Verity Sparks, Lost and Found

by Susan Green

  “I have,” I said, and rushed off to get them.

  When I got back, SP was showing Miss Deane the photograph of Lavinia Ecclethorpe.

  “It’s several years old, but I don’t see how she can have changed all that much. I’ve also prepared a list of questions to assist with identification. Ah, thank you, Verity.” SP quickly wrote our names on the back of his card and gave it to Miss Deane. “Use that when you arrive at his office.” He handed me a couple of banknotes. “That’s the reward.” Then he pulled out his pocket watch.

  “Good Lord,” he said, standing up. “I must be off or I’ll miss my train.” He kissed me on the forehead and shook Miss Deane’s hand. “Thank you, ladies. And good luck!”

  The address Mr Ross had given SP was in East Melbourne, and since we had time to spare, Miss Deane asked the cab driver to let us out early so we could stroll through the public gardens. Did I say stroll? Miss Deane strode along quickly, even running off here and there to look at a statue or admire a specimen plant. I kept as much as I could to the shade.

  “It’s so hot,” I panted. “And it’s only November. It’s not even summer yet.”

  “I think it’s very pleasant,” said Miss Deane.

  I turned and looked at her. I could feel myself perspiring and there she was, as cool as a cucumber. Perhaps colonials didn’t feel the heat.

  As we emerged onto the road, to our right I could see the vast shape of the Royal Exhibition Building with its massive dome. It was still being built, and I felt sorry for the poor workmen on such a day. Out in the sunlight the heat was scorching.

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Miss Deane.

  “I wish wide-brimmed hats would come back into fashion,” I grumbled. My little bonnet offered about as much shade as a hairpin.

  “Here, take my parasol,” Miss Deane offered.

  Even with a sunshade, I was hot and rather damp by the time we reached the offices of Ross and Fairchild, architects. I was nervous as well. After all, Mr Ross thought he’d be meeting with Mr Saddington Plush Junior, an experienced confidential inquiry agent; and here we were, two agents in skirts. I hoped SP had remembered to send that note.

  “Wait a minute.” Miss Deane reached into the valise she was carrying and brought out a pair of spectacles. “Do they make me look older?” she asked, perching them on her nose.

  I shook my head, and Miss Deane laughed. “Let’s hope the old fellow’s short-sighted,” she said as she rang the bell. A few seconds later an office boy opened the door. He stared at us.

  “We have an appointment to see Mr Andrew Ross,” she said, giving him SP’s card.

  He kept staring, and I guessed that ladies didn’t often visit an architect’s office.

  “Please wait here, ma’am,” he said. There were a couple of chairs in the hall. “And miss.”

  Through a doorway, I could see a couple of men in shirtsleeves with their waistcoats unbuttoned working at drawing boards. It was stuffy, and so quiet that we could hear the blowflies bumbling around on the windowsills. If we have to wait much longer, I thought, I’ll fall asleep.

  At last the boy came back. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Mr Ross says he was expecting Mr Saddington Plush.”

  “We represent Mr Plush. Please tell Mr Ross to look at the reverse of the card.”

  The boy, puffing and sweating, trotted up the stairs and just as quickly came down again.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but Mr Ross says there must be some mistake.”

  It was so hot. I really couldn’t be bothered. “Let’s just go,” I whispered, but Miss Deane spoke sharply.

  “Please tell Mr Ross there is no mistake. We believe he is a very busy man, and so the quicker you take us to his office, the better.”

  The poor lad toiled up and down again. This time the message was blunt. “I was to say sorry, ma’am, and escort you to the door.”

  “Escort us to the door,” spluttered Miss Deane. He face was now red to match her hair. “How rude!”

  “SP will be back by the end of the week,” I said, tugging at Miss Deane’s sleeve. “He can make another appointment.”

  But there was no stopping Miss Deane. Her blood was up, and I could just see her standing up to her cruel employer. “Tell me, which office does Mr Ross occupy?”

  The office boy gave up. “Turn left, second on the right. But, miss … I say, miss …” He looked imploringly at me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You won’t get into trouble.” And I followed in Miss Deane’s wake as she took the stairs two at a time, stomped down the hall and, without knocking, walked into the office of Mr Andrew Ross.

