The Truth About Verity Sparks

by Susan Green

  I stifled a scream. “It’s a … it’s …”

  “She’s a diamond python,” said Mr Plush senior. “Morelia spilota spilota. Her name is Cleopatra.” He smiled and stroked her, and she reared up so that her head was level with his. “Beautiful isn’t she?” he said admiringly. “Pure muscle. I say, Miss Sparks, are you all right? You’re awfully pale.”

  “It’s … it’s …” Another snake. On the floor. Right near my foot.

  “That’s Antony,” said young Mr Plush.

  Suddenly Antony stirred. His tongue flickered out, and for the first time in my life, I fainted.

  5

  TELEAGTIVISM

  I opened my eyes to see two faces hovering above me. Two ladies’ faces. One was old and looked like a pug, and the other was young and looked like an angel.

  “How are you feeling, dear?” said the angel, placing a cushion behind my head.

  “Fuss and bother,” said the pug. “Antony’s about as dangerous as an old sock.”

  “Here’s a glass of water,” said the angel, putting it to my lips while I took a sip. “Are you overheated? Would you like me to fan you?”

  “Of course she doesn’t need a fan. There’s no point coddling her,” said the pug. “Healthy young girl like this should be up and about, not languishing on a sofa.”

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Sparks.” Another face hovered into view. It was young Mr Plush.

  “As am I, Miss Sparks.” The voice of Mr Plush senior seemed to come from somewhere inside a tree.

  “Where am I?” It looked like we were in the middle of a forest. “And where are the … the …” I looked around for the snakes.

  “Antony and Cleopatra are back in their case. Where they should have been all along,” the angel said sharply. “You know all the servants are terrified of them, Aunt. It was very thoughtless of you. Down, Amy!” The black-and-white spaniel I’d met when I arrived jumped up and tried to lick my hands.

  “Fiddlesticks,” said the pug. “There’s nothing the maids enjoy so much as a good fit of hysterics. Besides, I was sketching them au naturel. Well, as au naturel as you can get in a suburban conservatory.”

  “Conservatory?” I said.

  “We’re in the conservatory,” said the angel. I had no idea what she was talking about, but she explained. “It’s where we grow our rare and tropical plants. That’s why it’s so warm. And the snakes live in here too.”

  I gazed around me. Of course it wasn’t a forest. It was a big room all made of glass, with a tiled floor and raised garden beds and large pots for the plants and trees. A fountain trickled water. The trees were called palms, I learned later, and there were about twenty different kinds. I was lying on a wicker sofa, and nearby were two wicker chairs, a dog basket and a table laid with tea for two. The spaniel, the angel, the pug and the snakes must have been having a tea party when we walked in.

  “Since Papa and SP are so forgetful, I’ll introduce myself,” said the angel. “I am Judith Plush.”

  Miss Plush had the family resemblance all right, except her hair was more chestnut than brown. She had melting dark eyes and the same beautiful smile as her father and brother. No moustache, of course.

  “A thousand pardons, Judith my dear. Where are my manners?” said Mr Plush senior. He turned to the pug. “Miss Sparks, this is Mrs Morcom, my sister. Almeria, this is Miss Sparks. She is helping us with some inquiries.”

  “How d’you do?” said Mrs Morcom and held out her hand. It was bright green. “Don’t worry about that,” she said, seeing my surprise. “It’s viridian. One of the more permanent pigments. It’s the hydrated oxide of chromium that does it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, bewildered.

  Mrs Morcom was shorter than me, but somehow her deep, croaky voice made her seem bigger than she was. So did her fierce, bristling eyebrows. And her hat. In the millinery trade I’ve seen lots of hats, but never one like this. It was a kind of turban, a foot high, made of shiny purple silk with a tasselled fringe hanging down the back. She looked like she had a cushion on her head.

  “Oh.”

  “Are you in pain, Miss Sparks?” asked young Mr Plush.

  I shook my head. The cushion I’d seen as I walked through the house was Mrs Morcom’s turban. I tried not to stare, and then something odd happened. My fingertips began to tingle again. It felt like the blood was fizzing underneath my skin.

  “Your pipe, sir,” I whispered, turning to Mr Plush senior. “I think I know where it is.”

