Verity Sparks, Lost and Found

by Susan Green

  It had been a present from Papa. He’d been pleased as Punch about finding me the perfect gift, so I didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t. Perfect, I mean. It was 900 pages on tatting, knitting, netting, crochet, needlepoint and other assorted handicrafts. There were also sections on etiquette, manners and polite conversation. It was part of Papa’s campaign to transform me into a perfect young lady.

  I looked across to where they were sitting.

  “Piano lessons?” she was saying.

  “But certainly,” said Papa.

  “And what level has she reached?”

  “Unfortunately, she has never learned.”

  “What, never?” Mrs Enderby-Smarke sounded shocked. “To be truly accomplished, a young lady must have a thorough knowledge of music.” She added another set of figures to her list.

  There was a tap at the door and a scrawny maid entered carrying the tea tray. It looked heavy, and her hands shook slightly as she put it down. Milk spilled from the jug onto the table.

  “Go and get a cloth, Bridget! Hurry up, girl. What are you waiting for? No, stop!”

  Poor Bridget pulled up short.

  “Mr Savinov would like to meet one of our instructresses. Ask Miss Deane to come down.”

  Bridget hurried away, and Mrs Enderby-Smarke turned to Papa. “These Irish girls! They’re little better than savages, but what can you do? They’re all we can get.”

  I’m glad to say that Papa spoke up. “Our Irish maids are a bit rough-and-ready, I admit, but very willing and good-hearted. And cheerful.”

  “Perhaps my standards are too high,” sighed Mrs Enderby-Smarke as she poured the tea.

  I heard footsteps. They were coming from the floor above and I moved closer to the door. Looking up, I could see what Papa and Mrs Enderby-Smarke couldn’t. It was a surprising sight for such a high-toned school. A small, slightly plump woman in her early twenties stalked to the head of the stairs, hitched up her skirts and then – zoom! – simply slid down the banister rail. She landed at the bottom of the stairs with a thump, settled her skirts, ran a hand through her tousled red hair and looked up. Our eyes met. She put her finger soundlessly to her lips.

  I nodded, and she proceeded past me into Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s office in what seemed like a thoroughly lady-like manner … until she looked back at me and winked. It was all I could do to stop myself from giggling.

  “Mr Savinov,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke. “I would like to introduce Miss Deane. Miss Deane teaches drawing, composition, elocution, grammar, and introduces the girls to the wonders of English literature.”

  “How do you do?” said Miss Deane, in a surprisingly deep and husky voice. She held out her hand to Papa and then to me. “Did you go to school in England, Verity, or did you have a governess?”

  “I have never been to school,” I said, skating round the question.

  “It will take a little getting used to, but I’m sure you will enjoy school life.”

  “Enjoyment, Miss Deane, is hardly the point. Is it, Mr Savinov?” Mrs Enderby-Smarke looked at Papa for agreement. “Our young ladies must strive constantly, never slackening their efforts.”

  “Yes, indeed, ma’am,” said Miss Deane, but her mouth twitched as she held back a smile. After a bit more chitchat, Mrs Enderby-Smarke suggested that Miss Deane must have many vital tasks to perform, and Miss Deane excused herself. Before she closed the door behind her, she turned and gave me a smile. A real smile, not like Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s fishy grimace.

  “Will we meet Mrs Morrison also?” asked Papa. “She is your cousin and co-proprietress, no?”

  “Unfortunately, she is not here,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke. “My dear cousin has decided to return to Scotland to see her elderly parents. My husband, Colonel Enderby-Smarke, who also teaches history, geography and political economy, assists me in the administration of the school. If you will come this way, I will introduce him.”

  She led us into the room next to her office. A small, sharp-faced, foxy-looking man with sandy whiskers was sitting by the window, reading a newspaper, with his right leg propped up on a padded ottoman. He quickly stuffed the paper under his cushion, but not before I saw that he’d been studying the sporting pages.

  “Please, my good sir, don’t get up,” said Papa as the Colonel struggled to rise.

  “Sit, Reginald, sit,” commanded Mrs Enderby-Smarke. “You must excuse my husband if he remains seated. He was wounded during the Indian Mutiny.”

