by Susan Green
I thought Helen might tell her off but instead she swept Poppy into her arms. “Oh, you little darling!”
Now, Poppy could dish out the hugs and kisses, but she didn’t always like to be on the receiving end. Would she try to wriggle out of Helen’s arms? Not this time. She submitted patiently, but eventually she said, “Only, could you ease up a bit now? I can’t ’ardly breathe.”
“And you must all be hungry,” said Helen with a laugh. “You can unpack later. Let’s go out onto the verandah and see what Hannah has for us.”
Hannah, the cook-housekeeper, was what I’d imagined Mr Petrov’s wife would be. She was sixtyish and sturdily built with white hair and a no-nonsense manner. Her dark eyes, as bright as a robin’s, darted here and there and gave us all the once-over as she poured tea for Papa and Mr Petrov. They were already settled on the verandah among the potted palms. Tiny green birds hopped and chirruped in a cage and I hoped Poppy wasn’t going to be upset by them. But she scarcely gave them a glance.
Poppy’s eyes widened when she saw what was set on a stand in the middle of the table.
“Cor,” she said. “That’s a cake what’s died and gone to ’eaven.” Everyone laughed, and Poppy seemed a bit miffed. “I jus’ meant to say it’s a splendrous cake.”
“It is indeed. And Hannah is a splendrous cook,” said Mr Petrov. “We are spoiled. It’s a wonder I don’t get fat.”
“I wish you would get fat, Nicholas,” said Helen. She turned to Papa. “I worry about him so. His health broke down completely in India and–”
“That’s enough, Helen.” Mr Petrov interrupted his wife in a harsh, grating voice. “Our guests don’t want to hear about my illness.”
He could have been reprimanding a child or a servant. Everyone felt it, even Poppy. The atmosphere was a bit uncomfortable until we started on the cups of tea and cake. That cake! I’d never tasted anything so delicious. Even Connie, who wasn’t a big eater, got stuck in.
Inside the house a clock chimed, and almost noiselessly Mohan Singh appeared with a mug on a tray.
“What is that, Nicky?” asked Papa.
“Goat’s milk. It’s just about the only thing I can digest these days, isn’t it, Mohan?”
“It is very nourishing,” said Mohan. “But I think your visitors will do you just as much good, sir.” He bowed again and was turning to leave us when Helen called him back. She pointed towards the birdcage.
“Do take those birds away,” she said. “Put the cage on the back verandah.”
As soon as Mohan was out of earshot, Mr Petrov said to his wife, “Please speak more politely to him, Helen. Mohan is not just a servant, whatever you may think.”
Here he was again, correcting Helen as if she were a servant. It must be humiliating, and I felt sorry for her. She bit her lip and reached for her sewing basket. She took out a piece of embroidery, and Papa, bless him, turned the conversation.
“You are an exquisite needlewoman, Helen. You made this beautifully decorated tablecloth too, I think?”
“Yes, I did.” She held out her work. It was a linen tray cover, and she was edging it with pink roses.
“Just like the ones in our room,” said Connie. “You’re so clever, Helen.”
“Isn’t she? Helen must always be stitching or she isn’t happy,” said Mr Petrov.
“It is for the charity bazaar, Nicholas. Besides, I must have a hobby. You have your birds.”
“Yes, my birds. You must come down and see the new peacock.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you, Nicholas. You know how I dislike caged birds.”
“But this one is special. White ones are very rare.”
Helen said something under her breath, and I didn’t quite catch what it was, but Mr Petrov replied, “Oh, I know you don’t like them, but they remind me of India.”
“India! Oh–” Abruptly, Helen got to her feet. “Please excuse me,” she said. “I have a headache.”
“Dear lady,” began Papa, but she was already gone.
“Helen doesn’t share my passion for collecting birds,” said Mr Petrov.
They didn’t seem to share very much at all, I thought. Though Shantigar meant “peaceful home”, it seemed anything but.
8
THE INDIAN ROOM
With Helen gone, Papa and Mr Petrov settled in to talk about old times. Poppy, Connie and I went back to our room. After unpacking our things, we wondered what we were supposed to do next.
