The Truth About Verity Sparks (9 page)

I wasn’t smiling twenty minutes later. The Professor sent Etty to ask if I’d come to his study for a moment.

“The Doctor’s there with him,” she told me.

“Dr Beale?”

“That’s the one,” said Etty, making a face. So she didn’t like him either.

I let myself in and shut the door. The two men were standing side by side in front of the fire, and in spite of the warmth, there was a frosty kind of feeling in the room.

“Dr Beale has something to ask you, Verity,” said the Professor. His voice sounded very strange. I wondered what was the matter with him. “Go on, Doctor.”

He got straight to the point. “Miss Sparks, I want to request your valuable assistance in a vital matter of scientific research.” He paused, looking at me. Close up, his eyes were pale green and reminded me of fishes’ eyes, and his skin had an odd, waxy sheen to it. “No more than one week’s investigation would be involved, and I am prepared to pay you fifty pounds for your cooperation.” It was clear he expected I’d jump at the chance to make fifty pounds – after all, it was a small fortune – and he stretched his mouth open in what I suppose he thought was a smile. “What do you say, Miss Sparks?”

I didn’t want to help Dr Beale in anything, no matter how vital. He gave me the creeps. “I’m already doing experiments with the Professor,” I said.

Dr Beale raised his eyebrows. “I have advised Professor Plush that to wilfully stand in the way of progress for purely personal reasons is selfishness of the highest order, and will reap its own punishment. Neither should he stand in the way of letting you better yourself by receiving a considerable financial reward, which would allow you to become independent of your so-called benefactors and friends.”

“So-called?” I didn’t like the sneer in Dr Beale’s voice. “I’m not sure what benefactors are, but I know my friends when I see them.”

“So you may think.” Dr Beale smirked. “You are, if you will forgive my analogy, the goose that lays the golden eggs, and so of course Professor Plush is kind to you. Sheer self-interest.”

The Professor made an odd little noise in his throat, but said not one word. I wanted to say something very rude, for who was Dr Beale to call me a goose? But I kept silent too. Acting like that is called dignity, Judith taught me.

“My sister, Miss Anna Beale, will be pleased to receive you and of course act as chaperone,” Dr Beale continued. “What do you say, Miss Sparks?”

“I don’t want to,” I said flatly.

Our eyes met. The way he looked at me, I could have been an insect. An interesting insect, one that he wanted to catch and put in a jar and investigate. But not a person. Not me, Verity Sparks. He was silent for a few seconds, and then his face gave a kind of twitch.

“Miss Sparks,” he said, bowing slightly, and then he turned to the Professor. “Well, sir,” he said. “The young lady has spoken, and I have failed in my quest. I have no hard feelings, I assure you, Miss Sparks. I bid you both goodnight.”

We heard the front door slam a few seconds later.

“That man!” shouted the Professor. “That … that man.”

Now I knew what had been wrong with his voice. He’d wanted to yell.

He paced up and down for a few seconds and then snatched a vase from the mantelpiece and deliberately threw it onto the hearth. “There,” he said, looking at the smashed pieces. “That feels better. Now find me the bannister brush, Verity, and I’ll hide the evidence from Etty.”

“I hear you had a flattering offer last night,” said SP after breakfast the next morning.

“Do tell, Verity,” said Judith, but when I did she made a face. “How odd.”

“He hasn’t the best reputation, has he?” said SP.

“The man’s a pest!” exploded the Professor.

“What has he done?” asked Judith.

The Professor calmed down, then said with a sigh, “Apparently, he’s up to the last chapters of his book. He’s convinced it’s going to make the whole world sit up and take notice, but he needs another subject for his experiments now Madame Oblomov has taken her son back to Moscow. Beale thought Verity here would fit the bill perfectly. Offered to pay her. Sister will chaperone, and all that. But I could never have allowed Verity to accept his offer, even if she’d been tempted. I believe that Dr Beale has performed some most irregular experiments.”

“What sort?” I asked.

“It is said that he obtained a number of children from an orphanage. He wanted to find out whether certain fears are innate or acquired.” He hesitated. “Rumour is that one of the children died.”

“How dreadful,” said Judith.

“What happened to the other children?” I asked.

