by Susan Green
“Ha!” said Mrs Morcom. “I’ve heard refined young ladies that shriek like cockatoos. You are an excellent teacher though, Judith. Verity is not exactly a sow’s ear, but I do believe she will be a silk purse by the time you have done with her.”
It was book-learning with SP and tea parties with Judith, but with the Professor it was all Experiments.
“Experiment” was a new word to me, but I learned its meaning only too well. So well that my heart sank to my boots every time I heard the Professor say it. At first it was fun, but after a while a few hours trimming hats would have seemed like a holiday to me.
This is what we did. I’d be blindfolded, and the Professor and I would sit either side of a table, with a screen between us. He’d shuffle a pack of cards and then place one of them on his side and ask me to guess what it was. And what do you know? Right from the first, I hardly ever got one wrong. That got the Professor very excited. After the playing cards, we moved on to coloured shapes and wooden animals and words written on pieces of card. All these childish games were highly interesting to the Professor, but to me they were strange and a bit scary. It was sort of like finding you can speak French or play the piano, just like that, with never a lesson or a teacher. I found myself trying to ignore the itchy fingers, trying not to see the pictures in my head. But the Professor was unstoppable.
“Excellent, excellent,” he’d say, and write it all up in his big leather-bound book. He put in the time and date and how long it took for me to guess, and my answers to his questions. Well, question, really. He said it different ways, but it was always the same one.
“How do you do it?”
I couldn’t tell him. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t know.
“These experiments, sir,” I said one morning. “Can I ask you what they are for?”
The Professor stroked his moustache, and thought a little. “In this modern scientific age,” he began, “we have to assume that there are in fact real explanations for events and occurrences that in the past were seen as pure mysteries.” He smiled his beautiful smile and patted my shoulder. “As a very great man, a friend of mine, said, ‘Every fact is a theory, if we did but know it.’ And so my aim is to gather as many facts about your gift as possible, so that my fellow researchers and I can put them under the light of scientific analysis.”
“Fellow searchers?”
“Ah, my dear child. You’ve said it.” He looked at me very kindly and fondly. “We are indeed searchers: searchers after truth in dark and hidden places. We call ourselves the Society for the Investigation of Psychic Phenomena. A small group as yet, but some fine minds. In fact, there is a meeting here tonight. I would like it very much if you would join us.”
“So you can show me off, Professor?”
The Professor choked on his tea, and I wondered if I’d been rude.
“No, Verity. Well, actually, yes. But not if you truly dislike the idea.”
I did. I could just see it: a pack of toffs all looking on while I did tricks like an organ-grinder’s monkey. But I didn’t have the heart to say no. The Professor was so excited about his notes and his experiments, and who was I to spoil his fun?
“I would like to do something a little different too. I will describe the way you found the brooch and my pipe and the horse, but I would also like you, if you would, to demonstrate the finding of a hidden item,” he said.
“Yes?” I said, trying hard to sound willing.
“It would be a splendid addition to our data.” He rubbed his hands together. “I will ask one or two of our members to secrete some small objects in the room before you come in, while another pair keeps watch in the passageway, to make sure you are not peeping through the keyhole. And Verity, could you put your mind to the toasting fork?”
“The toasting fork?” Whatever next! Sometimes the Professor’s mind leaped about like a barrel of monkeys.
“It’s been missing since last week.”
They came at eight, and after half an hour of official SIPP business, the Professor came and got me. There were seven members of the SIPP gathered in the library, but I was too nervous to notice much more than a varied collection of beards and moustaches, some very dreary dresses on the ladies, and even drearier bonnets.
“My fellow searchers,” the Professor began. “I would like to introduce Miss Verity Sparks. Miss Sparks has kindly consented to be with us tonight, to demonstrate her skills as a teleagtivist.” There was some whispered comment, and the Professor went on. “Teleagtivism, as you all know, is a word of my own devising; some of you of course will prefer the catch-all ‘telepathy’, but we may leave that issue for another meeting. I would like to assure you all that Miss Sparks is not a professional, has never mounted the stage and has never given any exhibition or display. Miss Sparks, may I present Sir Maximilian Orffe, Mrs Rose, Professors Choate and Flange, Mr Savinov, Miss Kelling and our newest member, Doctor Beale.”