  Then I blushed. It seemed so silly. And what if I was wrong?

  “Where is it, my dear?”

  I pointed.

  “Oh, botheration, Judith.” All of a sudden, Mrs Morcom looked more like a kitten than a pug. A mischievous kitten. In a deep, throaty giggle, she said, “We’ve been caught.”

  Then they all started talking at once.

  “Why is Father’s pipe under your hat, Aunt Almeria?”

  “I was trying to persuade her to give it back, Papa.”

  “You are poisoning your body, which as you know, Saddy, is a sacred temple – or should be – with that disgusting tobacco. It was for your own good.”

  “But it’s healthful, Almeria. Good for the lungs.”

  “Pish! Tosh! Poppycock!”

  “But why is it under your hat?”

  And then suddenly they fell silent.

  “She found it, Father,” said young Mr Plush quietly. “Miss Sparks found it.”

  “By Jove, she did. She really did.” Mr Plush senior put his hand on my shoulder. “Miss Sparks, I think you may be a teleagtivist.”

  Was that someone who lit fires? Or threw bombs? Cook had read to us all about them from the newspaper, I was sure. I stood up. “No, I aint!”

  “A teleagtivist,” said young Mr Plush, “is someone who is able to see objects from a distance and find them. It’s a term of my father’s own devising.”

  I sat back down. “A tele-what?”

  “The tele part comes from the Classical Greek language, and means something far off,” said Mr Plush senior. “And ago; I bring, and finally visio; I see. Teleagtivist, you see.”

  I didn’t.

  “Miss Sparks, I think you are one of those rare people who can see a thing that is hidden. There are many authenticated instances of telekinesis – which is the act of moving objects by mental effort – but not many of finding objects. I have met only one, a most remarkable case, a young sailor from the Hebridean island of Eigg. His fingers, also, itched.”

  “How tedious you are, Saddy, with your psychic poppycock.” interrupted Mrs Morcom. She then said, in a gentler tone, “Saddy, you really mustn’t tire Miss Sparks. Remember the poor girl’s just fainted.”

  I looked gratefully at Mrs Morcom. I was tired. After all, in the past few days I’d been framed and then sacked; I’d been attacked and rescued; and I’d found out that not only was I adopted, I was also a telega … whatever it was.

  But Mr Plush senior ignored his sister.

  “I speculate that perhaps when someone is deeply, passionately anxious to find something that is missing, that desire will transfer itself to the teleagtivist, so that–”

  “Saddy!” Mrs Morcom rapped him on the shoulder with a rolled newspaper, but he still ignored her.

  “So that without a conscious search, the object is found. You did it all the time at Madame Louisette’s.” He turned to me and smiled. “And here, you’ve found my favourite pipe.” As I said before, he had a lovely smile.

  “Judith, rescue her,” said Mrs Morcom, and threw her turban at her brother.

  “Rescue her?” He looked quite puzzled. “Why does she need to be rescued?”

  “Would you like to rest, dear?” asked Miss Plush.

  “Yes please, miss.” So she took me up to my room, and the rest of the day passed in a dream, sitting in an armchair by a cosy fire and having supper on a tray, and ended in the softest, warmest bed this side of heaven. I went to sleep without a worry in th
e world about evil designs.

  The next morning Etty said, quite casual, that I was to come down to breakfast with the family.

  I couldn’t work it out. Ladies and gentlemen don’t usually have much to do with the likes of me. Servants and shopgirls and apprentices were on one side of the fence, and they were on the other. Still, my whole world had already been turned topsy-turvy. What was one more thing?

  Mrs Morcom had breakfast in her room, and Miss Judith only ate eggs and toast, but both Mr Plushes ate ham and kidneys and sausages and fish all full of whiskery bones, as well as the eggs and toast. Amy, a late riser like her mistress, joined us in time for scraps and a dish of milky tea. They all drank a lot of tea, and then read their newspapers (even Miss Judith) and their letters. There was a pile of letters, and though Miss Judith said gently, “Oh, Papa.” Mr Plush senior opened them all with his eggy knife.

  “Aha!” he said, leaving one large envelope intact and waving it around.

