Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand

by Susan Green

  Paulina laughed. “That’s because she got the recipe from me. She is my sister-in-law. She was married to my brother Gottfried – God rest his soul. Ah, Hermann.”

  The old man appeared around the corner of the verandah carrying a large wicker basket full of fruit.

  “Forgot,” he said.

  “So I did. Thank you, Hermann.” Harold stood up and took the basket from him. “Hermann, this gentleman is Verity’s father, Mr Savinov.”

  Papa stood up, held out his hand and greeted Hermann in German. That hunted expression reappeared on Hermann’s face. His eyes flicked towards Paulina and Mr Dohnt and then back to Papa. He seemed almost panic-stricken.

  “Much … to do,” he whispered, and without shaking Papa’s hand, he hobbled away.

  “Our Hermann, he is very shy,” said Paulina.

  That seemed to mark the end of our afternoon tea. We said our goodbyes, took our wine and fruit and returned to the phaeton. On the journey home, I noticed that Papa seemed tired but very happy. A smile kept playing at the corners of his mouth and twitching his moustache.

  “There is a German word, my child – Gemütlichkeit. I think it may not translate into English, for the English they have no idea of this thing. It means cosy, unhurried, peaceful, at home. Good company, friends …” He stroked my hand. “There at Blumberg …”

  “Gemütlichkeit,” I said.

  He laughed. “I must teach Poppy that word. She would enjoy it, no?”

  In the happy days that followed there were picnics in the Botanical Gardens, visits with Drucilla, a shopping expedition to Bendigo (the nearest large town), and walks around Castlemaine with Harold. We strolled along, arm in arm, sometimes talking but often in companionable silence. With some special people, I thought, you can just skip the stage of polite acquaintanceship by becoming friends straightaway. I was beginning to have a few second thoughts about politeness, anyway. Sometimes those correct manners felt like wearing a stiff, starchy collar.

  Harold’s arrival had made both Helen and Mr Petrov happier, and when we were invited to a family dinner at the Levinys’, to my surprise Mr Petrov said he felt well enough to go.

  The Levinys were not only musical, but artistic as well. I hadn’t realised that before Mr Leviny was a rich businessman in the colonies, he’d been a famous jeweller and silversmith in Paris and London. That explained Mrs Leviny’s magnificent bracelet.

  Mr Petrov coaxed Mr Leviny into showing us some of his designs.

  “You made them?” asked Poppy, looking at the drawings with wide eyes. “Out of silver an’ gold?” She was most impressed when he said that he had. She pointed to an especially ornate design. “What’s that for?”

  “To look at, mainly. We call that a standing presentation cup,” said Mr Leviny.

  “It’s an eggcup,” said Poppy, and laughed at her own joke. Mr Leviny had in fact drawn a very large egg on a stand, decorated at the base with tiny Australian animals.

  “A splendid piece, Ernö,” said Papa. “The egg, I take it, is an emu’s egg?”

  Mr Leviny nodded and he put his folio of drawings away. Rather sadly, I thought. For all he enjoyed his life as a gentleman here in Castlemaine, I wondered if perhaps sometimes he missed creating beautiful things.

  The one small cloud on my horizon was Della Parker. Strange, isn’t it? I’d gone from worrying that Della was going to hurt me or Papa to being anxious about her. I was relieved when, a week after my conversation with Papa, he showed me a letter he’d received in the morning’s mail. It was addressed in SP’s sprawling curly script.

  “SP has seen Della Parker. He took her to lunch at the Ladies’ Annexe of the Antechinus Club and they had a most interesting conversation. Here, read what he says.”

  Miss Parker was very polite and seemed entirely rational. She told me a great deal about herself. She has indeed had a most difficult life, beginning with her mother’s death and then many years in orphanages and foster homes. Her most fervent desire seems to be for some family connection and to that end, she seeks an interview with you and Verity.

  I scanned the letter to the end. “SP is convinced that she truly believes Waldo Parker is her father. Will we meet her?”

  “I have decided – yes. She has some urgent business to attend to, but …” Papa took the letter from me and referred to SP’s scrawl. “She will be back in Melbourne by the end of the month. She invites us to visit her at her hotel. This is good, no?”

