The Truth About Verity Sparks (5 page)

“Have it your own way,” said Etty, and then a smile twitched the corners of her mouth. “You know, dear, you’re safe as houses.”

“We’ll see,” I muttered.

“Come on, then. Come with me. They’re waiting for you in the library.”

Library? I didn’t want to seem ignorant so I didn’t ask.

It turned out to be a big room full of books. I never knew there were so many books. Books from floor to ceiling, and ladders so you could reach up to the highest shelves. Books the size of suitcases and tiny books in glass-fronted cases. Neat rows of books all matching in red and gold, and then shelves all mixed with fat books and skinny books and books of different colours. In the middle of the room there was a round table, piled high with newspapers and letters and, yes, more books. At the table sat Mr Saddington Plush and another gentleman. They both stood up when Etty, with a friendly nudge, sent me into the room.

“Miss Sparks,” said Mr Plush, smiling. “Allow me to present my father, Mr Saddington Plush, senior.”

I knew before he told me that it must have been his pa, for he was the spit and image of him, only a little bit stooped and the brown hair turned to grey. His moustache was real.

“Good day, Miss Sparks,” he said, taking my hand and bowing over it in an old-fashioned way. “I must thank you for giving up your valuable time to assist us in our inquiries. Won’t you have a seat? And I shall ring for tea.”

He beamed a smile at me, but all I could do was stare. Tea? He was asking me to have a cup of tea with them? At the same table and all? Didn’t he know I was just an apprentice milliner?

Young Mr Plush shoved a gluepot and some scissors and a pile of newspaper clippings out of the way. “Here we are,” he said kindly, and then whispered, “It will be all right, Miss Sparks. Don’t worry.”

Worry?
Worry?
I was beside myself. What were they up to, bringing me all the way out here? And as to staying the night – well, the idea! But how was I going to get back to Ma Bolivar’s? Would Mr Plush send me back in the carriage, or put me on a train? He’d have to pay my fare, I reasoned, since he’d taken me to wherever this was. I shoved my bag under the chair and sat down, very stiff and awkward, just as Etty and a younger girl came into the room carrying trays.

“Ah, tea!” said Mr Plush senior, as if it was a surprise. After all, it was him that had rung the bell. He lifted the lid of one silver dish. “Anchovy toast.” And then the other. “Teacakes.” He rubbed his hands together. “
Bon appétit
, Miss Sparks.”

“Beg pardon?”

“He hopes you’re hungry,” said young Mr Plush.

Well, I was, and they were as well – those gentlemen really could tuck it away – but after we’d taken the edge off with toast, cakes and tea, Mr Plush senior got down to business. Very serious, he was.

“Miss Sparks, on Saturday we thought that Lady Throttle had made a silly mistake. Today, we realise that she has attempted to use us for her own purposes, and we don’t like being used. We don’t like being treated as fools. And we most especially don’t like seeing an innocent person hurt by the selfish machinations of others. Is that not right, SP?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “Lady Throttle has made a grave mistake, my dear. She mistook my son’s youth for naivety and thought she could use him to blame you for the theft of the brooch. When her plan went awry, she sought revenge by getting you dismissed. Perhaps she thought that no one would care what happened to a milliner’s apprentice, but we do, and we would like to see justice done. Do you understand?”

I nodded. It was a lot of words, but I got the sense of it.

“Miss Sparks, since we feel in some way responsible for your regrettable predicament, we would be honoured if you would stay with us until we have – what is your term for it, SP?”

“Cracked the case,” he said, grinning. “You see, Miss Sparks, I don’t always talk like a book.”

“Mrs Cannister you have already met, but my daughter Judith and my sister Mrs Morcom reside here at Mulberry Hill as well, so you will have no lack of female chaperones.” He twiddled with the ends of his moustache. “And there’s Etty and Cook and Sarah and little Jemima, the scullery maid. Females galore, in fact.”

I added them up in my head. A housekeeper, a cook, two maids and two ladies made six in all. It seemed Etty was right. I would be as safe as houses.

I bobbed a curtsey. “I would be very happy to stay, sirs. Thank you very much.”

“And I believe, Miss Sparks, that you may be able to help me.” Mr Plush senior beamed that lovely smile at me again.

“Help you, Mr Plush?”

