Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand Read online

  Papa tried to explain. “Once, in Bible days, there was a tribe of people called the Philistines. They were so uncouth and uncultured that even thousands of years later we still give their name to people who don’t appreciate Grand Opera. And now, shhh. The second half begins.”

  I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to the second half of the opera either. In the end, the tenor stabbed himself, Madame Chartreuse went mad with an all-male chorus and everyone fell down dead. The audience went wild with deafening applause. The singers came back to life and bobbed and bowed with smiles all over their faces. The backstage crew began toting masses of flowers out to the cast.

  Madame Chartreuse, piled high with roses, cried, “Melbourne, je t’aime!” and the crowd went even wilder.

  Papa and Connie were in raptures, but Poppy sneaked a look at me and rolled her eyes. When it came to opera, Poppy and I were both philistines. Eventually the lights came on. The show was over.

  I was impatient to see if Della Parker was still waiting for me, but there was no way I could hurry out of the theatre. The audience moved like cold treacle along the corridors and staircases, into the foyer and out onto the footpath where they clogged up the works by lingering and chatting. Nearby there was a coffee stall, a pie cart and a man with a brazier selling hot nuts. The street orchestra had moved on, but a juggler and a lady with performing poodles entertained the crowd while a few urchins turned somersaults and ran about asking for pennies. I felt sure Della would try to speak to me again and I peered up and down the street, trying to make out that distinctive grey dress.

  “Who are you looking for, Verity?” asked Connie. “Albert’s up this way.”

  Our carriage was halfway up the block. A man in a brown overcoat was standing at the horses’ heads, yelling and waving his hands around. Wasn’t he the same clumsy fellow who’d bumped into me earlier? Albert, up in the driver’s seat, was gesturing with his whip and yelling as well. A crowd of street children, jeering and catcalling, had gathered to watch.

  “Looks like ’e’s got into an argyment,” said Poppy.

  “Oh, mon Dieu,” said Papa. “What is this all about? Stay where you are, girls, and I–”

  “Papa, no!” I said, alarmed.

  “I’m not going to fight him, chérie.” Papa laughed. “I am going to find a policeman. Look, there’s an constable over there, standing on the street corner. Now, girls, stay right where you are till I come back.”

  I watched him stride off through the crowd. They would have the matter sorted out in no time, I was sure. Meanwhile, Connie and Poppy moved closer to watch the dancing poodles.

  “Verity.”

  I whirled around. There she was, right behind me.

  “Come here.” She backed towards a laneway. “Where your friends won’t hear.”

  What did she take me for? I wouldn’t go down that dark alley for a king’s ransom.

  “Why did you give me that fan?” I asked, standing my ground.

  “Why do you think? I want justice,” she said. Her voice was trembling. “I want what is rightfully mine.”

  Even in the shadows, I could see the strange glitter in her eyes and I began to feel uneasy. There were people all around, but what if she did something desperate? I wished Papa was close by.

  “Here, take it back,” I said, handing her the fan. I turned to walk away but she clutched my arm.

  “I want what is mine! I am Waldo Parker’s child. I have your mother’s fan. I have letters, papers, documents …”

  “Then why don’t you get a lawyer to help you?” I said.

  “Lawyers,” she hissed. “Sharks, thieves.” Her fingers tightened on my arm.

  Now I did feel scared. “Let me go!”

  Her fingers released immediately. She looked shocked. “Verity, I’ve frightened you. I’m so sorry. I would never hurt you, cousin. Never.”

  “Verity!”

  In the instant I turned my head towards Poppy, Della slipped away into the darkness.

  “Verity!” Poppy was tugging at my sleeve. “Look, Papa’s coming back. Verity, the man and them kids all ran orf and Papa Savinov’s got the carriage an’ we can go ’ome now.”

  I clung tightly to Papa as we crossed the street.

  “What is the matter, Verity?” asked Papa.

  “Just tired, Papa.”

  He smiled down at me. “An exciting evening, was it not, chérie?”

  Exciting? If only he knew.

  In the carriage on the way home, I tried to get my jumbled thoughts in order.

  Della Parker, so like Mama.

