by Susan Green
“And he invited you up to the cottage?”
“Yes,” I said, and tried to change the subject. But she kept coming back to it.
“I don’t think I ever heard Andrew speak of him. Mr Pierre Savinov is your father, is that right?”
“That’s right. I had a letter from him earlier in the week,” I said. “He is coming back from Queensland at last. He plans to sail on the coastal steamer Battenberg … why, no.” I realised that he would already have left Townsville. “He should be home in Melbourne in a week or so.”
“Then I suppose you will go back to Melbourne too.”
“Yes,” I said, and suddenly realised how much I’d missed Papa. I longed for SP to take over the case. Both cases. I wanted to go home.
An outburst of giggling and a shout from Poppy brought me back to the children, and I saw that Toby had put a big stroke of red paint on Poppy’s face. I got up and walked over, getting out my handkerchief to wipe it off.
“When I suggested you paint each other, I didn’t mean this,” I said sternly.
“Yes you did,” cried Toby, jumping up and down in his chair. “And now I’m going to paint you.” And he tried to dab a splodge of red on my nose.
“Don’t do that, Toby,” I said, fending him off. “You’re being very silly this morning.”
“I’m not, I’m not. You’re silly. You’re stupid.”
Before I could say anything, Poppy turned on him. “That wasn’t nice,” she said. “Say sorry.”
By now he was flushed and overexcited. “No.” He snatched my handkerchief and threw it across the room.
“Pick that up and say sorry to Verity.”
I looked behind me, waiting for Mrs O’Day to say something, but she just sat there hugging the little dog to her chest.
“No,” said Toby, and darting behind me, he pulled my hair ribbon off and mussed my hair.
Poppy walked over to him, put her face very close to his and said, menacingly, “Say sorry.”
“No.”
Poppy didn’t say another word, but gave him a look that would have poisoned a snake.
“Sorry …” His lip was trembling. He was very close to tears.
“Good boy.” No longer scary, she took his hand. “Now, you come wif me. You need a wash, you do.”
Poppy and cleanliness? I nearly laughed out loud.
Mrs O’Day just watched all of this. Really, I thought, Toby’s set to become a monster if no one takes him in hand.
As if she read my mind, Mrs O’Day said, “He’s not really a naughty boy; he’s just lively. I’ve been unwell, you see, and it’s been so hard for me to manage him. My goodness, look at your hair. Go upstairs to my bedroom. You can use my hairbrush and mirror.”
If you’re a confidential inquiry agent – or just a snoop – bedrooms can provide you with a lot of information.
First off: the smell. Mrs O’Day’s room was saturated with Harmony Blend. I took a deep breath. It was delightful, as Miss Deane said, but in this airless bedroom it was very strong. Almost overpowering. I guessed that Mrs O’Day had a lot of headaches. I sniffed again. The maids, I thought, need to give this room a good airing.
Then: money. It was obvious that Mrs O’Day had a lot. Her brush, comb and mirror were made of solid silver, and in a dish on the dressing table was a diamond ring that would have given Lady Throttle’s sparkler a run for its money. I lifted the lid of her jewel box. Inside was some mourning jewellery made of jet, all shiny as black beetles. There was one brooch that contained a lock of greyish hair under glass. Her last husband’s? I wondered. Ugh. I put it down quickly. There was also a string of magnificent pearls, and I remembered the photograph, the one of Mrs O’Day as a young girl. A quick peek in the wardrobe showed dresses, shawls, lace collars, fancy stockings and velvet bags. Mrs O’Day had everything money could buy.
Next: a blue glass medicine bottle. Didn’t Mrs Honeydew keep all drugs under lock and key? But when I looked at the label, I saw that this was not a doctor’s prescription; it was the kind of harmless remedy that you can buy over the counter at any druggist’s. Dr Hartmann’s Homeopathic Herbal Helper, I read on the label. A Superior Tonic for the Nerves. Use it to bring back the Rosebud of Health! I uncorked it and sniffed. It smelled sickly sweet. There was no sign of any other drug or medicine.
