windowsills. If we have to wait much longer, I thought, I’ll fall asleep.

At last the boy came back. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Mr Ross says he was expecting Mr Saddington Plush.”

“We represent Mr Plush. Please tell Mr Ross to look at the reverse of the card.”

The boy, puffing and sweating, trotted up the stairs and just as quickly came down again.

“Sorry, ma’am, but Mr Ross says there must be some mistake.”

It was so hot. I really couldn’t be bothered. “Let’s just go,” I whispered, but Miss Deane spoke sharply.

“Please tell Mr Ross there is no mistake. We believe he is a very busy man, and so the quicker you take us to his office, the better.”