  Della Parker, with her glittering eyes, and that absurd claim that we were cousins.

  Della Parker, with Mama’s fan …

  That fan. I had first experienced psychometry when I picked up one of Mrs Morcom’s paintings. All of a sudden I’d been engulfed in the sorrow of her husband’s death. It had been horrible. But this was different. As soon as I’d unwrapped it and my fingers began to tingle, the Princess Theatre had disappeared. It was like an enchantment, a magic spell. Mama had never seemed real to me before, and now I’d seen her smile, walk, talk – and sing. She sang like a bird, or an angel. By handing me that fan, Della had given me a wonderful gift.

  That hadn’t been her aim, of course. She wanted to convince me that she and I were related so she could lay claim to Hiram Parker’s fortune. “I want justice,” she’d said. “I want what is rightfully mine.” If the strange glint in her eyes was anything to go on, she wanted it badly. My arm still hurt where she’d grabbed it. The man in the overcoat, the street urchins … Had Della Parker paid these characters to distract Papa so she could speak to me? Because once she was gone, they had melted away into the crowd too. If that was so, she was truly dangerous.

  A shiver ran through me. I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do.

  Kathleen brought us the bedtime mugs of hot milk that Papa insisted upon. Connie and Poppy chattered while they drank, but I didn’t join in. I was still chasing thoughts and theories about Della Parker around in my brain.

  Connie was bubbling over with the joy of the music and Madame Chartreuse’s voice. Poppy had experienced a different kind of enjoyment.

  “Did you see how her chins wobbled? And her bosoms. And even her backside.”

  “Poppy!” Connie echoed Papa. “Don’t be such a philistine.”

  “Pooh to those ol’ Philistines. I don’t reckon they was ever real, anyway.”

  “They’re in the Bible, Poppy,” said Connie. “Haven’t you heard of the story of David and Goliath?”

  Philistines. It came to me out of the blue. Bible stories. Bibles!

  “I’ll show you, Poppy,” I said.

  I ran to Papa’s study and knocked on the door.

  “Come in.” Papa was drinking his nightcap too. It was a small glass of cognac. “What is it, Verity?”

  I was breathless. “Please can I have the Bible?”

  He looked at me strangely. Well, it was an unusual request to make at midnight after the opera. “You are becoming religious, chérie? At this time of night?”

  Papa, I knew, believed in many things, like truth and beauty and votes for women. But he was not a religious man. The only Bible in the house was a confirmation gift from my grandmother to Mama. Few of her things had survived the fire, and that’s why he’d kept it.

  “No, Papa,” I said. “I just wanted to tell Poppy about David and Goliath.”

  Papa looked blank.

  “You know. The Bible story about the Philistines.”

  “Oh, I see.” He stood up and fetched it down from the shelf. “Here it is. Now, off to sleep with you.” Papa stooped to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Don’t stay up too late. Remember we leave for Castlemaine in the morning.”

  In the hallway I stood under the gas lamp and opened the Bible. In spiky upright script, my grandmother had written:

  To my daughter Penelope on the occasion of her Confirmation, I give this book in order that she
may read it daily to banish pride and selfishness.

  She’d followed her inscription with a list of family birthdays. There was the one I was looking for. Waldo 19/4/26. In different handwriting, next to Waldo’s birthday someone had scrawled another date: Died 1/5/42.

  In 1842 he was only sixteen. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I guessed Della Parker was thirty at the most. I didn’t need to do any quick sums in my head, for I’d found my answer. Waldo could not possibly be Della’s father.

  7

  TO SHANTIGAR

  Next morning, there wasn’t time to puzzle over Della Parker. It was all hustle and bustle as we got ready to leave for our holiday in Castlemaine. Only when we arrived at the station did I remember last night.

  Della was unhinged. Perhaps even dangerous. Little bubbles of fear began to surface in my mind. Would she appear on the platform? Or even board our train? I was so intent on scanning the crowd for that tall figure in grey that I bumped into a couple of strangers, and even tripped over Papa’s cane.

  Poppy looked me up and down. “Watch out,” she said, and her small face was deadly serious. “We don’t want no more accidents on railway stations.”