  Mr Ross was not a fussy old man. Why on earth did we think he was? Quite the reverse. He was a broad-shouldered fellow in his early thirties, and he would have been very handsome if it were not for his gaunt cheeks and shadows under his eyes. His hair was fiery red, several shades brighter than Miss Deane’s. Like the draughtsmen downstairs, he had taken his suit jacket off, and was stretched out in his chair with his feet upon his desk, reading a newspaper. Seeing us in the doorway, he almost fell backwards in surprise. Or perhaps “shock” would be a better word. He stood up quickly, dropping the paper and shrugging on his jacket. It was then I noticed he wore a black armband.

  “I apologise for my attire, ladies, but I was not expecting you,” he said, straightening his tie. “As Edwin should have explained to you, I was expecting Mr Plush.”

  Edwin now appeared in the doorway.

  “As I explained to Edwin, Mr Plush wasn’t able to come so he sent us as his representatives. Did he not send you a note, informing you of the fact?”

  “This only just come, sir,” said Edwin, handing Mr Ross an envelope. I could see SP’s large scrawling script. Better late than never, I thought. He took the note out, read it and then tossed it in the bin.

  “If I had received this earlier, I would have cancelled the appointment.”

  “Why?” said Miss Deane. “It may seem a little unconventional to send females on such a mission, but I assure you, we are very experienced operatives. You may explain your business to us.”

  Mr Ross fiddled with his cuffs, and without looking at Miss Deane, said, “I regret that that is impossible. Edwin, please see the ladies out.”

  “Thank you, Edwin. We will call when we need you,” said Miss Deane and bundled him out of the room. She turned to Mr Ross. “Why is it impossible?”

  He’d run out of manners. Or perhaps his red-haired temper got the better of him. “To be blunt, Miss Deane, I do not care to discuss this highly confidential business with a young lady and …” For the first time he glanced in my direction. “… and a mere girl.” He rubbed his palms together as if washing his hands of us. “I must ask you to leave.”

  But Miss Deane wasn’t giving up. She stared at him challengingly.

  Mr Ross stared back. Then with bewildering suddenness, he changed his mind. He pulled out chairs for Miss Deane and me, and politely invited us to sit.

  Two could play at that game. “Thank you, Mr Ross,” said Miss Deane, graciously, as if it had all been a tea party so far. She gave me a sly wink before she settled the glasses on her nose and got down to business.

  “You contacted the Inquiry Agency in reply to our advertisement. We are seeking a certain lady – Lavinia Randall, born Lavinia Ecclethorpe. The first thing we need to do, Mr Ross, is to make a positive identification,” she said. “Luckily, we have her portrait.” She produced Lavinia’s picture from her valise, unwrapped it and handed it to him. “Do you recognise this young lady?”

  Mr Ross stared at the photograph with a very strange expression on his face. I noticed that his hands were trembling.

  “Mr Ross?” prompted Miss Deane. “Is this the lady?”

  “Yes. It is her. It is Lavinia O’Day.” He placed the portrait on the desk, face down.

  “And do you know her whereabouts, Mr Ross? Does she live here, in Melbourne?”

  “At present, she resides at Moun
t Macedon. A letter addressed to her there at her house, Greystones, will easily reach her.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Deane. “That is highly satisfactory, Mr Ross.” She beamed a brilliant smile on him. “You shall be rewarded, of course.”

  I found it strange that a well-off young architect would wish to claim a reward. As did Mr Ross, obviously. He looked astonished. “Reward? What on earth?” He thumped his hand on the desk. “What would I want with a reward?”

  “Then why did you reply to the advertisement?” asked Miss Deane.

  “Because I want to hire the Confidential Inquiry Agency to investigate Lavinia O’Day. I believe she murdered my brother.”

  16

  THE WORST CRIME THERE IS

  “Murder?” I said.

  That horrible word. Cold, cruel, pitiless. The worst crime there is. I turned the photograph right side up. Lavinia Ecclethorpe looked young and innocent. Just seventeen, and with her life before her. Miss Deane and I exchanged glances. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing. Was this really the face of a murderess?

