Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand

by Susan Green

  Drucilla was not impressed when SP insisted she go straight to bed. He’d sent George off to get Doctor Judd, too, and I could imagine Drucilla’s face when the doctor started one of his lectures about the delicate female constitution.

  Nevertheless, she did what SP asked. Complaining all the while, she put on one of Helen’s nightgowns and sat up in bed. I brought her Hannah’s beef broth, and she complained a bit more.

  “I’ve had nothing but apples and two plates of rabbit stew,” she pleaded after she’d gulped it down. “Couldn’t I have a lamb chop? Just a little one? And some pudding?”

  “That’s my girl,” said SP. “Tough as old boots.”

  “Don’t call me an old boot.”

  “You’re Cinderella’s glass slipper to me, Drucilla.” She smiled. “Now, darling, if I ask you very nicely, will you try to rest?”

  “I will try. And SP?”

  “Yes, my darling?”

  “Please don’t be harsh with Ben. He’s not all there. He was very good to me, really he was.”

  SP nodded and blew her a kiss as he shut the door. A minute later she was snoring in a most unladylike manner.

  “She’s not to be disturbed,” said SP, firmly. “Now, Harold, my boy – there’s some unfinished business to attend to. That is, if Ben is still there.”

  “I think he will be,” said Harold. “I thought of locking him in but … well, it seemed cruel, somehow.”

  “Cruel? After what he did to Drucilla?”

  I put my hand on SP’s arm. “She asked you not to be harsh with him, remember?”

  SP’s face softened. “Of course.”

  Poor Mohan. He was near collapse, but when Harold and SP left, he struggled back out of his room to resume his watch over Mr Petrov.

  “I will sit with him,” I offered. “Please, Mohan, let me help.”

  Mohan sighed. “Perhaps … a little more rest …”

  Mr Petrov was propped up on his pillows with his eyes shut and his hands, curled into claws, folded on his chest. The room was dim and warm, and the drumming of rain on the roof made a soothing sound.

  “Shall I just stay here?” I whispered, pointing to a chair next to the door.

  “No,” said Mohan. “Sit closer.” Mohan stroked the old man’s hand. “Miss Verity is here to sit with you, sir.”

  “Don’t hurry back, Mohan,” I said as he left the room. “Try to sleep.”

  Harold had told me Mohan’s theory about Mr Petrov’s care. We should act as if he could hear and understand. So, feeling a bit odd about it, I began to talk to him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Petrov.” I didn’t expect him to reply, and he didn’t. “This afternoon, Harold and I found Drucilla,” I said. His breathing continued, slow and laboured. I kept on, “She was being held prisoner at an abandoned quarry near the Queen of Spades mine, just out of Campbell’s Creek. Harold and SP have gone back there. They want to talk to the old man who was keeping her locked up and find out who employed him. You see, now we know that the Red Gauntlet has nothing to do with the kidnapping, we need to find out who’s behind it. The Red Gauntlet couldn’t have done it because …” I hesitated. Even though it felt like I was talking to myself, I was careful. “Well, because the Red Gauntlet is dead.”

  I stopped. Mr Petrov’s lips were moving ever so slightly. Was he thirsty? I dribbled water from a cup into his mouth and he swallowed it.

  “Mr Leviny, Papa and Mr Mallard are in Bendigo right now, seeing your lawyer,” I continued. I stopped again. It couldn’t be … could it? He was trying to shape words. I leaned closer. His hand shot out, grasping me around the wrist and I almost screamed.

  “What’s wrong? Do you need something?”

  His face was frozen, all except for his lips. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified that this was another apoplexy coming on. Should I fetch someone? I tried to stand up but his hand tightened on my forearm.

  “Mohan!” I called. “Hannah! Please come quickly!”

  Then I heard my name. It was slurred but unmistakable. “Verity …”

  “Don’t move, Mr Petrov,” I said. “I’ll get Mohan.”

  “No. Tell.”

  “You want to tell me something?”

  He squeezed my wrist and said again, more urgently, “Tell.” I leaned down and put my ear close to his face. “Helen. Not … Red …”

  “Not the Red Gauntlet? Is that what you mean?”

