Verity Sparks, Lost and Found Page 17

  I’d liked being back home. I liked seeing Daniel and Judith and Mrs Morcom, having a visit from Emily and Lottie, not to mention the warm welcome from Mrs Reilly and Kathleen’s unexpected wisdom. We were in the modern age, with telegraph messages and speedy trains, and I knew that at Forest Edge I was only a day – if that – away from Alhambra. But in the back of my mind I was afraid that Papa might return and find I wasn’t there. You see, I was holding on tight to my anchor of hope.

  Miss Deane, on the other hand, was excited. She was looking forward to seeing Mrs Honeydew. I knew she was going to miss Mrs Honeydew’s friendship once we returned for good to the city. They could write to each other, of course, but that’s not the same as meeting up in the flesh. It’s hard for a governess to make friends, I thought. For all that she seems part of the family, she’s not. It was the same with Mrs Honeydew. As Mrs O’Day’s nurse companion, she had to go wherever her employer wanted.

  “I might meet up with the young people from Kinnock Brae again,” she said. “And perhaps there will be another meeting with the Gravensteins. What do you think, Verity?”

  “They did say not to wait for an invitation, but to just call in,” I said, trying to dredge up a bit of enthusiasm. Miss Deane was only twenty-three; why shouldn’t she have a bit of fun?

  Mr Bobbs collected us from the station and took us straight to Greystones, where we collected Poppy. She was jumping up and down like a flea in a fit, she was so excited to see us. But I was glad she waited until we were out of earshot to tell us about her visit.

  “I’m never doin’ that again,” she said. “What a washout! Toby was insifflable.”

  “Do you mean insufferable? Was he a bit naughty?”

  “A bit?” she scoffed. “Like I said, he was … that thing you said before. An’ I’ll tell you this for free – I don’t like that Mrs Honeydew.”

  “Oh, Poppy!” said Miss Deane. “She’s lovely.”

  “One night, she give me some o’ that Dr Heartburn’s mixture. I spat it out.”

  “That was very rude of you.”

  “It’s nasty. It tastes the same as a drunk’s breath smells. An’ there’s somethin’ wrong with Mrs O’Day. She’s … she’s weird.”

  It was true. We’d seen Mrs O’Day briefly when we called for Poppy, and she seemed half-asleep, with her eyes unfocused and her speech blurred. I had an awful thought. I’d seen plenty of drunks when I lived with Auntie Sarah, and I wondered if Mrs O’Day had taken to the bottle. All those tragedies could easily drive a person to drink.

  Poppy finished up her complaints about her stay at Greystones. She left the worst till last. “An’ I didn’t get to ride Albert after all.”

  Mrs Bobbs was waiting for us in the house. She had a small dumpy girl in an over-large apron standing beside her.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am,” she said to Miss Deane, “but Miriam has taken it upon herself to leave us in the lurch. She left a note to say that she has gone off with her sweetheart and will not be back.” She pursed her lips primly.

  “Oh, Mrs Bobbs,” Miss Deane began, but Mrs Bobbs had more to say.

  “Shocking, I call it, and that girl will never get another job if I have to write her a reference. You mind you listen to that, young Ellen, and learn your lesson.”

  Ellen blushed and squirmed.

  “I would never have thought it. Such a slyboots she’s been!” said Mrs Bobbs. “But you just don’t know, do you? Still waters run deep. Don’t worry about the house, ma’am. Clara and Susan will do a bit extra while Ellen here learns.”

  She went away grumbling to herself and Ellen, with a curtsey and another blush, scuttled off to the kitchen.

  “Well that’s a pity,” said Miss Deane. “I liked Miriam.”

  I did too. She was rather glum, with that long horse face of hers, but always kind and helpful.

  “I’ll just go to the kitchen and have a talk to Ellen,” said Miss Deane. “This must be her first job. Poor thing, she’s so young – I’ll wager she’s terrified.”

  “Well, come on, Poppy,” I said. “Let’s go up and unpack your bag.”

  “She never did,” said Poppy to me as we walked upstairs.

  “Who? What?”

  “Miriam never run away with no sweetheart. She didn’t ’ave no sweetheart.”

