The Truth About Verity Sparks (20 page)

“Poor Beale must be quite mad,” said the Professor. “Yet he had a fine mind once. Unfortunately, this research of his had become an obsession, and he was prepared to abduct you, Verity, and I suppose keep you a prisoner … He thought he was going to astonish everyone with this book of his, his
magnum opus
. And now I expect he’ll be confined somewhere for the rest of his life.”

“Poor man,” said Judith.

“You’re too soft-hearted,” said Alexander.

“No, I’m not,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s tragic, when a person builds his life around something that’s not real and lets it destroy him?”

“Perhaps it is tragic,” said Alexander. “But don’t feel sorry for him. He was prepared to break the law. To harm, even to kill if necessary, for what he wanted. Wanting something that much can make you very strong, Miss Plush.”

It was only after Alexander left that I realised we’d left the butterflies at the police station, and missed our appointment with Miss Love.

The next day SP sent Miss Love a telegram, apologising for missing our appointment, and saying we’d call at two the following day. SP was eager to talk to Miss Love, and to see the list of people (“leads”, they were called in the Confidential Inquiry business) that she’d promised to prepare for us. Though I have to confess that the whole thing didn’t seem so urgent now that Dr Beale had been put away. I said as much to SP.

“But don’t you want to know who you are, Verity?” he asked.

Well, I did know who I was. I was me, Verity Sparks: ex-apprentice milliner, assistant confidential inquiry agent and possible
septième étoile
. For all that it was exciting to think that out there, somewhere, were sisters and aunts and cousins – a whole family, in fact – I couldn’t help hanging back just a little. The Plushes seemed like my family now.

Mrs Costello was not there to greet us this time, and Ivy timidly waved us upstairs. Daniel knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. I called through the keyhole. Still no answer, so we trooped back downstairs, and SP asked Ivy if Miss Love had gone out.

“No, sir.”

“Did she come down for her breakfast this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“Did she come down for her evening meal last night?”

“No, sir.” Ivy’s voice was getting fainter and fainter.

“When was the last time you actually saw Miss Love?”

“May I know why you ask?” came Mrs Costello’s genteel tones. Her eyes shifted from my face to SP’s, then to Daniel’s and finally to poor Ivy’s.

“They was just axing after Miss Minnie,” whispered Ivy.

“And, what, pray, did you reply?”

“I was telling them she’d not come down last night.”

“Didn’t you send someone up to see if she was ill?” asked Daniel with an angry gleam in his eye.

“The missus said I was not to.”

All eyes were back on Mrs Costello. She jangled her keys, and said, “I give our boarders their privacy, which is what they require. But if you gentlemen are worried, I will escort you upstairs. Ivy! Get back to the scullery. I’ll sort you later, my girl.”

Mrs Costello knocked, as we had done, and then put the key in the lock. It turned, but the door didn’t open.

“Let me try,” said SP, and gave it a push. “Something is in the way. Help me, Opie.”

The two of them gave the door one mighty shove, and the something rolled aside. It was Miss Minnie, lying on the floor so still that at first I thought she was dead.

“Miss Minnie! Wake up,” Daniel gently shook her by the shoulder. She gave a little snort and then her head lolled sideways again.

“Dead drunk,” said Mrs Costello. “Disgusting.” She flounced out of the room.

Pot meet kettle, I thought, by the smell on
her
breath.

“I don’t think she’s drunk. I think she’s unwell,” said Daniel. “Look how pale she is.”

“I’ll go for the doctor,” said SP. “Find a shawl, Verity, to keep her warm until I get back.”

Easier said than done in the clutter of Miss Love’s room.

“Perhaps that quilt will do,” suggested Daniel. “Over there, on the sofa.”

As I reached for it, something crunched under my feet. Macaroons. There was a half-eaten box of them on one of the side tables, and a broken plate and a few more of them scattered on the floor. It looked as if she’d been eating her favourite treat and suddenly keeled over. Poor Miss Minnie.

In less than quarter of an hour, SP came back with a doctor, a young fellow called Dr Raverat. His suit was shabby, his medical bag was battered, and his old watch was tied to a length of ribbon, but it seemed he knew his business.

“She has a pulse, but it’s faint and very slow,” he said. “I’d say she’s had an overdose of some opiate drug. Most probably laudanum.”

Laudanum was a medicine made of opium and alcohol, easy to buy and cheaper than gin. Madame used it when she felt a headache coming on.

“Will she recover?” asked Daniel.

“Yes,” said the doctor. “But it’s a good thing you and your friends came when you did.”

“What is to be done for her now, sir?” I asked.

“She will need careful watching and nursing. If I might suggest …” He hesitated. “My wife and I have lodgings close by. Mrs Raverat is a good nurse.”

“Bless you,” SP took his hand and shook it heartily. “However can we thank you? Here’s my card, and here’s …” He felt in his breast pocket and brought out a couple of banknotes. “Will that do?”

“It will more than do, Mr Plush.”