  His nod was almost imperceptible. Then he rasped out another word but this time I couldn’t catch on. Scar? Scarf? Cart? What could he mean?

  Another word. I grasped this one immediately. It was “hand”. He repeated the two words in a harsh, cracked whisper, but the first was no clearer.

  “It’s not the Red Gauntlet, it’s the … I’m sorry, Mr Petrov; I don’t know what you mean. It’s the … the hand; the something hand, but I can’t–”

  The grip on my wrist was weaker now. He said each of the two syllables slowly, wearily and then let go of my arm. His eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, pleaded with me to understand.

  “Is this right, Mr Petrov? It’s not the Red Gauntlet.” I finally knew what he was trying to tell me. “It’s the Scarlet Hand.”

  29

  MOHAN TELLS

  “Yes.” His head slumped sideways.

  “Mohan – oh, thank goodness you’re here. Mr Petrov – he spoke to me – but now he’s …”

  I knew I wasn’t making sense, but Mohan understood right away. He strode to the bedside and dropped to his knees beside Mr Petrov. He felt his pulse, listened to his heart, lifted his eyelids and looked into his eyes. After a few seconds, he said to me, “He is asleep. He spoke to you?”

  “Yes, Mohan. And he grasped my wrist.” I held up my arm as if it held the mark of his weak fingers. “He wanted to tell me something. He said it wasn’t the Red Gauntlet.”

  “What is this Red Gauntlet?” He looked confused.

  “They’re a gang of bushrangers. They kidnapped Judge Collins. They stole Mr Leviny’s egg. Detective Melmoth is hunting them.” With each item of information, he was even more mystified. He shook his head. “But surely you knew, Mohan. They’re suspected of kidnapping Helen and Drucilla. Didn’t Mr Melmoth tell you?”

  “No one told me. I have been looking after my old friend and master. I have been bathing him, changing his bedclothes, massaging his legs. I have been reading to him, talking to him, sitting with him through the night. No one told me anything.”

  Never had I felt so disgusted with myself. I hadn’t been a servant, but I’d been an apprentice. I knew what it was like to be ignored and treated as if I had no more thoughts or feelings than a machine. Now I had done that to another person.

  “I’m so sorry, Mohan,” I said. “Mr Petrov said it was the Scarlet Hand.”

  Mohan let out a long, sighing breath and closed his eyes. “I thought we had left all that behind us. So many years, so many deaths, and still they seek their revenge.”

  Revenge. Written in Russian script and blowing away in the wind. Now my vision made sense as it never had before. How could we have been so blind? I listened, astonished, to Mohan’s story. If only we’d known, how much time would have been saved. Mohan had been left in the dark and yet he – and he alone – could hold the key to this mystery.

  “I’m so sorry, Mohan,” I repeated.

  I don’t think he heard. He was sitting on the bed, holding Mr Petrov’s hand with tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

  Papa, Mr Leviny and Mr Mallard returned from Bendigo in the late afternoon and went straight to the Indian room. SP and Harold had only just returned too. They all warmed themselves in front of the fire.

  “How was your day, Papa?”

  “So wet and cold. Brrr!”

  “We spent most of our time in bankers’ offices and lawyers’ chambers,” said Mr Mallard. “They made us wait.” He sounded unimpressed.

  “Yes, while urgent communications flew back and forth via a troop of messenger boys,
” said Mr Leviny, sternly. “All is arranged. The money will be delivered to me in the next few days.”

  “And what did you do with yourself today?” Papa looked from my face to Harold’s and back again. “Verity?” he said sharply. “What has happened?”

  I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I’m afraid I might have squealed, just a little. “Harold and I found Drucilla.”

  “You what?” said Mr Mallard.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Papa.

  “And Helen?” asked Mr Leviny.

  Harold shook his head. “Auntie Nell was not there. Miss Deane doesn’t know where she is.”

  “But our Drucilla – is she unharmed? Where is she?” Papa was becoming agitated, and I put my hand on his sleeve.

  “She is quite well. She is tucked up in Helen’s bed. SP is sitting with her, and Papa, don’t worry; it all is perfectly proper.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “They are engaged.”

