Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand (8 page)

“My darling girl,” said Drucilla, folding me in her arms. “And Connie – why, you’re positively blooming.” She hugged her too. “I’ve missed you so. Papa – I mean Mr Savinov – how is he? And Judith and Daniel and the baby? Is … is
everybody
well?”

There was something about the way she said “everybody” … Was she hinting for news of SP?

“Oh, we’re all fine,” I said. “But how are you, Drucilla? Are you happy with the Levinys?”

“Are the children good?” asked Poppy.

“Are they musical?” Connie wanted to know.

“Yes, yes and yes. The children are the dearest creatures, I am treated as a friend of the family and Connie dear, they are
mad
about music. In fact, there’s to be a musical gathering at their house tomorrow night, and you’re all invited. Really, I couldn’t be happier.”

Hmm, I thought, inspecting her carefully. No doubt the Levinys were kind, but Drucilla wasn’t telling the whole truth. There was no sparkle in her eyes and she looked a little thinner. Was she pining for SP? I certainly hoped so.

There was a rattling sound behind us. It was Mohan, carrying a metal can and shaking it from side to side.

“Ooh!” Poppy let out a scream and scrambled to hide behind me. “Peacocks.”

Peafowl. They were running along at high speed. Mohan opened the door to the aviary and the birds rushed in.

“Time for supper,” explained Mohan, dipping into the canister and throwing handfuls of grain to the birds. “They need to be locked up for the night.”

“Why?” asked Poppy.

“They fly up into trees and onto rooftops, and our neighbours might not like that. The noise they make can be quite alarming.”

Now that the birds were in their pen, Poppy moved closer. “Why was the white one all alone?”

“Because he has only just arrived. He doesn’t know that this is his home yet; he might wander away.”

“Has he got a name?”

“Not yet.”

“You should call him Mr Snow. I ain’t seen snow, but it’s white, an’ ’e’s white.” She nodded wisely. “An’ look,” she added, pointing to her hat. “I found four feathers.”

“Well spotted, Miss Poppy,” said Mohan. “In India the peacock is a divine bird, and finding a feather brings good luck, harmony and peace of mind.”

“How wonderful that sounds,” said Drucilla.

From inside the house came the sound of a dinner gong.

“I must go,” said Drucilla. She hugged all of us again – hard – before she went running off, calling as she went, “I shall expect to see you tomorrow!”

After dinner, Connie’s wish was answered.

“Pierre tells me you play the piano, my dear,” said Mr Petrov. “Would you treat us to some music?”

You might think that with Connie being so shy she wouldn’t want to perform for strangers. However, you’d be quite wrong. She was always happy to do so. I’d asked her about it once and she’d surprised me with her answer.

“They aren’t listening to
me
, so why should I be nervous? They’re listening to the music.”

Her only request to Mr Petrov was that she have some time to practise first.

The piano was in the drawing room or, as the Petrovs called it, the Indian room. While Connie played her scales, Poppy and I wandered around. There was a lot to look at. A tiger-skin rug with the head still attached, engraved brass trays, painted wooden furniture, an intricately carved screen, lacquered bowls filled with multicoloured gemstones, elephants carved from ebony, ivory and jade, embroidered panels of flowers and fruit and, on either side of the mantelpiece, huge vases of peacock feathers. The Indian room was fascinating … and overwhelming. Besides which, I thought, dusting this lot must be a nightmare.

“Oh,” breathed Poppy, pointing to a chess set laid out on a small table. “So delicant.”

Fierce miniature warriors wearing turbans and waving swords were mounted on tiny horses. They were perfect in every detail.

“Isn’t it just?” I said. “Look at the pawns, Poppy.”

Very carefully, I picked one up. Out of the blue my fingers started to itch and, as if all the lamps were suddenly extinguished, the room went dark.

The chess pieces were scattered as if they’d been swept impatiently from the board and Mr Petrov, younger and stronger than he was now, was shaking his head in disbelief. Helen, with eyes reddened from crying, was staring straight in front of her. I glimpsed, in the corner of the room, a wide bed. A white sheet was pulled up to completely cover three small, still shapes.

Then the scene changed. I was no longer in the room, but outside, up high on a balcony overlooking a city. The last rays of a fiery sunset painted the stone pillars and potted palms with red, bright orange and lurid pink. A man moved into view. How handsome he is, I thought. His hair was dark but his eyes were sky blue with black lashes. Like a picture of a hero in a book he was almost too handsome to be real.

But he was angry. Anger swirled around him like a thunderstorm.

“Together, at last,” he said.

Voices, close by. They belonged to Helen, Mr Petrov and Papa. I became aware of Connie’s rippling chords and arpeggios, then Poppy’s hand on my arm.