  “Borabadur in ’57, sir,” said the Colonel, wincing as he settled back into his chair. “Nearly lost this leg, and it still hurts like the devil when it’s going to rain.”

  I curtseyed and he and Papa shook hands, and then Mrs Enderby-Smarke whisked us away on a quick tour of the school.

  “Very good,” Papa kept saying. And “Splendid” and “How nice.”

  Finally, she walked us around the gardens, where there were lawns, flowerbeds – “Some of our girls excel in floral arrangement,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke – and a shady summerhouse. I strolled on a bit further until I came to the stables. I peeped in, but there were no horses.

  Suddenly, a croaky voice called out, “Hello!”

  There was an old lady in there somewhere, but where was she?

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hello, hello.”

  I turned around. She wasn’t behind me. She wasn’t in the stalls, or in the hayloft.

  “Hello, hello,” came the voice again. “Hello, cocky.”

  How could I have missed it? A metal stand stood in the shadows, and on it sat a large white bird. It looked straight at me. It lowered its head and then, quick as a flash, raised it again. A magnificent bright yellow crest appeared. “Praise the Lord!” it said.

  “I see you have found Miss Deane’s pet,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke, coming up behind me. She sounded most disapproving.

  “What sort of bird is this?” asked Papa. “A parakeet?”

  “Clever, cocky,” said the bird. “Hallelujah!”

  Papa and I laughed.

  “I believe it is called a cockatoo,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke in a sour tone. “Shall we move on?”

  “Goodbye, cocky,” I said softly. It put its head on one side and looked at me with its wise little eyes.

  “What do you think, Veroschka?” Papa whispered as we followed Mrs Enderby-Smarke back into the house. “Do you think you would like to go to school here?”

  Now I was on the spot. What could I say? For a start, I didn’t like Mrs Enderby-Smarke one bit. What an old battleaxe she was. Fancy clothes and fine manners couldn’t hide the fact that she was a money-grubbing snob. On the other hand, if there were more teachers like Miss Deane …

  “Can I think about it, please, Papa?”

  His face fell.

  “I’ll let you know first thing tomorrow,” I promised. And trying to distract him, I changed the subject. “You haven’t forgotten that SP, Daniel and Judith are coming to dinner?”

  He looked startled, but he said, “Not at all, chérie. I’m sure I told Mrs Reilly. Yes, I’m sure …”

  “Quite sure?”

  He nodded, but from the look on Papa’s face, I knew I’d better go down to the kitchen as soon as we got home.

  3

  EXCITING NEWS

  Now, you might be wondering why SP, Daniel and Judith were not making their home with Papa and me. After all, Alhambra was big enough for several families. And the Plushes were just like family to me. And family … well, it’s the most important thing in the world.

  I’d lost my parents when I was ten. Ma and Pa died of the typhoid fever and my aunt took me in, but the narrow, stinking hovel in Racketty Lane was never a home to me. The next place I lived was Madame Louisette’s millinery establishment. I was happy enough there, but then I was dismissed. That was when the Plushes found me. It was strange at first, living at Mulberry Hill with the Professor, SP, Mrs Morcom and Judith. But with their kindness and care, at last I felt as if I belonged. That
was why I’d been so lost and left out when everyone (except the Professor) decided to go to Australia. I still remember how SP bounced to his feet, eyes sparkling, and said, as if daring me, “Why don’t you, Verity? Why don’t you come to Australia with us? Why not?”

  I’d known Papa would be disappointed to find me only to lose me again. I’d told him I wouldn’t go if he didn’t want me to. So when Papa made up his mind to join us, I was so happy I thought I would burst. I suppose I’d imagined we’d all live together. After all, Papa’s lawyer had arranged this enormous house for us, and there was room for everyone.

  Though Mrs Morcom did stay for a month before she set off on a sketching tour, the others found rooms in a respectable boarding house as soon as they could.

  “Oh, won’t you stay?” I asked SP. “There’s plenty of room. I know that Papa–”

  “Verity, the truth is, none of us wants to feel beholden.”

  “What does beholden mean?”