“They went back to the orphanage, I suppose. It was hushed up, of course, and there were some who thought nothing of it.” He gave a little grunt. “I must say I wish the man hadn’t joined our little group. But there was a letter of introduction from Professor James of Harvard, you see, and I couldn’t really say no.”

“Verity, you don’t have to see him again,” said SP. “Does she, Father?”

“Certainly not. In fact, when I agreed to let him talk to you last night, Verity, it was on the condition that if you refused, he was not to communicate with you again.” He changed the subject. “And how did you enjoy the gathering last night?”

“It wasn’t near as bad as I’d thought it would be,” I said honestly. “I did like Mr Savinov.”

“Ah!” said the Professor. “Dear Pierre. I am lunching with him at the Megatherium Club today. He’s a fine fellow, and a most interesting man as well. He’s done many things. Born in Russia, made his fortune in furs and timber in Canada, and now has businesses all over the Continent.”

“Have you known him long?” I asked.

“No, no. I met him only a couple of years ago. He’s a good friend of our neighbour, Monsieur Tissot. Have you met Tissot yet, Verity? Judith is thick as thieves with his wife, Kathleen.”

I had been to quite a few tea parties with Judith, but not yet to the Tissots. I shook my head, wanting to hear more about Mr Savinov, but all the Professor said was “Such a tragedy.”

Did he mean the Tissots or Mr Savinov? I waited for him to explain himself, but, still eating his toast, he picked up his morning’s letters and left the room.

“So, no experiments today?” said SP with a quick grin. He knew how I felt. “Do you want to skip lessons as well?”

“Lessons?” said Judith, standing up and dropping a light kiss on her brother’s cheek. “Can’t we let the poor child alone? Sometimes I think we’re working her much too hard.”

Too hard! If only she knew.

“Come on, Verity,” said Judith. “Aunt Almeria and I are bored to tears. Please come and talk to us. You come too, SP. I think Antony and Cleopatra are due for their breakfast.”

I couldn’t see Mrs Morcom at first. Or the snakes, and that made me nervous.

“There’s nothing to fear, Verity. They’re all tucked up in their case,” said Judith. “I think Aunt must be at her easel.”

The easel turned out to be a wooden stand. Propped onto it was a board, and on the board was a picture. It was a mass of greenery and palm fronds and some kind of fruit, and half-hidden in it was a snake.

“Did you do that, ma’am?”

“I did.”

“It looks real.”

Mrs Morcom smiled. “I’ve taken a little artistic licence with the colouring,” she said. “But it’s generally quite accurate. The palm –
Macrozamia moorei
– is the real subject, of course.” She turned to Judith. “Now, where’s that brother of yours, Judith? Too busy to see his aunt today?”

“He’s gone to get their rats, Aunt.”

I was puzzled. “What’s the rats for?”

Mrs Morcom raised her eyebrows. They were very thick, whiskery eyebrows, and underneath them her eyes were bright and beady, like those of a small wild creature. She smiled as she said, “To eat.”

“Oh.”

“What did you think snakes lived on?”

I turned and stared at Antony and Cleopatra, peacefully coiled up in their large glass case. “Grass?”

“Snakes need live meat, Verity. ‘Nature, red in tooth and claw,’ as Tennyson says. Tennyson,” she explained kindly, “is one of our great English poets. Except it’s fang and constrictor muscles in this case. Ah, there you are.”

SP had returned with a box. Out of it he plucked a large black-and-white rat. It hung there placidly as he held it by the tail with one hand, opened the top of the of glass case with the other hand, and quickly dropped it inside. The rat took a few little steps, and sniffed. It sniffed again, nibbled at something on the floor of the case, twitched its whiskers, and nibbled some more, quite unaware of what was uncoiling only a few inches away.

“Don’t watch, Verity,” said Judith.

I sensed rather than saw Cleopatra’s head dart forward, for she moved as quick as lightning. In a trice, she was coiled a couple of times around the rat’s body and clamping her jaws around its head.

“You’re not going to faint again, are you?” asked Mrs Morcom.

“No, ma’am.”

“Sit down then, child. You’ve gone green.”

The next time I glanced her way, Cleopatra had just the rat’s rump and long pink tail sticking out of her mouth. It was quite a business, I could see, getting a big fat rat down a snake’s gullet. How uncomfortable, I thought.