“I saw a piano in the drawing room,” said Connie, longingly. “Do you suppose I could play?”
“Better not,” said Poppy. Once again she surprised me with her good sense. “Not while Helen’s asleep. You don’t want to go distrobing her.”
We decided to explore instead. Though the front garden was laid out with box hedges, flowerbeds and gravel paths, all the land on the eastern side was a thicket of shrubs and creepers. Something rustled. I thought of snakes but Connie, who was a real country girl, told me not to worry.
“It’s more likely the peafowl,” she said. “See?” She pointed to a couple of feathers. They glimmered green, iridescent blue and gold in the dry grass.
“Can I keep them? Can I put them in my hat?” asked Poppy.
In my millinery career I’d observed that, despite their beautiful colours, peacock feathers aren’t often used as a trim. It’s the eyes, I suppose. Some people feel funny about them. But I said to Poppy that I didn’t see why not, and she stuck them in her hatband.
We moved on and found a horse and a goat cropping grass in a small paddock. Poppy called for the horse, but it was the goat that came over. She was a nanny goat with shaggy white hair and yellow eyes. Poppy happily scratched her neck and allowed her to nuzzle her hands.
“Come on, Poppy, let’s keep exploring,” I said after a few minutes. No offence to the goat, but she was rather smelly.
Heading down to the far side of the house, we found the aviary. It was more like a house than a birdcage. One section was full of small bright birds and the other was empty except for the white peacock. He was perched high up on a post with his long tail, like a swag of dusty lace, sweeping down to the ground. He looked rather dejected.
Beyond the aviary was a low stone fence marking the boundary of the property. Shantigar was set high on a hill, and now, facing west, we could see the sun sinking like a bright golden ball on the horizon. Layers of crimson, pink and orange clouds spread across the sky. Everything glowed with warm sunset light.
“It’s just astoundishing,” said Poppy.
“Astonishing, Poppy. Or do you mean astounding?” said a voice behind us.
“Drucilla!” I cried, but Poppy got to her first. She tackled her around the waist and hugged her so fiercely that Drucilla nearly fell over. To tell you the truth, I felt like doing the same.
“My darling girl,” said Drucilla, folding me in her arms. “And Connie – why, you’re positively blooming.” She hugged her too. “I’ve missed you so. Papa – I mean Mr Savinov – how is he? And Judith and Daniel and the baby? Is … is everybody well?”
There was something about the way she said “everybody” … Was she hinting for news of SP?
“Oh, we’re all fine,” I said. “But how are you, Drucilla? Are you happy with the Levinys?”
“Are the children good?” asked Poppy.
“Are they musical?” Connie wanted to know.
“Yes, yes and yes. The children are the dearest creatures, I am treated as a friend of the family and Connie dear, they are mad about music. In fact, there’s to be a musical gathering at their house tomorrow night, and you’re all invited. Really, I couldn’t be happier.”
Hmm, I thought, inspecting her carefully. No doubt the Levinys were kind, but Drucilla wasn’t telling the whole truth. There was no sparkle in her eyes and she looked a little thinner. Was she pining for SP? I certainly hoped so.
There was a rattling sound behind us. It was Mohan, carrying a metal can and shaking it from side to side.
/>
“Ooh!” Poppy let out a scream and scrambled to hide behind me. “Peacocks.”
Peafowl. They were running along at high speed. Mohan opened the door to the aviary and the birds rushed in.
“Time for supper,” explained Mohan, dipping into the canister and throwing handfuls of grain to the birds. “They need to be locked up for the night.”
“Why?” asked Poppy.
“They fly up into trees and onto rooftops, and our neighbours might not like that. The noise they make can be quite alarming.”
Now that the birds were in their pen, Poppy moved closer. “Why was the white one all alone?”
“Because he has only just arrived. He doesn’t know that this is his home yet; he might wander away.”
“Has he got a name?”
“Not yet.”
“You should call him Mr Snow. I ain’t seen snow, but it’s white, an’ ’e’s white.” She nodded wisely. “An’ look,” she added, pointing to her hat. “I found four feathers.”
