Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (28 page)

“So you think this Annie Cushing is my Mrs Honeydew?” said Mrs O’Day, looking faint again. I passed her the smelling salts.

“I do. But there’s more. The
Digest
’s reporter uncovered some evidence that wasn’t presented at the trial. Under the name of Dorothy Carter, she was nurse companion to the writer Miss Harriet Motley.”

“The famous spiritualist?” I asked. I’d heard of her from the Professor.

“The very same. Dorothy was originally a maid, but old Miss Motley was keen on testing out her servants for psychic abilities, and Dorothy turned out to be a perfect subject for mesmerism.

“Mesmerism – sometimes called hypnotism – is the faculty of putting someone into a trance. Now, in the early forties, everybody was mad about it. There were public displays and demonstrations, and Miss Motley herself wrote several short books. A Scottish magician called Archibald Spry was renowned for his sensational performances. He took only a few minutes with a susceptible subject. He simply asked his victim – I mean subject – to concentrate on his watch, which he swung slowly back and forth on its chain. Anyway, this Dorothy, once in a trance, could diagnose illnesses and prescribe treatments … and as Miss Motley was forever imagining herself to be ill, she became–”

I finished the sentence for him. “Nurse companion,” I said. It all made perfect sense.

“Of course. It would have been much better than scrubbing floors. Miss Motley was also fascinated by spirit photography. Anyway, it seems that Miss Motley and Dorothy had a falling out, and the girl was dismissed. That would have been around 1842.

“Soon after that, Archibald Spry changed his act to include a young woman. She was blond, very pretty, and had remarkably big blue eyes. She was famous for her jewellery – gifts from her admirers – and always sapphires to match her eyes. Her stage name was Sapphira Swan.”

I thought of Mrs Honeydew’s earrings and her bright blue eyes. I pictured Miriam putting her hand on the iron, me sleepwalking off the lookout, Alan falling into the lake. And poor Mrs O’Day becoming more and more helpless, dependent on Dr Hartmann’s mixture and her wicked nurse.

“What an evil woman!” I burst out. “Oh, it’s such a pity we didn’t catch her.”

“She might get caught yet,” said Andrew. “Don’t forget the jewels she took. The police will circulate a description and – who knows?” He reached across and clasped Lavinia’s hand. “You may get them back, after all.”

“In the end, we can only guess at what happened,” I said. “I think that Mrs Honeydew – with the help of an obliging photographer – created that ‘spirit photograph’ which showed you with your two husbands. She convinced you that you must not marry again, didn’t she?”

Mrs O’Day nodded, close to tears again. “I believed her every word.”

“And she also intercepted the letter you sent to your father, and sent a false reply, saying he didn’t want to see you. Mr Ecclethorpe is desperate to see you. He loves you very much.”

“I felt that I was being punished,” she sobbed. “That I didn’t deserve to be happy. And then when Alan came along …”

“Even the thought of your ghostly husbands wasn’t enough to stop you, was it?” I said.

She nodded. “I showed Alan the spirit photograph. He said it was a load of rubbish. He told me he could get a photographer to make one just like it …”

“And he did, dear Lavinia,” said Mr Ross. “Only he never got to show it to you.”

“It’s clear that Alan became suspicious of Mrs Honeydew,” I said. “He may even have threatened her. Certainly, he was on her trail – the letter that Miriam took proves it. Did she mesmerise him, and instruct him to walk into the lake, or did she drug him and give him a push? We’ll never know.

“Next, Miss Deane, Poppy and I arrived. I think that at first, Mrs Honeydew thought Miss Deane was a threat. Remember that first afternoon tea, when you asked her all those questions?”

Miss Deane gave a low sigh. She too had been deceived by Mrs Honeydew. “I think Bertha must have decided she needed to keep her eye on me, and what better way than to make me her friend? I don’t think she saw Verity as anything other than a child until much later. It was the letter. The letter to Andrew, containing envelope number 2.”