  “It means we would feel that we owed him something.”

  “But we’re all such good friends, and Papa is so generous. Surely–”

  “Verity, we’ve come to Australia to make a new start, free and independent. We would prefer to live separately, and that’s all there is to it.” He softened his words with a smile, and added, “You know how fond of Pierre we all are. We’ll be in and out of Alhambra so often that you’ll be sick of the sight of us.”

  “Not true,” I said. I was almost tearful, which was not like me at all. “You will have to visit often.”

  And dear Papa, knowing how I missed them, made sure he invited them to dinner with us several times a week.

  But he didn’t always remember to tell the cook. So when I arrived back at Alhambra and hurried down to see Mrs Reilly in the kitchen, it was no real surprise to find that she knew nothing about it. I needn’t have worried. Mrs Reilly could prepare a feast at the drop of a hat.

  “Lamb cutlets, roast potatoes, cauliflower in cheese sauce, spinach in white sauce.” Mrs Reilly counted the dishes off on her fingers. “An’ I’ll make a consommy special for the lady, seeing as she’s been poorly.”

  Mrs Reilly’s consommé – which is French for clear soup – was delicious.

  “Thank you, Mrs Reilly. You’re very thoughtful.”

  “Poor young lady,” she went on. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if …”

  “If what, Mrs Reilly?”

  But Mrs Reilly flapped her apron and shooed me out of her kitchen.

  When they arrived, I was glad to see that Judith seemed much better.

  Papa kissed her on both cheeks, in the Continental style. “You look positively blooming, my dear,” he said. “Just as you did on your wedding day.”

  “Even prettier, if that’s possible,” said Daniel with a fond look at his wife.

  “Enough compliments,” said SP. “I’m hungry.”

  So Papa took Judith’s arm, Daniel took mine, and SP, complaining about being left all alone, followed behind as we trooped into the dining room.

  “Before or after dinner, Judith?” asked Daniel.

  “Before, I think.” With a blush on her cheeks, Judith began, “Verity and Pierre – we have some news for you.”

  I looked from one face to the other. Judith was smiling, Daniel was grinning, and SP, off to the side, was trying not to laugh.

  “We’re expecting …” said Judith.

  And Daniel finished the sentence for her. “A baby.”

  “C’est merveilleux! Felicitations!” roared Papa. “Well done!” He gave Judith a great smacking kiss on the cheek, nearly crushed Daniel’s hand in a hearty handshake, and then reeled off more congratulations in German and Russian.

  I hugged them both, and then Kathleen came in with the tureen of consommé. Of course Judith told her too, and she ran back to the kitchen to get Mrs Reilly and Mary-Kate. There were smiles and congratulations all round.

  “I knew it,” said Mrs Reilly with a smug look. “I’ve had eight of me own, and I can always tell.”

  We were just starting the pudding when Daniel revealed another piece of news.

  “We can’t stay where we are, not with a baby. We’ve taken the lease on a house in Richmond.”

  Richmond was a part of Melbourne in between the city and the Yarra River. If they moved there, no longer could I simply walk to visit. I would have to go in the carriage, or catch the train into the city and a hansom cab out to Richmond.

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed.

  “Don’t worry,” said SP. “I’m staying in St Kilda.”

  “But still – it will make it much harder for me to assist with confidential inquiries. Have you made any progress on the Ecclethorpe case?”

  Papa tapped my hand gently. “No business talk at the dinner table,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  But we’ll have plenty of time to discuss it later, I thought. For Papa had a supper engagement with Mr Rowland, and when we retired to the drawing room for coffee, he went upstairs to change.

  Before I go on, I must tell you a little about the Ecclethorpe case. Before we left for Australia, the firm of Bustard, Hawk and Chaffinch from Halifax in Yorkshire had engaged the Confidential Inquiry Agency on behalf of Mr Josiah Ecclethorpe. He was the inventor and manufacturer of Ecclethorpe’s Equine Elixir and other remedies. He was searching for his daughter, Lavinia. Six years ago, aged seventeen, she’d eloped to Australia with her sweetheart, and Mr Ecclethorpe had promptly disowned her. Now he was sorry. He was paying the Inquiry Agency to find her and convince her to come home.