  Last year, I’d nearly fallen on the tracks in front of a train, and it was Poppy who’d saved my life.

  “No, Poppy. We don’t want any accidents,” I said, hugging her. I paid proper attention after that.

  Still, I was relieved when the locomotive puffed its way out of the station with no sign of Della Parker. I wanted to spare Papa even the smallest anxiety. And if I didn’t have to worry about her, I wouldn’t. I intended our Castlemaine holiday to be as uneventful as possible. Even a bit boring would be fine.

  Once the train got going, Connie and Poppy began to doze.

  “They are tired after such a late night,” said Papa. “Let them sleep. Me, I shall read.”

  In a few minutes, he too was snoozing. I rummaged in my basket. Knitting (I was making socks for Horace), a novel, my French grammar … Somehow nothing appealed and I decided to look out of the window instead. We steamed through the suburbs of Melbourne, through scattered small towns and out into the countryside. The brown Keilor Plains were parched and dusty at the end of a long hot summer. Then I nodded off too.

  I was leaning over a balcony, looking down on a huge, empty stage in an empty theatre. There was no orchestra, no chorus and no audience – just me. Slowly my mother walked onto the stage. Her voice reverberated in the empty space until it sounded as if a whole choir was singing.

  “Whatever may bind you,

  I will always find you …”

  Then, suddenly, I realised there was someone else in the theatre. It was Papa, sitting by himself in the middle of the front row. He was wearing immaculate evening clothes with a white gardenia in his buttonhole. He watched my mother with a smile on his face, whispering the words of the song as she sang them.

  “I will always find you …”

  She broke off in the middle of a line and stood looking down at him. “Pierre?” she said.

  Then she held out her arms.

  I blinked. I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked around the carriage. The two girls were fast asleep. So was Papa. I studied him for a few seconds. His hair was white, not black as it had been in my dream, but he was still a handsome man. He was smiling in his sleep.

  As if he could tell I was awake, Papa opened one eye. “Where are we, chérie?”

  “I’m not sure, Papa.”

  “I’ve got pins an’ needles.” Now Poppy was awake too. “Are we there yet?”

  We looked at the landscape flashing past on either side of the line. Dusty roads, bush, farmland, a few straggling houses.

  “Look,” said Papa. “Can you see that large hill? Or mountain, I suppose we must call it, though compared to the Swiss Alps or the Rockies it is merely a pimple. It is called Mount Alexander. Did you know, girls, that the Mount Alexander goldfields were among the richest in the world? Ernö told me that during the gold rush, everyone in the colony was possessed of the gold fever and it was to the Mount Alexander diggings that they came in their thousands, to live in tents and try to make their fortunes.”

  The conductor put his head through the door of our carriage. “Castlemaine is next, sir.”

  The rhythm of the train began to slow. Now we could see streets and paths, a bridge, the tall spires of churches, rows of cottages.

  “We have arrived,” announced Papa.

  Castlemaine Station was a handsome brick building. As we walked from the platform past the ticket office and waiting rooms and out into the yard, I saw a wide street leading up a hill. It was lined with houses, shops, hotels and churches, and I have to confess my spirits rose. I’m a city girl, born and bred, and after Papa’s talk about tents and goldmines, I didn’t know what to expect. To be sure there was almost nobody about, but I put that down to the heat. It was much warmer than in Melbourne.

  Mr Petrov had ordered the livery stables to send a driver with a wagonette to pick us up. The stationmaster followed us out.

  “There’s something else to take up to Mr Petrov,” he said, and a couple of men followed him carrying a large crate. A small white head with a beak and watchful blue eyes poked out through the wooden slats.

  “Ooh, it’s a bird,” said Poppy, backing away. Though she loved animals, Poppy wasn’t keen on birds. Lucifer was the only exception.

  “It’s just a hen, Poppy,” said Connie, taking her hand.

  “No, it’s a peacock,” said the stationmaster. “You’ll find a whole flock of them up at Mr Petrov’s. He’s quite a bird fancier.”

  “Well, I don’t fancy ’em,” said Poppy. She poked out her tongue at the peacock. “Not one bit.”