“You see, I wrote and signed a covering note,” I said. “She must have realised then that I was a problem. And so … my accidents. The near fall from the balcony, a dizzy spell in front of the train, a walk to the lookout. ‘She could make you do things,’ was what poor Miriam said.”

“After those years with Archibald Spry, she was a very skilled mesmerist,” said Mr Ross.

Her hand on mine, her honeyed voice, which sounded so full of love and care … Oh, the thought of it still made me shiver. How long had Mrs Honeydew – or whoever she was – been with Mrs O’Day? Three years? And all that time, only for the money. Mesmerist, thief, murderess – and an actress so convincing she fooled everyone. Even me. I suppose I was disappointed that I hadn’t seen through her.

“I still can’t believe it …” murmured Mrs O’Day. “It’s horrible, just horrible! Oh!”

“Can I get you anything, Mrs O’Day?” I asked. I didn’t want her getting all worked up again. “Some Dr Hartmann’s mixture perhaps?”

“No,” she said with a shudder. “Dr Ramsay was very cross about that. It’s a sedative; he said it’s no wonder that I’m so weak and confused. That woman had me constantly in a daze. The doctor said I need good food, fresh air and exercise. He told me …” and here she gave a weak little smile, “… that I must get up off the sofa.”

“Well, my dear – are you ready for your walk?” said Andrew. “Doctor’s orders, you know.”

“Yes, Andrew,” said Mrs O’Day, obediently. “I will go upstairs to change.”

Andrew watched her out of the room as if he could hardly bear to see her go.

“What a fool I’ve been,” he said, for the fiftieth time.

“They say we’re all fools in love,” said Miss Deane to me later.

“What do you mean?”

“Andrew Ross and Mrs O’Day – I wouldn’t be surprised if they make a match of it one day.”

It would have been unsuitable if Andrew had stayed at Forest Edge, what with Miss Deane – an unmarried young lady – there. He talked about asking for a bed at the Gravensteins’, or even at the hotel. But Miss Deane, Poppy and I were ready to go. Lucifer was popped, swearing like a trooper, into his cage and we packed our things in a rush. There was an evening train to Melbourne, and we intended to be on it. Now that the case was solved, Andrew was no longer cross with Miss Deane and me. Indeed, he begged us to return to Mount Macedon as soon as we could, and to bring Poppy with us.

“Having shared this shocking experience with you, Lavinia looks on you as friends,” he said, as he saw us into our railway carriage. He shook and squeezed our hands till they hurt. “And it’s obvious that Toby benefits from Poppy’s good sense and good manners.”

“Well,” said Poppy. “After all, I
am
a good excumble.”

“You probably are,” said Mr Ross, and patted her head in a kindly way. “So you’ll come and visit?”

“We will,” said Miss Deane, and then the whistle blew and the train steamed out of the station.

“Will we?” Miss Deane turned to me. “I have a feeling you didn’t like Mount Macedon very much.”

“I think I will like it much better without Mrs Honeydew,” I said. “We shall see. But … but you know, I’m very anxious to get home to Alhambra.”

Anxious? I could hardly wait. I’d scarcely thought about Papa in the past few days but now my mind was full of him. Poppy’s tummy didn’t misbehave this time, thank goodness, but I thought mine would. I felt sick. Or was it just butterflies? Once out at Spencer Street and into a cab, time seemed to stand still. Can that horse possibly go any slower? I fretted. As if reading my mind, Lucifer swore so loudly that we were all embarrassed. When we turned into our street and I could see the chamber-pot tower on top of Alhambra, it was all I could do not to jump out and run on in. But I entered through the big polished doors of Alhambra like a young lady should. Then someone came out of the sitting room and into the hall, and I gave a shriek.

“SP!”

I flew into his arms and hugged him. “You’re home!” And then I realised what I was saying. He was home. He was here in Melbourne, back from Queensland and that meant he’d given up the search for Papa. I took a step back and searched his face for bad news.

SP had changed. It wasn’t just the sunburn. He seemed older somehow. His green eyes, so fun-filled and mischievous, were serious now. That silly, dandyish manner was gone.

