Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (19 page)

“Perhaps,” said SP, still scribbling. Then he stopped. “We’re going around in circles, aren’t we? All these clues, and yet we’re nowhere. We’re stuck. We can do nothing until the kidnappers make their next move. Good Lord! What’s that?” He was looking through the French windows out into the garden.

It was Mr Snow, the white peacock.

“Look,” said Papa. “He knows we are watching him.”

Mr Snow unfurled his tail and held it out behind him like a huge lacy fan. He turned slowly, all the better to display his magnificence. Yes, Papa was right. Mr Snow knew he had an audience.

“We’ve been trying to catch him,” I said. “I’ll run and get some corn and see if I can lure him into the aviary.”

You know the old saying, “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink”? Well, Mr Snow was happy enough to peck at a trail of corn leading to the aviary, but do you think I could get him to go in? I captured two peahens but just as I was about to close the door on him, Mr Snow darted past me and fluttered up into a tree. He looked down at me with his round blue eyes.

“You’re a bad, bad bird,” I said to him.

I could have sworn he understood. He nodded so that the coronet of delicate white feathers on top of his head quivered.

“Please come down, Mr Snow,” I pleaded.

He hopped up to a higher branch.

After lunch, Harold, SP and I went out again in the phaeton. We thoroughly searched the spot where Harold had found the abandoned vehicle. Then we stopped at the scene of the kidnapping.

It all came flooding back. I had to force myself to take Harold’s hand and step down from the phaeton. I took a deep breath, told myself to be sensible, and joined SP and Harold at the scene of the crime.

I knew what SP was after. There is often some small clue – a dropped glove or hat, a piece of paper, a button torn off during a struggle. I thought we might find Helen’s flowery bag. But we found nothing other than hoofprints and the wheel tracks left by the phaeton. With an angry expression on his face, SP paced along beside the track, stopping here and there to poke a clump of grass or squatting to inspect the ground. I knew he was imagining Drucilla’s ordeal. Harold was beside him. His thoughts were probably full of his aunt. I kept forgetting about Helen.

It was now two days since Helen and Drucilla had been kidnapped. Two days and two nights. Where are you? I asked silently. I held their faces in my mind. Drucilla. Helen. Where? Where?

I felt a hand on my arm. “I know this is difficult for you, Verity,” said SP. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” I said. “I can’t see anything. No visions, just … just horrors.”

I won’t describe the rest of the day, because waiting – endless waiting – and worrying and fretting and imagining the worst is tiresome, don’t you think? I was weary. After supper, when SP went back to his hotel, I excused myself and went to bed.

I fell asleep straightaway. At least, that’s what must have happened, for suddenly I jerked awake from a deep slumber with my heart beating and all senses alert.

A floorboard outside my room squeaked. Someone was creeping down the passage.

I eased myself out of bed and tiptoed to the door. I pushed it slightly open. There was Mr Mallard, standing outside Helen’s room. The shadows closed around him as he opened her door and slipped inside.

I inched out into the hallway. A few minutes went by. Did he have a right to go into Helen’s room? Perhaps he did, but why do it in the middle of the night? I heard the door open again and I drew back into my room just in time. He went to the side door and let himself out. Through the gap in the curtains, I saw him saunter across the lawn to stand in front of one of the garden beds. I saw the flicker of a flame and in a few seconds a strong smell of cigar smoke came wafting towards me.

I don’t know why I lit my candle and crept out into the passage. I don’t know how I found myself inside Helen’s room. It was as if an invisible string were pulling me there. Why? What was I meant to find?

Shutting the door behind me, I stood still. The tiny light of my candle was engulfed by the darkness. The room smelled of lily-of-the-valley and … What was that smell? It was an acrid, burnt odour. When I crouched by the hearth, I found some fragile grey wafers of ash. I knew what they were. Burnt paper. They were still faintly warm. Mr Mallard had crept into his sister’s room and burned something. What?

I stood up and turned around. There on the secretaire, as if Helen had been interrupted in the middle of writing a letter, was a pen, a bottle of ink and a couple of sheets of notepaper. The envelopes and papers in their pigeonholes looked slightly disarranged, as if someone had riffled through them and put them back hastily.

“Verity? Is that you?”

Helen sat at her secretaire. She blotted the letter she’d been writing and shoved it into one of the pigeonholes.

“I do not think I can stand this much longer,” she said. For an instant the expression on her face was pleading. “Oh, Verity – what else could I have done?”

I opened my eyes. It had happened again. A tiny slice had been taken out of my life and this vision had been put in its place.

It meant something. Each of these flashes, visions – or whatever you want to call them – meant something. They were clues, puzzle pieces, parts of the answer. But I was still completely in the dark.

I blew out my candle, opened Helen’s door and looked both ways. There was no sign of Mr Mallard so as quickly as I could I raced back to my room and jumped into bed.