We did the usual. I named the cards and I found the small objects, including the toasting fork that the Professor had really and truly mislaid. (It was in the coal scuttle.) But we didn’t go on too long; I think Mrs Morcom must have had a quiet talk to the Professor about performing dogs and the like, and it was all rather well-mannered and respectful, with a lot of “If you please, Miss Sparks” and “Thank you, Miss Sparks”. At the end, he asked me if I would be prepared to answer one or two questions from the meeting.
Doctor Beale stood up. He had narrow shoulders but a very big head, and thin mousy hair slicked back with oil. He was clean-shaven, which was unusual; most gentlemen preferred beards and moustaches, and a few whiskers would have balanced out his large, white forehead. The room was too dim for me to judge the colour of his eyes, but they were pale, and when he fixed them on me I couldn’t help giving a little shiver, as if I’d stepped out into the cold. All in all, he was rather odd, but I don’t think that was why I took an instant dislike to him.
“Miss Sparks,” he said, speaking very slowly and precisely, as if each word was snipped off with scissors. “Can you tell me if any other member of your family exhibited special gifts?”
“No, sir,” I said. My family tree – or lack of – was none of his business.
“And have you ever taken part in any program of experimentation before?”
“No, sir.”
“Aha. In your opinion, Miss Sparks, how are the experiments impacting upon your abilities? Have you noticed an increase, or indeed a diminishing of your powers?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“He’s asking if you are getting better or worse,” said Mrs Rose in a loud whisper.
“Nothing much has changed, sir,” I said.
That wasn’t exactly true. I knew that all the practising was making me better at it, but I met the Professor’s eyes and he gave a tiny little nod, as if agreeing with my short answers. I got the impression that he didn’t like Dr Beale very much.
Then Miss Kelling wanted to know if I visualised in black-and-white, and Mrs Rose wondered if I felt tired afterwards, and I said no to that one and yes to the other, and then asked to be excused.
“Miss Sparks, permit me to detain you for a minute longer,” said a deep fruity voice. It was Mr Savinov. He’d been sitting quietly at the back of the room, but as he rose I saw that he was a fine-looking old man, tall and so burly he was almost bursting out of his evening suit. His hair was long and brushed back from his face in thick silver-grey waves, and his beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. His calm, stern face reminded me of the bronze lions in Trafalgar Square.
“Miss Sparks, your skills are remarkable, and so is your patience. I would like to thank you on behalf of all of us –” he gestured to those gathered in the library “– and to wish you well.”
There was a polite round of applause, and I think I blushed red as a beetroot. Fancy that, I thought. Compliments to Verity Sparks. I looked back into the room just as I was closing the door, and Mr Savinov caught my eye. He gave me a little smi
le, as if we two were in on the same secret. I smiled back. I was still smiling when I got upstairs to my room.
I wasn’t smiling twenty minutes later. The Professor sent Etty to ask if I’d come to his study for a moment.
“The Doctor’s there with him,” she told me.
“Dr Beale?”
“That’s the one,” said Etty, making a face. So she didn’t like him either.
I let myself in and shut the door. The two men were standing side by side in front of the fire, and in spite of the warmth, there was a frosty kind of feeling in the room.
“Dr Beale has something to ask you, Verity,” said the Professor. His voice sounded very strange. I wondered what was the matter with him. “Go on, Doctor.”
He got straight to the point. “Miss Sparks, I want to request your valuable assistance in a vital matter of scientific research.” He paused, looking at me. Close up, his eyes were pale green and reminded me of fishes’ eyes, and his skin had an odd, waxy sheen to it. “No more than one week’s investigation would be involved, and I am prepared to pay you fifty pounds for your cooperation.” It was clear he expected I’d jump at the chance to make fifty pounds – after all, it was a small fortune – and he stretched his mouth open in what I suppose he thought was a smile. “What do you say, Miss Sparks?”