  “What is it, Father?” asked young Mr Plush.

  “It’s our invoice to Lady Throttle, SP. It’s got ‘Return to sender’ written on it. Very quick off the mark, isn’t she?”

  Perhaps it wasn’t my business. But perhaps it was, considering as how it involved Lady Throttle. “Invoice, sir?” I asked. “Is that like the bill, sir?”

  “Indeed it is, Miss Sparks.” He put it back in the pile. “Perhaps, my dear, you could address me as ‘Professor’? You know, I really do prefer it.” He beamed his beautiful smile at me. “We are a very informal household. No need for ‘Miss Plush’, is there?”

  Miss Plush – I mean, Judith – smiled and shook her head. “You could also call Saddington here SP, as we all do. It’s a lot shorter.”

  I looked from one to the other. An informal household, he called it. Bloomin’ mad, I called it. “Professor” was all right, for it sounded respectful, but how could I – Verity Sparks – address a lady and gentleman as “Judith” and “SP”?

  Brother and sister smiled encouragingly.

  “Please do,” said young Mr Plush.

  Orders is orders after all, I thought. “You’d better call me Verity, then, SP, sir,” I said. For some reason, they all laughed.

  “Professor, sir, was Lady Throttle going to pay you to find the diamond?” I persisted.

  “She was.”

  “And now you’ve lost money on that job?”

  “Yes,” said the Professor, seeming quite unconcerned. “I suppose we have.” Just then the door opened and Etty came in.

  “Mr Opie is here, sir,” she said. “He says he’s sorry to make such an early call, but he has something important to tell you.”

  I pricked up my ears. Opie? Wasn’t it a Mr Opie who’d helped SP to rescue me?

  “Ask him to come in right away, please, Etty,” said the Professor. “Important information. So soon. Splendid.”

  The Professor sat back, all smiles, to wait for his visitor, but Judith had gone rather red in the face. She pushed back her chair suddenly and got to her feet.

  “Excuse me,” she said, so quiet it was almost a whisper, and left the room. I wondered if perhaps she’d been took ill, but if either gentleman even noticed, they didn’t seem concerned. A couple of seconds later, in walked the handsomest young man I’d ever clapped eyes on. He wasn’t as tall as SP, but more strongly built, and he had beautiful dark wavy hair, a lovely moustache, bright blue eyes and lashes as thick as silk fringe.

  “My dear fellow!” said the Professor, jumping up. “What news?” But SP had better manners and took the trouble to introduce me.

  “My dear Miss Sparks. I’m very glad to see you looking so well after your terrible experience of yesterday,” said Mr Opie. He stepped forward and shook my hand. “I’m only glad I was able to be of service to you.” He gave me a smile like he meant every word, and I felt like a little princess.

  “What’s more,” he said, turning to the Professor, “I was able to find out the scoundrel’s identity. His name is Pinner. He’s a dog thief by trade.”

  “A dog thief,” said SP. “Can that really be a speciality in crime?”

  “Yes,” I broke in. I knew about dog-stealing. “Any number of our ladies has had their lapdogs taken and a ransom note sent. Five pounds, Lady Purslane paid up, and they didn’t even send Pansy back.”

  “Miss Sparks is right,” said Mr Opie. “Valuable dogs are ransomed or even exported, and the cheaper ones are sold for their skins. Dog stealers are very odd fellows; it seems they’re bred to that particular kind of crime, and that’s why it’s highly unusual for this Pinner to have attacked someone.”

  “Her purse was taken, so it may have been a simple street robbery, even if Pinner was acting out of character,” said SP.

  “Indeed,” said the Professor. “But I wonder why? Why this particular young girl? It’s not as if Verity looks particularly prosperous. She wore no jewellery, her clothes were perfectly ordinary and her bag, if she’ll forgive me for saying so, was distinctly shabby. Verity, my dear, do you remember anything about the attack? Can you describe what happened?”

  I described. I described so much that SP had to scribble to catch up with me, and the Professor shook his head in amazement. “Verity,” he said. “Do you know that you have a most remarkable memory?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you do. You seem to have almost total recall.”

  “He means that you remember everything,” said SP.

