The Truth About Verity Sparks (15 page)

“Ma? Oh, Ma …” I could hardly speak from trembling. “Is it you, Ma?”

“Well, who do you think?” asked the Doctor, crossly. “You were just a wee baby, she says, but how ye loved the ragbag. Ye used to take the pieces and stroke them and rub them to your bonny wee cheeks.” The Doctor’s voice broke off, and Mrs Miller began to wheeze. The Colonel, who was sitting next to her, wiped her forehead with a handkerchief.

“She wants to know have ye got the lucky piece?” The Doctor’s voice was hoarse and urgent. “And have ye got the ring?”

“Yes, Ma. I have them now.” I let go of the hands and undid my top button. I’d put the ring on the cord with the lucky piece, and worn them both round my neck especially, in case Mrs Miller was able to read tokens. “They’re here. I have them here.”

“It was for luck, she said when she gave them to you. She says she promised, she said she would never break a promise, and she loved ye as if you were her own. She loves ye still, and she watches over ye, and she is so proud.”

“Ma,” I was close to crying. “I miss you so much.”

Then in a whisper, the doctor said, “
C’est pour toi, ma petite
…”

“Oh,” said Madame Dumas and she gripped my hand hard. “A message for me.”

“…
la Belle Sauvage
…”

Mrs Miller was struggling to breathe. She began to cough so hard that the Colonel put his arms around her and helped her to an armchair near the fire, where she lay back, panting.

“Richard,” she said in her own flat, childish voice. “Won’t you get me my drops? In my purse there …”

The colonel did as she asked, saying, “It’s the cold, and this infernal fog. What d’you Britishers call it? A pea souper. She gets bronchitis, you see.”

Lady Skewe brought her a drink of water, and then turned to the rest of us at the table. “That must be enough for this evening.” Looking really worried, she watched Mrs Miller for a few seconds, but as the lady was getting pinker, and breathing easier, Lady Skewe announced, “I will ring for tea.”

Colonel Jebb took Mrs Miller away before the tea came. Being American, perhaps they didn’t have the same need for it. Now the gas was turned up, and the rest of us stood around rather awkwardly. I could see tear streaks on Mr Egg’s face, and I’m sure mine was the same. I realised that with all of SP’s talk about frauds and charlatans, I hadn’t quite expected Mrs Miller to be genuine. But the ragbag – it was something only Ma would know about. And what had the Doctor said? “She loves ye still, and she watches over ye, and she is so proud.” Perhaps tonight’s messages would seem comforting in time, but for now, I was in a bit of a daze. I got a fright when Madame Dumas came right up to me.

“Dear child, you are blessed. Your mother talked to you tonight, eh? That is beautiful, so beautiful.” Her eyes glittered. She pointed to the cord round my neck and leaned forward. “Some special souvenirs, no? A ring – how rare, how lovely – and what is this?” She was so close now that she was touching me, and to my surprise she took the lucky piece between her finger and thumb and stared at it. Just as well the cord was long, or she’d have strangled me. I must have looked a bit surprised, for she backed off and said, “Wonderful, no? Your mother, she speaks to you, from beyond the gulf of death …” She waved her hands in a vague gesture, smiling, and didn’t finish what she was saying to me. Instead, she turned to Lady Skewe.

“A thousand apologies, Lady Skewe,” she cried. “Alas, I cannot stay for the tea.
Au revoir
.”

She practically bolted out of the room as a trio of maids, under the direction of the butler, came in with tea trays and we all sat down again.

“What a pity Madame Dumas could not stay.” Lady Skewe shoved another dainty cake into her mouth. “I wonder what her message meant?”

“It’s for you, little one,” translated Miss Lillingsworth. “And then
la Belle Sauvage
.”

“The beautiful savage,” murmured Lady Skewe.

“Or the savage beauty,” said SP. “I wonder who she is.”

“Perhaps no one,” said Mr Egg. “
La Belle Sauvage
is the name of an old inn on Ludgate Hill. I believe it is in Seacoal Lane.”

Then maybe the message was for me. That’s where I used to live.

