Verity Sparks, Lost and Found

by Susan Green

  “It stood to reason, that if the Colonel – or Mr Enderby-Smarke, as I suppose we should call him now – was a little less than honest, then she was too. I had a hunch that it was all about greed – avarice, to be exact – and your assistance with those names was the key to it all. I was able to look up Reverend Smith in the Church of England Directory, hop on the Ballarat train and go straight to the vicarage. I was in luck, for Miss Smith was staying there with her brother. It seems Mrs Enderby-Smarke, by constantly remarking on her age, her failing memory and other infirmities, had convinced the poor lady she was too old to teach. She hustled Miss Smith out of the school and instructed the staff to say that Miss Smith was ill. Miss Smith was most interested in our inquiries, and allowed me to fetch her down to Melbourne and whisk her straight to the offices of Mr Cropper the lawyer. There we discovered that Mrs Enderby-Smarke had diddled Miss Smith out of her pension.”

  “You see, I always said she was a money-grubbing snob. But how did you find out that Mrs Enderby-Smarke was impersonating Mrs Morrison’s cousin?”

  “I didn’t,” said SP with a grin. “Reginald’s a fake Colonel, all right, but Mrs E-S is indeed Mrs Morrison’s cousin. Which just goes to show, you can’t choose your relatives. Now, Verity, it’s late, so I’d best be getting home to my humble abode. But there’s one more thing I need to discuss with you. I don’t think Pierre would approve of you living here without a chaperone.”

  “Chaperone? Humph,” I snorted. “Hightop House was supposed to be all la-di-da and fancy etiquette and look how that turned out.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that kind of chaperone. I wondered if you would like to offer the position of governess to Miss Deane. I have a feeling that she might welcome a change of scene.”

  “Miss Deane? Oh!” I clapped my hands together in delight. “That would be perfect.”

  “We must inform Pierre, of course. I will write to him and tell him what we intend.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. I was sure that when Papa found out that under her fine feathers Mrs Enderby-Smarke was nothing but a crook, he would lose his faith in fancy schools. I grinned. Miss Deane would be such fun.

  “Perhaps she can help with the confidential inquiries too,” I said. “I have a feeling she’d enjoy – oh.” I stopped. I’d forgotten. “Papa doesn’t want me to help with investigations any more, does he?”

  SP twirled the ends of his moustache. “He said he wasn’t keen, but he didn’t forbid it, remember. And you know, Verity – he did ask me to keep my eye on you. And what better way than to work together? And besides, ‘What you don’t know, can’t hurt you’, as the saying goes.”

  I laughed. “You know how Papa loves quoting his Russian proverbs. Well, this is one of my English ones. While the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

  The Enderby-Smarkes left the school the very next day, taking their framed battle scenes with them. Their downfall seemed to put new life into Miss Smith. She took on the role of headmistress like a woman half her age. Miss Deane stayed on until Miss Smith organised new teachers, and then she came to Alhambra to take up her position as my governess and companion. The maids found a home for Lucifer in the conservatory.

  Connie’s aunts, though interfering, were kind-hearted, and they agreed that she should go back to Riverbend Station as soon as possible. They were too old to travel, so they arranged to send their housekeeper with Connie on the train to Bendigo, where she would be reunited with her father. They were to stay the night there, at the Shamrock Hotel, and then begin the long trip up-country to the Murray River and home.

  SP wrote the promised letter to Papa and Papa replied, saying he had perfect trust in SP’s judgement, especially since Mrs Rowland – bless her! – had also sent him a note saying she approved of the change. In his letter to me, Papa said that he wanted me to be happy, and as long as Miss Deane was respectable, accomplished and ladylike, he was content. I replied that she was. I didn’t think it was wise to mention that she preferred the long, curved and highly polished banisters at Alhambra to the stairs.

  All’s well that ends well, I thought.

  But on Connie’s last day with us, when a surprising visitor was announced, I was not so sure.

  “Connie,” said Miss Deane, gently. “Jessie McGryll is here. She’s asking to see you.”

  I wouldn’t have blamed Connie for saying no. After all, Jessie had made her life a misery. However, after a few moments thought, Connie nodded.

  “Only if you come with me, Verity,” she said.

