Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (9 page)

It turned out that I had a letter too. When we returned to Shantigar, Hannah handed it to me. Who was it from? I didn’t recognise the handwriting. I opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside.

Dear Verity,

I am sorry if I alarmed you outside the theatre. I did not mean to. Sometimes I get so desperate that

I dropped the sheet of paper as if it were a scorpion. It was from Della Parker. How did she know where I was? How had she managed to get this address? My skin crawled as I imagined her – or someone in her pay – spying, prying, shadowing my every move. Had she come to Alhambra, pretending to be a friend? Even worse, had she followed us up to Castlemaine? I felt like crumpling the letter and throwing it in the rubbish. But that wouldn’t make it go away. I picked it up and read on.

I do foolish things. Forgive me, cousin. I simply want what is mine and I need your help to get it.

Cousin, I cannot believe that you would deliberately commit an injustice. I wrote to my uncle Hiram Parker many times, but he would not acknowledge my existence. He would not even see me. I have letters, papers and documents that prove Waldo Parker was my father. He ran away from home when he was just a boy and his family disinherited him, telling him he would never have any share of the family money. They told everyone he’d died, but it was not true. When you are convinced that I am telling you the truth, I know you will help me.

May I meet with you, so we can talk? You may write to me care of my hotel.

Your long-lost cousin,

Della Parker

I was calmer now and I realised that her story could be true. I knew that money and family troubles often went hand in hand. And from what Papa had told me about the Parkers, they’d been quite capable of disinheriting their son. But what could I do about it? Why was Della appealing to me? All of a sudden I understood. Della wanted me to get Papa to help her.

I couldn’t hide this from Papa any more. Della was desperate, and desperate people could become dangerous. And yet … Though she’d frightened me outside the theatre, now that I knew more of her story, I was beginning to feel sorry for her.

Papa was sitting in the Indian room. Helen and Connie had chosen their songs for tonight’s musical soirée at the Levinys’ and he was listening to them practise. He didn’t seem to notice when I slipped onto the sofa next to him.

I didn’t want to startle him, so I put my hand on his arm. “Papa,” I said softly. “I need to talk to you. Can you come with me?”

“Certainly.” He held out his hands to me and I helped him to his feet. “Helen has a very pretty voice,” he continued as we walked arm in arm down the hall. “But it is Connie who is the real
artiste
. Her playing is exquisite. How will she ever blossom up there on that farm? We must see if we can do something for her.” We reached the verandah and sat down. “Now, what is this about? You look very serious.”

I took his hand in mine. “Papa, have you ever heard of a young woman called Della Parker?”

If I’d worried that the name would shock or alarm him, I needn’t have. Papa merely frowned, as if remembering something unpleasant. He nodded. “Yes, I have heard of her. Why do you ask?”

“She wrote to me.”

“To you?” Papa sat straight up in his chair. “What for?”

“Here,” I said, taking the letter out of my pocket. “Read it.”

He took the letter from me and read it several times. Then he passed his hand over his eyes, shaking his head. “Perhaps I did wrong. Perhaps …”

“What, Papa? Please tell me.”

“Six or seven years ago this young woman approached my lawyers in Toronto with her tale about being Waldo Parker’s child. I had them look into it thoroughly, for Isabella’s sake. But the letters and documents proved nothing.”

“She says the Parker family lied about Waldo’s death. It is possible, isn’t it?”

“No. Waldo Parker ran away from home, it’s true. A few weeks later he returned. He was very ill and died soon afterwards. My lawyer found not only the death certificate but reliable witnesses to Waldo’s burial. It was an open coffin, Veroschka.” He paused to let that fact sink in. “It is very sad. This poor young creature, brought up in orphanages and foster homes, has somehow developed this
idée fixe
, this obsession about her parentage.”

“But her name – Della Parker?”

“Parker is a common name.” He sighed. “I felt sorry for her. I gave her money. And now she has followed us here. But why?”

“The news of Hiram Parker’s death?”

“But she has no claim, none at all.” He stopped. “What is it, Veroschka?”

“She was at the opera and she handed me a fan. It had a name carved on it – ‘Isabella Savage’.” I hesitated. Papa didn’t like me to talk about my gifts. They worried him. But he had to know about my vision. “As soon as I unwrapped it, I saw Mama. I heard her sing. I believe it really is Mama’s fan.”

Papa shrugged. “It may well have been. Isabella had many fans. She gave them to admirers, she lost them, perhaps some were even stolen. I will send a telegram to SP tomorrow, asking him to get rid of this nuisance. Promise me you will not bother yourself about her any more,
ma petite
.”

“I won’t, Papa. Though…” There was one thing about her that still puzzled me. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” I said. “She’s not a Parker at all, and yet she resembles Mama.”

Papa stared at me. “She what?”

“She resembles Mama,” I repeated. “Surely you noticed it?”

“No. I never saw her.” Papa began breathing heavily. He pressed his hand to his chest.

“Are you all right, Papa? Do you need a drink of water? Do you need to lie down?”

“Tell me what she looks like.”

I described her well as I could and Papa sat thinking for a minute. Then he said, “I will send a different telegram to SP. He will arrange a meeting. I think I need to see this Della Parker for myself.”

It was nearly two o’clock. We were assembled around the dining room table, but lunch had not yet been served and the atmosphere in the room was rather tense. Mr Petrov, with a frown, announced the reason for the delay.