  With a roar of delight Papa ran off to see the happy couple. As the door banged behind him, Mr Mallard spoke.

  “And Helen? What about Helen?”

  Poor Mr Mallard. Much as I disliked him, right now he had all my sympathy. This was good news – wonderful news – but not for him. His sister was still missing.

  Harold took up the story. “SP and I went back to find the man who was watching her – Ben Redpath is his name – but we couldn’t get much out of him. His mind is wandering, and besides, he’s terribly ill. Doctor Judd thinks his lungs are diseased. We took him up to the Benevolent Asylum. They’ll look after him there. He deserves to die in peace.”

  “But he must be questioned. Mr Melmoth must question him.”

  That’s a turnaround, I thought; at first he’d been dead against involving Melmoth.

  Mr Mallard gulped down his sherry and poured himself another. “It may be the only chance we have to–”

  “To what?” asked SP, coming back into the room with Papa.

  “To find my sister, what else?”

  “Mr Mallard, today Mohan told us something that makes Mr Melmoth’s investigation into the Red Gauntlet superfluous,” said SP.

  “Mohan? Isn’t that my brother-in-law’s servant?”

  “We were quite wrong in not telling Mohan about the investigation,” I said. “He could have helped. We could have saved a lot of time.”

  “As we say in Russia, better late than never,” said Papa.

  “We say it in English as well,” said Mr Mallard, peevishly.

  “Ah, here he is,” said SP as Mohan tapped at the door. “Please come in, Mohan. Take a seat.”

  “I prefer to stand, thank you.”

  “Well, hurry up then,” said Mr Mallard. “Get on with it.”

  Did he have to be so rude?

  Mohan began. “Mr Petrov and I often talked about the past, in Russia. You, gentlemen.” Here he turned to Papa and Mr Leviny. “You may know about the Hand of Hope.”

  Papa nodded. “Yes, the political group.”

  “I remember Nicholas telling me he had some involvement with them in St Petersburg,” said Mr Leviny.

  “That is correct, sir. The Hand of Hope was a group of students and workers who wished to uplift the poor, the labourers, the peasants. Their symbol was a red hand. Mr Petrov, while not a member, shared some of their aims. He allowed them to use his printing press for their posters and pamphlets. It was a dangerous thing for him to have done, for the group was outlawed. Mrs Petrov became very frightened. One of their members, an actor called Ivan Kolinsky, was caught by the police. Alas, it was very public, for they dragged him off the stage in the middle of a performance. He was young and handsome, and many ladies, even society ladies, took to wearing one scarlet glove in solidarity with him. The Scarlet Hand, you see, was another name for the group.”

  “Of course we see,” said Mr Mallard. He began cracking his knuckles. Just like Melmoth, I thought.

  “Kolinsky was exiled to Siberia, where he died, and then it began. Mr Petrov began receiving threatening letters seeking revenge for Kolinsky’s death, and always accompanied by a red glove.”

  “But why?” asked Papa. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was Mr Petrov’s first wife who informed on Ivan Kolinksy.”

  It didn’t take much imagination to see how the poor woman, terrified for her family, took that dreadful step.

  “Not long after that, my master and his wife went to live in Paris, where Mrs Petrov died. Then Mr Petrov settled in London. Their son died. He decided to leave Europe completely, and moved to India, to Delhi. All went well. Mr Petrov was happy for many years. Then in the course of a year his daughter, her husband and all three grandchildren died. Mr Petrov felt it was a curse upon him; that everyone he loved would die.”

  None of us said anything. I couldn’t know what the others were thinking, but I was seeing the chess pieces swept from the table onto the floor, the tear-stained faces, the small still shapes under the sheet on the bed.

  “This was the curse of the Scarlet Hand,” said Mohan.

  “Mon Dieu, my dear Nicky,” said Papa. “I never knew.”

  “And my sister – my innocent sister – is being punished for something that happened all those years ago in Russia,” said Mr Mallard.

  “So it seems,” said Mr Leviny. He patted Mr Mallard on the back. “Don’t give up hope, my dear fellow. They want revenge – but they want money too. When they get the ransom, I have every hope that Helen will come safely back to us.”

