by Susan Green
Table of Contents
Cover
Blurb
Logo
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Copyright
Other Books By Susan Green
Castlemaine. 1880.
Verity is on holiday with Papa and her friends, but the fun soon comes to an end. A shocking crime has been committed.
When Verity tries to investigate, her gift creates more mysteries than it solves. Why was a red glove left at the crime scene? Who is the ghostly woman following Verity? Terrible secrets are being revealed.
With her friend in danger, Verity needs all her courage and skill. But is that enough?
The Truth About Verity Sparks was awarded Honour Book for Younger Readers, CBCA Book of the Year Awards, 2012
1
PAPA’S PARTY
Nine of us were waiting impatiently. Through the double doors in the dining room, the table was set for ten. It was Papa Savinov’s birthday, and we were having a luncheon at Alhambra, our fancy mansion in St Kilda, to celebrate. But someone was missing.
SP – Saddington Plush, to give him his full name – was running late.
“We should start without him,” said Mrs Morcom. “It would serve him right.” She was SP’s aunt, and still treated him like a naughty schoolboy.
Judith, SP’s sister, was sitting on the sofa with her husband Daniel and their baby Horace. She shook her head. “Let’s wait a little longer.”
“He must have been held up,” said Daniel, jiggling Horace on his knee. “Don’t you think so, Drucilla?”
My governess, Miss Drucilla Deane, was more of a friend than a teacher now, so we all called her by her first name. “Yes,” she said. “He knows this is a special birthday.”
“That’s why he’ll be here any minute,” I reassured them. If he wasn’t, our cook, Mrs Reilly, would have a conniption fit. She was already tearing her hair out and predicting the roast would be burned to a crisp.
“What do you think?” said Papa. “Shall we time him?” His smile embraced the two girls who sat on either side of him: Poppy, the orphan we’d adopted last year, and my friend Connie, who’d come from her home on the Murray River to stay with us for a couple of months. I was glad to see that Connie had lost all her shyness with Papa. She giggled as he took the watch chain from his pocket.
Before Papa had time to open his watch, there was a ring at the door and we heard SP’s voice echoing in the hall.
“Well, it’s about time,” scolded Mrs Morcom as he came into the room. She would have kept on, but SP was not alone. With him was a smartly dressed gentleman, not very tall, with a well-groomed silvery beard and moustache. He was beaming as he held out his hand.
“Happy birthday, Pierre.” He spoke with a foreign accent rather like Papa’s.
“Ernö,” cried Papa. “Mon cher ami!”
Smiling fit to burst, the two men kissed first one cheek and then the other in the Continental way. Who is this Ernö? I wondered. Papa had never mentioned him. SP must have seen the question in my eyes, for he came over and stood next to me.
“Is he a friend of Papa’s from Russia?” I whispered.
“No, he’s Hungarian. His name is Ernest Leviny, and he and Papa knew each other in London many years ago. He now lives in Castlemaine, a country town about seventy miles away. I met him by chance while I was conducting some inquiry business.” SP was a confidential inquiry agent – that’s a kind of private detective – and he met all kinds of people through his work. He turned to Papa and said with a grin, “A good present, Pierre?”
“C’est magnifique,” said Papa.
It was only then that I saw that SP had brought more unexpected guests. A frail elderly gentleman was sitting in a wicker chair that ran on wheels. His face was an odd yellowish colour, heavily lined and rather sad. Behind him, pushing the chair, was another man. He was tall, dressed in putty-coloured linen trousers and a matching jacket. His neatly trimmed beard and moustache were white, and so was the turban wound around his head. Poppy stared, but I had met an Indian gentleman before. Papa had friends from all around the world.
“This is Mohan Singh,” said SP, and the man put his hands together as if in prayer and bowed. Then he nodded to SP, said something in a low voice to the invalid in the wheelchair, and left the room.
Papa stared at the elderly gentleman.
“Don’t you recognise me, Pierre? You have not changed as much as I have. I would have known you anywhere.”
Papa stood as if frozen. “Is it really you? Nicolai Petrov – Nicky?”
“Most people call me Nicholas now. It does my heart good to hear you say my true name.”
“Oh, Nicky! Dear comrade of my youth, I have not seen you since we were … how old?”
“Fifteen, Pierre.”
“That was fifty years ago,” said Papa. Tears began to run down his cheeks. Speaking a mixture of English, French and Russian, smiling and crying at the same time, he kneeled and put his arm around his old friend. Tears came to my eyes too. Even Mrs Morcom gave a sniff and blew her nose loudly.
I put my hand on SP’s arm. “How clever you are, to find Papa two old friends for his birthday.”
“Lucky rather than clever. Mr Leviny and Mr Petrov live near each other in Castlemaine. They’re friends, but it was only when I mentioned Pierre’s name that they realised they both knew him. It was an amazing coincidence.”
There was another interruption. Mrs Reilly flung open the double doors and announced in a despairing tone, “If yez don’t come now, the beef’ll be burned to blazes. It’s up to you.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.
“In other words,” said SP, “luncheon is served.”
You might ask why this birthday of Papa’s was special. The answer is that two months ago I didn’t think he’d be alive to celebrate it.