  “Well, as Mrs Bobbs said, you just don’t know.”

  “I do know,” insisted Poppy. “She never would. She weren’t int’rested in men and they weren’t int’rested in her. She was looking after ’er old mum in Woodend, what ’ad a bad leg and couldn’t work. She wouldn’t run away.”

  Poor Miriam. I could imagine how trapped she might feel, having to care for her mother as well as her employers, and wondering when – or if – she was ever going to have a life of her own. Perhaps she saw a chance and she took it. I couldn’t blame her.

  28

  THE SLEEPER AWAKES

  Mrs Honeydew came over to see Miss Deane that evening after Poppy had gone to bed. While I sat reading in an armchair, they chatted at the table. I wasn’t listening, but I couldn’t help hearing the odd word here and there.

  Miriam’s name came up first. Of course, her elopement had to be thoroughly discussed. Next I heard Papa’s name. I didn’t want to know what they were saying about him, but they moved on quickly, for the next snippet I heard was “Eccle Court”. And then, “back to England …”

  Was Miss Deane telling Mrs Honeydew about our confidential inquiry? I thought she might have talked to me about it before she did. But what did it matter anyway? Since we weren’t able to finish up Andrew Ross’s investigation, we may as well try with Mr Ecclethorpe’s. After all, there was a fat fee waiting for the Agency if we did. If anyone could persuade Lavinia to return to her father, it was Mrs Honeydew. She seemed to be listening with great interest. “Lawyer’s letter,” I heard her say. “Cruel … now he’s changed his mind …” They were talking about what Mrs O’Day had told me; how she’d sent a photograph and a letter to her father, asking if she could come home. She’d received only a cold letter from his lawyer in reply, saying her father didn’t want to see her. It was odd, wasn’t it, that Mr Ecclethorpe hadn’t told SP about that? Perhaps he was ashamed of himself. Or perhaps–

  Then I heard my own name and my ears really pricked up. I confess; I really was listening now. Their voices lowered to a murmur, but I heard “worry” and “nerves”. Then “in her sleep”. Ah, they were talking about what happened last week, when I nearly fell from the balcony. Well, there was no need to worry. I’d slept soundly in my own bed all the time I’d been at Alhambra.

  At last Ellen, looking anxious and flustered, brought in the supper. It was toasted cheese, rather burned and stringy. I ate mine anyway because I felt sorry for her. After that, I excused myself and went up to my room. I was sleepy, but I couldn’t settle, so I kept the lamp burning and opened my book. But I couldn’t read either. A niggling little thought had planted itself in my mind. There was something I needed to think about.

  Letters. Letters sent and not received. Letters hidden in books. The letter Mrs O’Day sent to her father, and the one she received in return, telling her not to contact him. The letter SP sent, on behalf of Mr Ecclethorpe, asking Lavinia to get in touch and again, a letter back, saying no.

  Surely Mrs Honeydew must have seen the letter SP sent? I thought, trying to puzzle it out. I couldn’t imagine Mrs O’Day keeping secrets from Mrs Honeydew. And yet she’d seemed surprised. It was very odd.

  There was a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  It was Mrs Honeydew. “I’ve just come to say goodnight, dear,” she said. She sat next to me on the bed. “Drucilla and I are worried about you, you know. I’d hate to see your health break down.”

  “The doctor said I was perfectly well. He said young girls were prone to fainting.”

  “Oh, doctors!” She snapped her fingers. “Lavinia would be in her grave if I’d relied on doctors.” She shook h
er head and her earrings jiggled.

  Earrings. Sparkly sapphire earrings. Surely they were were Mrs O’Day’s – and yet Mrs Honeydew was wearing them. It was odd too – in all of Mrs O’Day’s finery, there had not been one pair of earrings. A diamond ring, the magnificent pearl necklace and all those horrid jet mourning things including – ugh! – the brooch containing a lock of her dead husband’s hair. But no earrings, because … Yes, I was sure now. I’d been close enough to see. Mrs O’Day did not have pierced earlobes.

  So they were Mrs Honeydew’s. Why did she say they weren’t? I’d found the earring outside the boathouse, near where Alan Ross drowned.

