Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (17 page)

I went out onto the jetty to join Poppy. She was throwing pebbles into the still, dark water. I stood with her, listening to the
plop!
and watching the circular ripples. This is where they found Alan, I thought. Suddenly, a trio of ducks flew low over the lake, turned and landed on the bank nearby. Then two more. And another three. Waddling and quacking and fixing us with their round eyes, they approached.

“Ooh,” wailed Poppy. “They’re goin’ to bite us.”

“Birds peck. And no they won’t. They just want some bread. Shoo, you lot. Shoo!”

“Let’s go back and ’ave breakfast.”

“All right, Poppy. Oh, look! How pretty.”

The sun was now just over the ridge and rays of light, striking through the trees, made diamond drops and tiny rainbows on the dewy grass. As we headed past the boathouse, away from the marauding ducks, I noticed something. Something sparkly that wasn’t dew. I bent down and picked it up. It was a small blue multifaceted gem with a silver hook. An earring. I popped it in my pocket.

“Come on, Verity.” Poppy tugged at my hand. “They’re comin’!”

The ducks were following us.

“They want their breakfast too,” I said. “And anyhow, Poppy, why are you so scared of ducks all of a sudden? You’ve seen ducks before, in the Botanical Gardens, and they’re much pushier than this lot. You love birds and animals.”

“But it’s diff’rent,” said Poppy, still urging me on. “These ducks is
wild
.”

On our second morning at Forest Edge, Miss Deane and I decided it was time to get down to business. Lavinia’s house, according to Andrew, was right next door. We planned to take a walk to the edge of the property and see what we could spy over the fence.

Poppy didn’t want to come. She’d taken a liking to Miriam, and was helping her with the ironing.

“She’d talk the leg off an iron pot, wouldn’t she?” whispered Miriam, cocking an ear at the steady stream of chatter coming out of Poppy’s mouth.

Poppy stopped mid-sentence. “Wot?”

“She’s also got big ears,” said Miss Deane.

“Where are you going to, if I might ask?” said Miriam. “Being new to the place, I wouldn’t like to see you getting lost.”

“Just for a stroll,” said Miss Deane, vaguely. “Where does the path behind the house lead?”

“Just into the bush. There’s a path to a sort of lookout – you can see nearly all the way to Melbourne from there – but you don’t want to go there, not in those shoes.” She added, as an afterthought, “And there’s snakes.”

Snakes. How could I have forgotten? It was on Mount Macedon that Mrs Morcom’s husband, Charles, was bitten by a snake and died. I’d touched one of her paintings and suddenly there’d been blackness, misery and a cold pain in my heart as a dark shape slithered by. I’d seen into the past, and it was an unwelcome gift. Was that why I’d been unwilling to come to Mount Macedon? I was relieved to have an explanation.

“Verity? Did you hear that?” Miss Deane was nudging my shoulder. “Miriam says if we go right past the lake, we will come to Roseheath, the residence of Professor Gravenstein, and if we go left and cross the creek, we reach Greystones.”

“That’s where Mrs O’Day, the poor lady that was engaged to Mr Alan, lives,” said Miriam.

I realised that Miriam could be a mine of information. “Is she there by herself?”

“No, she’s got her son with her. He’s a bit of an imp.” Miriam paused. “And there’s her nurse and companion, Mrs Honeydew.” She switched her attention back to her ironing. “Enjoy your walk, ladies, and don’t get lost.”

After it left the garden beds and lawn, the left-hand path wandered through newly planted saplings and then into a band of native bush. There was no fence between the two properties after all, but the stream (or “creek” as Miriam called it) obviously marked the boundary. There were several spots where you could cross, via stepping stones, so we walked a little further and, through the screening trees, at last we sighted the house.

Greystones was much grander than Forest Edge, built of gloomy dark grey stone and shadowed by pine trees. Smoke came from the kitchen chimney, but otherwise the place seemed deserted.

“How are we going to meet her?” I pondered.

“Andrew said that life here is very informal. Why don’t we just call in and introduce ourselves as temporary neighbours?”

“But … won’t Lavinia be in mourning?”

Miss Deane frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Back in England, the rules for mourning were pretty strict, and I expected in Australia it would be much the same. I knew all about it from the millinery trade, for rich widows still wanted smart hats, even if they had to be black. They had to wear black from top to toe for a year and a day – at least – and sit at home with their families, with no outings, no parties, no fun. Alan and Lavinia were engaged, not married, but that still made her a kind of widow … Didn’t it?

“Perhaps we could start by leaving a card?” I suggested. Young girls like me didn’t have their own calling cards, but I had a supply of Papa’s, on which I could write “Miss Verity Sparks-Savinov and Miss Deane”.

“Yes,” said Miss Deane, relieved. “Just as well the etiquette of card-leaving was one of Mrs Enderby-Smarke’s favourite lectures. At least we know what to do. Let’s go for another walk this afternoon.”

As Miss Deane, Poppy and I walked along the road towards the entrance to Greystones that afternoon, we met two ladies in a pony cart, a group of energetic young men and women coming back from a ramble, and a family of picnickers carrying wicker baskets. Everyone stopped to greet us. The two ladies even introduced themselves – they were Mrs Gravenstein and her sister – and asked us to call in for tea one afternoon. How I wished that we were here for a real holiday, and not investigating Lavinia O’Day.

We turned a bend, and there was a gaggle of children slopping around in the deep ditch that ran beside the road. Poppy stopped and watched them.

“Wotcher doin’?” she asked.

“Frogs,” said a sandy-haired lad of about nine.