  Jessie was waiting for us in the morning room. She had dark circles under her eyes and no colour in her cheeks. Her shoulders were slumped and even her black curls were limp and listless. Was this really the Head Girl of Hightop House?

  “Oh,” she said, jumping up from her chair. “Thank you, Connie.”

  Connie didn’t beat around the bush. “What do you want?”

  “I want …” stammered Jessie, twisting her hands together. “I want … to say sorry, Connie.” Her lips were trembling as she went on. “I’m sorry I teased you about your home and your father. I’m sorry I stole your locket.” She turned to me. “And Verity. I have to apologise to you too, for taking your chain and trying to blame you for the thefts. For … for being horrible to you about … about … about everything.” There were tears on Jessie’s eyelashes but she kept on. “It was mean and cruel of me. If I could take any of it back, I would.” The tears began to roll down her cheeks. “I know that I’ve hurt you, Connie. I can’t really expect that you will forgive me …” She scrabbled in her pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose. Now I really did feel sorry for her.

  “You see, Papa and Mamma … well, my brother is the favourite. I’m … I’m only a girl,” she said. “That’s why I’m stuck away in a boarding school. My mother and father never visit me; they never write. When I go home for holidays, it’s always Robert, Robert, Robert. When I heard you talking about your papa and all the things you used to do together … and when you got his letters, and he called you his little bush lassie, I felt …” She sat down, hiding her face in her hands, and didn’t finish.

  But I knew what she meant, even if she couldn’t say it. She was jealous. Queen Jessie was jealous of Connie and me. Gryll Grange, Mary Queen of Scots and all those sheep didn’t equal love, and she knew it.

  “I accept your apology, Jessie,” said Connie.

  “Do you?” Jessie raised her tear-drenched face to Connie’s.

  “Yes. What you did doesn’t matter any more. I’m going home.”

  “Thank you, Connie.” Trembling, Jessie held out her hand. Connie looked at it for a few seconds before shaking her head.

  “No,” she said. “No, Jessie, I won’t shake your hand.” Turning on her heel, she left the room.

  Poor Jessie. Sobbing, she collapsed onto the sofa. After a few moments, her shoulders stopped heaving and she stood up, wiping her eyes and face with her handkerchief.

  “I suppose I deserved that,” she said.

  I looked her straight in the eye. “Jessie McGryll,” I said, “you and I will never be friends, but you were brave to come here and say sorry. I admire you for it. If you can be brave, I don’t doubt that you can be kind and generous as well.”

  Her eyes, wet with tears, briefly met mine. I held out my hand, and she took it.

  13

  GINGER JARS

  Once Connie returned to her father at Riverbend Station, Miss Deane and I settled into a routine of lessons in the morning, and what she called “educational excursions” alternating with social visits in the afternoon.

  This was a visit. But it wasn’t going to be very social, I could tell. As soon as Judith’s maid Molly showed us into the sitting room, I knew something was up. Daniel merely nodded hello. And Judith, who was lying on the sofa with a tangle of knitting on her lap, didn’t even look our way.

  “Jam tarts and fruitcake from Mrs Reilly,” I said cheerfully, putting them on the table. “And look!” I brandis
hed Papa’s latest letter. “News from Papa Savinov in Queensland.” Papa was keeping us well informed of his travels. “He’s seen Aboriginal encampments, cassowary birds, great herds of kangaroos …”

  “Mobs,” corrected Miss Deane.

  “… and bright blue butterflies as big as his hand.”

  But instead of the expected invitation to start reading, silence. You could have cut the air with a knife.

  Finally, Miss Deane said, “May I ask what’s the matter?”

  “Young Horace is making his mamma very miserable,” said Daniel. His attempt at a joke fell flat.

  Judith said irritably, “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Daniel. We don’t know if baby is a boy or a girl. And I most particularly dislike the name Horace. Besides, all I wanted was …” She began to sniffle.

  “See?” whispered Daniel.

  “But what is it you wanted, Judith?” I asked, sitting next to her and taking her hand.

  “Ginger.”

  “But I got you ginger, dearest,” said Daniel.

  “That horrid dried-up stuff! I want the kind that comes in syrup in a jar.”