  “Oh, I pray that I’m wrong!” said Mr Ross in an agonised tone. He stood up abruptly and walked to the window. I could tell that he was struggling to get his feelings under control. After a moment he turned back to us. “Let me tell you the whole story,” he said. “My younger brother Alan is … was … a medical student. Last year, Alan and I spent the summer at our holiday cottage on Mount Macedon. Life on Mount Macedon in the summertime is very informal, very friendly.” He paused, as if remembering. “It was at a garden party that Alan and I met Lavinia O’Day. She is a young widow with a five-year-old son. We met at picnics, tennis matches, rambles in the bush … In June, Alan and Lavinia became engaged. And six weeks ago, on the first day of October, he drowned.”

  “A tragedy,” said Miss Deane. “But surely it could have been an accident?”

  “Alan could swim like a fish.”

  “Accidents do happen,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s true. But Mrs O’Day’s first husband died while cleaning his gun. Her second fell downstairs and broke his neck. And now, Alan is dead as well. Oh, the coroner ruled it an accidental drowning, but …” He stopped, once again fighting his emotions. Poor man, I felt so sorry for him.

  “Lavinia said she’d agreed to meet Alan by the boathouse in the early evening for a stroll. She said she fell asleep, and when she got there it was dark. She called for Alan, but couldn’t find him. She then went to the cottage. He wasn’t there, so the servants started searching for him. A little later, Mr Bobbs – that’s the caretaker – saw something in the lake.

  “I came up from town as soon as I got the telegram. She was beside herself, talking wildly. I tried to comfort her, but she told me to go away. She won’t see me, she won’t talk to me.”

  “So you think she was lying to the police?”

  “Yes, I think she met him earlier, drugged him and pushed him in. Lavinia takes some kind of medicine for her heart. She could easily have given some to him.”

  “But why? What could be her motive?” That was one thing SP and Daniel had taught me – there’s always got to be a reason for a crime.

  “The last time I spoke with Alan, he seemed worried about something. He wouldn’t say what it was, only that it concerned her. He told me that her behaviour had become very strange – gentle, loving and sweet one minute, and then suddenly cold and distant. He said to me, ‘It is almost as if she is two people in one. Which is the real Lavinia?’”

  Mr Ross leaned forwards, and his voice was choked with emotion. “Both her husbands died in mysterious circumstances. I think Alan found out something about her past, so … so she murdered him.”

  That word again. It hung in the air between us, and for a few seconds the room was so silent that it seemed we were all holding our breath.

  “Two husbands, and now a fiancé,” said Mr Ross. “All dead and unable to tell how. Accidents happen all the time, but three in the space of six years?

  “There is one more thing.” He reached into his desk drawer and brought out two unframed photographs. He handed one of the pictures to us. It was a photographic portrait of Lavinia, seated, with a gentleman standing behind her. Mr Ross pointed. “My brother Alan,” he said. We didn’t need to be told that, for the brothers were very alike. Lavinia had scarcely aged at all. The couple looked very happy and I sighed, thinking of the future tragedy.

  Then Mr Ross passed over the second photograph.

  This time, Lavinia had two men standing behind her. One of them had a circle in red ink drawn around his head, a cross marked above it, and the word “See?” twice underlined. At first I thought I was looking at the two brothers. But though they’d been alike, they certainly weren’t identical – and these two men were. Besides, one of the two looked rather misty, as if somehow the picture had faded, or … Oh. I’d seen something like this before.

  Memory took me back to Professor Plush’s study, about a year ago. He’d asked me if I would look at a very interesting photograph.

  “This is a portrait of Mrs Mary Todd Lincoln taken in 1869.”

  She was a plain, stout elderly woman wearing a most unfortunate high-crowned bonnet. In the picture, a cloudy human form rose up behind her. Its face, though blurred, had strong features. And a beard.

  “Professor,” I said. “Is that the ghost of the assassinated American President, Abraham Lincoln?”

  “Mrs Lincoln believed so.”

  “And what do you think, Professor?”