“We are waiting for my great-nephew Harold,” he said. “He is coming home from school.”

“What school is that, Nicky?”

“Cantilever College.”

“Ah, he has his holidays,” said Papa.

“I suppose you could call it that.” Mr Petrov was tight-lipped and grim.

You could have cut the air with a knife.

Then, all in a rush, as if she couldn’t hold back any longer, Helen said, “I hope you are not going to be too hard on him, Nicholas. Remember, I told you we should have sent him to Castlemaine Grammar School. It is good enough for the Leviny children, and–”

“You must excuse Helen,” said Mr Petrov. “She is upset. I’m afraid Harold has been expelled.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” exclaimed Connie, and then blushed. “I beg your pardon.”

“Actually, it is not so terrible,” said Helen. “Nor is it totally unexpected. It’s happened before.”

“What’s ’e done?” Trust Poppy to come right out with it.

“According to the headmaster, he is not amenable to discipline,” answered Mr Petrov.

Poppy frowned as she tried to take in all those long words.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Poppy,” said Helen. “Harold is cleverer than his teachers, and that’s the problem.”

“Aha,” said Papa. “He is an intelligent boy, yes? And does not fit the mould expected of him? I like the lad already.”

The dining room door opened and in came Hannah bearing a soup tureen. Following her was a tall, broad-shouldered boy in a magenta school blazer. I’d say he was fifteen or sixteen. He had curly dark hair, hazel eyes and a rather square jaw. His black brows were drawn together in a worried frown.

He went straight to Mr Petrov. “Uncle Nick, I’m sorry. I tried, I really did.”

“But not hard enough.” Then in a softer tone, Mr Petrov said, “Those teachers don’t know a bright boy when they see him.” He held out his arms and Harold gave him a gentle hug. “Welcome home, nephew. Now go and greet your aunt.”

Harold slipped into the chair next to Helen’s. There was a tender look on her face as she turned her cheek for a kiss.

“You haven’t said good afternoon to our guests, dear,” she said in a low voice.

“How rude of me. I beg your pardon,” he said. He felt in the pocket of his blazer and brought out a pair of rather smeary spectacles. With them on, he looked a little like an eccentric young professor. He shook hands with Papa, and then turned to Connie, Poppy and me. “I’m happy to meet you. Very happy. You see, I’ve got three younger sisters at home in England, and I miss them. So …” He flashed a cheeky glance at his great-uncle. “I’m glad I got expelled.”

No one mentioned Cantilever College again. Harold seemed keenly interested in all the colonial news and politics and the men had quite a long talk until Poppy complained.

“That’s all a bit dull for me.”

“I do apologise,” said Harold, turning to her. “Why did the pony cough?”

Poppy was nonplussed. “Why?”

“Because it was a little hoarse.”

She thought for a few seconds.

“It’s a joke!” she giggled. “Tell some more.”

Harold obliged with another and then another but in the end she got the hiccups from laughing so much.

“Stop now, you ridiculous boy,” said Helen, giving him a playful slap on the hand. She was very fond of him, that was clear, but there was something else. Was I imagining it, or did she seem relieved he was here? I thought back to this morning in town, and the letter. My guess was that it had been a warning from Harold. Now he was here, and Mr Petrov wasn’t upset or angry, perhaps …

Maybe I should stop seeing mysteries everywhere.

“Those jokes, they are terrible,” said Papa. “Where did you learn them?”

“From Uncle.” Harold fell silent.

“I used to tell them to my grandchildren.”

In the pause that followed I remembered my vision in the Indian room: the small shapes under the sheet and the chess pieces fallen on the floor.

Helen changed the subject. “The Levinys are hosting one of their soirées tonight, Harold. I am going to sing, and Connie will be accompanying me.”

“Oh, that’s splendid,” said Harold. “And will you be performing too, Verity?”

“No. I’m not musical.”

“Neither am I,” he said with a cheerful grin. “Not a bit. But I enjoy seeing other people enjoying themselves, so I always love a concert.”

My thoughts exactly.

We girls had packed our good dresses, and they’d been hung up overnight to get the creases out. We all had new outfits. Connie’s was blue, Poppy’s was pink stripes, and mine was pale green with tiny covered buttons all down the bodice.

There was a tap at the door. It was Helen, dressed in lemon yellow trimmed with white lace. She had white silk rosebuds in her hair and a string of very fine pearls round her neck.

Poppy gave a sigh of delight. “You look absolutely divided!” she said.

“Thank you, darling.” Helen dropped a kiss on top of Poppy’s head. “I have something for you.” It was a pink hair ribbon. She had a blue one for Connie.

“An’ what about Verity?” asked Poppy.

“I will do Verity’s hair myself,” she said, guiding me onto the seat in front of the dressing table. She smiled at our joint reflections in the mirror and began undoing my plaits. “I wonder what you would look like with a side parting?” She picked up my brush and comb. “Do you mind?”

I’d rather my hair was left as it was, but it seemed rude to say so.

She produced a few more silk rosebuds and some narrow pink ribbon. With quick, clever fingers she pulled my hair back from my face and wove the ribbon through my hair into a complicated braid. A flower here and there, and she stood back to admire her handiwork.

“One last touch.”

My reflection looked back at me with a quizzical expression. Anyone with half an eye could have seen that the flowers didn’t suit me. Too fiddly, too fussy. But it wasn’t just good manners that made me smile and thank Helen. It was what she said as she twisted the last rosebud into my hair.