  The letters, the earring, the photographs – all these pieces were part of a puzzle, but I still couldn’t see how they fitted together.

  “What is it, Verity? Are you looking at my earrings?” She slipped one of them off her earlobe and held it by its hook between finger and thumb. She moved her hand closer to the candle. “I only ever wear sapphires. I had a ring once, and a necklace, but I had to sell them.”

  She turned to me with a smile. Her eyes were bright and very blue. I remembered what she’d said about the eyes being the window of the soul. I’d thought hers were kind and twinkly, but now they seemed cold as ice.

  “Have you ever seen such a brilliant, dazzling blue? Look into its depths. Rays of light seem to come from within. Can you see them? And if you look from the correct angle, they form a star. Try it. Try it, Verity …”

  Unwillingly, I looked. Almost straightaway I began to feel rather strange.

  “It’s hot in here,” I said. I tried to look away.

  “Can you see the star?”

  “Yes,” I said, and all of a sudden my senses were playing tricks. I saw the sapphire as a deep blue pool and it seemed as if I was standing far, far above it.

  “Look down,” said Mrs Honeydew.

  I didn’t want to, but the pool was drawing me, compelling me. I couldn’t resist. There was nothing to hold on to. I teetered on the edge.

  “Down to the depths, into the blue light …”

  With a sickening lurch I felt myself falling, and as I fell I broke into pieces, like scraps of paper or snowflakes. I tried to hold on tight to being me. Me: Verity Sparks, fourteen, former milliner’s apprentice and teleagtivist, confidential inquiry agent, a Sparks and a Savinov and nobody’s fool. But there were hundreds – no, thousands – of tiny pieces, all scattering and blowing away until there was nothing left. Nothing at all …

  I was looking for something.

  But what was it? Mist swirled around me and I could see only as far as my outstretched hands. Grey shapes – were they trees or rocks? – loomed up and then vanished as I ran past. My ribs ached and my breath came in ragged gasps, but I couldn’t stop. I had to find it.

  I looked down at my fingers, willing them to itch or tingle, to give me a sign, to show me what I was searching for. But they were just ten ordinary digits, like everyone else’s. How could I find it if I’d lost my gift?

  It was cold. My nightdress clung damply around my ankles and my bare feet were almost numb. Keep going, I told myself. Don’t give up now.

  What was that? The snap of a twig, a rustling sound. Something – or someone – was close by. I stopped, listening, but now all I could hear was my own breathing.

  With my next step I stumbled and lurched forwards. I put my hands out to save myself and …

  I was falling, down … down … down through empty space, plummetting into the darkness. I screamed.

  I screamed and it wasn’t a dream. I was falling through the air, and then I crashed against something solid and very, very hard. Winded, moaning as the skin scraped off my hands, I tried to hold on, clutching for something – anything. But I slithered helplessly, rolling and sliding on a loose surface of gravel and stones until I fell again. This time I had no breath to scream.

  But the next second my headlong fall was stopped. By what? I felt along it with my bleeding hands. It was a branch. I could see its pale mottled bark and sickle-shaped leaves. A branch had saved my life.

  After a while, my heart stopped hammering and I could think about what had just happened. Well, it was bleeding obvious what had just happened. I’d fallen over the edge of a ravine, onto a little rocky platform and then off again onto this branch. I was up a gum tree in the dark in the middle of the bush – but I was alive.

  How did I get here? I tried to think back. I’d been in bed. Mrs Honeydew came in. Ah, now I remembered. I could picture Mrs Honeydew’s face so clearly, with her pink cheeks and that sweet smile. But then she’d made me look down at her sapphire and all of a sudden everything became very strange. I’d been falling into a deep blue pool. Was it a dream? Had I been delirious?

  All these questions aren’t helping, I thought. The only explanation was that I’d sleepwalked. Sleepwalked downstairs and out of the house, through the gardens and onto the path that led to the lookout. Anyway, there was time to work that out later. Right now, I was getting a cramp. I pulled myself up and got my trapped knee out and over the branch. My eyes were used to the darkness, and I could see that the tree grew from a crevice on one side of a large boulder. Under that was a rocky ledge.