  A few blocks from the station, the driver turned in from the main road and drove up a steepish hill. The houses that lined this street were neat and modern, surrounded by pretty gardens. The sun was shining and a stray breeze ruffled the ribbons on my hat. The shadow of Della Parker faded to nothing. I sighed happily as I breathed in a lungful of fresh country air.

  “Nice, ain’t it?” said the driver. “Champagne air, I always says. Not all dirty and full o’ smoke and smells like the city. And here we are.”

  He turned down the gravelled driveway of a large, low house with a verandah all the way round and stopped at the entrance. Mr Petrov, leaning on a cane, was standing in the doorway and he came forwards to greet us. How stiffly he walked, how frail and sick he seemed. It was hard to believe that he and Papa were the same age.

  “We’re here!” yelled Poppy.

  Mr Petrov winced at the volume of her voice but he spoke kindly. “So you are, my dear,” he said. “Welcome to our home.” Turning his head, Mr Petrov added, “This is my wife, Helen.”

  A woman emerged from the shadowy hallway and Poppy dropped a curtsey that would have done for a duchess. Amid the flurry of introductions that followed, I exchanged a quick glance with Papa. He was just as astonished as I was. You see, when Papa had told me Mr Petrov had married his grandchildren’s nanny, I expected the lady to be middle-aged or older, and, well – nanny-like.

  Mrs Petrov was a stunner. She had grey eyes and wheat-coloured hair done up high on her head. Her face was beautiful and so pale that she reminded me of one of those white marble statues (they were Classical, according to Papa, so their lack of clothes wasn’t rude) dotted around Alhambra’s conservatory. Holding herself as stiff as a poker, she offered her hand to Papa. Papa took off his hat and, bowing from the waist, kissed her hand.

  “My dear lady,” he said. “What a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  “I’m glad you were able to come.”

  She sounded more like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson than a rich man’s wife. I felt a quick rush of sympathy. Having married her employer and gone up in the world, she must sometimes feel like a fish out of water. It was that way for me too when I first went to live with the Plushes. I was never quite sure what to do and say. It was a while before I felt I
belonged upstairs with the family instead of below stairs with the servants.

  “Here’s George to get your bags,” she said, motioning to a wizened elderly fellow, as small as a jockey, who appeared from around the side of the house. “And I hope you will enjoy your stay with us at Shantigar.”

  “Shanti-what?” said Poppy.

  “Shantigar is a word in an ancient Indian language,” said Mr Petrov. “It means ‘peaceful home’.”

  The peace was shattered when, with a shriek and a flash of blue and brown feathers, two large fowl came around the corner, shot past us and disappeared into the shrubbery.

  “Bloody ’ell!” yelped Poppy.

  “My peacocks,” said Mr Petrov. “Peafowl, I should say; the brown bird was a hen. It is the male that has the fine feathers.”

  Mrs Petrov bobbed down, put her arm around Poppy’s waist and drew her close. “They won’t hurt you, dear.”

  Poppy looked at her and smiled. As she’d lost her front teeth her smile was rather gummy at present, but somehow that made her very appealing. Mrs Petrov seemed to think so, anyway, for her cheeks turned a faint pink. Suddenly she sounded warm and friendly. “I’ve been so looking forward to having children around the house. Come with me, girls, and I’ll show you to your room.”

  She led us to a large room furnished with a double and a single bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table and a bureau. George, the Petrovs’ odd-job man, had already brought our bags in. I looked around, noticing how bright and dainty everything was. The pillowcases were embroidered with pink roses, and so were the hand towels that sat on the washstand. A posy in a jug stood on the mantelpiece and there was a pile of picture books, a rubber ball and a doll on the end of one of the beds. Something told me that Helen had gone to all this trouble herself.

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mrs Petrov,” added Connie.

  “Mrs Petrov – that sounds so stuffy! You must call me Helen,” she said.

  “Helen!” Poppy had scrambled up onto the double bed. Now she was bouncing up and down. Why did she have to mislay her manners right now? She bounced higher. “Look at me, Helen! Look at me!”