I didn’t want to help Dr Beale in anything, no matter how vital. He gave me the creeps. “I’m already doing experiments with the Professor,” I said.
Dr Beale raised his eyebrows. “I have advised Professor Plush that to wilfully stand in the way of progress for purely personal reasons is selfishness of the highest order, and will reap its own punishment. Neither should he stand in the way of letting you better yourself by receiving a considerable financial reward, which would allow you to become independent of your so-called benefactors and friends.”
“So-called?” I didn’t like the sneer in Dr Beale’s voice. “I’m not sure what benefactors are, but I know my friends when I see them.”
“So you may think.” Dr Beale smirked. “You are, if you will forgive my analogy, the goose that lays the golden eggs, and so of course Professor Plush is kind to you. Sheer self-interest.”
The Professor made an odd little noise in his throat, but said not one word. I wanted to say something very rude, for who was Dr Beale to call me a goose? But I kept silent too. Acting like that is called dignity, Judith taught me.
“My sister, Miss Anna Beale, will be pleased to receive you and of course act as chaperone,” Dr Beale continued. “What do you say, Miss Sparks?”
“I don’t want to,” I said flatly.
Our eyes met. The way he looked at me, I could have been an insect. An interesting insect, one that he wanted to catch and put in a jar and investigate. But not a person. Not me, Verity Sparks. He was silent for a few seconds, and then his face gave a kind of twitch.
“Miss Sparks,” he said, bowing slightly, and then he turned to the Professor. “Well, sir,” he said. “The young lady has spoken, and I have failed in my quest. I have no hard feelings, I assure you, Miss Sparks. I bid you both goodnight.”
We heard the front door slam a few seconds later.
“That man!” shouted the Professor. “That … that man.”
Now I knew what had been wrong with his voice. He’d wanted to yell.
He paced up and down for a few seconds and then snatched a vase from the mantelpiece and deliberately threw it onto the hearth. “There,” he said, looking at the smashed pieces. “That feels better. Now find me the bannister brush, Verity, and I’ll hide the evidence from Etty.”
8
CALLISTEMON CITRINUS
“I hear you had a flattering offer last night,” said SP after breakfast the next morning.
“Do tell, Verity,” said Judith, but when I did she made a face. “How odd.”
“He hasn’t the best reputation, has he?” said SP.
“The man’s a pest!” exploded the Professor.
“What has he done?” asked Judith.
The Professor calmed down, then said with a sigh, “Apparently, he’s up to the last chapters of his book. He’s convinced it’s going to make the whole world sit up and take notice, but he needs another subject for his experiments now Madame Oblomov has taken her son back to Moscow. Beale thought Verity here would fit the bill perfectly. Offered to pay her. Sister will chaperone, and all that. But I could never have allowed Verity to accept his offer, even if she’d been tempted. I believe that Dr Beale has performed some most irregular experiments.”
“What sort?” I asked.
“It is said that he obtained a number of children from an orphanage. He wanted to find out whether certain fears are innate or acquired.” He hesitated. “Rumour is that one of the children died.”
“How dreadful,” said Judith.
“What happened to the other children?” I asked.
“They went back to the orphanage, I suppose. It was hushed up, of course, and there were some who thought nothing of it.” He gave a little grunt. “I must say I wish the man hadn’t joined our little group. But there was a letter of introduction from Professor James of Harvard, you see, and I couldn’t really say no.”
“Verity, you don’t have to see him again,” said SP. “Does she, Father?”
“Certainly not. In fact, when I agreed to let him talk to you last night, Verity, it was on the condition that if you refused, he was not to communicate with you again.” He changed the subject. “And how did you enjoy the gathering last night?”
“It wasn’t near as bad as I’d thought it would be,” I said honestly. “I did like Mr Savinov.”
“Ah!” said the Professor. “Dear Pierre. I am lunching with him at the Megatherium Club today. He’s a fine fellow, and a most interesting man as well. He’s done many things. Born in Russia, made his fortune in furs and timber in Canada, and now has businesses all over the Continent.”