I was very tired. Tea and cakes went on for ever, and so did Lady Skewe’s loud voice pondering over moth and silverfish, and Mr Egg’s endless teary stories about his mother. It was nearly an hour and a half later when we said our goodnights, and even then there was a last-minute delay while we waited for John.

“Where can he be?” SP was on the point of asking one of Lady Skewe’s servants to go looking for him when the familiar carriage came around the corner and we got in.

I didn’t feel like talking. None of us did. I was so caught up in thinking about Ma and Mr Egg and Seacoal Lane that I got a shock when I heard SP’s voice, quite loud, calling to the coachman.

“John! I say, John.” He rapped on the side of the carriage. “John.” The carriage didn’t stop, and he turned to Miss Lillingsworth and me. “We’ve been travelling for at least a quarter of an hour, haven’t we? We should be near the bridge by now. What’s got into the man? John!” The carriage stopped. “Perhaps he’s taken a wrong turn in this fog. I’ll get out and see what’s the matter. Won’t be a second.” And with a reassuring nod, he jumped out.

“Where are we, I wonder?” asked Miss Lillingsworth. As far as I could see, with all the fog swirling around, we were in a narrow street between tall brick buildings. “We seem to be in some kind of business district. Are these warehouses, do you think?”

“Could be anywhere,” I said. “Easy enough to get lost in this fog.”

I could only make out bits and pieces of what SP said – “Why didn’t you … Who told you …” – and John’s low replies. Then there was a loud noise, as if something hit the side of the carriage.

Both of us froze, straining to hear. Miss Lillingsworth put her fingers to her lips and motioned for me to open the door. As quietly as we could, we slipped out of the carriage. There were no voices now. No sound at all. What had happened to SP? What had happened to John? Miss Lillingsworth clasped my hand, and the two of us moved forward.

“Oh,” Miss Lillingsworth gasped. My heart dropped like a stone. There was SP lying on the cobbles, with a caped figure bending over him. And it wasn’t John. John is short and stout, and this man was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked up, and though I couldn’t see properly, I knew he was staring straight at me. Miss Lillingsworth’s calls of “Help! Help! Robbers!” seemed to disappear, muffled in the fog. I couldn’t see his face, and that only made it worse when he spoke to me. His voice was deep, and smooth as black velvet – a gentleman’s voice – but somehow not quite.

“Miss Sparks, I presume?” He held out his hand.

I panicked. Maybe I should have stayed with SP and Miss Lillingsworth, but I knew – I don’t know how I knew, but I did – that this was no robbery. It was me he was after. I ran.

“Stop!”

Not bloody likely. I took off like a greyhound after the lure. Sure enough, footsteps followed, and that voice in the dark calling my name. I ran like the devil was after me along the deserted street, through an alley with a gas lamp at the far end, into a courtyard, and then down a lane into another court. The footsteps kept coming, and I ran all the faster. I turned a corner, and there was a light up ahead, shining red in the fog, and voices. It was a small fire, with ten or fifteen people around it.

“Help!” I called. “Help me.” But almost at once I knew I’d picked the wrong mark. The faces that turned towards me were something out of a nightmare, all blooming with sores and bruises, teeth missing, eyes glittering. I could smell their stinking rags and the gin on their breath.

“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” said one, and the whole company laughed.

Hands grabbed at me, clutching at my skirt and shawl. Fingers dug into my arms and poked my ribs. The nightmare faces leaned close to mine, but I pulled free and kept running.

I darted down another alley. There were more people here, and I hesitated in front of a group of women gathered around the entrance steps to one of the houses. A crew of small children was crawling and toddling around their skirts. Mothers with children, I thought. They’ll help me.

“Excuse me …” I faltered.

“
Excuse me!
’Ere’s Lady Muck wants us to excuse ’er, girls,” shrieked one.

“Excuse me. Excuse you,” said another, and then the lot of them were screaming and cackling like witches, and the children were laughing too.

I kept running. More lanes, more alleys, more courts. Sometimes the fog was so thick I could hardly see, and then it would lift and I’d realise how utterly lost I was. It was like a maze. Was I back where I’d started? I slipped and fell, and while I was lying winded I heard the voice, faint but following, still calling my name. “Verity Sparks, Verity Sparks!” I scrabbled myself up and kept going.