The last thing to examine was the photograph on Mrs O’Day’s bureau. It was the double portrait that Andrew Ross had shown us, minus the extra Alan. Mrs O’Day had surrounded it with artificial flowers and black ribbons. I picked up the photograph frame and quickly turned it over. It was easy to take the back off by twisting four little metal hinges. If there was a photographer’s label on the reverse of the print, then SP could pay him a visit and we might be one step closer to solving the case. I was in luck. Gabriel Riva, Maindample Buildings, Carlton was beautifully printed in maroon ink on smooth cream paper. That should be easy enough to remember, I thought.
As I edged the portrait back into the frame, I realised that there was a second photograph hidden underneath the first one. I slipped it out. This time, it was Mrs O’Day with Toby. Toby was a baby, and I had to smile at his chubby cheeks, long ringlets and lace-trimmed frock. Mrs O’Day was wearing widow’s black: a high-necked black dress, black net gloves and a black bonnet with the lace veil thrown back. Behind the mother and child loomed two ghostly figures. It was another spirit photograph.
Aha, I thought. This is a discovery.
The figures were vague and indistinct, but I could tell they were both male. One of them was touching Mrs O’Day’s shoulder. The hand showed quite clearly against her dark dress.
“What are you doing?”
I dropped the photograph. Mrs O’Day was right behind me. There was no way that I could lie or pretend my way out of this.
“I was prying, Mrs O’Day. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Oh, it doesn’t matter. I suppose you’d heard about Alan, and wanted to see a picture of him. How silly of me; you’re a friend of the family, aren’t you?”
“I only know Mr Andrew Ross,” I said. At least that was the truth.
“Andrew. Yes.” She sighed, and said in a dreary voice, “Poor Andrew. He misses Alan, and he blames me. As if I …” She looked me straight in the eye. “As if I pushed him into the water myself.”
What should I say? I just wanted to get away. The look on her face frightened me.
She shook her head. “I told Andrew I didn’t know what happened. I was to meet Alan there, at the boathouse. It was dusk – such a pretty time – and all the birds were flying home to their nests. I went down the path towards the creek, but I was so tired – I am always so tired! – and I sat down to rest on a garden bench. I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up it was too late. Too late …” She stroked Alan’s face with her fingertip. “And now this is all I have left.”
She bent and picked the other photograph up from the floor. “I wanted to send a photograph of Toby and myself to Father. I couldn’t send this one, of course. I had another one taken. He’s never seen his grandson – poor Father – and I thought … I wanted to go home, home to Eccle Court, and see him again. But all I got was a lawyer’s letter, saying that his client has no wish to … Well, Father didn’t want to see me.”
She pointed to the shadowy figures. “That’s Everard, my first husband. And that’s poor Ambrose, my second. I should have known, shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t I?” she insisted. “I should have known that they would never let me marry Alan. You see, in a way Andrew is right. It is my fault. Everard and Ambrose will never let me go. When Alan slipped his ring on my finger, he signed his own death warrant.”
22
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER
All of a sudden, the case made sense. Andrew Ross was correct. Mrs O’Day was guilty – but not of murdering Alan. She didn’t drug him and push him in the lake, but in her mind, she’d killed him just the same. Poor lady; I’d been right when I thought she seemed haunted. Though the drowning was just a ghastly coincidence, to h
er it was proof that her dead husbands would never let her go. The case was solved. I could write a report to Andrew Ross today.
But that still left me with poor Mrs O’Day, trembling here in her bedroom. What could I do for her? How I wished that I knew someone like Miss Lillingsworth here in Australia. Someone who could help Mrs O’Day to make peace with the past and carry on with her life.
“Verity, can you give me that bottle, please?”
I handed the Dr Hartmann’s Homeopathic Herbal Helper to her, and she took a swig. And another.
“I will lie down now.”
“Shall I ask your maid to help you?”
“No, no,” she said. “I don’t need a maid. I’m just tired. A sleep will do me good. That is what I need. A sleep.”
She lay back and closed her eyes; I covered her with a quilt and tiptoed out of her bedroom.
