Verity Sparks, Lost and Found Page 11

  I crossed “tomorrow” out.

  Today we are leaving on the train to go to Mount Macedon. Miss Deane and I are taking Poppy and Lucifer with us. Apparently, Forest Edge is staffed by a married couple called Bobbs, who live in a cottage on the property. There is also a maid called Miriam and a few girls who come in to clean. Mr Ross has told us to explain our visit by saying that Papa is a business acquaintance of his. I am not exactly sure what Papa would think of this assignment. I’m not sure he would approve. But I can see no danger in it.

  SP has met with Andrew Ross. He thinks that the poor fellow has allowed his suspicions to get out of hand. After all, accidents do happen. It is entirely possible, said SP, that Mrs O’Day is exceptionally unlucky. He says that all we have to do is observe, and on no account are we to make any accusations. He would, however, like us to kill two birds with one stone, and find out – if possible – why Mrs O’Day has declined to meet with him regarding her father.

  He sent her a letter, introducing his mission from Mr Ecclethorpe and requesting a meeting, but immediately received a very frosty answer. She wrote that she had no intention of ever returning to England, and asked him to trouble her no further. Perhaps we may soften her towards Mr Ecclethorpe. We shall see.

  I chewed on the end of my pen. For some reason, I wasn’t keen on the whole assignment. Perhaps it was just that strange feeling of dread that always followed the nightmare. Miss Deane was very excited by the idea of confidential inquiries. But I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for us to go to Mount Macedon.

  Which is odd, I reflected, because only a few months ago, when I’d finished my story, I was feeling cross because I had nothing real to do. I’d been longing for something to get my teeth into. The trouble with you, Verity Sparks, I told myself, is that you’re never satisfied.

  The city is so hot and sticky that a holiday in the cool air of the mountains will be very refreshing. And according to Mrs Rowland, all the best people congregate there for the summer. That ought to please Papa, at any rate.

  I knew Poppy should not have had those two cream cakes at the refreshment room at Spencer Street Station. By the time we steamed out of the station and through the sprawl of factories and workingmen’s houses, past open paddocks and scattered settlements and onto the bare, brown plains, she’d had to use the basin a dozen times. When the train began puffing uphill towards the mountains, she’d fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. I looked down at her pale face.

  “Poor little kid,” I said, and Miss Deane didn’t even correct me for using vulgar slang. She was pale too. I studied her more carefully.

  “Headache?” I asked her.

  “Migraine,” she said, pressing her handkerchief to her lips.

  Oh, Lord, I thought. Not you as well. Silently I passed her the basin.

  “Macedon Station! All passengers for Macedon Station!”

  We tumbled out of our carriage and Miss Deane and Poppy stood on the platform, clinging together and blinking like owls in the daylight. They were both exhausted, and I was glad when a short, squat man, very tanned, with a bristly moustache and no-nonsense manner, introduced himself as Mr Bobbs, the Forest Edge caretaker. He led us to the cab he’d hired to take us up to the house. He himself was driving a cart to carry our luggage. Which was just as well, for Lucifer, who’d been very cross about being in the guard’s van, began to swear violently. Miss Deane clutched her aching head and Poppy burst into tears.

  “That’s enough of that,” said Mr Bobbs, putting a sack over Lucifer’s cage and placing it with a thump on the cart. “There are ladies present.”

  He helped us up into the cab.

  “I’ll follow,” he said, “with your trunks and the bird. Mrs Bobbs has everything ready for you.”

  “Whereabouts is Forest Edge?” I asked him, looking around. I could see shops and hotels and a church; at the end of the street there were a few cottages and some larger houses. Which one was Forest Edge? I wondered. “Is it far?”

  “Oh, you’ve a way to go yet,” he said. “This is Macedon township here. Forest Edge is in Upper Macedon.” He jerked his head upwards. “Right on top of the Mount.”

  “Oh no,” said Miss Deane, and at that moment Poppy began to cry again.

  Our vehicle simply crawled up the mountain, and though from time to time I got a glimpse of a ferntree gully or a fine view, for the most part I was comforting Poppy. It was nearly dark by the time we drew up on the gravelled drive in front of the house.