I had a stitch now, and I knew I couldn’t go much further. I slipped again, this time landing on my back. I would have just lain there in the filth, except a hand grabbed me and pulled me sideways into the shadows. I struggled, but a dozen hands were on me. A voice said, “Shh. Yer safe,” and when I looked, there was a mob of children leaning over me. Boys or girls, I couldn’t tell; they were all pale as mushrooms, filthy, with matted hair. There were about ten of them, all huddled in the damp entrance to a cellar.

“Down there,” ordered one of them, and half-pushed me down the steps. I crouched, he leaned on top of me, and the others crowded in front while the littlest one called, “Eh, mister. You after that girl?”

“Did you see her? Where did she go?” The velvet voice was hoarse and panting now.

“I seen ’er, sir. She went through the court and up the lane to the footbridge, sir. That way. Runnin’ pretty fast.”

“Good boy.” I heard the jingle as a coin hit the ground, and then the footsteps took off again, ringing on the cobbles, fainter and fainter, until they faded to nothing.

“Let ’er up.” The crush of bodies moved off me and I poked my head up above the cellar. The court was quiet and empty.

“’E’s gone.” Now my eyes were used to the dark, I could see that the thin face was smiling. “Dirty ole man. We ’ates that, don’ we? Dirty ole men, chasin’ kids. They orter get the chop, we finks.”

One of them made a cutting movement with his hands and the others nodded. I looked at them, all cuddled together like puppies. “Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Dookie,” said my rescuer. “An’ this is Sam, Ella, Dobbin, Mike …” Each child bobbed its head. “An’ this is Finn, and Eli, an’ Gammy, an’ Polly …”

“Polly.” It was the little girl from outside Lady Skewe’s.

“I tole you I seen ’er,” she said to Dookie. “She was wiv the lady wot give me the deuce.” She winked at me, and then asked in a hoarse voice, “You orright?”

“I am,” I said. “Thanks to all of you. I think you’ve saved my life.”

They giggled and squirmed a bit at that, and I glanced at the rotten steps and the splintered wooden door and the nest of old rags and newspapers. “Do you live here?”

Dookie nodded. “This is Flash Harry’s place, where ’e takes ’is stuff. ’E lets us be ’ere ’cos we keep an eye. We see who comes an’ goes and we lets ’im know. An’ no one moves us on. You sure you’re orright now, miss?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you don’ belong ’ere,” said Dookie. He spoke kindly though. “You get you ’ome.”

“Yes. I will. Thank you. Thank you all.” Thank you seemed not quite enough. I didn’t have any money on me. What else could I give them? “Could you use my shawl? It’s muddy, but that will brush off. It’s very warm.” I held it out, and Dookie solemnly took it from me.

“We can use it. Where d’you want to go, miss? We can point you the way.”

“I want to find a policeman.” They laughed. Policemen were not their friends. “Or someone who can help me.”

“That way. Through the alley and then keep goin’ straight, and you’ll hit the shops. There’s lights an’ there’s cabs, an’ this old preacher man on the corner sometimes. ’E might help. Bye, miss.”

I ran at first, and then I walked. I felt almost safe, for the lanes here were lit up and alive with people. They were loitering, or walking along like me, or just leaning in the shadows in doorways and porches, talking and drinking and smoking pipes. I thought that no one would be interested in a girl if she just walked along as if she knew where she was going, not showing that she was scared or lost. Well, I was almost right. I had my eyes fixed on the gas lamps up ahead, I suppose, for I walked right into a group of young men. One of them caught me by the sleeve, another grabbed my skirt, and they spun me round from one to the other, breathing beery fumes into my face.

“Let me go.”

“Let me go,” one of them said in a high squeaky voice, and they all laughed. “Who says?”

“Bill Bird,” I said. I’ll never know where that came from. It was probably the only time my uncle had ever helped me in his whole life.

“Bill Bird,” one of them muttered doubtfully. “
The
Bill Bird?”

“Yes,
the
Bill Bird,” I said firmly. “He’s me uncle.”