“It’s too big.”

“She’ll swallow it all right,” said SP. “But she’s often stuck like that for minutes at a time.”

“Ugh.” I shuddered a bit. “Poor rat.”

“It didn’t know what hit it,” said Mrs Morcom. “And it wasn’t a poor rat at all. It was a very pampered rat, raised with the best of care by Ben O’Brien, the gardener’s boy. SP’s going to feed Antony now, so turn away, if it bothers you. Would you like to see some more of my paintings? Go into my studio – there, girl, over there. See that portfolio on the desk?”

Mrs Morcom’s studio was a little room off the conservatory. In it was a large desk, another easel, and shelves from floor to ceiling, full of books and jars of brushes and tablets of paint and dried plants and shells and tangles of snakeskins and bones and birds’ nests and catkins and goodness knows what else. I bet the housemaids cursed when it came to dusting. The portfolio – which was a big cardboard folder – was where she said, on the desk.

“Open it, my dear,” she said as I came back out into the conservatory. “You’ll like that lot. They’re all flowers.”

“Mrs Morcom, they’re beautiful.”

“Of course,” she said.

“What’s that one, ma’am?” I asked, pointing.

“A waterlily.”

“And that one?”

“A magnolia.
Magnolia campbellii
. I painted that in the foothill of the Himalayas, in India. And the waterlily was done in India too.”

India! I wondered for a second if Mrs Morcom was a missionary, but somehow she didn’t seem the type.

“Aunt is a botanical illustrator,” explained Judith. “That was why she was in India. She has travelled all over the world drawing and painting plants.”

“She has had several books published,” said SP. “And there is a gallery dedicated to her works in Kew Gardens.”

That meant nothing much to me until SP explained that all the most famous plant scientists in the world came to study at the Royal Botanical Gardens in Kew.

“Aunt Almeria is a very famous lady,” added SP.

“Piffle,” she said. “I’d rather be rich than famous, but I haven’t done so badly. After all, it is unusual for a woman to earn her own living as I do.”

“Is it?” I said, surprised. “I know lots. Why, there’s Madame and Miss Musquash and …” I trailed off. They were all looking at me. Had I said something wrong?

Mrs Morcom was nodding her head. “It is unusual for
ladies
, Verity dear. It seems that the more wealth and respectability a woman has, the less independence she is allowed. I count myself very lucky. Ah, Etty. What is it?”

Etty had a message for SP. “Mr Opie is waiting for you, sir.”

“Opie? Capital.” SP jumped up. “Thank you, Etty. You’ll excuse me, Aunt?”

“Why don’t you bring him in here? I like the boy. I’d like to see him again.”

Judith made a funny noise in her throat, halfway between a cough and a sob.

“Now, Judith,” Mrs Morcom said in a very gentle voice. “Steady, my dear.”

“I’ll go and see him in the study, Aunt.” SP got up to go, but Judith rushed out of the room in front of him. That was the second time she’d left the room rather than meet Mr Opie. Why didn’t she like him?

“Oh, dear.” Mrs Morcom chewed the end of her paintbrush, turning her lips bright green. “Oh, dear. That was stupid of me.” She looked at me and sighed. “I suppose she has gone to her room and is crying her eyes out.”

“Why, ma’am?”

“Why? Because Judith is breaking her heart over Mr Opie, that’s why.”

“I see.” I said. A broken heart. Now Judith’s behaviour to Mr Opie made sense.

“Daniel Opie is not only extremely handsome,” she said. “He’s also extremely nice.” She sighed again. “He and Judith are made for each other, but he’s got an over-developed sense of honour, the silly boy, and says it can never be. Never is a long, long time, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t disagree with that.

“Daniel’s father was an attorney in some mill town up in the North. He was a bright boy, but there wasn’t the money to put him through university. Still, he got a position as an articled clerk with a firm of lawyers in Frogmouth Court. Rumbelow and Budd, they were called. One day young Mr Budd asked Daniel to get a letter from a file. Which he did. Well, it turned out that Mr Budd lost it, there was no copy made, it resulted in the loss of a case, and Mr Budd put the blame on Daniel. He was disgraced, dismissed and, without any money, was soon out on the streets without food or shelter. When SP found him, over a year ago, he was about to jump into the river and end it all.”