Early in the New Year, I’d noticed Papa was short of breath. He puffed his way up the stairs at Alhambra. He walked slowly and had to rest often. Soon he was tired all the time. He hadn’t the energy for concerts or plays or visits to his club. Something was wrong.
Papa refused to visit Doctor Isaacs, but one morning when he couldn’t get out of bed, I was so scared I sent for the doctor myself. With SP in attendance, he spent a long, long time examining Papa in his bedroom. Then he and SP came downstairs to talk to me.
“It’s his heart,” Doctor Isaacs explained. “It’s severely weakened – which is not to be wondered at when you consider what Mr Savinov went through last year.”
He was referring to the shipwreck. Papa had been a passenger on the SS Battenberg when it sank in a storm off the Queensland coast. Injured, starving and feverish, he’d been rescued by SP a few weeks later.
“It’s just as well you called me in when you
did. Mr Savinov’s condition is very serious.”
I was too afraid to ask, but SP did it for me.
“What will happen to him, doctor?”
“It’s hard to make predictions, especially about the future,” said Doctor Isaacs, and paused to adjust his glasses. Those few seconds of suspense seemed like hours. Was it bad news? Was Papa really so ill? I began to tremble. “But I think we can be hopeful.”
Hopeful? I breathed a sigh of relief and SP patted my hand. I’m afraid I didn’t listen to the rest of what Doctor Isaacs said. There was hope, and that’s all I wanted to know. So you can see we were celebrating more than just a birthday.
“Verity?” Drucilla tapped me on the shoulder. “Verity?”
I looked around me and realised I’d been lost in thought. Everyone had raised their glasses – champagne or ginger beer, according to taste – and they were waiting for me to propose a toast.
I kept it simple. “Happy birthday, dearest Papa.”
“And many more,” added SP.
Then all around the table, each guest added their best wishes and Papa had to dab at his eyes again.
“Have we finished?” said Mrs Morcom. “Because if this goes on much longer, dinner will be burned and cold.”
“I haven’t had my go,” said Poppy.
“Well, hurry up, then.” Mrs Morcom gave her a poke in the ribs. “Get on with it.”
After much thought, Poppy raised her glass again. What was she going to say? Would she mangle one of those big words she loved so much? But in the end, her toast was perfectly simple. In fact, it was perfect.
At the top of her voice, she cried, “Let’s all be happy!”
It was a wonderful party. Mrs Reilly was wrong about the beef – it was just right– and she’d outdone herself with dessert, which was a Russian cake made from layers of sponge, glacé fruit and whipped cream and decorated with crystallised violets. Everyone – except poor Mr Petrov, who ate like a bird – had seconds. Poppy would have gone for thirds if Mrs Morcom hadn’t put her foot down.
After dessert, Mohan reappeared and took Mr Petrov away. SP told me he was in Melbourne not just for Papa’s party but to see a visiting Professor of Medicine. Papa and Mr Leviny retired to the study for cigars and a private talk. They had many years to catch up on, after all. The rest of us played parlour games.
We had “I Spy”, then “Animal, Mineral, Vegetable”. I’m afraid we were all very silly, even Mrs Morcom.
“I haven’t laughed so much for years,” she said. “What next?”
SP jumped to his feet. “Charades,” he announced. He was so flushed and excited, I suspected too much champagne. “I will go first.” Soundlessly, he held up three fingers.
“Three words,” said Judith.
First, he mimed swatting and batting at an annoying insect.
Mosquito? Wasp? He shook his head.
“Bee?” suggested Judith, and SP smiled. We’d guessed the first word.
The second was more difficult. He seemed to be hanging on to something and clutching it to his chest. Package? Parcel? Shaking his head, he started again. He pointed at a number of invisible objects before choosing one. It was very puzzling. Then Daniel had a brainwave.
“Mine?” he asked. ‘Is it ‘mine’?”
SP moved his hands to show that Daniel was nearly right.
“Is it … could it be ‘my’?” guessed Connie. She wasn’t very quick at games, so she went pink with pleasure when SP turned to her and nodded.
So the first two words were bee and my. We were up to the last word. There was an odd, sheepish expression on SP’s face as he pointed to the third finger on his left hand.
“Is it ‘ring’?” asked Mrs Morcom.
“Is it ‘wedding’?” Connie was really getting the hang of it now.
They were both wrong. SP pretended to push something away from his face and over the back of his head.
Connie made another guess. “Veil?”
“Bride,” I said.
We all fell silent. SP stepped forwards and stood directly in front of Drucilla. His green eyes, usually so merry, were serious as he looked down at her face. He smoothed his moustache nervously.
“Be my bride,” said Drucilla, slowly. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” said SP, going down on one knee. “Drucilla, my own darling, I’m asking you to marry me.”
All eyes were on Drucilla.
“Won’t you give me an answer, dearest?”
Drucilla blushed as red as a beetroot. Surprise and shock and embarrassment were written all over her face.
“Drucilla?” prompted SP. He held out his hand.
She stared at it, then burst into tears and ran sobbing out of the room. SP got to his feet. He looked bewildered.