“Are you orright? You’ve gone all funny again.”

“… at the soirée tomorrow night,” Helen was saying. “Don’t you think so, Verity?”

I tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come, for I was having trouble coming back to the present. The room was full of sorrow. It rose up like mist and blotted out the carved elephants and peacock feathers and tiger-skin rug. It twined around the furniture and hid the walls. It was as thick and muffling as a London fog.

“I was just saying that Connie must accompany me at the Levinys’ tomorrow night. I can play, but not nearly as well as she can. She’s very talented, isn’t she?”

“I … yes …” I had to get out of that room.

Helen said in a worried tone, “Dear, are you all right?”

“I need … some fresh air,” I gasped as I hurried out.

I lay on my bed for ten or fifteen minutes, breathing slowly, deeply, counting the breaths in and out, in and out, the way Miss Lillingsworth had taught me. Miss Lillingsworth was an old friend of the Plush family. She was a psychic herself, and she’d explained to me why, when you come out of a vision, you often feel upset.

“It’s as if the past somehow clings to you like cobwebs. What you need to do is brush them off.”

Deep breathing, according to Miss Lillingsworth, was just the ticket.

Only right now, it wasn’t working. I kept seeing the handsome man’s face. Who was he? Why was he so angry? Perhaps he was a family friend. Or the doctor who couldn’t save the children. “Together, at last,” he’d said. What did he mean? Together in death? Again I felt a wave of sorrow. It was suffocating. My chest tightened. My heart ached.

Why was I reacting so intensely? The Petrovs’ tragedy was nothing to do with me. Was I supposed to do something? Could I help in some way? From out of nowhere a plump, red-cheeked face popped into my mind.

“Mrs Brandywine,” I said to myself. “She has a gift. She’ll know what to do.”

I got up off my bed and smoothed my dress. Somehow the thought that Mrs Brandywine was there if I needed her made me feel much better. If the Petrov’s sorrowful past continued to haunt me, I would certainly go to see her. One more deep breath and I was ready to re-enter the Indian room.

There was just us girls and Helen at breakfast the next morning because Mr Petrov, like Papa, had his on a tray in his room.

He had a lengthy morning routine, explained Helen. “Mohan gives him a massage and a salt bath and a morphine poultice every day.”

“What, every day?” asked Poppy. “Then what do
you
do?”

“What do I do?” A strange, bleak expression passed over Helen’s face. Then she shook her head, as if to get rid of some stray unwelcome thought. “I do charity work. I go visiting. I sew. Which reminds me – I must go into town this morning to buy some embroidery silk.”

“Can we come with you?” Poppy, Connie and I spoke together.

“You would be bored.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” said Poppy.

“And I have a letter to post,” added Connie. She adored her father, and wrote him a long letter every week.

Helen hesitated for a few seconds. She couldn’t hide her reluctance.

Hannah, coming in with hot water for the tea, joined the conversation. “It’ll be a chance for you to show the girls the town, ma’am.”

“Please,” begged Poppy.

What a moody person Helen was, I thought. As cold as marble one minute, warm and affectionate the next. Yesterday evening, she hadn’t been able to get enough of us. Now, it was clear she wished we’d disappear.

“Very well.” Helen stood abruptly. “We will leave at ten.”

It was shopping day in Castlemaine. Unlike yesterday, the streets were busy with horses, vehicles and people. Ladies greeted Helen with smiles and gentlemen raised their hats. A few inquired as to who we were, and Helen did some quick introductions. Very quick they were too, because for some reason, she was in an awful rush for her embroidery thread. She whisked us past a chemist’s, a bakery and a millinery establishment and then stopped in front of a draper’s.

“You may as well stay here, girls,” she said. “I won’t be long.”

“Can’t I come in?” asked Poppy. “I like lookin’ in shops.”

“So do I,” I said.

For a second I thought she was going to order us to stay outside.

“Perhaps you could find some blue ribbon for me.” She gestured to some tables near the entrance and walked quickly to the counter.

Poppy and Connie began to examine the different spools of ribbon but I kept an eye on Helen. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was a habit I’d got from working with SP, assisting with confidential inquiries. You get a nose for mystery, for odd behaviour, for anything that’s not quite right.

This is what I saw. After Helen paid for her silk, the shopgirl reached under the counter and brought out a letter. But she didn’t hand it to Helen. She wrapped it up in brown paper with the silk.

Which was odd. Odder still was that Helen didn’t want any ribbon, after all. And if she’d had any letters, why weren’t they sent to the house?

I already knew the answer. Because she didn’t want anyone to know. Why not? I could think of dozens of reasons, some sinister, some perfectly innocent.

You’re on holiday, I told myself. This isn’t a confidential investigation. And it was none of my business.