It was nearly three o’clock by the time Mrs Honeydew and Miss Deane arrived back at Greystones. They had had a most enjoyable outing. Besides visiting the chemist’s, they called at the stationer’s, the draper’s and the grocer’s. This last shop sells very fine peppermints and lemon drops. Mrs Honeydew bought some to give to Toby, Poppy and me. I don’t mind being lumped with the children when it’s sweets. Anyway, Mrs Honeydew is so kind; I really don’t mind if she thinks of me as a child. I am only fourteen, after all.
At around four o’clock, after a cup of tea, Miss Deane, Poppy and I left for home. Mrs O’Day did not come back down. Miss Deane invited the ladies and Toby to call on us tomorrow afternoon.
After their shopping expedition, Mrs Honeydew and Miss Deane are now as thick as thieves. It is all “Drucilla” this and “Bertha” (that is Mrs Honeydew’s first name) that. It is nice for Miss Deane to have a friend.
Mrs Honeydew’s rosy face, forever creasing into smiles, came into my mind. And her shrewd blue eyes, so observant and kind.
Mrs Honeydew such a calm, motherly, reassuring person. Just the qualities one would like in a nurse and companion. When they come to Forest Edge tomorrow, I must remember to give Mrs Honeydew the gem.
By “gem” I meant the earring I picked up that first day when Poppy and I took an early morning walk down to the lake. While they were chatting at the door (it took them forever to say goodbye), I noticed Mrs Honeydew’s pendant. It was blue, and very sparkly. Indeed, it was rather distracting, the way it bobbed and spun, reflecting the light with every move she made.
“Oh,” I said, remembering. “I picked up something just like that. It is an earring, I think.”
Mrs Honeydew looked startled. “Goodness me, dear. Where did you find it?”
“Near the boathouse.”
“Ah, so that’s where it was. Lavinia lost one of her earrings, dear, and didn’t want this any more. But I thought it was too pretty to throw away, so I asked her for it. As you see, I have hung it on a chain. But now you have found the other half of the pair.”
“I will give it to Mrs O’Day.”
“Why don’t you give it to me, dear, when I come to Forest Edge tomorrow? Then I can surprise her.”
She smiled, and patted my hand, and I couldn’t help looking at the blue gem on its chain, winking and glittering away. Was it a sapphire? As it caught the light, dozens of glittering rays spun off it. It was so very pretty.
I picked up my pen again.
Miss Deane and I must write to Andrew Ross, telling him that I have found an explanation for Lavinia’s guilty behaviour. I think it highly unlikely that her heart drugs feature at all.
But then there was a knock on the door. It was Miriam.
“Supper is ready, miss. And Mr Bobbs just asked me to check, miss, that all your windows are shut tight.”
“But it’s so hot, Miriam.”
“Hear that?”
I’d been so caught up in my writing that I hadn’t noticed it. A rushing sound, all around the house, almost like the sea.
“It’s the cool change at last. Mr Bobbs says there’s an almighty storm on its way. Soon, he says, it’ll be blowing a gale.”
“Then we’d better get Lucifer in off the balcony,” I said.
“We’ve done that already. He’s in the hall.”
“Oh! What’s that?” There was a thump and a clattering sound, and I heard Lucifer say, “Go to hell!”
“A branch hitting the roof, by the sound of it. And a few slates fallen off. Don’t worry, miss.” Miriam put her hand on my arm. “We won’t blow away.”
Supper was Mrs Bobbs’s apple turnovers, but none of us felt like eating. By now, as Mr Bobbs predicted, a strong wind rushed and roared through the trees and around the house, sounding for all the world like a storm at sea. I told Poppy about the time when Mrs Morcom and I, in the pitch dark of our cabin on board the Herringbone, were thrown right out of our bunks and spent the night clinging together on the floor.
“An’ then what ’appened?”
“Well … nothing really. The storm blew itself out, and in the morning we were able to tidy up our cabin.”
Poppy looked disgusted. “That’s pretty tame. If you’re goin’ to tell a story, you should try an’ make it a bit more lively.”
“Sorry, Poppy, but that’s the truth.”
“The truth’s all very well, but ’alf the time, it needs a bit more action in it. Goodnight, Verity. Goodnight, miss.” And with kisses for both of us, she went upstairs to bed.