Daniel picked Miss Minnie up in his arms as if she’d been a child, and we made a procession down the stairs and through the hall to the front door. That’s where Mrs Costello stopped us. She didn’t seem in the least bit worried to see Miss Love carried down as floppy as a ragdoll. What worried her was next week’s rent.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” snapped SP, losing his usual good humour. “The rent shall be paid. Can’t you see that Miss Love needs medical attention?”

Ivy crept out from the dining room and stroked Miss Minnie’s hand.

“Poor little lady,” she said. “She was so ’appy the other day when–” but Mrs Costello shut her up and started on about the rent again. We left.

Miss Minnie’s collapse went right out of my head the moment we got back to Mulberry Hill. The Professor, wild-eyed and waving a piece of paper, met us at the door.

“What’s happened?” asked SP. “What’s wrong?”

“A telegraph boy has just been. It’s a message from Penrose’s Hotel in St Aubyn, where Almeria’s staying,” he said. “She’s had a terrible accident – they don’t say what it was – but she’s sent for us. She wants us to come at once.”

“Father.” SP put his arm around the Professor, and for a few seconds the two of them clung together.

Mrs Cannister bustled in, looking suitably serious, with a copy of Bradshaw’s Railway Directory in her hand.

“Professor, there’s a train from King’s Cross at ten o’clock tonight. It’s a sleeper, and you would arrive before noon.”

“Thank you, Mrs Cannister,” he said. “I’ll pack at once. Where’s Judith?”

“Next door,” supplied Etty, who was now also hovering in the hall. “The poor lady’s near the end.”

“So soon?”

“I’ll go and get her,” I said.

Now that there was no Dr Beale lurking about, I was happy to run down through the back garden and across the bridge to Mr Tissot’s. Amy trotted along beside me, snuffling through the leaves, and I remembered that only a few weeks ago the trees were all golden and red with autumn colour. Now they were bare, the pond was choked with dead leaves and the terrace where we’d sat in the sunshine was damp and cold.

Mrs Anderson, the Scotch housekeeper, let me in. Her face was blotched red from crying and, without speaking, she gestured towards the drawing room. Mr Tissot and Judith were standing by the French windows, looking out at the dreary terrace and listening to a tall fat man in a black suit. They didn’t see me come in, but the Savinovs did. Alexander and his father were sitting by the fire, and they came straight up to me. With a smile, Alexander took both my hands in his and kissed them. He was very like his father, I thought.

“I heard about your adventures,” said Mr Savinov. “Thank God my son was there to help you.”

“I think that Miss Sparks could have handled him quite well on her own.”

“A young girl. She should not have to.” Mr Savinov sounded angry. “The man is a lunatic. I hope they lock him up and throw out the key.” He shook his head, as if to get rid of thoughts of Dr Beale, and then gestured towards the others. “The doctor says it is just a matter of keeping her comfortable now, that is all. To think that only a few weeks ago …” He didn’t finish. Only a few weeks ago she was full of laughter and mischief, and now, like the leaves, she was dying.

“I need to speak to Judith,” I said. She looked so tired and strained that I scarcely wanted to add to her troubles with the news about her aunt.

“Is something wrong?” asked Alexander.

At that moment, Judith turned.

There was no way to put it gently. “Mrs Morcom has been in an accident, Judith,” I said. “She’s asking for you.”

Poor Judith. Back at Mulberry Hill, the Professor showed her the telegram and the railway timetable, and she ran upstairs to pack. Then straightaway she came back down.

“I feel torn in two, Father,” she said. “Kathleen needs me. I can calm her. She frets and cries, and worries about Mr Tissot, but I can soothe her.” Tears began to run down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do,” she wailed. “Aunt wants all of us to be there, but … but …”

“Stay with Kathleen,” said the Professor, suddenly decisive. “Stay with her tonight, and we will send word tomorrow. If need be, you can catch a train the following day. I pray the situation won’t be that desperate.”

“What about Verity?” said SP. “We have forgotten all about Verity. If you and I go to Cornwall, Father, and Judith stays with Kathleen, that will leave Verity here by herself.”

“Not by myself at all,” I said. “Mrs Cannister is here, and Cook, and the maids, and John in the coach-house, and O’Brien and Ben in the cottage.”

“I never knew we kept so many staff,” said the Professor with a strained smile.

“I will be perfectly all right,” I said. “After all, there’s no Dr Beale to worry about now.”

Judith packed an overnight bag, and returned to the Tissots’. The Professor and SP went with her. When they came back, red-eyed the pair of them, they finished packing and ordered the carriage.

Cleopatra and her eggs were the only problem. SP had explained to me earlier that hatching eggs in captivity was a tricky business, for snakes are cold-blooded and produce no body heat of their own. In the wild, whenever Cleopatra felt herself cooling down, she’d leave her eggs, bask in the sun on a hot rock to bring her temperature back up, and then coil around the eggs again.

“The best we can do,” he said, “is to put some river stones by the fire to heat, and then wrap them in cloth and put them into the case. I can’t ask any of the staff to do it; they all insist on being terrified of the snakes, no matter how often I explain that they’re quite harmless. Do you think you can do it, Verity?”

“Of course I can,” I said, acting more confident than I was. But with Judith nursing Kathleen, and who-knew-what wrong with Mrs Morcom, the least I could do was manage Cleopatra and her eggs.