  You can get there, I told myself. You can do it. Gritting my teeth, I managed to get myself down onto the ledge. It was narrow and the overhanging boulder had dripped a trail of mossy slime onto it, but at least I wasn’t in danger of falling. I would wait here safely until dawn. How long? I could see the Southern Cross, but I didn’t know how to read the night sky. Somewhere an owl hooted. Off to the side, I heard something rustle through the undergrowth. A fox? A possum? Then silence.

  Later – I don’t know how much later – a bird began to sing. A lone bird at first, trilling a few notes. Then another. Then more. Then the whole chorus. It was dawn at last, and now I could see that my way to the bottom of the gully was through a tumble of large boulders. But would I be able to get there? I was exhausted, covered in scratches, cuts and bruises. My shins and knees were scraped and covered in blood. Every move hurt.

  But I was in one piece. Nothing broken. Don’t give up now, I said to myself. The words echoed around me. Had I spoken out loud? I didn’t think so, but it sounded as if …

  “Alexander?” I said. “Alexander, is that you?”

  Don’t give up now.

  “Alexander?”

  Just my breath, coming and going. The birds. A slight breeze whipping through the treetops. A butterfly, out early, flitted past my head and down into the gully. Was it showing me the way I should go?

  “Yes,” I said, scrambling after it. “I’m coming.”

  At first it was hard, slow work, finding my way down the hillside between the rocks. But towards the bottom, it became easier. If I could just find a way around this boulder …

  “Oh!” I cried out as a shock went through my entire body. Was this what it felt like to be struck by lightning? My body was jarred and jolted. And how my fingers hurt! They itched and stung and burned, and I knew my gift was back. And then I had a vision. It was clear as day. I knew what I was looking for and there was no time to waste. I scrambled sideways towards the shadowy cleft between two huge boulders and reached out my hand.

  29

  RESCUE AMONG THE ROCKS

  I touched another hand. Just as I’d seen it in my vision: a woman’s hand, pale and clammy and barely warm. I squeezed between the boulders and there she was, lying on the ground, like a rag doll tossed carelessly away. One of her arms was sticking out at a very wrong angle.

  My fingers were no longer tingling wildly. I’d found what I was looking for. It was Miriam. She groaned.

  “Miriam! Are you alive?” What a silly question. Of course she was. But for how much longer? That arm … I shuddered. Her torn sleeve was bloodstained, and I could see bone poking out through the skin. Her breath came in shallow gasps.

  “Miss,” she breathed. “Oh, miss, I’m that parched.”

  Water. That’s w
hat she needed. But how was I to get some for her? I looked around for inspiration. There was a creek in the gully below – I could hear it – but I didn’t have anything to put water in.

  “Please, miss …” Her voice was feeble now, just a mere whisper.

  Thirst, I knew, could kill, and I didn’t have time to find the way down to the creek. There must have been some rain in the past few days, for some of the dips and depressions in the rocks, like bowls, held water. I ripped a strip of material from the hem of my nightdress and soaked it, then squeezed it until every last drop trickled into her mouth.

  “Oh, miss – thank you.” Miriam felt for my hand. I held onto her, and spoke as confidently as I could.

  “Don’t worry, Miriam. You’ll be all right.”

  “I have to tell you, miss. I have to–”

  “Don’t tire yourself. Don’t talk.”

  “I want to tell you. I can’t bear to keep it to myself any more. I’ve done a bad thing, miss.” She began to cry. They were weak, exhausted tears. I held her hand.

  I said, “You can tell me later. I have to go and get help.”

  “No, I want to. It was Mrs Honeydew. I … I did little jobs for her at Forest Edge and she paid me for them. I … I took the mail to her before I gave it to Mr Bobbs. She steamed it open and then after she read it, I took it back. Mostly, that is. Sometimes she kept the letters. She told me she wanted to keep an eye on Mr Alan. She was worried he was just after Mrs O’Day for her fortune, so I thought it wasn’t too bad, what I was doing. She paid me, and every bit helps. The money – it was for my mum.”