“Well spotted, Miss Poppy,” said Mohan. “In India the peacock is a divine bird, and finding a feather brings good luck, harmony and peace of mind.”
“How wonderful that sounds,” said Drucilla.
From inside the house came the sound of a dinner gong.
“I must go,” said Drucilla. She hugged all of us again – hard – before she went running off, calling as she went, “I shall expect to see you tomorrow!”
After dinner, Connie’s wish was answered.
“Pierre tells me you play the piano, my dear,” said Mr Petrov. “Would you treat us to some music?”
You might think that with Connie being so shy she wouldn’t want to perform for strangers. However, you’d be quite wrong. She was always happy to do so. I’d asked her about it once and she’d surprised me with her answer.
“They aren’t listening to me, so why should I be nervous? They’re listening to the music.”
Her only request to Mr Petrov was that she have some time to practise first.
The piano was in the drawing room or, as the Petrovs called it, the Indian room. While Connie played her scales, Poppy and I wandered around. There was a lot to look at. A tiger-skin rug with the head still attached, engraved brass trays, painted wooden furniture, an intricately carved screen, lacquered bowls filled with multicoloured gemstones, elephants carved from ebony, ivory and jade, embroidered panels of flowers and fruit and, on either side of the mantelpiece, huge vases of peacock feathers. The Indian room was fascinating … and overwhelming. Besides which, I thought, dusting this lot must be a nightmare.
“Oh,” breathed Poppy, pointing to a chess set laid out on a small table. “So delicant.”
Fierce miniature warriors wearing turbans and waving swords were mounted on tiny horses. They were perfect in every detail.
“Isn’t it just?” I said. “Look at the pawns, Poppy.”
Very carefully, I picked one up. Out of the blue my fingers started to itch and, as if all the lamps were suddenly extinguished, the room went dark.
The chess pieces were scattered as if they’d been swept impatiently from the board and Mr Petrov, younger and stronger than he was now, was shaking his head in disbelief. Helen, with eyes reddened from crying, was staring straight in front of her. I glimpsed, in the corner of the room, a wide bed. A white sheet was pulled up to completely cover three small, still shapes.
Then the scene changed. I was no longer in the room, but outside, up high on a balcony overlooking a city. The last rays of a fiery sunset painted the stone pillars and potted palms with red, bright orange and lurid pink. A man moved into view. How handsome he is, I thought. His hair was dark but his eyes were sky blue with black lashes. Like a picture of a hero in a book he was almost too handsome to be real.
But he was angry. Anger swirled around him like a thunderstorm.
“Together, at last,” he said.
Voices, close by. They belonged to Helen, Mr Petrov and Papa. I became aware of Connie’s rippling chords and arpeggios, then Poppy’s hand on my arm.
“Are you orright? You’ve gone all funny again.”
“… at the soirée tomorrow night,” Helen was saying. “Don’t you think so, Verity?”
I tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come, for I was having trouble coming back to the present. The room was full of sorrow. It rose up like mist and blotted out the carved elephants and peacock feathers and tiger-skin rug. It twined around the furniture and hid the walls. It was as thick and muffling as a London fog.
“I was just saying that Connie must accompany me at the Levinys’ tomorrow night. I can play, but not nearly as well as she can. She’s very talented, isn’t she?”
“I … yes …” I had to get out of that room.
Helen said in a worried tone, “Dear, are you all right?”
“I need … some fresh air,” I gasped as I hurried out.
I lay on my bed for ten or fifteen minutes, breathing slowly, deeply, counting the breaths in and out, in and out, the way Miss Lillingsworth had taught me. Miss Lillingsworth was an old friend of the Plush family. She was a psychic herself, and she’d explained to me why, when you come out of a vision, you often feel upset.
“It’s as if the past somehow clings to you like cobwebs. What you need to do is brush them off.”
Deep breathing, according to Miss Lillingsworth, was just the ticket.
Only right now, it wasn’t working. I kept seeing the handsome man’s face. Who was he? Why was he so angry? Perhaps he was a family friend. Or the doctor who couldn’t save the children. “Together, at last,” he’d said. What did he mean? Together in death? Again I felt a wave of sorrow. It was suffocating. My chest tightened. My heart ached.
