Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (13 page)

“This way,” said Daniel, pointing to a lane. “Let’s see if we can get back through to Bourke Street.”

“Yes, let’s,” I agreed.

But then Daniel stopped dead. “What on earth?” he said. “D’you hear that, Verity?”

Voices, muttering at first, then raised. They sounded rough and somehow threatening. There was a loud groan, and then in a sneering tone, someone said, “There’s more where that came from, guv, so hand it over.”

More groans and some unpleasant laughter. There was a thump, a crunching sound and a cry of pain. Someone was being attacked.

“I’d better look into this,” Daniel said grimly. “You stay here, Verity.”

“No, I’ll come with you.”

He gave me one quick exasperated glance and said, “Come on then. Don’t make a sound, and be ready to run.”

“I will,” I said, grabbing his hand.

The lane turned sharply and there, in the shadows, were three men. Immediately I could see what was going on. It was a robbery.

Two young men, dressed alike in shabby suits but wearing smart shiny bowler hats, had thrown an elderly gentleman to the ground. His black suit and long white beard were covered with mud, and one of them had stamped on his top hat. The tall, skinny one stood with his boot on the old man’s chest. He was laughing while the shorter one squatted to empty the gentleman’s pockets. Both of them had their backs to us.

Great minds think alike, or so they say; almost at the same instant, Daniel and I reached for our weapons and threw them. His arm was stronger than mine, and his aim was better, but still, both our missiles packed a powerful wallop. Daniel got the tall one on the back of the head, while I struck my target between the shoulderblades. Talk about surprise! They didn’t know what had hit them, especially when Daniel strode forwards, shouting, “Take that!”

Whack! Thwack! Daniel laid into them with his steel-tipped umbrella. The tall one, blubbering and holding his bleeding nose, fell over onto his back and stayed there like a stranded beetle. The other man was on his hands and knees, moaning, and Daniel poked him hard in the ribs.

“What have you stolen? Come on, man. We haven’t got all day.”

The man held out a watch and chain, a silver snuffbox and a handful of coins.

“Put them on the ground,” directed Daniel. “Back away from me – yes, like that – now, stand up.”

He wasn’t so tough now that he was muddy, bloody and the crown of his bowler hat was caved in. He made a whimpering sound.

“Get your accomplice and go. Go on – go!”

The other man scrambled to his feet, dragged his mate up and then, swearing and cursing, the two of them ran away. I listened to their boots pounding through the mud and slush. The sound grew fainter. They were gone.

Two of the ginger jars lay on the ground, broken and oozing syrup.

“They were as good as cannonballs,” I said.

“But is there one left?” asked Daniel, anxiously.

“Yes. Here it is.”

“Thank heavens,” he said. “I’m scared of your Miss Deane. And now, let’s see to this gentleman.”

Poor man! He was hurt and bleeding and covered in stinking mud. He looked up at Daniel and me with an expression on his face that was almost comical.

“I won’t shake your hands, although I’d like to,” he said. “I am William Usher, and I am most grateful to the pair of you.”

Daniel introduced us both, and then helped him to his feet. We tried to wipe him down with our handkerchiefs but it was no use.

“We can take you to your home, sir,” Daniel offered. “Or do you need a doctor?”

“Bless you, no,” said Mr Usher. He moved his arms and legs gingerly. “Nothing broken.” He felt his scalp. “Head wounds always bleed a lot, but it’s only a scratch. Now,” he looked up and down the lane, “where is Guinevere?”

“Guinevere?”

“My mare. I fell off when those two larrikins started slinging mud at me. Oh, my goodness. Where is she?”

“Perhaps she wandered off into that alleyway,” I said, pointing. “I’ll go and see.”

There, in the narrow, muddy space between buildings, was the strangest sight. It could have been a scene from a fairytale – all except for the smell, of course. A white horse was stamping its hooves and shaking its snowy mane. Shining in the shadows, it looked like a magical beast. Scattered all around it were pieces of paper, and sitting in the saddle was a little girl with a halo of curly fair hair. How had she got there? Flown, like a fairy? Daniel and Mr Usher appeared behind me, and for a few seconds we all stared. Then she broke the spell.