He took me by the hand. “Verity, before you go up, I need to tell you something. He’s still very weak. The blow to the–”

I felt as if I’d burst. “He? Who do you mean?”

“Didn’t you get the telegraph message?”

Miss Deane was now standing behind me. “We didn’t get any message,” she said.

Mrs Morcom had come out of the sitting room.

“Papa?” I asked.

“Yes, Pierre is here,” said Mrs Morcom with a tremble in her voice. She put a hand on SP’s arm. “This clever boy brought him home this morning.”

But I was already halfway up the stairs. I burst into Papa’s room, and the nurse, with a cross face, stood up with her fingers to her lips.

“He’s asleep.”

I could see that. Oh, Papa. Gaunt and sunburned, with a bandage around his forehead and long white hair straggling onto the pillow. One hand was lying outside of the covers, and even his wrist looked thin. His chest rose and fell with long, deep breaths as he slept. I kneeled on the floor beside his bed. Papa. Alive. Home and safe. All the misery and despair melted away like dew under the morning sun, and for some odd reason Alexander’s face flashed into my mind as I reached out to stroke Papa’s hand. Odd? No, not really. I think – no, I know – that it was Alexander who saved Papa’s life. Just as he’d saved mine and Miriam’s.

Papa opened his eyes. “Is it you? Veroschka?”

“Yes, Papa.” I put my cheek next to his. “I’m here Papa,” I said.

“As long as I was alive, I knew I would get back to you, Veroschka.
L’espoir fait vivre
,” he said. “A French proverb this time. What is it in English?”

“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” I said. Hope. How I’d needed it, in those dark days when it seemed that Papa would never be found, dead or alive. I thought of Alexander again. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“Can you help me sit up, please, nurse?” His voice was now a little stronger. “I want to look at my daughter.”

“Certainly, Mr Savinov, but you mustn’t get too excited. We don’t want any shocks.”

“A shock of joy can only do me good,” he said, looking at me as if I was a dream come true. The nurse helped him up and fussed with the pillows, and then had the tact to leave the room.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

“Ah,” said Papa with a deep sigh, taking my hand in his. “This is why I hung on in the waves and the storm. This is why I clung to life. My dear child.” He stirred. “But you are hurt. You are limping. Your face is scratched.”

“It’s nothing, Papa; I fell over in the bush, that’s all.” I wasn’t going to tell Papa about my Mount Macedon adventures until he was quite, quite well.

“Where are my spectacles? I want to look at you properly …”

I looked around. They were not on the bedside table. And then my fingers itched. They itched as I picked them up off the floor where they’d fallen, and they itched until I’d settled them on Papa’s nose. He didn’t know why I was laughing.

“What is so funny,
chérie
?”

“What’s lost is found, darling Papa,” I said, kissing him ever so gently. “At last, what’s lost is found.”

It was a Tuesday evening. The day had been warm, but it was now early March and so the nights were cooler. There’d been a delicious breeze blowing as we waved goodbye to Lavinia and Toby at Railway Pier. Their ship, the
Seagull
, would reach home in around three months, just in time for the English summer.

“Well, they’re gone,” said SP. He pulled a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to Miss Deane. Hers was already soaked with tears.

“Thank you, SP,” she said, blowing her nose. “It’s just …”

“I know,” he said, squeezing her hand. “But soon she’ll be with her father, and all of this will seem like a bad dream.”

“I just hope Andrew doesn’t suffer the fate of Lavinia’s first two husbands.”

“No, no, we mustn’t think about that,” said Daniel. “They’re going to have a long and happy marriage. Poor lady, she deserves some luck.”

“An’ Toby needs a dad,” said Poppy, firmly. “To make ’im behave.”

“Is that what fathers are for?” laughed Papa, catching her up in his arms and tickling her.

“Shh, shh,” hushed Judith, hugging the tiny white-shawled bundle closer to her. “You’ll wake Horace.”

The ship’s sails billowed in the breeze as she sailed out into the bay.

“Goodbye!” I called, although none of them could hear me. “Good luck!”

“Come on,” said Papa. “Let’s go home.”