The Truth About Verity Sparks (19 page)

“Look, Verity,” said Daniel, pointing. The line above the picture, in bold black letters, read:

LA BELLE SAUVAGE IN LONDON DEBUT

Prima Donna Madame Isabella Savage, also known as la Belle Sauvage …

“La Belle Sauvage.” I turned to Daniel. “It isn’t a place, it’s a person.”

We got home to find that the Professor had to consult on a case, and was staying for a couple of nights in town at the Megatherium Club. Judith was still with the Tissots, and SP was propped up on a couch in the small downstairs sitting room. He was half asleep when Daniel and I burst in to tell him of our discoveries, but he was soon sitting up straight and scribbling notes in one of his leather-bound casebooks.

“At least we’ve another lead,” he said. “Victoire Drummond. Victoire is a French name, and I wonder if there’s a connection with the
septième étoile
.”

“And there’s
la Belle Sauvage
,” I added. “Mr Egg told us it was the name of an old inn in Seacoal Lane where I used to live, but it’s the name of an opera singer as well. Isabella Savage was known as
la Belle Sauvage
.”

“Can we find out more about her?”

“We’re going to visit Miss Love again on Friday,” I said. “She’s going to consult her albums and make us a list of all the people who would have worked at the opera with Isabella Savage and Mrs Vic. And she’s going to see if she can remember anything more about Ma.”

“It seems as if we are making progress at last,” said SP. “Just as well I’m over this blasted concussion at last.” He swung his legs off the sofa and stood up. “And this time I can come too.”

When Judith got back from visiting Kathleen, it turned out she didn’t want to be left out either, so there was a party of four to visit Miss Love. She was expecting us to call at two o’clock on Friday, but we left early, for I’d asked if we could call in to Mr Plotkin’s shop. I would have hated him to think I’d forgotten his kindness. Or that I still owed him the cab fare.

At first Mr Plotkin didn’t recognise me, for I was not the bedraggled girl who’d come into his shop that night a week ago. But then he looked again.

“Little miss,” he said. “How good it is to see you again.” Behind his wire-rimmed specs he was taking in every detail. “You are well?”

“I am very well, Mr Plotkin,” I said.

“Thanks to God.” He took both my hands in his. “It is good that you are safe now, and with your friends.” He glanced sideways at SP and Judith, and SP stepped forward.

“Mr Plotkin, please allow me to introduce myself,” he said, holding out his hand. “I am Saddington Plush, and this is my sister, Miss Judith Plush. We are most grateful to you, sir, for helping Verity on that terrible night.”

“Are you, sir, the gentleman who was attacked? But no bones broken, I see.”

“No damage done,” said SP heartily. No bones, that was true, but whatever he said to the contrary, Miss Judith and I both knew that he wasn’t quite over the concussion.

“We’d like very much to repay you,” said Judith. “Verity told us that you generously paid for her cab fare home.”

“The little one was in trouble, Miss Plush,” he said. “What else should I do?”

She opened her purse and took out a coin. “Here, Mr Plotkin, with our thanks.”

“No, no, no.” He took a step backwards. “The cab fare was not even a quarter that, Miss Plush. I have no need of a reward.”

“But I insist.”

“So do I. Please do not insult me.” He really looked distressed, and SP quickly changed the subject.

“You have some wonderful things here,” SP said. “These for instance.” He pointed to a glass case. In it was a flight of tiny butterflies the colour of peacock silk, set on black velvet like jewels. “How perfect they are,” said SP.

“Wouldn’t Aunt Almeria love them?” said Judith. “They’re from Northern Queensland – in Australia, SP. Let’s get it for her as a surprise for when she gets over her snit and comes home.”

Smiling, Mr Plotkin named a price. The butterfly in its case was wrapped up in tissue paper and then brown paper, and with lots more smiles Mr Plotkin saw us out of the shop.

Our carriage was waiting for us around the corner. We’d only gone a few steps when SP swayed slightly and sank to the pavement.

“I told you it was too soon to come out, but you wouldn’t listen,” scolded Judith.

“Oh, Judith, always the pessimist,” he said. “I am perfectly well.” He struggled to his feet between the two of us and then his knees gave way again.

“Let’s take him back into Mr Plotkin’s shop,” I said. “I’ll go and get John to come with the carriage so he doesn’t have to walk.”

Mr Plotkin calmly shifted a stuffed owl off a sofa, and sat SP down with his legs up and a small glass of brandy in his hand.

“No trouble, no trouble at all,” he kept insisting. “It is good for an old man to feel he is of some use.”

When SP had a bit of colour back in his cheeks, I set off around the corner. I could see our carriage, with John up in the box reading the sporting news, a little way down. First, I had to pass by another carriage. A tall man wrapped up in an overcoat and with a scarf half covering his face was waiting next to it, and I expected him to move sideways to let me pass. But he blocked my way. I had a prickling feeling all along my spine that something wasn’t right, and then I looked up at his face. Those eyes, so fishy and cold. I recognised them at once.