  “Very good, Papa.”

  “And we shall see if …” His hands trembled slightly as he re-folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “We shall see if she looks like your mother.”

  14

  A COUNTRY DRIVE

  On Saturday, Connie and Poppy left Castlemaine. They travelled down to Melbourne on the train with Madame Fodor. Judith was going to meet them at the station and then take them back to stay with her in Richmond. Why? Well, that was the exciting part. Connie was going to be part of the International Exhibition.

  Last year, Drucilla and I had watched the progress of the Royal Exhibition Building with its massive dome and fine gardens. The exhibition was due to open in October this year, and people from all over Australia – and from other countries as well – would visit. As part of the celebrations, the Musical Society was planning a series of concerts. And Madame Fodor wanted Connie – our Connie – to perform.

  It was a wonderful opportunity – but one that would require hours of practice every day. Madame Fodor had agreed to tutor her. But what about the cost? Connie’s father ran a huge sheep station up along the Murray River but he wasn’t a rich man.

  “Pooh!” said Papa. “Never mind about money. I think I will create the Isabella Savage Musical Scholarship for Young Colonials. How does that sound, chérie?”

  “Splendid, Papa.” I was sure that Mama would approve.

  It was our last day with the Petrovs, Helen planned to go for a drive with Mrs Leviny and I was going to spend the morning with Drucilla. The phaeton was harnessed and waiting in the driveway. Helen, with her ever-present bag of embroidery under one arm, was about to climb in when who should arrive but Drucilla in a bright pink dress that did nothing for her. Redheads should never wear that shade, I thought. Helen was also wearing pink that day, but it was a pale rose colour, very flattering to a blonde. However, fashion went right out of my head as I looked at Drucilla more closely. Even before she spoke I could tell there was something wrong.

  “I have a message from Mrs Leviny. She can’t go with you, after all,” she said. “Kate has a temperature.”

  “But we planned it weeks ago. It’s all arranged. Mrs Rossiter is expecting us.” Helen seemed quite put out. “Is Kate very ill? Perhaps you could stay with her.”

  Drucilla raised her eyebrows. Kate was only three. “Naturally Mrs Leviny doesn’t want to leave her.”

  Helen was so agitated that she dropped her bag of sewing. “Oh, yes, yes! Your’re right. It’s just …”

  “You could go by yourself,” I suggested, picking up her bag and handing it to her.

  “No, no, that won’t do. Can you come with me, Verity?”

  Why was she so insistent? It was only a morning call. Was it really that important?

  She said in a pleading voice, “Please, Verity.”

  Inwardly, I sighed. Good manners dictated a “yes”, even though it was our last day in Castlemaine and I didn’t want to go out driving with Helen when I could be with Drucilla instead. Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. “Why don’t we all go? You and me and Drucilla?”

  “It … it will be too much of a crush.”

  Why would she say that? “We’ll all fit in easily,” I said.

  “I would enjoy a country drive,” added Drucilla.

  We both looked expectantly at Helen. “I … I suppose so. All right. Yes, yes, we will all go. But first, I must … I must say goodbye to Nicholas. Poor Nicholas …” Her voice suddenly trembled. I must have shown my surprise, for she sai
d, “He’s so ill, you see. We bought the buggy so we could drive out together but he’s never been well enough …”

  She broke off and ran to the side verandah, where Mr Petrov was sitting with Harold. When she returned a few minutes later, pulling on her gloves, her pale face had that marble statue look again.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Once we were out of the town, we climbed a couple of hills and then went bowling along a dirt road with orchards on either side. Dozens of cockatoos swooped across the road in front of us, croaking and shrieking, and tore leaves and twigs off the trees to get at the fruit.

  “How noisy they are,” said Drucilla. “Your peacocks are loud creatures as well, Helen. Sometimes we can hear them all the way up on the hill.”

  “What did you say?”

  Drucilla repeated her comment. She was only trying to make conversation, but Helen reacted very strangely.

  “Don’t talk about India!” she cried. Drucilla and I exchanged a confused glance. She hadn’t mentioned India. “One can’t live in the past,” Helen continued, “it’s gone, it’s over, it can never come back. We must go forwards to meet out destinies. Isn’t that true?”