“I’d say that is a definite ‘no’,” Mrs Morcom said.
Without a word SP whirled around and dashed away. Seconds later, the front door slammed. The gentlemen emerged from the study.
“What is going on?” asked Papa.
“SP proposed to Drucilla,” said Daniel. “She turned him down.”
“Playing charades!” said Mrs Morcom. “The boy’s a fool. What on earth was he thinking?”
“I think he just wanted to surprise her,” I said.
“Oh my dear,” said Judith. “That’s not the kind of surprise a girl likes. He should have done it in private, in the conservatory, in the moonlight. A proposal should be romantic.”
“I thought it was romantic,” said Daniel.
Mrs Morcom raised her voice. “Then you’re a fool too.”
“How dare you call him a fool?” Now Judith was angry.
Despite Papa’s attempts to calm things, it turned into a blazing row. Soon we were all in an uproar. Horace, normally the calmest of babies, began to scream his head off. And Lucifer the cockatoo, who was sitting on his perch in the bay window, added his bit to the hullaballoo.
“Go to hell! Go to hell, the lot of you!” he screeched.
I was at the end of my tether. “Oh, Lucifer,” I snapped. “Shut your beak!”
2
L’AMOUR GONE WRONG
An hour later, Drucilla was still in her bedroom.
I knocked gently. There was no answer but I could hear her moving around. I knocked again, harder. “Drucilla, are you all right?”
“Please go away, Verity,” she snuffled. “I have a headache.”
“But … isn’t there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you sure? Smelling salts? A cup of tea?”
“No!”
That last “no” was quite ferocious. I went downstairs, taking each step slowly. What on earth could I do to bring Drucilla and SP together?
You see, after everyone had calmed down, Judith had taken me aside and explained why Drucilla must marry SP.
“They’re made for each other,” she’d said. “They are both clever, funny and somewhat eccentric. They will fight and make up again splendidly. And though looks aren’t everything, Drucilla – with her red hair and blue eyes – is adorably pretty.”
Now that Judith had put the idea into my head, it was as plain as the nose on your face. Yes, SP had been head over heels ever since Drucilla had come into our lives. And if he’d made his proposal in private, I thought, right now he may have been happily engaged. I could still see his puzzled expression. Hurt feelings, bruised pride, broken heart … I felt so sorry for SP.
I wandered downstairs and through the house to Papa’s study. The door was open a crack, and I peeked in. He was lying on the sofa with a glass of soda water in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. He looked so happy I decided not to lecture him about the cigar. Doctor Isaacs had said he must cut down to one a day, and I knew for a fact he’d had two already. But it was his birthday, and I intended to slip away without disturbing him. However, Papa must have sensed I was there.
“Chérie?”
“Yes, Papa.” I went over and kissed him on the fo
rehead. “Did you enjoy your party?”
“It was a lovely party. Our dearest friends – well, they are like family, aren’t they? And how kind of SP to find Nicky and Ernö for me.”
“Mr Petrov looks so ill.”
“He is. He is almost crippled, poor fellow, and racked with pain. It is the result of a terrible fever he caught in India. I almost did not recognise him, Verity, and yet we were boys together in Russia.” Papa sighed deeply. “Poor Nicky. First his wife died, and then his son. He sold up his business in London and went to India. Everything went well for him there – he made his fortune and his daughter Irina married an army officer and had three children of her own. But then she and her husband were killed in an accident, leaving Nicky to bring up the little ones.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“It doesn’t end there,” said Papa. “His grandchildren died in an outbreak of cholera two years ago. His life has been full of tragedy.”
So had Papa’s for that matter, but he was not a man to dwell on such things.
“Since then he has remarried. His wife was the children’s nanny.” Papa sighed again. “I suppose the two old people came together in their grief. I am glad for him. I have often thought about it for myself – marrying again, you know – but somehow, well … It is not for me. But,” he said in a brighter voice, “for SP, it is the very thing! He wants to marry our Drucilla, eh. What do you think of that, chérie?”
“I just want him to be happy. Now he is quite heartbroken.”
“Oh, young men need some heartbreak. It is character-building. And as your English Shakespeare says, ‘the course of true love never ran smooth’. Did you know that Isabella refused me three times before she said yes? Well, she did. The arguments we had! Ah, but when we made up again …” He closed his eyes briefly, remembering my mother. Then he said, “Go to my desk, will you, chérie? In that first drawer – yes, that’s the one. You will find a small flat box.”
“This red one?” I held it up.
“Open it.”
Snug inside the box was a miniature portrait in a gold frame. It was of a dark-haired woman with a complicated old-fashioned coiffure. I gazed at it for a few seconds before I picked it up. I felt wary. Because of my gift, you see. I don’t mean teleagtivism – the ability to find lost things by thinking about them. I’ve always been able to do that, even before Professor Plush gave it a fancy name. No, I mean my other gift. Psychometry. In plain English, it’s when objects – like this miniature – make me see things. Scenes from the past, with long-dead emotions. It’s strange and unsettling and sometimes downright scary. But there wasn’t even a tingling in my fingertips as I held Isabella’s picture. Isabella … my mother.