Why was I reacting so intensely? The Petrovs’ tragedy was nothing to do with me. Was I supposed to do something? Could I help in some way? From out of nowhere a plump, red-cheeked face popped into my mind.
“Mrs Brandywine,” I said to myself. “She has a gift. She’ll know what to do.”
I got up off my bed and smoothed my dress. Somehow the thought that Mrs Brandywine was there if I needed her made me feel much better. If the Petrov’s sorrowful past continued to haunt me, I would certainly go to see her. One more deep breath and I was ready to re-enter the Indian room.
9
LETTERS AND TELEGRAMS
There was just us girls and Helen at breakfast the next morning because Mr Petrov, like Papa, had his on a tray in his room.
He had a lengthy morning routine, explained Helen. “Mohan gives him a massage and a salt bath and a morphine poultice every day.”
“What, every day?” asked Poppy. “Then what do you do?”
“What do I do?” A strange, bleak expression passed over Helen’s face. Then she shook her head, as if to get rid of some stray unwelcome thought. “I do charity work. I go visiting. I sew. Which reminds me – I must go into town this morning to buy some embroidery silk.”
“Can we come with you?” Poppy, Connie and I spoke together.
“You would be bored.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” said Poppy.
“And I have a letter to post,” added Connie. She adored her father, and wrote him a long letter every week.
Helen hesitated for a few seconds. She couldn’t hide her reluctance.
Hannah, coming in with hot water for the tea, joined the conversation. “It’ll be a chance for you to show the girls the town, ma’am.”
“Please,” begged Poppy.
What a moody person Helen was, I thought. As cold as marble one minute, warm and affectionate the next. Yesterday evening, she hadn’t been able to get enough of us. Now, it was clear she wished we’d disappear.
“Very well.” Helen stood abruptly. “We will leave at ten.”
It was shopping day in Castlemaine. Unlike yesterday, the streets were busy with horses, vehicles and people. Ladies greeted Helen with smiles and gentlemen raised their hats. A few inquired as to who we were, and Helen
did some quick introductions. Very quick they were too, because for some reason, she was in an awful rush for her embroidery thread. She whisked us past a chemist’s, a bakery and a millinery establishment and then stopped in front of a draper’s.
“You may as well stay here, girls,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
“Can’t I come in?” asked Poppy. “I like lookin’ in shops.”
“So do I,” I said.
For a second I thought she was going to order us to stay outside.
“Perhaps you could find some blue ribbon for me.” She gestured to some tables near the entrance and walked quickly to the counter.
Poppy and Connie began to examine the different spools of ribbon but I kept an eye on Helen. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was a habit I’d got from working with SP, assisting with confidential inquiries. You get a nose for mystery, for odd behaviour, for anything that’s not quite right.
This is what I saw. After Helen paid for her silk, the shopgirl reached under the counter and brought out a letter. But she didn’t hand it to Helen. She wrapped it up in brown paper with the silk.
Which was odd. Odder still was that Helen didn’t want any ribbon, after all. And if she’d had any letters, why weren’t they sent to the house?
I already knew the answer. Because she didn’t want anyone to know. Why not? I could think of dozens of reasons, some sinister, some perfectly innocent.
You’re on holiday, I told myself. This isn’t a confidential investigation. And it was none of my business.
It turned out that I had a letter too. When we returned to Shantigar, Hannah handed it to me. Who was it from? I didn’t recognise the handwriting. I opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside.
Dear Verity,
I am sorry if I alarmed you outside the theatre. I did not mean to. Sometimes I get so desperate that
I dropped the sheet of paper as if it were a scorpion. It was from Della Parker. How did she know where I was? How had she managed to get this address? My skin crawled as I imagined her – or someone in her pay – spying, prying, shadowing my every move. Had she come to Alhambra, pretending to be a friend? Even worse, had she followed us up to Castlemaine? I felt like crumpling the letter and throwing it in the rubbish. But that wouldn’t make it go away. I picked it up and read on.
