Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (18 page)

“Kitty said she’d take me for a walk later. But she took too long, so I went early. I met some children and we found frogs.”

“Frogs?”

“Great big slimy, plopping, croaky ones.” He stuck out his tongue.

Lots of mothers would have given him a good telling off, or even smacked his bottom, but not Mrs O’Day. She clutched him so tight I was afraid she’d smother him, whispering his name and kissing his cheeks, but in less than half a minute he got sick of it.

“Stop it, Mamma,” he said, and wriggled off her lap. He went to join Poppy, who was playing with the white dog.

“She’s called Pocket,” he told her. “She’s my dog. You can’t play with her unless I say so.”

“Can I play wif ’er?”

“Yes.”

I had to laugh, but Mrs O’Day, lying back on the sofa, gazed at the two children with anxious eyes.

“Mrs O’Day, we will leave you now,” said Miss Deane, gently. “You are very tired.”

“Yes … yes …”

Gathering Poppy, we said goodbye. As no maid appeared to show us to the door, we decided to let ourselves out. We were walking away from the house when a voice called, “Wait! Please, ladies, wait!”

It was Mrs Honeydew.

“I must apologise,” she said. “How upsetting for you, to be caught up in our little drama. I wanted to thank you for your help. Especially you, young lady.” She patted Poppy’s head lightly. “Mrs O’Day asked me to invite you to tea tomorrow afternoon. All of you,” she added. “It seems Toby has taken a liking to you, Poppy, and would dearly like you to join him in some games. What do you say?”

“That would be lovely,” said Miss Deane in her best social voice. “Please tell Mrs O’Day we accept with pleasure.”

I smiled and nodded too, but inside I felt horrible. More lying, more deceit. Perhaps I wasn’t cut out for this type of confidential inquiry work. Poor Mrs O’Day – a more unlikely murderess I couldn’t imagine. She seemed helpless and frail. What was Andrew Ross thinking? As we cut across the gardens towards the creek, I couldn’t help wondering why Andrew was so definite about Mrs O’Day’s guilt. And I remembered the odd look on his face as he gazed at her photograph – as if he loathed her, and at the same time …

“Miss Deane,” I said, taking her by the arm. “Do you think Andrew Ross could be in love with Mrs O’Day?”

“If you remember, that was one of my theories.”

“But he thinks she killed his brother. He hates her.”

“A person can both love and hate someone at the same time, Verity.”

I thought about what she’d said for a bit and then shook my head. It was much too complicated for me.

After dinner, Miss Deane and I sat at the dining room table together. It was time to begin our case notes.

First, Miss Deane and I studied the photograph SP had given to us.

“It’s obviously the same person,” said Miss Deane. “There is no doubt that she is Lavinia Ecclethorpe.”

“None at all,” I said. “But Miss Deane, I simply cannot imagine Mrs O’Day hurting a fly. How can Mr Ross imagine that the poor lady is a murderer? I wish we had not taken the case.”

“I know what you mean. But,” Miss Deane knitted her brows, “we
did
take the case. Surely, we have to investigate fully, even if simply to prove to him that he is wrong.”

“Yes, of course. But if only Mr Ecclethorpe’s mission was our only task!”

I imagined telling Mrs O’Day about her father’s quest, handing her the packet of letters and gifts, helping her draw upon her father’s bank (though if Greystones was anything to go by, Mrs O’Day was loaded with money) and seeing her off on the voyage home to England. What a satisfying end that would be. If it was only that simple. “I wonder why she’s so set against returning to Eccle Court.”

Miss Deane shrugged. “She’s very highly strung, poor thing. And recently bereaved too. Has she been ill as well, do you think?”

“Perhaps,” I said. Privately, I thought Mrs O’Day probably spent too much time on the sofa. Nervous ladies could sometimes think themselves into a decline when what they really needed was something to do.

We were making no progress at all. The piece of paper on the table in front of us was still blank.

“The thing is, Miss Deane, I just can’t imagine Mrs O’Day killing anyone. Can you?”

“Frankly, no. I think what Andrew needs is for us to clear up the mystery surrounding his brother’s death. To explain Mrs O’Day’s odd behaviour. And to set his mind at rest.”

Andrew’s tormented face flashed before me.

“You are right,” I said. “So when we go to visit the ladies of Greystones tomorrow,” I said, “we should find out as much as we can.”

I am rather out of sorts this evening
.

Making the full stop, I jabbed my pen too hard and droplets of ink spluttered over my page.

When we arrived at Greystones for afternoon tea, I found that Mrs Honeydew had prepared a separate treat for the children. By which she meant Toby, Poppy – and me. At a table by the French windows, we had sweet milky tea, iced fairy cakes and biscuits shaped like

I had to blot my page again.

rabbits. Although I am only fourteen, I suppose I am not used to being regarded as a juvenile
.

I underlined the word viciously.

And I was sorry I suggested to Miss Deane that we find out as much as we could, for – as I am beginning to realise – Miss Deane can be overenthusiastic. I could hear the two of them over the children’s chatter, and I’m afraid she interrogated Mrs Honeydew like a police officer
.

However, Mrs Honeydew is a pleasant, good-natured woman, and very chatty as well, and Miss Deane found out the following:

Mrs Honeydew has been Mrs O’Day’s nurse companion for three years, since just before Mr O’Day died
.

Mrs O’Day suffers from nerves, insomnia, and sometimes sleepwalks. She also has a weak heart. Her doctor has prescribed some medicine containing digitalis. Mrs Honeydew keeps it under lock and key, and administers it to Mrs O’Day herself. This is because Mrs O’Day can be rather vague, and on occasion has overdosed herself, which could be fatal
.

My observations of Mrs O’Day herself are rather puzzling
.