“SP tells me you are very good at finding things. Your employer, Madame Louisette, swears by you. My son tells me that you attribute your discovery of the brooch to itchy fingers.” I could feel myself blushing. I searched Mr Plush senior’s face for signs that he was laughing at me, but he seemed perfectly serious. “May I ask you to put your powers to the test?”

“Do you mean you’ve lost something, sir?”

“My meerschaum.”

“Pardon?”

“My favourite pipe. Meerschaum is a clay mineral, hydrous magnesium silicate, and often used to make ornamental pipe bowls.”

“I see.” I didn’t quite.

“Meerschaum is German for sea foam.”

My fingertips began to tingle, ever so faintly. And then I did see. I had a kind of picture inside my head, but not of sea foam or clay or even of a pipe.

“Is there a purple silk cushion in the house?” I asked. “With tassels?” My fingers were really itching now, and I found myself heading for the door.

“With or without tassels, I have no idea,” said Mr Plush senior. He gave me a curious look. “Why do you ask?”

With the two of them following, I went down a corridor, through a set of doors and down another corridor. More doors. “I think it’s in here,” I said.

“But I never smoke in there. Almeria would have my hide. Ah well, Miss Sparks, if you say so.” He opened the door for me.

Once again I didn’t know what kind of a room to expect, but I tell you now what I wasn’t expecting. A snake! Thick as a drainpipe and so long that it was wound twice round the potted tree in front of us and draped three feet on either side.

I stifled a scream. “It’s a … it’s …”

“She’s a diamond python,” said Mr Plush senior. “
Morelia spilota spilota
. Her name is Cleopatra.” He smiled and stroked her, and she reared up so that her head was level with his. “Beautiful isn’t she?” he said admiringly. “Pure muscle. I say, Miss Sparks, are you all right? You’re awfully pale.”

“It’s … it’s …” Another snake. On the floor. Right near my foot.

“That’s Antony,” said young Mr Plush.

Suddenly Antony stirred. His tongue flickered out, and for the first time in my life, I fainted.

I opened my eyes to see two faces hovering above me. Two ladies’ faces. One was old and looked like a pug, and the other was young and looked like an angel.

“How are you feeling, dear?” said the angel, placing a cushion behind my head.

“Fuss and bother,” said the pug. “Antony’s about as dangerous as an old sock.”

“Here’s a glass of water,” said the angel, putting it to my lips while I took a sip. “Are you overheated? Would you like me to fan you?”

“Of course she doesn’t need a fan. There’s no point coddling her,” said the pug. “Healthy young girl like this should be up and about, not languishing on a sofa.”

“I’m very sorry, Miss Sparks.” Another face hovered into view. It was young Mr Plush.

“As am I, Miss Sparks.” The voice of Mr Plush senior seemed to come from somewhere inside a tree.

“Where am I?” It looked like we were in the middle of a forest. “And where are the … the …” I looked around for the snakes.

“Antony and Cleopatra are back in their case. Where they should have been all along,” the angel said sharply. “You know all the servants are terrified of them, Aunt. It was very thoughtless of you. Down, Amy!” The black-and-white spaniel I’d met when I arrived jumped up and tried to lick my hands.

“Fiddlesticks,” said the pug. “There’s nothing the maids enjoy so much as a good fit of hysterics. Besides, I was sketching them
au naturel
. Well, as
au naturel
as you can get in a suburban conservatory.”

“Conservatory?” I said.

“We’re in the conservatory,” said the angel. I had no idea what she was talking about, but she explained. “It’s where we grow our rare and tropical plants. That’s why it’s so warm. And the snakes live in here too.”

I gazed around me. Of course it wasn’t a forest. It was a big room all made of glass, with a tiled floor and raised garden beds and large pots for the plants and trees. A fountain trickled water. The trees were called palms, I learned later, and there were about twenty different kinds. I was lying on a wicker sofa, and nearby were two wicker chairs, a dog basket and a table laid with tea for two. The spaniel, the angel, the pug and the snakes must have been having a tea party when we walked in.

“Since Papa and SP are so forgetful, I’ll introduce myself,” said the angel. “I am Judith Plush.”

Miss Plush had the family resemblance all right, except her hair was more chestnut than brown. She had melting dark eyes and the same beautiful smile as her father and brother. No moustache, of course.