  “I’m so sorry, my sweet, but I’ve tried at four different grocer’s shops …”

  “Have you tried Little Bourke Street?” asked Miss Deane. “We Melbournians call it Chinatown, and you’re sure to find your ginger jars there.”

  “That’s what you call local knowledge,” said Daniel, brightening up. “Thank you, Miss Deane.”

  Judith continued to sniffle. “And the wool.”

  “I bought you some wool too.”

  “It was the wrong colour.”

  “It was white, Judith. How can that be …” Judith’s face took on a stormy look and Daniel corrected himself just in time. “Won’t you come out and choose it yourself, dear? Some fresh air will do you good.”

  “How can I go out looking like this?” wailed Judith, and dissolved once more into tears.

  “Verity, why don’t you go with Mr Opie?” Miss Deane suggested. “And I’ll stay with Judith.” She picked up the knitting and looked at it. “Perhaps I can help you with …” She turned it upside down, and then sideways. “With this.”

  “It’s a jacket for baby,” said Judith between sobs, “but I think I’ve knitted three sleeves.”

  “Very useful if baby has three arms,” said Daniel with a wink, but that only brought more tears.

  Miss Deane looked at him sternly, shaking her head.

  “It was a joke,” said Daniel.

  “But not to her.” She came to the door to see us off. “Wool and a jar of ginger.” She lowered her voice. “And perhaps a little surprise, Mr Opie. I suggest something pretty. Perhaps lacy. I think it would be a good investment right now.”

  Our shopping expedition started off successfully. Daniel and I strolled down Collins Street until we found a haberdasher’s, and within minutes I was able to match the wool.

  “And now for the surprise,” I said, and led Daniel to the Royal Arcade. On the day of my birthday treat, I’d seen a shop there with fine imported lace caps, collars, shawls and trimmings in the window.

  “How about this?”

  I shook my head. “Too many frills.”

  “Or that one.”

  “Daniel! It’s hideous.”

  “I give up,” he said. “It’s obvious I know nothing about mothers-to-be or fashion. You choose, Verity.”

  I picked out a pretty cap with pink ribbons, the saleslady wrapped it in tissue, brown paper and string, and then all that was left for us to do was to buy Judith’s ginger.

  Thanks to the geography lessons at Hightop House, I knew we were a long way from the Orient. But I could see why Melbourne people called it Chinatown. I tried not to stare. All around us was a busy throng of Chinese people in their flat slippers, tunics and trousers, laughing, shouting, making bargains and calling out their wares.

  “Look in there,” I said. We were outside an eating house. It was crowded with people, all tucking into bowls of food with their chopsticks, and delicious spicy smells wafted out into the street.

  “Don’t you feel hungry, Daniel?”

  “We could take home a duck,” he suggested, pointing to a row of cooked fowl hanging by their feet. “They look tasty.”

  “Or a lobster. Look out!” A pair of big claws was poking out from a bucket, pincers snapping nastily.

  Eventually, we wove our way through piles of vegetables and sacks of rice into a grocer’s shop, where we found what we were looking for. But which jar? Jade green, red with gold dragons, or blue and white with a pattern of bamboo leaves?

  “All three, please,” said Daniel.

  The shopkeeper wrapped them up with newspaper and string, took Daniel’s money and bowed us out of the shop.

  “I feel we’ve had quite an adventure,” said Daniel as we headed off to catch a cab back to Richmond. But the real adventure was just about to begin.

  Suddenly, the sky went dark, there was a crack of thunder and down came the rain. By now we were used to Melbourne’s changeable weather and we were prepared. Up went our trusty umbrellas, and Daniel and I ran along together, laughing and chattering, for a couple of blocks.

  “What street is this?” I panted, looking around for a sign. I didn’t know Melbourne well, but surely we should have reached Collins Street by now. Had we gone too far? Where were we? We were no longer in Chinatown, that much I was sure of. I’d felt a lot safer when we were. Dark and narrow lanes ran off to both sides. Now that the worst of the storm was over, water dripped and gurgled from rusty spouting and turned the ground to muddy slush under our feet. We had to skirt slimy puddles and piles of bottles, rags and other rubbish, and I was glad I’d worn my sturdy boots. The smell was revolting.