“Have you known him long?” I asked.
“No, no. I met him only a couple of years ago. He’s a good friend of our neighbour, Monsieur Tissot. Have you met Tissot yet, Verity? Judith is thick as thieves with his wife, Kathleen.”
I had been to quite a few tea parties with Judith, but not yet to the Tissots. I shook my head, wanting to hear more about Mr Savinov, but all the Professor said was “Such a tragedy.”
Did he mean the Tissots or Mr Savinov? I waited for him to explain himself, but, still eating his toast, he picked up his morning’s letters and left the room.
“So, no experiments today?” said SP with a quick grin. He knew how I felt. “Do you want to skip lessons as well?”
“Lessons?” said Judith, standing up and dropping a light kiss on her brother’s cheek. “Can’t we let the poor child alone? Sometimes I think we’re working her much too hard.”
Too hard! If only she knew.
“Come on, Verity,” said Judith. “Aunt Almeria and I are bored to tears. Please come and talk to us. You come too, SP. I think Antony and Cleopatra are due for their breakfast.”
I couldn’t see Mrs Morcom at first. Or the snakes, and that made me nervous.
“There’s nothing to fear, Verity. They’re all tucked up in their case,” said Judith. “I think Aunt must be at her easel.”
The easel turned out to be a wooden stand. Propped onto it was a board, and on the board was a picture. It was a mass of greenery and palm fronds and some kind of fruit, and half-hidden in it was a snake.
“Did you do that, ma’am?”
“I did.”
“It looks real.”
Mrs Morcom smiled. “I’ve taken a little artistic licence with the colouring,” she said. “But it’s generally quite accurate. The palm – Macrozamia moorei – is the real subject, of course.” She turned to Judith. “Now, where’s that brother of yours, Judith? Too busy to see his aunt today?”
“He’s gone to get their rats, Aunt.”
I was puzzled. “What’s the rats for?”
Mrs Morcom raised her
eyebrows. They were very thick, whiskery eyebrows, and underneath them her eyes were bright and beady, like those of a small wild creature. She smiled as she said, “To eat.”
“Oh.”
“What did you think snakes lived on?”
I turned and stared at Antony and Cleopatra, peacefully coiled up in their large glass case. “Grass?”
“Snakes need live meat, Verity. ‘Nature, red in tooth and claw,’ as Tennyson says. Tennyson,” she explained kindly, “is one of our great English poets. Except it’s fang and constrictor muscles in this case. Ah, there you are.”
SP had returned with a box. Out of it he plucked a large black-and-white rat. It hung there placidly as he held it by the tail with one hand, opened the top of the of glass case with the other hand, and quickly dropped it inside. The rat took a few little steps, and sniffed. It sniffed again, nibbled at something on the floor of the case, twitched its whiskers, and nibbled some more, quite unaware of what was uncoiling only a few inches away.
“Don’t watch, Verity,” said Judith.
I sensed rather than saw Cleopatra’s head dart forward, for she moved as quick as lightning. In a trice, she was coiled a couple of times around the rat’s body and clamping her jaws around its head.
“You’re not going to faint again, are you?” asked Mrs Morcom.
“No, ma’am.”
“Sit down then, child. You’ve gone green.”
The next time I glanced her way, Cleopatra had just the rat’s rump and long pink tail sticking out of her mouth. It was quite a business, I could see, getting a big fat rat down a snake’s gullet. How uncomfortable, I thought.
“It’s too big.”
“She’ll swallow it all right,” said SP. “But she’s often stuck like that for minutes at a time.”
“Ugh.” I shuddered a bit. “Poor rat.”
“It didn’t know what hit it,” said Mrs Morcom. “And it wasn’t a poor rat at all. It was a very pampered rat, raised with the best of care by Ben O’Brien, the gardener’s boy. SP’s going to feed Antony now, so turn away, if it bothers you. Would you like to see some more of my paintings? Go into my studio – there, girl, over there. See that portfolio on the desk?”