  “Why … yes,” stammered Drucilla. “I suppose so.”

  “Oh, I only hope it’s not too late!”

  Too late for what? Destiny or morning tea? Helen was in another strange mood. I began to wonder if she knew where she was going. She went left at one crossroads, right at another and then we seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Straggling gum trees and thick undergrowth grew beside the track. It would be so easy to lose one’s way, I thought – but then comforted myself with the knowledge that the track must lead somewhere. Though rough and potholed, it was not overgrown with grass or weeds, and I could see recent hoof-marks in the dust.

  “Is it far to the Rossiters’?” asked Drucilla.

  “We’re nearly there.” Helen sounded a bit more normal, thank goodness.

  The bush was thinning. The track now led through paddocks and up ahead I sighted the red roof of a farmhouse. Drucilla and I shared a sense of relief, I could tell. I hoped Mrs Rossiter was a sensible sort of woman, with the kettle already on the boil. Perhaps with some tea, Helen would settle down.

  “She is expecting you tomorrow, Mrs Petrov.”

  We only just caught Mr Rossiter. He was setting off on horseback with one of his shepherds and it was plain he didn’t wish to be delayed. He explained that Mrs Rossiter and the children had gone into Maldon, a small town nearby, to do their shopping.

  “Oh dear,” said Helen. “How silly of me; I must have mixed up the days.”

  Helen turned the vehicle around and we drove away again.

  “How silly of me,” she repeated.

  She seemed upset and I tried to reassure her. “Never mind. We all make mistakes.”

  “I wonder … I wonder if this is the wrong way …”

  What was she talking about? “No, Helen. We passed this way before.”

  “Perhaps … perhaps we should turn back …”

  We rounded a bend and I glimpsed something moving in the bush beside the track. Seconds later a man on horseback emerged from among the trees. A shiver ran down my spine. Why did he have a scarf hiding the lower part of his face? Then everything seemed to happen all at once.

  “Now! Go, go!” he shouted. Two more men joined him. In a flash one of them was down off his horse and holding Beauty by her bridle. The other dismounted too, and was beside the phaeton with one foot on the step. With a scarf tied over his face, all I could see were his eyes. They were a strange light brown.

  “Bail up!” he cried.

  Even I, new to the colony, knew what “Bail up” meant. Bushrangers. The notorious Kelly Gang had been terrorising the remote north-east of the state, but I’d thought that here, so close to Melbourne, we’d be safe from bandits.

  I clutched Drucilla’s arm. I like to think I’m a brave person but there and then I felt utterly helpless.

  “Stay calm,” said Drucilla under her breath. She herself was trembling from head to foot but her voice didn’t waver. “How dare you!” She sounded furious. “What do you mean by stopping us like this?”

  Instead of answering her, the man holding Beauty just stared.

  Drucilla put her arm around me. “You’ve picked the wrong mark. We haven’t any money,” she said. “You’d better be on your way.”

  “There’s two of ’em,” he muttered. Which was strange because there were three of us. “What’ll I do?”

  The man on horseback answered him. “Get the girl out. Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  The girl. My heart plummeted like a shot bird. The girl was me.

  “Don’t you dare touch her!” shouted Drucilla.

  The brown-eyed man grabbed me by the shoulders. At the same time, Drucilla wrapped her arms around my waist. Helen had been shocked speechless but now, abruptly, she screamed. The man must have been as startled as I was. He let me go and I fell back against Drucilla.

  “No, no! Don’t!” cried Helen, and fell down in a dead faint.

  “Get her, damn you!” said the man on the horse.

  My attacker swore and then reached for me again. For a few seconds I was frozen with fear, but the sound of Drucilla’s voice, using words a governess shouldn’t rightly know, roused me and I struggled, hanging on to the side rail of the phaeton. It was a tug o’ war we couldn’t win, even though Drucilla fought like a tiger. The man was stronger. And he had no qualms about hitting a woman. Especially after Drucilla bit his hand. Hard.