“She’s orright. She got a bit frighted when them larrikins ran past, but I got ’er quieted down.”

The gentleman limped up to his horse and stroked her nose. She whinnied in pleasure.

“Good girl, Guinevere,” said the old man. “You shall have an apple.” He looked up at the girl. “And thank you, my dear, for looking after her.”

“That’s orright,” she said, sliding off and landing in the mud with her bare feet. “I like ’orses.”

“Shall we help you to mount her?” Daniel asked Mr Usher.

“Actually, I don’t think you can,” said the old gentleman. “I’m rather shaky. Perhaps a cab would be the best idea.”

“Certainly. But these pieces of paper …” said Daniel, stooping to pick one up. “Are they important?”

“I am the owner and editor-in-chief of the
Melbourne Mercury
. I often ride from my home in South Yarra to the
Mercury
office at the far end of Lonsdale Street. Guinevere knows the way, so occasionally I read as I ride. Those two took advantage of my inattention. I’m afraid these pages are my editorial for tomorrow’s newspaper.”

“Do you want us to pick them up for you?” I asked him. “Only the ink’s run and some have been in horse manure.”

He shook his head and tried to smile, but then he staggered and had to lean against Daniel for support.

“You’ve had a shock. Let us help you to a cab,” Daniel urged. “I live close by in Richmond. If you’ll consent to being driven there, we can clean you up and take you to your home afterwards.”

“What about Guinevere?”

“I can ride ’er,” offered the girl. “Richmond ain’t far.”

Was that a good idea? Guinevere looked like a valuable horse to me. What if the girl stole her?

But Mr Usher said, “That would be most kind of you. I shall pay you, of course. Would five shillings suit?”

“Oooh,” breathed the girl, her eyes widening. “I never even
seen
that much money in me life.”

“I’ll write down the address for you,” said Daniel, searching in his pocket for the notebook and pencil which he, like SP, always carried.

“Ain’t no use writin’ it, ’cos I can’t read it,” said the girl. “Tell it to me an’ I’ll remember. I’m good at remembering, I am.”

“Twelve Daisy Street. Do you know where that is?”

“I do.” She pulled up the reins, turned Guinevere round and headed up the lane.

“What’s your name, dear?” called Mr Usher.

“Poppy,” came floating back to us.

When we finally got back to Daisy Street, the mare was mowing the pocket-sized patch of lawn in the front garden. Poppy was sitting in the parlour, chattering away ten to the dozen in between huge bites of Mrs Reilly’s cake.

“’Ere they are at last,” she said cheerfully as we came through the door. From the unsurprised looks on Judith and Miss Deane’s faces, I guessed she’d told them all about Mr Usher and the fellows in the lane. “What took yer so long? Yer must of gone slow as a wet week.” She brushed the crumbs from her lap onto the floor. “The ladies and me, we’ve give an apple to the ’orse, an’ we’ve ’ad a cuppa tea an’ now we’re up to cake.”

“I see you’ve also had a wash,” said Daniel, grinning. Poppy’s face and hands were a startling white compared to her grimy arms and neck.

“She said I ’ad to,” she said, with a sideways gesture at Miss Deane, and the grown-ups all laughed. “An’ we’re all ready for the old geezer, too – there’s ’ot water on the stove, an’ a basin an’ a towel an’ Missus ’as got out some trousers an’ a jacket an’ a nice clean shirt.” She sighed happily and resumed her cake eating.

“There, Mr Usher,” said Judith with a twinkle in her eye. “Poppy has explained it all for me.”

“You won’t forget the five shillings, will yer?” said Poppy.

“No, my dear, I won’t forget,” said Mr Usher.

“’Cos yer promised.”

Mr Usher laughed out loud. “Indeed I did. I won’t forget.”

“Speaking of promises, Judith,” said Daniel, and he produced the three parcels. I could tell by the expression on his face that he was highly pleased with himself. “Ginger and wool, as you requested. And a surprise.”

“Oh, just put them over there,” said Judith, carelessly.

“But don’t you even want to look at them?”

