Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (20 page)

But then there was a knock on the door. It was Miriam.

“Supper is ready, miss. And Mr Bobbs just asked me to check, miss, that all your windows are shut tight.”

“But it’s so hot, Miriam.”

“Hear that?”

I’d been so caught up in my writing that I hadn’t noticed it. A rushing sound, all around the house, almost like the sea.

“It’s the cool change at last. Mr Bobbs says there’s an almighty storm on its way. Soon, he says, it’ll be blowing a gale.”

“Then we’d better get Lucifer in off the balcony,” I said.

“We’ve done that already. He’s in the hall.”

“Oh! What’s that?” There was a thump and a clattering sound, and I heard Lucifer say, “Go to hell!”

“A branch hitting the roof, by the sound of it. And a few slates fallen off. Don’t worry, miss.” Miriam put her hand on my arm. “We won’t blow away.”

Supper was Mrs Bobbs’s apple turnovers, but none of us felt like eating. By now, as Mr Bobbs predicted, a strong wind rushed and roared through the trees and around the house, sounding for all the world like a storm at sea. I told Poppy about the time when Mrs Morcom and I, in the pitch dark of our cabin on board the
Herringbone
, were thrown right out of our bunks and spent the night clinging together on the floor.

“An’ then what ’appened?”

“Well … nothing really. The storm blew itself out, and in the morning we were able to tidy up our cabin.”

Poppy looked disgusted. “That’s pretty tame. If you’re goin’ to tell a story, you should try an’ make it a
bit
more lively.”

“Sorry, Poppy, but that’s the truth.”

“The truth’s all very well, but ’alf the time, it needs a bit more action in it. Goodnight, Verity. Goodnight, miss.” And with kisses for both of us, she went upstairs to bed.

“Shall I read to us?” asked Miss Deane, taking out
Bleak House
, but I shook my head. She would need to shout to be heard above the storm. The trees, tossed by the gale, were groaning as if they were live things in pain. The house seemed to shake as each new blast of wind struck it. I pulled the curtain aside. I couldn’t even make out the lights from the Bobbs’s cottage. All I could see was the rain lashing against the window, and darkness beyond. Close by were the other houses – Roseheath, Kinnock Brae and Greystones – but we were all cut off from each other by the storm, as if we really were ships at sea. Was Mrs O’Day frightened? I wondered. I could imagine her cowering in her bedroom as the storm battered Greystones and roared through the forest. I shivered and drew the curtain again, but I could still feel the chill creeping into the room through the glass. I wasn’t scared of storms, but I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was dread. Dread, foreboding – as if I knew that something bad was about to happen. Somewhere close by there was a shrieking noise and then a mighty crash.

I jumped. “What was that?”

“Probably a tree,” said Miss Deane. “In gales like this, they often come down.”

“Oh.”

“Verity, you’re as jumpy as a cat. Do something, will you, dear? Knit, or read.”

She was right. I needed to get a firm grip on myself. I poked around in the bookshelves. There were tomes on architecture, medicine and science, a couple of three-volume novels, and some poetry. None of them appealed. But what was this? A bound copy of
London Society
. It was the Fanshawe sisters’ favourite magazine. Perhaps there might be a serial story; something sensational and distracting with a title like
The Perils of Prunella
or
The Mystery of the Mountain
. I took the book off the shelf, put it on my knee (it was big and heavy) and opened it.

“How odd,” I said.

“What’s odd?” said Miss Deane.

“Look at this. Someone has cut a slit in the leather binding, and put …” I pulled out an envelope. It was labeled “2”, but otherwise not addressed. “It was very cleverly hidden,” I said.

We both stared. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up on end. It was something to do with Alan and Mrs O’Day, I was sure of it. This was the clue we’d been waiting for.

“Shall we open it?” I asked.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Verity, of course we shall!” Miss Deane grabbed it from me and ripped it open.

It appeared to be a letter. Or part of one. It read:

in the Reading Room at the Public Library
.

I need further proof and more

information before I act. Even now
,

knowing her, conversing with her
,

I cannot quite believe my shocking discovery
.

As soon as I have proof positive, I will

confront her with it
.

Your affectionate brother
,

Alan

“Good God!” exclaimed Miss Deane, clutching my arm. “So Andrew was right after all.”

So much for solving the case. Then I thought hard. “This
could
verify Andrew’s suspicions …”

“That’s what I said.”

“But does it?” I re-read the letter out loud. “He says he’s made a shocking discovery and will confront her with it. It’s a bit of a leap from this to – to murder. And why was this envelope hidden? Did Alan himself hide it? Why is part of the letter missing? Was Alan’s mail being tampered with?”