“You!”

He grabbed me by the arm. “Miss Sparks, you’re coming with me.”

I tried to shake him off, but he wouldn’t let go.

“Come on!” He attempted to force me towards the carriage, so I stamped on his foot and then punched him on the nose. He just stood there, so surprised it was almost comic, and then he fell to his knees in the gutter, holding his face and moaning. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been busy yelling for John to go and get a constable.

John ran off up to the main street, and all of a sudden there was someone else beside me on the footpath. I glanced up. It was a tall, handsome, fair-haired gentleman. It crossed my mind that he seemed vaguely familiar.

“May I help?” he said. “It appears this man is bothering you.”

“He certainly is,” I said, and at that my would-be kidnapper glared at me.

“Bothering?” he said. “Bothering? Why, this little she-devil has just broken my nose.”

Who was he to call me a she-devil? I’m afraid I really lost my temper then. They say you shouldn’t kick a man when he’s down, but I did. Hard.

“And you, Dr Beale, are no gentleman,” I said.

Quick as a wink, John was back with a member of the Metropolitan Police.

“What’s this then?” the constable asked sternly. “Robbery? Assault?”

“Assault!” cried Dr Beale. He was practically frothing at the mouth by now, what with being punched in the nose by a mere girl and then held with his arms behind his back by a tall and very strong gentleman. Not to mention being sworn at by John. “I’m the one who’s been assaulted.”

“Or is it kidnapping?” asked the constable.

“Of course it wasn’t kidnapping. I’d offered her fifty pounds for a week and the unreasonable chit refused. After all, my sister would have been there.”

The constable was unimpressed. “Well, sir,” he said, grasping Dr Beale by the arm. “I think you’d better come along with me.”

We went to Mr Plotkin’s shop first.

“Dr Beale,” said SP with a puzzled look on his face. Then he noticed the constable, and the puzzlement increased. “What on earth … and Alex!”

The handsome blond gentleman grinned. “Hello, SP.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing your young friend,” he said. “How are you, Plush, old chap?”

“What an amazing coincidence,” said SP. “Verity Sparks, this is Alexander, Mr Savinov’s son.”

“How do you do, Miss Sparks.” Alexander gave a little bow from the waist. I thought I’d seen him somewhere before – and I had. In Mr Tissot’s portrait.

“A complete misunderstanding.”

That’s what Dr Beale kept saying on the way to the Market Street police station. But SP had already told the constable the story of Dr Beale’s offer and my refusal, followed by the letters and then the frightening incident the night of the seance, and the constable had drawn his own conclusions.

“You still need to come and answer some questions, sir.”

“But it was purely an accidental meeting,” he insisted. “I simply offered to escort Miss Sparks back to her friends, and she hit me. For no reason. I demand that you let me go this instant.”

“No demanding, thank you, sir. Just you come along with me, and we’ll sort this out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out.” Dr Beale raised his voice. “I’ll have you know that I’m a doctor!”

But the constable had had enough of his malarky. “Then you ought to know better,” he said, and marched Dr Beale up the steps of the police station. A uniformed man sat in a kind of dock at the entrance. He looked up from his ledger as we crowded in.

“What’s this?” he said.

“One for the cells,” said the constable, and then muttered, “Or maybe the loony bin.”

“What’s going on?” said another voice, and into the waiting hall came Inspector Grade. His eyes widened when he saw our lot.

“Gentleman, the name of Dr Beale, attempting abduction, broad daylight,” said the constable, standing to attention and rattling out the information like a kettledrum. “Known to victim. Possible history of harassing victim by poison-pen letters.”

“Absolute rubbish!” Dr Beale shouted. He tried to struggle out of the constable’s grip.

“Possible stalking victim. Possible other attempts–”

“I demand that you let me go.” Dr Beale was working himself up into a frenzy. “I demand to see the Chief of Police! I demand to see the Home Secretary!”

I thought he was going to try to make a run for it, but when the constable produced his truncheon, Dr Beale abruptly sagged like a puppet with the strings gone slack. Even though he’d caused me such grief, I felt a little sorry for him then.

“I’ll take this one, constable,” said Inspector Grade. “Her Majesty will be highly gratified that this case is finally solved. And I have to say, I’ll be pretty pleased myself.”

The Professor was back from town when we arrived home, and tea that afternoon was almost a party. Alexander came with us, and over tea and toast and fishpaste and crumpets, we talked and laughed as we pondered the whole story. I was so relieved I was almost giddy. Now I wouldn’t have to wonder whether someone was following me, or have that uneasy sense that I was being watched. Now I could get on with life.