  “I’m not sure. It is possible to manipulate the photographic plates to achieve this kind of effect. I’ve done it myself – it’s not difficult.”

  “So … is this a fake?”

  “I don’t believe so. Some spirit photographs are, without a doubt, absolutely genuine. They are portraits of the living dead.”

  “It’s a spirit photograph,” I said, and tried to explain what I meant to Mr Ross.

  “What rubbish!” he said. “The reason I am showing you this picture is not to fuel your superstitious fantasies. It’s because I found it in my brother’s rooms in Carlton.” Mr Ross paused. “Is it some kind of clue? And what do those marks and the writing mean?” He looked at the photograph as if willing Alan to tell him what he knew.

  Edwin appeared in the doorway, looking terrified. “Mr Ross, Sir Henry is here.”

  Mr Ross looked at the clock and straightened his tie. “I mustn’t keep Sir Henry waiting.” He pulled out our chairs for us, and bowed courteously. “Ladies, I would like to engage you to investigate Lavinia O’Day. I will arrange for you to stay at Forest Edge – that’s our cottage on Mount Macedon. Lavinia’s house adjoins our property. I presume you will send me some kind of contract?”

  “Naturally,” said Miss Deane, trying to sound businesslike.

  After he said good afternoon, he added, “Ladies, I must apologise for my initial response. While I do not believe that investigation is a suitable job for females, I am a practical man, and I can see that this case needs a woman’s touch. I am sure you ladies are the best men for the job.”

  “My goodness,” said Miss Deane, when we got into our cab and directed it to take us all the way back to St Kilda. “It’s astounding.” Her eyes were nearly popping out of her head. “I can’t believe it. A murder investigation! And just fancy, Verity, he wants us to go to Mount Macedon.” She fanned herself vigorously. “This makes the life of a governess seem awfully tame.”

  “We may not go. It depends on SP.” How I wished SP wasn’t in Ballarat for the week. Mentally, I cursed the person who’d fiddled the funds from St Sycorax’s Orphanage.

  “But of course we will go. Why not? Don’t you think we can handle the assignment?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “I am.” Miss Deane tossed her head, and a few red curls escaped from their pins. “It is very intriguing, don’t you think?” And she went on to suggest a number of possibilities. “Mrs O’Day could be a murderess, as
Andrew Ross believes. But what if Mrs O’Day ended their engagement, and Alan drowned himself in despair? Was he a drinker? He could have tumbled into the lake while inebriated. Or perhaps Andrew Ross is unhinged by grief, and the whole thing is a fantasy. Or …” She was almost breathless with excitement by now. “What if Andrew is secretly in love with Mrs O’Day? He could have killed his brother in order to win her, but is now trying to pin the blame on her because she has rejected him.” I was glad when she stopped. My head was spinning. “Perhaps that last one is a little far-fetched.”

  The Fanshawes, I thought, weren’t the only ones who read sensational novels. I understood why Miss Deane was excited. It was almost as if the case was a fascinating puzzle, or a game.

  But Alan Ross had been a living, breathing human being, with thoughts and feelings, with loves and perhaps even hatreds … and now he was dead.

  17

  FOREST EDGE

  I was looking for something. It was near, very near; I could tell. I reached out my hands and to my surprise, the mist parted and I saw that I was standing at the top of a small hill. Smooth green lawns sloped down to a lake. There was a jetty and a boathouse. The boathouse … yes, that’s where it was. I knew I must hurry, so I started to walk faster, and then to run, and suddenly the mist blanketed everything again, and I was falling …

  I woke, covered in sweat and looked around my familiar room. That dream again. But something had changed. Now there was a boathouse, and a lake. Why? Perhaps because of what Andrew Ross had said. It was where his brother Alan drowned. That’s the way of dreams, isn’t it? They take scraps and pieces of your waking life – The Young Ladies’ Treasure Book and Complete Companion or a confidential inquiry – and turn them into something new and strange.

  I sat up in bed and reached for my journal, pen and ink. Dawn wasn’t far away, and I knew I wasn’t going to get to sleep again.

  It is now over ten days since Miss Deane and I met with Mr Ross. Tomorrow –