  A cheerful-looking woman wearing a snowy-white apron came down the front steps to meet us.

  “I am Mrs Bobbs,” she said. “Welcome to Forest Edge. I hope you ladies will be comfortable here.”

  I was hot, cross and tired, but when I breathed in a lungful of cool air, I suddenly felt a lot better. There was slight breeze, with a delicious peppery tang to it. I looked around me. Forest Edge, which Andrew Ross had described as a cottage, was a two-storey house with a verandah almost all the way around and a second-storey balcony. Even in the dim light, the flowerbeds were ablaze with colour, the lawn was emerald green, and lush shrubberies and tall eucalyptus trees made the whole place seem like a park. Why had I felt a sense of foreboding about this place? How ridiculous. It was beautiful.

  “Can I smell fried onions?” said Miss Deane.

  I sniffed. “And steak?”

  Mrs Bobbs laughed. “Steak and onion pies,” she said. “Just out of the oven.”

  And Poppy, who’d brought up breakfast, morning tea and lunch on the train, rubbed her eyes and declared, “I’m ’ungry.”

  Next morning Poppy woke very early.

  “Verity,” she whispered, poking me with her finger. “Verity! Let’s exasperate.”

  I sat up in bed. “Investigate? Is that what you mean?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. Let’s ’ave a look, at any rate.”

  So we quickly dressed and tiptoed downstairs. A young woman was on her knees in front of the kitchen range, poking at the fire.

  “You must be Miriam,” I said, and she jumped up and curtseyed. She was probably a couple of years older than me, tall and lanky, with a long face and a glum expression.

  “Oh, miss,” she said with a frown. “I haven’t even put the kettle on. It’s only just gone six.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “We don’t want breakfast yet. We’re going for a walk.”

  “Yes, miss.” She bobbed another curtsey and made an attempt at a smile. “Thank you, miss.”

  Poppy and I left her to it, and went to stand on the front verandah, listening to the birds performing their dawn chorus. The air was cool and smelled deliciously of forest; the grass was drenched with dew. As you know, I’m a city girl – why, until we left for Australia, I’d never been out of London in my whole life – and I hadn’t been thrilled by what I’d seen of the Australian country from the train. The flat, bare plains covered in dry grass and scrubby trees; the drab dull greens and browns of the bush, with those messy gum trees, stretching on and on. But this was different.

  Poppy squeezed my hand excitedly. Time to explore our new domain.

  We found out later that Forest Edge was quite small compared with our much grander neighbours – I suppose that’s why Andrew called it a cottage. Forest Edge house was half the size of the Plush family residence Mulberry Hill, but the garden was ten times bigger. It was all primped and prettified close to the house, with flowerbeds and standard roses and clipped hedges. But soon it turned park-like, dotted with tall gum trees and groves of tree ferns.

  “Look,” said Poppy and pointed. To our right, a lawn sloped down to a small lake.

  “Oh,” I said, letting go of Poppy’s hand. I’d been here before.

  “What is it?”

  “The boathouse.” A feeling of dread almost overwhelmed me. The boathouse, the lake … I was at the scene of Alan’s death. Or murder, if Andrew was correct. And the scene of my dream as well. I’d foreseen every detail – the waterlilies close to the bank, t
he little jetty, the white-painted lattice at the front of the shed.

  “Is there a boat in it? I’ve never ’ad me a ride in a boat afore.”

  I corrected her automatically. “You sail in boats, Poppy, you don’t ride. And it’s ‘before’.”

  “No need to be so peculiar.” She pouted.

  “Do you mean particular?”

  But she’d left my side to go running down the hill towards the water. In my dream, I’d been looking for something and I’d known it was there, in the boathouse. Perhaps … I glanced down at my hands. Would I find something? Was there anything to find, or was it just a muddled, mixed-up dream?

  There was a chain but no padlock on the door. With a feeling like a cold hand pressing on my heart, I paused. Slowly, I pushed the door, and it creaked open easily. What had I expected? Some kind of Bluebeard’s chamber? There was just a wooden boat, oars and a coil of rope, some folding chairs and a few straw hats hung on hooks. I poked around and found some dead moths, one canvas shoe and a dog’s lead. That was all. It was just an ordinary boathouse.