  “Oh.” I’d never thought about it before.

  The Professor and SP exchanged a glance, and then the Professor continued with his questions. “Anything else?”

  It was the one thing that really puzzled me about the whole thing. “When I walked past the laneway, the girl called out my name.”

  “Your name?” the Professor boomed. “She knew your name?”

  “Why, yes, sir. She must of, sir.”

  “D’you hear that, SP? She knew her name. Verity, are you sure you’ve never heard of this Pinner fellow? What’s his first name, Opie?”

  “Mic-Mac.”

  “Mic-Mac?” I said. “Why, that’s Miss Charlotte’s sweetheart.”

  Over the next few days, it all fell into place. After a few of what the Professor called “discreet inquiries”, they found out that Lady Throttle was up to her ears in debt. Too many hats, too many card games and too much keeping up with rich friends. So she hatched a plan to fake the robbery of the Throttle diamond and sell it, thus paying her debts, with her husband none the wiser. Lady Throttle, it turned out, had once been a hat-shop vendeuse herself, and that was how she knew Miss Charlotte. Miss Charlotte was in on the scheme, and she’d asked Mic-Mac to retrieve the ruby when my itchy fingers spoiled their plans. It turned out she’d been in on the dog-nappings too.

  Anyway, the long and short of it was that the Plushes invited me to continue as their guest until the Throttle affair was all sorted out.

  A week later found us with a private appointment at the Throttles’.

  Lady Throttle ignored me, but greeted the gents with a charming giggle. I could tell she was nervous. Her little white hands were trembling as she unwrapped a chocolate. “Would you like tea? I’ll ring for Crewel.”

  “No, thank you, Lady Throttle. This is not a social call. It’s a business matter.”

  “I can’t think what you mean. Surely our business is concluded. My maid put the wretched thing in my purse. It was found and that’s the end of the matter.”

  “But what of Miss Sparks?”

  “Miss Sparks? Who is Miss Sparks? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Miss Sparks is here in the room with us, Lady Throttle.”

  She reddened slightly. “The girl, you mean.”

  “Yes, the girl. This girl. You were quite happy for this girl to be tried and found guilty of theft. You were quite happy for her to go to prison. And when your plot failed, you took your spiteful revenge. You had her dismissed from her place. Do you know what that can mean for a young girl in a
city like London? Do you, Lady Throttle?” The Professor’s voice got louder and louder. He rose to his feet, looking very tall and stern, a bit like a hellfire preacher I once saw in the street, only better dressed.

  “It’s … it’s nothing to do with me,” she said faintly.

  “I think it is.”

  “Not at all,” she said, rallying. “I shall tell all my friends. I have many friends, Mr Plush, and you’d better believe it. Rest assured you and your son will never find any clients again. Lady Archcape was the one who recommended you to me. Just wait until I tell her.”

  “Just wait until I tell your husband,” said the Professor.

  Her rosebud mouth fell open and her eyes bulged slightly. The chocolate box fell to the floor. “What do you want?”

  “I want our fee, I want you to pay your bill to Madame Louisette’s, and I want Miss Sparks, should she so choose, to be reinstated in her place of employment.”

  “That’s … that’s blackmail.”

  “No. That’s justice, Lady Throttle.”

  “But I haven’t got any money,” she wailed.

  “Economise, my dear lady.”

  “Economise.” She said the word so savagely she almost spat. “I know all about economising. Growing up in mended gowns and retrimmed hats and always moving to cheaper lodgings and grimier streets.”

  “Save the tragic tale for a sympathetic audience,” interrupted the Professor. “We will accept our fee in instalments, and I am sure Madame Louisette would be happy if you commence paying your account.”

  Her beautiful face was now all crumpled up and red. “You won’t … you won’t tell …”

  “Our service is completely confidential, Lady Throttle,” said the Professor, bowing, and the three of us left the room.

  “It’ll be funny being back at Madame’s after this,” I said as we walked to the waiting carriage.

  “Back at Madame’s? Whatever do you mean?” said the Professor.

  “Just what you said back there at Lady Throttle’s. She’s going to talk to Madame and restate me, or something. So I can go back to work there. Isn’t that what you meant?”