  Mr Mallard began to sob, and Mr Leviny, after a few more pats, shrugged and stood up, ready to leave. “I will speak to Melmoth tomorrow and tell him that his services are no longer required. The trail of the Red Gauntlet, it seems, is now cold. The presentation cup was probably melted down long ago.” He stroked his silvery moustache and spoke almost shyly. “As an artist, I feel my creations are like my children. I hoped against hope, but in my heart I think I always knew it was gone forever. I am being fanciful, am I not?”

  He made his farewells and left us.

  It was nearly time for dinner. Papa and Mr Mallard went to change, but I put my hand on SP’s sleeve to detain him.

  “SP,” I said. “Something else happened today.” And I told him about Hermann Schroeder.

  “Don’t worry, Verity. Hermann will be safe. I have some information about Melmoth that will shut down his investigations completely. I have rock-solid evidence that he lied under oath.”

  SP never ceased to amaze me. “How did you obtain it?”

  “Oh, I have friends in Bendigo. And Melmoth, so it turns out, has enemies.” SP shook his head. “Red Gauntlet and Scarlet Hand – who would ever believe in such a coincidence?”

  “There are more of those.” I reminded him about Redpath the stonemason. “And don’t forget that the leader of the gang has red hair.”

  “Mixed metaphors, I know, but … it’s incredible,” said SP. “We have red herrings coming out of our ears.”

  30

  THE MYSTERY OF DELLA PARKER

  We got our next letter the following morning. It was different from the others. It wasn’t in crude block letters; there was no roughly drawn scarlet hand. It was in fine, sloping handwriting on crisp white notepaper.

  Dear Nicholas,

  I am writing what my captors tell me to. I am unharmed and have been well cared for, but I do not think I can stand this much longer. Please do exactly as directed. The money is to be left in the summerhouse in the Castlemaine Botanical Gardens at midnight on the 28th. No police. No one is to stay or watch. My life depends on it.

  After the money has been collected, they will leave me at the garden gates.

  Your distraught wife,

  Helen

  “Thank goodness,” I said. Unharmed. Well cared for. If nothing went wrong, she would soon be home at Shantigar with her family.

  There were three days until the ransom money was to be delivered at the Botanical Gardens, so SP decided to take Drucilla back to Melbourne. He planne
d to ask his sister, Judith, to bring Poppy and Connie to Alhambra. “Judith can keep an eye on you, darling.”

  “Really, SP, I can look after myself perfectly well.”

  SP only smiled. “And you can start getting ready for our wedding. We don’t have to have a long engagement, do we? Because I don’t want to risk losing you again, Drucilla.”

  “I’d marry you tomorrow, if I could.”

  “No, no,” said Papa. “You must do it properly. But I think it is a good idea for you to go back home. And as it happens, Verity and I are to go to Melbourne too. We are to meet Della Parker, Verity – remember?”

  I hadn’t forgotten, exactly, but with all that had happened she was the last thing on my mind. There was nothing we could do here in Castlemaine, anyway. Harold, Mohan and Hannah were looking after Mr Petrov. Mr Leviny had arranged for the money to be delivered to him. It would be wonderful to see Connie and Poppy. And perhaps, with this meeting, we would solve the mystery of Della Parker.

  Though I was eager for our meeting with Della, when we arrived in Melbourne there was someone I needed to see first – Mrs Brandywine. I felt I owed it to her to tell her about our rescue. Without her help, we may not have found Drucilla for days or even weeks.

  The Book Bazaar was humming with customers. Mr Brandywine was at one of the counters, spruiking his new compendium of picture puzzles – “For children from five to one hundred!” he said – and when I asked for Mrs Brandywine, he waved his hand towards the armchairs in the middle of the shop.

  “My dear,” she said. Her bright button eyes looked me up and down, taking in every detail. “I’ve been expecting you. Now, tell me everything.”

  When I told her about Drucilla’s rescue, a smile spread over her face.

  “Good girl,” she said approvingly. And when I explained that Papa and I were in Melbourne to meet Della, she positively beamed. “Excellent! Now don’t forget what the spirits said. That damned lying red-headed snake.” She heaved a big, satisfied sigh. “Another chapter – how encouraging.”