  I went out onto the jetty to join Poppy. She was throwing pebbles into the still, dark water. I stood with her, listening to the plop! and watching the circular ripples. This is where they found Alan, I thought. Suddenly, a trio of ducks flew low over the lake, turned and landed on the bank nearby. Then two more. And another three. Waddling and quacking and fixing us with their round eyes, they approached.

  “Ooh,” wailed Poppy. “They’re goin’ to bite us.”

  “Birds peck. And no they won’t. They just want some bread. Shoo, you lot. Shoo!”

  “Let’s go back and ’ave breakfast.”

  “All right, Poppy. Oh, look! How pretty.”

  The sun was now just over the ridge and rays of light, striking through the trees, made diamond drops and tiny rainbows on the dewy grass. As we headed past the boathouse, away from the marauding ducks, I noticed something. Something sparkly that wasn’t dew. I bent down and picked it up. It was a small blue multifaceted gem with a silver hook. An earring. I popped it in my pocket.

  “Come on, Verity.” Poppy tugged at my hand. “They’re comin’!”

  The ducks were following us.

  “They want their breakfast too,” I said. “And anyhow, Poppy, why are you so scared of ducks all of a sudden? You’ve seen ducks before, in the Botanical Gardens, and they’re much pushier than this lot. You love birds and animals.”

  “But it’s diff’rent,” said Poppy, still urging me on. “These ducks is wild.”

  18

  THE LADIES OF GREYSTONES

  On our second morning at Forest Edge, Miss Deane and I decided it was time to get down to business. Lavinia’s house, according to Andrew, was right next door. We planned to take a walk to the edge of the property and see what we could spy over the fence.

  Poppy didn’t want to come. She’d taken a liking to Miriam, and was helping her with the ironing.

  “She’d talk the leg off an iron pot, wouldn’t she?” whispered Miriam, cocking an ear at the steady stream of chatter coming out of Poppy’s mouth.

  Poppy stopped mid-sentence. “Wot?”

  “She’s also got big ears,” said Miss Deane.

  “Where are you going to, if I might ask?” said Miriam. “Being new to the place, I wouldn’t like to see you getting lost.”

  “Just for a stroll,” said Miss Deane, vaguely. “Where does the path behind the house lead?”

  “Just into the bush. There’s a path to a sort of lookout – you can see nearly all the way to Melbourne from there – but you don’t want to go there, not in those shoes.” She added, as an afterthought, “And there’s snakes.”

  Snakes. How could I have forgotten? It was on Mount Macedon that Mrs Morcom’s husband, Charles, was bitten by a snake and died. I’d touched one of her paintings and suddenly there’d been blackness, misery and a cold pain in my heart as a dark shape slithered by. I’d seen into the past, and it was an unwelcome gift. Was that why I’d been unwilling to come to Mount Macedon? I was relieved to have an explanation.

  “Verity? Did you hear that?” Miss Deane was nudging my shoulder. “Miriam says if we go right past the lake, we will come to Roseheath, the residence of Professor Gravenstein, and if we go left and cross the creek, we reach Greystones.”

  “That’s where Mrs O’Day, the poor lady that was engaged to Mr Alan, lives,” said Miriam.

  I realised that Miriam could be a mine of information. “Is she there by herself?”

  “No, she’s got her son with her. He’s a bit of an imp.” Miriam paused. “And there’s her nurse and companion, Mrs Honeydew.” She switched her attention back to her ironing. “Enjoy your walk, ladies, and don’t get lost.”

  After it left the garden beds and lawn, the left-hand path wandered through newly planted saplings and then into a band of native bush. There was no fence between the two properties after all, but the stream (or “creek” as Miriam called it) obviously marked the boundary. There were several spots where you could cross, via stepping stones, so we walked a little further and, through the screening trees, at last we sighted the house.

  Greystones was much grander than Forest Edge, built of gloomy dark grey stone and shadowed by pine trees. Smoke came from the kitchen chimney, but otherwise the place seemed deserted.

  “How are we going to meet her?” I pondered.