  Our case file was pitifully thin. Our only facts were these:

  Lavinia Ecclethorpe and Everard Randall were married at St Helen’s Church in Bishopsgate on the 6th of May, 1873.

  The following day, they sailed for Australia aboard the Barnacle.

  The couple landed at Williamstown in Melbourne on the 17th of August.

  We hadn’t been able to trace them after that. The only picture we had of Lavinia was taken on her seventeenth birthday. It showed a very pretty dark-haired girl wearing a pearl necklace and a hideous satin ball gown. She looked young and innocent, but she must have had a bit of gumption to have eloped and then travelled halfway around the world with her new husband.

  Daniel and SP placed advertisements in all the major Australian newspapers. At first, they simply asked Mrs Everard Randall, formerly Miss Lavinia Ecclethorpe of Eccle Court, Yorkshire, to contact them in order to learn something to her advantage.

  After a month, they placed another advertisement as well, offering a reward to any friend or acquaintance of the lady who could provide information. Still no replies. It was puzzling. If only I’d had my gift, I’m sure I could have come up with some clues. After all, last year, simply by holding a letter and concentrating, I’d been able to tell that our client’s missing son was not only well and happy, but on his honeymoon at the seaside! But there was no use crying over spilt milk. There must be someone, somewhere, who knew something about Lavinia Randall.

  “Have you made any progress on the case, SP?” I asked, when Papa was safely out of earshot.

  “No,” he said regretfully. “It should have been an easy assignment. But since Lavinia’s husband left England owing a thousand pounds in gambling debts, we think he might have covered his trail somehow. Perhaps he used a false name. We just don’t know.”

  “You’re still placing the newspaper advertisements?”

  “Yes,” said Daniel. “You’d think, by now, someone would have replied.”

  “To tell you the truth, Verity, our idea of setting up a Confidential Inquiry Agency in Melbourne isn’t going so well,” said SP. “In London, we knew all sorts of people who could help us – policemen, journalists, even pickpockets. Here, we know no one. The lawyers use their own contacts, and besides, we don’t have a record of success. We just have this one case, and it seems to be going nowhere …” He broke off as Papa came through the drawing room door to bid
us goodnight.

  “You look splendid, Pierre,” said Judith.

  So he did, in his black suit, white waistcoat and starched shirt. He had a new flower in his buttonhole, his grey hair and beard were carefully brushed and he carried a cape lined with red silk.

  “You also smell splendid,” laughed Judith as she offered her cheek for him to kiss. “Cologne and gardenia, how lovely.”

  “May I ask where you’re going, Pierre, looking like such a toff?” said SP.

  “The Melbourne Club. Mr Rowland has invited me as his guest.”

  “You and I only get invited to the Army and Navy Club – not nearly so high-toned,” said SP, looking across at Daniel and laughing.

  “There’s an old Russian proverb,” said Papa, brushing an imaginary speck off his shirtfront. “The goose is no friend to the pig.” His eyes twinkled as we all tried to work out its meaning. “The English, I think, say something about ‘birds of a feather’, do they not?” He turned as he reached the doorway. “Daniel, I have not forgotten what you asked me. And Verity, chérie, don’t wait up. I will be late.”

  What had Daniel asked Papa? I wondered. Daniel didn’t keep me in suspense.

  “Pierre has lots of business contacts in Melbourne, and he’s promised to help me find a job,” he said. He looked across the table at Judith. “Rather important, now that I’m to become a family man.”

  “And give up on the Confidential Inquiry Agency altogether?” I said. “What about the Ecclethorpe case? What about SP?”

  “Don’t worry, Verity,” said SP. “I’ll manage.”

  “But what can I do to help?” Even without my teleagtivism, I had a remarkable memory, and my powers of observation made me a most valuable assistant. At least, that’s what Professor Plush said. And since he was founder of the Confidential Inquiry Agency and expert on both detection and psychical phenomena, that should be good enough for anyone.

  “Well, you see, Verity …” SP turned red and tugged at his collar as if it was too tight. “Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t … I mean, it isn’t that we don’t want you, but …”