  “This way,” said Daniel, pointing to a lane. “Let’s see if we can get back through to Bourke Street.”

  “Yes, let’s,” I agreed.

  But then Daniel stopped dead. “What on earth?” he said. “D’you hear that, Verity?”

  Voices, muttering at first, then raised. They sounded rough and somehow threatening. There was a loud groan, and then in a sneering tone, someone said, “There’s more where that came from, guv, so hand it over.”

  More groans and some unpleasant laughter. There was a thump, a crunching sound and a cry of pain. Someone was being attacked.

  “I’d better look into this,” Daniel said grimly. “You stay here, Verity.”

  “No, I’ll come with you.”

  He gave me one quick exasperated glance and said, “Come on then. Don’t make a sound, and be ready to run.”

  “I will,” I said, grabbing his hand.

  The lane turned sharply and there, in the shadows, were three men. Immediately I could see what was going on. It was a robbery.

  Two young men, dressed alike in shabby suits but wearing smart shiny bowler hats, had thrown an elderly gentleman to the ground. His black suit and long white beard were covered with mud, and one of them had stamped on his top hat. The tall, skinny one stood with his boot on the old man’s chest. He was laughing while the shorter one squatted to empty the gentleman’s pockets. Both of them had their backs to us.

  Great minds think alike, or so they say; almost at the same instant, Daniel and I reached for our weapons and threw them. His arm was stronger than mine, and his aim was better, but still, both our missiles packed a powerful wallop. Daniel got the tall one on the back of the head, while I struck my target between the shoulderblades. Talk about surprise! They didn’t know what had hit them, especially when Daniel strode forwards, shouting, “Take that!”

  Whack! Thwack! Daniel laid into them with his steel-tipped umbrella. The tall one, blubbering and holding his bleeding nose, fell over onto his back and stayed there like a stranded beetle. The other man was on his hands and knees, moaning, and Daniel poked him hard in the ribs.

  “What have you stolen? Come on, man. We haven’t got all day.”

  The man held out a watch and chain, a
silver snuffbox and a handful of coins.

  “Put them on the ground,” directed Daniel. “Back away from me – yes, like that – now, stand up.”

  He wasn’t so tough now that he was muddy, bloody and the crown of his bowler hat was caved in. He made a whimpering sound.

  “Get your accomplice and go. Go on – go!”

  The other man scrambled to his feet, dragged his mate up and then, swearing and cursing, the two of them ran away. I listened to their boots pounding through the mud and slush. The sound grew fainter. They were gone.

  Two of the ginger jars lay on the ground, broken and oozing syrup.

  “They were as good as cannonballs,” I said.

  “But is there one left?” asked Daniel, anxiously.

  “Yes. Here it is.”

  “Thank heavens,” he said. “I’m scared of your Miss Deane. And now, let’s see to this gentleman.”

  Poor man! He was hurt and bleeding and covered in stinking mud. He looked up at Daniel and me with an expression on his face that was almost comical.

  “I won’t shake your hands, although I’d like to,” he said. “I am William Usher, and I am most grateful to the pair of you.”

  Daniel introduced us both, and then helped him to his feet. We tried to wipe him down with our handkerchiefs but it was no use.

  “We can take you to your home, sir,” Daniel offered. “Or do you need a doctor?”

  “Bless you, no,” said Mr Usher. He moved his arms and legs gingerly. “Nothing broken.” He felt his scalp. “Head wounds always bleed a lot, but it’s only a scratch. Now,” he looked up and down the lane, “where is Guinevere?”

  “Guinevere?”

  “My mare. I fell off when those two larrikins started slinging mud at me. Oh, my goodness. Where is she?”

  “Perhaps she wandered off into that alleyway,” I said, pointing. “I’ll go and see.”

  There, in the narrow, muddy space between buildings, was the strangest sight. It could have been a scene from a fairytale – all except for the smell, of course. A white horse was stamping its hooves and shaking its snowy mane. Shining in the shadows, it looked like a magical beast. Scattered all around it were pieces of paper, and sitting in the saddle was a little girl with a halo of curly fair hair. How had she got there? Flown, like a fairy? Daniel and Mr Usher appeared behind me, and for a few seconds we all stared. Then she broke the spell.