“Shall I read to us?” asked Miss Deane, taking out Bleak House, but I shook my head. She would need to shout to be heard above the storm. The trees, tossed by the gale, were groaning as if they were live things in pain. The house seemed to shake as each new blast of wind struck it. I pulled the curtain aside. I couldn’t even make out the lights from the Bobbs’s cottage. All I could see was the rain lashing against the window, and darkness beyond. Close by were the other houses – Roseheath, Kinnock Brae and Greystones – but we were all cut off from each other by the storm, as if we really were ships at sea. Was Mrs O’Day frightened? I wondered. I could imagine her cowering in her bedroom as the storm battered Greystones and roared through the forest. I shivered and drew the curtain again, but I could still feel the chill creeping into the room through the glass. I wasn’t scared of storms, but I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was dread. Dread, foreboding – as if I knew that something bad was about to happen. Somewhere close by there was a shrieking noise and then a mighty crash.
I jumped. “What was that?”
“Probably a tree,” said Miss Deane. “In gales like this, they often come down.”
“Oh.”
“Verity, you’re as jumpy as a cat. Do something, will you, dear? Knit, or read.”
She was right. I needed to get a firm grip on myself. I poked around in the bookshelves. There were tomes on architecture, medicine and science, a couple of three-volume novels, and some poetry. None of them appealed. But what was this? A bound copy of London Society. It was the Fanshawe sisters’ favourite magazine. Perhaps there might be a serial story; something sensational and distracting with a title like The Perils of Prunella or The Mystery of the Mountain. I took the book off the shelf, put it on my knee (it was big and heavy) and opened it.
“How odd,” I said.
“What’s odd?” said Miss Deane.
“Look at this. Someone has cut a slit in the leather binding, and put …” I pulled out an envelope. It was labeled “2”, but otherwise not addressed. “It was very cleverly hidden,” I said.
We both stared. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up on end. It was something to do with Alan and Mrs O’Day, I was sure of it. This was the clue we’d been waiting for.
“Shall we open it?” I asked.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Verity, of course we shall!” Miss Deane grabbed it from me and ripped it open.
It appeared to be a letter. Or part of one. It read:
in the Reading Room at the Public Library.
I need further proof and more
information before
I act. Even now,
knowing her, conversing with her,
I cannot quite believe my shocking discovery.
As soon as I have proof positive, I will
confront her with it.
Your affectionate brother,
Alan
23
AFTER THE STORM
“Good God!” exclaimed Miss Deane, clutching my arm. “So Andrew was right after all.”
So much for solving the case. Then I thought hard. “This could verify Andrew’s suspicions …”
“That’s what I said.”
“But does it?” I re-read the letter out loud. “He says he’s made a shocking discovery and will confront her with it. It’s a bit of a leap from this to – to murder. And why was this envelope hidden? Did Alan himself hide it? Why is part of the letter missing? Was Alan’s mail being tampered with?”
Miss Deane frowned thoughtfully, and then gave a snort of exasperation. “I have no idea. This is so complicated!” And then she added, in a practical manner. “What should we do now?”
I had already gone to get the ink bottle and writing paper from the study. “I think we should send this letter to Andrew. I will put it on the hall table tonight, and Mr Bobbs can take it down into Macedon on Monday morning.”
It was quickly done – the letter, in its mysteriously marked envelope, was sealed up with a covering note from me, and the whole thing addressed to Andrew Ross at his office in East Melbourne.
“It’s bedtime,” said Miss Deane, yawning. “But how we are to sleep with this racket?”
We stood for a few seconds, listening to the storm. “I’m so glad we’re safe and warm inside, aren’t you?” I said.
“Indeed I am. I pity any poor soul who’s out in this.” Miss Deane shivered. “Goodnight, Verity. Sleep well.”
But of course I didn’t. Too hot, too cold. Too noisy, what with the shrieking wind and the banging and rattling of the house. And there were Lucifer’s occasional outbursts as well. About two o’clock, Poppy crept into my room and hopped under the blankets with me, but she kicked and wriggled restlessly. Eventually, she got up and went back to her own bed. I don’t know when I finally drifted off.