“A thousand pardons, Judith my dear. Where are my manners?” said Mr Plush senior. He turned to the pug. “Miss Sparks, this is Mrs Morcom, my sister. Almeria, this is Miss Sparks. She is helping us with some inquiries.”

“How d’you do?” said Mrs Morcom and held out her hand. It was bright green. “Don’t worry about that,” she said, seeing my surprise. “It’s viridian. One of the more permanent pigments. It’s the hydrated oxide of chromium that does it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, bewildered.

Mrs Morcom was shorter than me, but somehow her deep, croaky voice made her seem bigger than she was. So did her fierce, bristling eyebrows. And her hat. In the millinery trade I’ve seen lots of hats, but never one like this. It was a kind of turban, a foot high, made of shiny purple silk with a tasselled fringe hanging down the back. She looked like she had a cushion on her head.

“Oh.”

“Are you in pain, Miss Sparks?” asked young Mr Plush.

I shook my head. The cushion I’d seen as I walked through the house was Mrs Morcom’s turban. I tried not to stare, and then something odd happened. My fingertips began to tingle again. It felt like the blood was fizzing underneath my skin.

“Your pipe, sir,” I whispered, turning to Mr Plush senior. “I think I know where it is.”

Then I blushed. It seemed so silly. And what if I was wrong?

“Where is it, my dear?”

I pointed.

“Oh, botheration, Judith.” All of a sudden, Mrs Morcom looked more like a kitten than a pug. A mischievous kitten. In a deep, throaty giggle, she said, “We’ve been caught.”

Then they all started talking at once.

“Why is Father’s pipe under your hat, Aunt Almeria?”

“I was trying to persuade her to give it back, Papa.”

“You are poisoning your body, which as you know, Saddy, is a sacred temple – or should be – with that disgusting tobacco. It was for your own good.”

“But it’s
healthful
, Almeria. Good for the lungs.”

“Pish! Tosh! Poppycock!”

“But why is it under your
hat
?”

And then suddenly they fell silent.

“She found it, Father,” said young Mr Plush quietly. “Miss Sparks found it.”

“By Jove, she did. She really did.” Mr Plush senior put his hand on my shoulder. “Miss Sparks, I think you may be a
teleagtivist
.”

Was that someone who lit fires? Or threw bombs? Cook had read to us all about them from the newspaper, I was sure. I stood up. “No, I aint!”

“A teleagtivist,” said young Mr Plush, “is someone who is able to see objects from a distance and find them. It’s a term of my father’s own devising.”

I sat back down. “A tele-what?”

“The
tele
part comes from the Classical Greek language, and means something far off,” said Mr Plush senior. “And
ago
; I bring, and finally
visio
; I see. Teleagtivist, you see.”

I didn’t.

“Miss Sparks, I think you are one of those rare people who can see a thing that is hidden. There are many authenticated instances of telekinesis – which is the act of moving objects by mental effort – but not many of
finding
objects. I have met only one, a most remarkable case, a young sailor from the Hebridean island of Eigg. His fingers, also, itched.”

“How tedious you are, Saddy, with your psychic poppycock.” interrupted Mrs Morcom. She then said, in a gentler tone, “Saddy, you really mustn’t tire Miss Sparks. Remember the poor girl’s just fainted.”

I looked gratefully at Mrs Morcom. I
was
tired. After all, in the past few days I’d been framed and then sacked; I’d been attacked and rescued; and I’d found out that not only was I adopted, I was also a telega … whatever it was.

But Mr Plush senior ignored his sister.

“I speculate that perhaps when someone is deeply, passionately anxious to find something that is missing, that desire will transfer itself to the teleagtivist, so that–”

“Saddy!” Mrs Morcom rapped him on the shoulder with a rolled newspaper, but he still ignored her.

“So that without a conscious search, the object is found. You did it all the time at Madame Louisette’s.” He turned to me and smiled. “And here, you’ve found my favourite pipe.” As I said before, he had a lovely smile.

“Judith, rescue her,” said Mrs Morcom, and threw her turban at her brother.

“Rescue her?” He looked quite puzzled. “Why does she need to be rescued?”

“Would you like to rest, dear?” asked Miss Plush.

“Yes please, miss.” So she took me up to my room, and the rest of the day passed in a dream, sitting in an armchair by a cosy fire and having supper on a tray, and ended in the softest, warmest bed this side of heaven. I went to sleep without a worry in the world about evil designs.