A younger boy, a peaky-looking little fellow with dark hair, held out his hand. In the middle of his palm sat a mottled green frog, which immediately took its chance and jumped for freedom. Muddy water splashed over his sailor suit, but he just laughed.

“Come on, Poppy,” I said. Her pale blue dress and white pinafore weren’t made for nature study, and I wanted her to stay presentable – at least until after our visit. With a friendly wave to the children, she dragged herself away and scampered after us.

Greystones had acres and acres of grounds, with miles of winding paths and lots of neatly staked young trees.

“Are we nearly there?” asked Poppy about a dozen times as we toiled up the drive.

“Next time we visit,” I said to Miss Deane, “let’s take the shortcut.”

We reached the house at last. Up close, it looked grim and almost like like a fort with those grey stone walls. Or a prison. There were no pretty flowerbeds close to the house. The Greystones gardeners went in for dark shrubs and pine trees. It was cool out of the sun, and I shivered.

On this first visit, etiquette (according to Mrs Enderby-Smarke) dictated that we should just give our card to the domestic without asking if her mistress was at home. But there seemed to be no domestic. We rang the bell several times, and waited. And waited.

“Perhaps we could just sneak in and leave it on the tray?” I suggested.

Miss Deane nodded, and I nudged the door open. Immediately, a small white dog like a fluff-ball on legs came tearing down the hall. With a scrabble of claws, it brushed past us and disappeared down the drive.

Miss Deane stated the obvious. “The dog’s got out,” she said.

“It has,” I agreed.

We edged forwards into the hallway. From upstairs, there was the sound of banging doors and a hoarse voice calling, “Toby? Toby?”

“I s’pose Toby’s the dog,” said Poppy. “I’ll just go an’ see if I can catch ’im.”

“You do that, Poppy,” said Miss Deane. We stood awkwardly in front of the hallstand. What should we do now?

Suddenly, a breathless maid appeared from the back of the house.

“Have you found him?” she asked.

“No, he just ran out,” said Miss Deane. “I’m so sorry.”

The maid’s face crumpled with disappointment.

“We wanted to leave our card,” Miss Deane began, but a faint voice called from one of the rooms.

“Kitty? Kitty, did you find him?”

“No, ma’am, it’s Dorrie. Kitty’s not back. Oh, the poor wee mite!” And she dropped to her knees and began to wail.

“What’s the matter?” I said, putting my hand on the weeping maid’s shoulder. She just wailed louder, and I shook her very slightly. “Is your mistress in there? Is she sick?”

“Yes,” sobbed the girl. “No.”

“Let’s go and see,” I said.

Stretched out on the sofa, dressed in deepest black and draped with a black shawl, was Lavinia O’Day. She was delicate, dark and slender. Even with her eyes red from crying, she was still very lovely.

She looked up at us with a bewildered expression on her face. “Who are you?”

“I am Miss Deane. We are staying next door and we came to leave a visiting card. May we help you? Has a doctor been called?”

“Doctor? He’s been in an accident?”

“He’s only just gone out of the door,” said Miss Deane. “Cannot one of the maids call for him? Or whistle?”

Mrs O’Day began to breathe rapidly and her blue eyes widened. “Whistle?” she repeated. And then she fainted.

“Oh Gawd,” I said under my breath. Our social call was turning into a circus.

“Lavinia?”

Miss Deane and I turned at the sound of footsteps. A motherly looking lady stood in the doorway. She had a bottle of smelling salts in her hand, and a surprised look on her face.

“Who are you?” she asked.

By now I was red with embarrassment. Not only were we trespassing, but we’d let the dog escape, the maid was having hysterics and now the mistress of the house had fainted. If only we could sink through the floor and disappear.

“Miss Drucilla Deane and Miss Verity Sparks-Savinov. We were just trying to leave our cards,” faltered Miss Deane.

“If you could stay a moment, Miss Deane, I could do with your help,” said the woman in a calm, quiet voice. She handed Miss Deane the smelling salts. “I am Mrs Honeydew, Mrs O’Day’s nurse companion. Could you please revive her while I see to the maids?”

“Of course. I’d be only too happy to.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Well, Verity,” said Miss Deane as soon as she’d gone. “We certainly made an entrance, didn’t we?”

I held Mrs O’Day while Miss Deane waved the smelling salts under her nose. Eventually, with a startled shiver, she opened her eyes.

“Who are you?” she said.

I felt as if we were stuck in a crazy dream, where the same events kept on repeating. Once again, we explained our mission, and as before, she appeared not to understand a word we were saying.

“Toby? Have they found him yet?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am,” I said. “But our young friend Poppy has gone out looking too. She’s very good with animals.”

“Animals? I … I don’t understand … He’s only five …”

“Mrs O’Day,” I said. “Is Toby a dog?”

“No, he’s a boy. He’s my son.”

Miss Deane and I had the same thought at the same time. “Does he have dark hair? Is he wearing a sailor suit?”

“Yes … have you seen him? Where is he? Oh, tell me that he is safe!”

Blimey, was she going to do another faint? Miss Deane kneeled beside her and clasped her hand. “I think I know where he is,” she said soothingly. “Verity, could you–”

But at that very moment, we heard a loud and cheery voice calling from the front door.

“Miss Deane! Verity! I’ve got ’im!”

And Poppy, holding Toby by the hand and with the little white dog trotting along behind, came through the door into the drawing room.

I thought Mrs O’Day was going to pass out again.

“I thought I’d lost you, Toby,” she said, sounding dazed.

“Then you were wrong, Mamma,” he said in a piping voice. “I wasn’t lost.”

“But we didn’t know where you were.”