  The last thing I saw was Drucilla’s look of surprise as a fist connected with her jaw. A pair of hands yanked me savagely backwards. Something dark was pulled over my head and shoulders, my arms were jerked behind my back and my wrists were bound together with rope. I kicked and thrashed around, but it was no use. My ankles were tied as well and I was tossed like a bag of spuds to the ground.

  “Stay still,” said a rough voice. Even without his foot pressed heavily on my back, I would have obeyed. What choice did I have? I was trussed up like a Christmas goose. Feverish thoughts raced through my head. Papa was rich and I was an heiress – these men were kidnappers, not bushrangers. Then it struck me like a blow. Della Parker had an uncanny knowledge of my movements. She’d known I was at Shantigar. Somehow she must have learned that I was out driving on this country road. All that talk with SP was just so much acting. And as for “urgent business” – it was this. My kidnapping. Papa, SP and I – we’d been so gullible. Della Parker was the criminal behind this. She had to be.

  A voice said, “All done?”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “You can’t leave her in the sun like that, you fool. The poor kid will bake.”

  “All right, all right.”

  Rough hands dragged me sideways and rolled me over.

  I lay still. I could hear footsteps and a confusion of hooves. Then the sounds grew fainter and fainter, further and further away.

  It wasn’t me the men had been after. It was Helen and Drucilla.

  I was alone.

  15

  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

  I was alone, with a hessian sack tied over my head.

  It was rough and itchy and smelled of mould. I had to get it off. But how, with my hands tied behind my back? Perhaps if I wriggled my wrists I could loosen the rope … The second I tried, pain seared up my arm and into my left shoulder. Was it dislocated? Or broken? It hurt, terribly. Wincing with every movement, I finally got the rope off, then the sack. I took a deep, ragged breath. The road stretched away from me through bush and bare paddocks. Dust hung in the air where they’d passed, but the phaeton, the horses and riders were gone.

  Gone, taking Helen and Drucilla with them. A wave of despair passed over me. I was hurt, alone, miles from anywhere. Would I ever see them again?

  “Drucilla, where are you?” I whispered. “Where have they taken you? Please, please let me find you.”

  I
f ever there was a time for my gift to work, it was now. I concentrated. In my mind’s eye I saw her face as if she were right in front of me: flushed and angry, fighting for me like a lioness for her cub, hitting and biting. Then shocked as that fist hit her jaw. I waited. And waited.

  Nothing.

  “What’s the point of having a gift?” I muttered to myself. Why was I able to find lost spectacles and scissors and cigar cases, but not my friend?

  There was no use sitting here by the track tied up like a parcel. I had to raise the alarm.

  But first I needed to free my ankles. Even though the ropes weren’t tied tightly, it took a long time. My whole body was shaking, and when I finally stood up and tried to walk, I staggered like a drunk on a spree. My brain wasn’t working properly, for it took me a while to realise that I was in shock. What I needed was hot sweet tea, a nip of brandy and a blanket. But I had none of those things, so what I had to do was keep on walking.

  And I had to work out a plan. Mr Rossiter had gone out with his shepherd, so there was no use returning to his farm. I had to get back onto the main road. The sun was almost directly overhead, so I judged it to be around noon. We were expected back at Shantigar for lunch at one, and I wondered how long Papa and Mr Petrov would wait before they began to worry about us. I wasn’t far from Castlemaine – perhaps eight miles – and I knew that when I got over the wobbles I could walk at least three miles an hour. I’d be back in town in two and a half hours’ time. I groaned out loud. The kidnappers would be far away by then.

  Ah, there was something I could do as I trudged along. The police would want descriptions of the men who’d bailed us up. What could I tell them? I searched my memory and found myself trembling again. Images racketed around in my brain and I felt panic rising. No, no, I told myself. Breathe, breathe …

  SP had trained me in observation for our inquiry work. And the Professor had always insisted I had perfect recall. So I cleared my mind and concentrated. Now I could see them. They were dressed alike in brown coats, with printed cotton scarves over the bottom half of their faces. The man who stayed on his horse – the leader, I assumed, since he’d called out the orders – had red hair and a bushy red beard. The one who’d grabbed me was lanky and thin, with a broad-brimmed hat hiding his hair. His eyes were an odd yellowish-brown.