  “Andrew said that life here is very informal. Why don’t we just call in and introduce ourselves as temporary neighbours?”

  “But … won’t Lavinia be in mourning?”

  Miss Deane frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Back in England, the rules for mourning were pretty strict, and I expected in Australia it would be much the same. I knew all about it from the millinery trade, for rich widows still wanted smart hats, even if they had to be black. They had to wear black from top to toe for a year and a day – at least – and sit at home with their families, with no outings, no parties, no fun. Alan and Lavinia were engaged, not married, but that still made her a kind of widow … Didn’t it?

  “Perhaps we could start by leaving a card?” I suggested. Young girls like me didn’t have their own calling cards, but I had a supply of Papa’s, on which I could write “Miss Verity Sparks-Savinov and Miss Deane”.

  “Yes,” said Miss Deane, relieved. “Just as well the etiquette of card-leaving was one of Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s favourite lectures. At least we know what to do. Let’s go for another walk this afternoon.”

  As Miss Deane, Poppy and I walked along the road towards the entrance to Greystones that afternoon, we met two ladies in a pony cart, a group of energetic young men and women coming back from a ramble, and a family of picnickers carrying wicker baskets. Everyone stopped to greet us. The two ladies even introduced themselves – they were Mrs Gravenstein and her sister – and asked us to call in for tea one afternoon. How I wished that we were here for a real holiday, and not investigating Lavinia O’Day.

  We turned a bend, and there was a gaggle of children slopping around in the deep ditch that ran beside the road. Poppy stopped and watched them.

  “Wotcher doin’?” she asked.

  “Frogs,” said a sandy-haired lad of about nine.

  A younger boy, a peaky-looking little fellow with dark hair, held out his hand. In the middle of his palm sat a mottled green frog, which immediately took its chance and jumped for freedom. Muddy water splashed over his sailor suit, but he just laughed.

  “Come on, Poppy,” I said. Her pale blue dress and white pinafore weren’t made for nature study, and I wanted her to stay presentable – at least until after our visit. With a friendly wave to the children, she dragged herself away and scampered after us.

  Greystones had acres and acres of grounds, with miles of winding paths and lots of neatly staked young trees.

  “Are we nearly there?” asked Poppy about a dozen times as we toiled up the drive.

  “Next time we visit,” I said to Miss Deane,
“let’s take the shortcut.”

  We reached the house at last. Up close, it looked grim and almost like like a fort with those grey stone walls. Or a prison. There were no pretty flowerbeds close to the house. The Greystones gardeners went in for dark shrubs and pine trees. It was cool out of the sun, and I shivered.

  On this first visit, etiquette (according to Mrs Enderby-Smarke) dictated that we should just give our card to the domestic without asking if her mistress was at home. But there seemed to be no domestic. We rang the bell several times, and waited. And waited.

  “Perhaps we could just sneak in and leave it on the tray?” I suggested.

  Miss Deane nodded, and I nudged the door open. Immediately, a small white dog like a fluff-ball on legs came tearing down the hall. With a scrabble of claws, it brushed past us and disappeared down the drive.

  Miss Deane stated the obvious. “The dog’s got out,” she said.

  “It has,” I agreed.

  We edged forwards into the hallway. From upstairs, there was the sound of banging doors and a hoarse voice calling, “Toby? Toby?”

  “I s’pose Toby’s the dog,” said Poppy. “I’ll just go an’ see if I can catch ’im.”

  “You do that, Poppy,” said Miss Deane. We stood awkwardly in front of the hallstand. What should we do now?

  Suddenly, a breathless maid appeared from the back of the house.

  “Have you found him?” she asked.

  “No, he just ran out,” said Miss Deane. “I’m so sorry.”

  The maid’s face crumpled with disappointment.

  “We wanted to leave our card,” Miss Deane began, but a faint voice called from one of the rooms.

  “Kitty? Kitty, did you find him?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s Dorrie. Kitty’s not back. Oh, the poor wee mite!” And she dropped to her knees and began to wail.

  “What’s the matter?” I said, putting my hand on the weeping maid’s shoulder. She just wailed louder, and I shook her very slightly. “Is your mistress in there? Is she sick?”