And again I stopped and put down my pen. For some reason, my half-brother Alexander popped into my mind. I tried not to think much about Alexander. He’d committed terrible crimes, and yet he’d seemed perfectly normal. I shook my head. There was no similarity with Mrs O’Day. Normal was the last word I’d use to describe her.

When we first arrived, Mrs Honeydew told us that Mrs O’Day would join us later, explaining that she was still napping. As I mentioned already, Miss Deane and Mrs Honeydew sat together, chatting and drinking tea, while I was put at the infants’ table. Then suddenly, Mrs O’Day burst into the room. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright and almost glittering as she stood staring at us.

“Is this a party?” she asked. “Am I invited?”

“To be sure you are, my dear,” said Mrs Honeydew, chuckling. “Come and sit next to me.”

But Mrs O’Day came over to our table.

“Do I know you?” she asked. “And who is that little girl?”

We introduced ourselves, and I’m afraid Poppy forgot her manners by nudging me in the ribs and whispering loudly, “Is she orright? She looks like she’s ’ad a few too many.”

Too many what? I dreaded to think what Poppy might say next. “That’s enough, Poppy,” I said, shaking my head and hoping she took the hint.

Mrs Honeydew led Mrs O’Day back to the grown-ups’ table, but the poor thing could scarcely sit still. She was jumpy and nervous, fidgetting with her napkin and breaking her cake into crumbs but eating nothing. All Miss Deane’s attempts at conversation failed.

“Do you have another headache, dear?” asked Mrs Honeydew. Mrs O’Day, putting her hands to her head as if surprised to find it there, nodded.

“Excuse us,” said Mrs Honeydew. “We’ll be back in a minute.” Putting her arm around Mrs O’Day’s shoulders, she led her out of the room.

“It’s all right,” said Toby. “Mamma just needs her medicine.”

When the ladies returned to the drawing room, Mrs O’Day seemed much better. And she smelled quite beautiful.

“Excuse my curiosity,” said Miss Deane, “but what is that perfume? It’s delightful.”

“It’s not perfume,” answered Mrs Honeydew. “It is a little concoction of my own, containing lavender oil, Attar of Roses, and a few other essences. I use it to massage Lavinia’s temples, don’t I, dear? It soothes away those nasty headaches in a flash. I call it Harmony Blend.”

“It works amazingly well,” said Mrs O’Day, brightly. “It’s quite magical.”

It had certainly turned her into a different person. All of a sudden, she was happy and lively. She played I-spy and Twenty Questions with Poppy, Toby and me, and then told the children a story about Three Bears – a Papa bear, a Mamma bear and a wee baby bear – complete with actions and voices.

“Again, Mamma,” pleaded Toby. “Tell it again.”

But Mrs O’Day, out of breath from laughing, told him he’d get another story at bedtime, and left the children to go and sit on the sofa. I joined her.

“I’ve never heard that story before,” I said. “Did you make it up?”

“Oh no. My mother told it to me.”

Aha. Here was my chance to pursue the Ecclethorpe case. I was very tactful. I simply asked, “Are your family here, Mrs O’Day, or in England?”

Her bright mood disappeared in an instant, and I was sorry I’d asked. “My father is in England,” she said.

“You must miss him.”

She nodded, and then said in a whisper, “But I can never, never return home.”

At that minute, Mrs Honeydew came over to me. She was holding a pack of cards.

“Wouldn’t you like to play a lovely game of snap with Toby and Poppy?” she asked, gesturing towards the children’s table.

Well, I could hardly say no. Manners can be a real nuisance at times and I could see why Poppy generally couldn’t be bothered with them. At half-past four, it was time to go home, and I was finally released.

“What a lovely time I’ve had,” said Miss Deane as we walked through the Greystones garden towards Forest Edge. “What about you, Verity?”

“It was very pleasant, thank you.”

I don’t think I was very good at hiding my feelings, for Miss Deane laughed. “Oh, poor Verity – Toby can be a bit of a rascal, can’t he?”

“A bit of a spoiled brat if you arsk my ophidian,” said Poppy.

“An ophidian is a snake, Poppy. And we didn’t ask your opinion.” Miss Deane gave Poppy a severe look (which Poppy ignored, as usual) and changed the subject. “Do you know what Mrs Honeydew said about you, Verity?”

Well, how could I? I thought, since she said it to you not me. But I asked politely, “What did she say?”

“She said to me that you were so clever, the way you managed the little ones.”

“That was nice of her.” I brightened up a bit.

“She was grateful that you kept Toby entertained. Especially with Mrs O’Day such a bundle of nerves at present. One minute she’s up and the next she’s down. She’s so erratic.”

Erratic. That was the word I needed to describe Mrs O’Day. But there was something else. Was I just being fanciful? No, not really, for the poor lady had three deaths in her recent past. Three men, all of whom loved her, were dead. I picked up my pen again, and wrote.

Mrs O’Day looks as if she’s haunted
.

The people on Mount Macedon were friendly, just like Mr Ross said, and the next few days were very social. A note arrived from the Gavensteins, inviting us to a picnic luncheon. And the Bartlebys of Kinnock Brae (they were the walkers we’d met in the lane) asked us the following afternoon to play croquet. It wasn’t until Friday that we saw the Greystones ladies again.

Early on Friday morning, Miss Deane got a note from Mrs Honeydew, inviting her to go into Woodend. Although there were a few shops in the township of Macedon at the foot of the mountain, Woodend was the nearest large town.

“Apparently it’s a thriving place,” said Miss Deane. “With churches, schools, public houses and all the usual shops. The nearest doctor lives there, and there’s a chemist as well. Mrs Honeydew needs to collect Mrs O’Day’s medicine, and I want to do some shopping. You don’t mind, do you?”