Miss Deane frowned thoughtfully, and then gave a snort of exasperation. “I have no idea. This is so complicated!” And then she added, in a practical manner. “What should we do now?”

I had already gone to get the ink bottle and writing paper from the study. “I think we should send this letter to Andrew. I will put it on the hall table tonight, and Mr Bobbs can take it down into Macedon on Monday morning.”

It was quickly done – the letter, in its mysteriously marked envelope, was sealed up with a covering note from me, and the whole thing addressed to Andrew Ross at his office in East Melbourne.

“It’s bedtime,” said Miss Deane, yawning. “But how we are to sleep with this racket?”

We stood for a few seconds, listening to the storm. “I’m so glad we’re safe and warm inside, aren’t you?” I said.

“Indeed I am. I pity any poor soul who’s out in this.” Miss Deane shivered. “Goodnight, Verity. Sleep well.”

But of course I didn’t. Too hot, too cold. Too noisy, what with the shrieking wind and the banging and rattling of the house. And there were Lucifer’s occasional outbursts as well. About two o’clock, Poppy crept into my room and hopped under the blankets with me, but she kicked and wriggled restlessly. Eventually, she got up and went back to her own bed. I don’t know when I finally drifted off.

“Alexander?”

He was standing by my bed, looking down at me. His face and hair were wet, as if he’d been swimming. His shirt was soaked and stuck to his skin, and one sleeve hung in tatters from his shoulder
.

“Hold on,” he said. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and the muscles of his face and neck were taut with effort. “You have to hold on.”

I was scared, but not of him. Somehow I knew that he wouldn’t hurt me
.

“What do I hold on to?” I asked, but now there was a rushing, roaring sound all around us and he didn’t seem to hear me
.

“Please try.” He sounded desperate. “Try harder. You’ll make it if you just …”

“What?” I was shouting now. “What do you want me to do?”

“… just hold on.”

I sat up with my heart pounding. Since last year I’d tried to thrust Alexander completely out of my mind, but you can’t control your dreams, can you? There was to be no more sleep for me, I could tell, so I put on my dressing-gown, went to the window and opened it. It was dawn. The only sounds I could hear were the birds and the steady dripping of rain. The balcony outside my room was littered with leaves and twigs and strips of bark. Looking further, I could see more of the same scattered all over the lawns, and those fancy garden beds looked like an army had marched through. The storm had done its worst and passed on.

I sighed, trying to shake off the ominous feeling left over from my dream. Alexander was dead. He couldn’t hurt me. But in my dream, he didn’t want to hurt me. He was telling me to try, to try harder, to hold on. Hold on to what? What did it mean? I sighed again and closed the window.

I don’t know why, but I went over to the dressing table and opened my jewellery box. Mrs O’Day’s earring looked strangely dull and lifeless in the dim light of the room. Don’t forget to give it to Mrs Honeydew, I reminded myself.

But I wasn’t after the blue earring. I wanted my lucky piece; the
amulette
, as Papa called it. It had been lucky for me, all right. I thought about Mrs Vic and my mother, about Alexander, about dear Papa. I hadn’t worn it for a while, but I remembered Papa saying, when he gave it back to me last year in London, “Somehow I think you might need it.” Maybe it was time to wear it again.

As I slipped it over my head, an uncontrollable shiver ran through me – what Madame Louisette’s cook used to call “a goose walking on your grave” – and for a second I thought I felt the tiniest tingling sensation on the very tips of my fingers. I stood, waiting, as the rosy light spread across the wrecked garden. But that was it. No itchy fingers. Tucking the lucky piece inside my nightdress, I turned to go back to bed. But then I heard an unexpected noise. The crunching of wheels on gravel. Voices. Quick steps up to the front door and the banging of the knocker. An early visitor had arrived at Forest Edge. Miriam would only just be up, I thought. She would be in the kitchen, lighting the fire. Could she hear the door from in there?

The visitor banged the knocker again, longer, louder. There must be some very important news or an emergency of some kind. Perhaps flooding, after all that rain. Pulling on my dressing-gown, I ran out of my room and down the stairs, reaching the door at the same time as Miriam. She opened it, and there was Daniel standing on the doorstep.

My mind raced to Judith. Had the baby come early? Were they all right?

“Oh, Verity … I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“Judith?”

“No, no. Judith is right as rain. It’s Pierre.”

Speechless, I clutched the lucky piece.