Suddenly, a banshee scream ripped through the night. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up even though I knew it was Mr Snow. Mr Mallard must have disturbed him as he roamed about outside. The neighbours’ dogs began to bark and someone shouted for them to be quiet. Mr Snow let out one last piercing cry and then all was quiet again. I lay awake a while longer. I’d almost drifted back to sleep when I heard footsteps on the verandah and the squeak of the door as Mr Mallard let himself in. He was humming a tune under his breath as he passed by my room.

For a change Mr Mallard was up early. He refused breakfast.

“Tea?” Hannah offered, holding up the pot.

“No. I drink coffee in the morning,” he snapped. “You should know that by now.”

To save Hannah another trip, Harold went back with her to the kitchen.

“Did you sleep well, Mr Mallard?” I was curious. He’d sneaked into his sister’s room in the middle of the night and burned something. Then he’d gone outside for a midnight ramble. What would he say?

“No. Not at all.”

“I slept badly too,” I said. “I was awake most of the night. I heard someone moving about. I thought it was you.”

“Did you?” He paused. “Yes, it was me. I heard the most terrible noise and I went to investigate.”

He was lying. He’d disturbed Mr Snow, not the other way around.

“And I must remember not to hum,” he continued. “It’s a bad habit of mine.”

Suddenly, the name of the tune came to me. It was “Champagne Charlie”; probably my least favourite song in the whole world. My horrible uncle Bill Bird used to sing it when he was on a spree.

Champagne Charlie is my name

Champagne drinking is my game …

An odd song for the music master of a boys’ school to hum …

“Here’s your coffee,” said Harold, coming into the room with the pot.

Without thanking Harold, Mr Mallard poured himself a cup and then left it untouched. “I think I will go and see if the mail has been delivered yet.”

“The first note was left in the carriage house,” said Harold.

“I know that. It doesn’t mean they won’t post something to us.”

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s much less risky for them than delivering a note by hand. If they’re smart, they’ll have left the district by now.”

“So now you’re an expert on kidnapping, are you?” he sneered.

It turned out that Mr Mallard was right. A few minutes later, we heard him shouting.

“It’s here! It’s in the mail!”

Harold and I hurried out onto the front verandah. Papa, still in his dressing-gown, appeared a few seconds later. Mr Mallard came bounding up the steps with an envelope in his hand and the rest of the morning post scattered behind him. “This is it,” he said. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

The envelope was addressed in capital letters, in the same clumsy script as the other note.

“How I wish SP were here,” I said. SP had some acquaintances in the police force in Bendigo. He’d gone there to consult with them, and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

“I hope you don’t think I should wait for
him
,” said Mr Mallard.

That wasn’t what I meant at all, but Mr Mallard was already ripping the envelope open. He pored over the letter. Seconds passed. Papa put his arm around me and hugged me to him. I held my breath.

“May I?” asked Harold. Mr Mallard handed him the letter, and he stood close so Papa and I could read it too.

As before, the writing was inside a crudely drawn red hand.

A THOUSAND POUNDS RANSOM YOU HAVE FOUR DAYS TO GET THE MONEY MORE INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW WE DO NOT FORGET

“A thousand pounds!” I said. “You can buy a house for that. Two houses.”

Harold was appalled. “It’s a fortune – how are we to get that much?”

“That is not for you to worry about, Harold,” said Papa. “It will be arranged.”

Mr Mallard giggled. “Besides, it’s two for the price of one.”

You could have heard a pin drop. The smile faded slowly from Mr Mallard’s face as he realised what he’d said. “That was in bad taste. Forgive me,” he murmured. “The strain … too much …”

“This is not a matter for jokes. Not at all,” said Papa in a frosty tone.

I thought it was time to change the subject. “How will we get the money?” I asked.

“Ernö and I have already made plans. Tomorrow we will take the train to Bendigo to speak to Nicky’s lawyer. He will have to arrange the transfer of funds from Nicky’s bank.”

Then there’d be papers to sign and forms to fill in – and if I knew anything about lawyers and bankers, they’d want everything in triplicate. It would all take time. Meanwhile, Drucilla and Helen were imprisoned, frightened, perhaps hurt. I could have cried from sheer frustration, but I knew we all needed to be patient.

“As Helen’s brother, I insist that I be allowed to go with you.”

Papa sighed. Until now, he had made allowances for Mr Mallard’s odd behaviour but with that earlier remark, Mr Mallard had gone too far, even for Papa’s kindly nature. “If you insist,” he said curtly.

Mr Mallard began to speak, but the look on Papa’s face made him change his mind. He slunk back down the hall to his room.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Clocks ticked and struck the hour, meals were served, tea was poured, morning turned to afternoon and then night. If each minute seemed long and weary to me, how did Drucilla and Helen feel? The thought of them haunted me all that day and half the night. I tossed and turned and only fell asleep towards dawn. When at last I woke, it was past nine o’clock. I had slept in.

I washed and dressed as quickly as I could and hurried to the dining room. As I paused for a few seconds outside the door to catch my breath, I heard voices in the Indian room.