Poor Daniel. Poppy’s chatter was better than ginger, wool or a lace cap. Looking a bit down in the mouth, he led Mr Usher off to get cleaned up.

Poppy turned to Judith. “You know, Missus, a bit more tea wouldn’t go astray.”

Over the top of her head, Judith and Miss Deane met each other’s eyes and smiled. Poppy was like a little sparrow, with no manners at all, full of chatter and curiosity. They seemed to think she was funny, but there was something about her that worried me.

“Where do you live, Poppy?” I asked as Judith poured.

“Oh, ’ere an’ there.”

“But where is your home?” I persisted.

“I’m tryin’ to tell yer,” said Poppy, patiently. “But you keep interplexin’ me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Buttin’ in. Mostly I’m with Granny.”

Well, that was a relief. She lived with her grandmother. I’d been worried that Poppy was a little waif with no home. But her next words struck a chill into my heart.

“Granny Piggybottom. She’s a baby farmer.”

“A baby farmer?” said Judith, horrified. “Baby farmer” was the name given to women who cared for unwanted babies for a fee. There had been some terrible stories in the London papers about such women who starved, mistreated or even killed their charges.

“Yes,” said Poppy, “An’ if you’d let me tell yer …” She paused. “
Thank
you. Well, Granny’s a good ’un. She always ’as a place for one or two girls to doss down.”

“What does that mean?” asked Judith.

“Sleep,” I said slowly. I had a sinking feeling as I looked at her, so chirpy and cheerful, downing big gulps of sweet, milky tea. “You don’t have any parents, do you, Poppy?”

“Nah,” she said.

The room became very quiet, but Poppy didn’t seem to notice. She finished the last of her tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Where are they?” I asked, even though I could guess the answer. They were dead or missing. Maybe they were in gaol. Or perhaps she’d never even known them. She was like those poor waifs – Dookie and Polly and the rest of them – who’d helped me the night when Alexander hunted me through the dark lanes and alleys of the East End. She was like me, if Mrs Vic hadn’t rescued me from the docks where I’d been abandoned. If she hadn’t given me to a couple named Sparks …

“Dunno. Old Miss Levine brung me up fer a bit, but then she died. So I goes ’ere and there. Jus’ depends. Granny Piggybottom, she says I can stay wif ’er, but oh my Lord! She’s strict! Sometimes I go orf for a little ’oliday away from all that. I’m full,” she said, patting her tummy. “Could you ask ’im for my money? I’d best be orf ’fore it gets dark.”

“Poppy,” began Miss Deane, hesitantly. “Why aren’t you … I mean, surely there are places where you could be properly looked after.”

Poppy’s whole face changed. “Orphanage, you mean?” she said sharply.

“Yes,” said Miss Deane. “Surely–”

“I don’ like them churchy types. Smile an’ tell you ‘God is love’, then whack! Wif a strap. Or lock you in a cupboard.” She stood up abruptly. “I’d best be orf then. If you could jus’ get me the five shillings, miss.”

I took a deep breath. All I’d been able to do for Dookie, Polly and the others was give them my shawl and not tell the police.

“Poppy,” I said. “Would you like to come home with me?”

“Fer a visit?”

Before I could reply, Judith, her eyes widening in alarm, stood up and beckoned to me. “We’d better get that money for Poppy,” she said. “Come, Verity.” She shut the door behind us and steered me down the passage into her bedroom. She sat heavily on the bed, looking troubled.

“What’s wrong, Judith?”

“You can’t just take her home with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s not a stray kitten. You can’t just take a child home with you on a whim.”

“But you did.”

She stared at me. “What do you mean?”

“The Professor and SP and you … you took me in.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“In many, many ways. Poppy is completely uneducated, she’s no idea of how to behave. She’s a street child.”

“She’s a child,” I said.

Judith shook her head.

I tried to explain. “When I used to run errands through the streets of London, I felt so small. Huge buildings towered over me, crowds rushed and bustled all around. Sometimes it was raining, and I’d get cold and wet, but I always knew I had a home to go to when it got dark. The people at Madame’s cared if I got back or not. I had friends, a hot meal and a cosy bed. But that day when SP brought me home, I was homeless.”