Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (24 page)

Lottie and Emily stayed with me all day, and after they left, just before tea, I started to feel a bit gloomy again. But then Daniel rushed in, nearly an hour early, brandishing the evening edition of the
Mercury
.

“Read this, Verity,” he said.

There has been a remarkable postscript to the story of the wreck of the
SS Battenberg
, which is the worst marine disaster the colony has known. A search party of men in a small steamer out of Townsville, led by Mr Saddington Plush of Melbourne, on Thursday found Mr and Mrs Benjamin Flavell of Darwin alive and well on a small, unnamed island several miles from the wreck. Living on a diet of birds, eggs, turtles and fish, the couple were well-nourished and healthy, though rather sunburned
.

There was an artist’s impression of a scantily clad couple under a palm tree. The article continued.

Mr Flavell spoke of the terror of the wreck. He told of the courageous spirit of an unknown fellow passenger, a young man, who ceaselessly encouraged those who were struggling in the waves. He called to them repeatedly to hold on to whatever they could, and not let go
.

A shiver ran down my spine. A young man? Saying “Hold on”? Could this somehow be Alexander? No, it wasn’t possible.

But my hand was shaking as I read on.

The search party will continue to search the coastline, which is wild and uninhabited, with many small islands such as the one on which the Flavells were discovered. No further bodies have been recovered, and as sharks are plentiful in these tropic seas, it may be assumed that they have

I’d read all I needed to. I folded the paper quickly and looked up to find Mrs Morcom’s sharp, beady eyes on me.

“This is good news,” I said. “Some passengers did survive the wreck.”

She nodded, and her wrinkled little monkey’s face softened. “SP will do all he can. He won’t give up until … until–”

“Until he finds Papa.”

“Of course.”

I knew she meant to comfort me. But I could tell she didn’t think Papa was coming back. She thought I was fooling myself.

I took a deep breath and remembered what Connie had said in her letter. I repeated it to myself. “Hope is an anchor,” I whispered. And I had to hold on.

Meanwhile, there were things to do, and I was glad of the distraction.

The most important, according to Miss Deane, was to see to my health. Judith’s doctor, Dr Oddly, took a good look at me. He listened to my heart and lungs, made me poke out my tongue and peered into my eyes and ears. He then lectured me on the dangers of tightly laced corsets.

“But I’m not tight-laced,” I said to him. To tell the truth, I wasn’t laced at all.

“I know you are not,” he said. “I rejoice in it. You are not a victim of fashion. I’ve seen young women with their interior organs squeezed all out of place, barely able to breathe, fainting at the slightest exertion …” He went on a bit longer before he pronounced, “You, young lady, are fit as a fiddle.” As if he couldn’t bear to give only good news, he added, “Though a little undersized for your age.”

“But the fainting?” asked Miss Deane. “The sleepwalking?”

“Young girls can be prone to such things,” he said. “See me again if it continues.”

And that was that, apart from the bill.

Next on our list was the meeting with Andrew Ross. Luckily, Miss Deane was able to arrange an interview straightaway, so we took the train into the city, and then a cab to his office in East Melbourne. There was no fuss and bother with the office boy this time. We were shown straight up to his room. And, it seemed, almost straight down again, for our meeting was short and sweet. No. Actually, it was not sweet at all. Mr Ross had not received our envelope with the mysterious “2” envelope enclosed, and he was very angry.

“What kind of investigators are you?” he stormed in a red-headed temper. “You should have made a copy.”

My heart sank. Of course we should. It was something SP had taught me – whenever you have vital documents, always make several copies. In really sticky cases, he’d advised, the copies should be stored in separate locations. How could I have forgotten? On the night of the storm, Miss Deane and I had made a serious mistake.

“We’re very sorry. But I have an excellent memory, sir,” I told him. “I may have a word or two wrong, but he’d written something like this …” And I repeated what Alan had written.

“I’d have liked to have seen it myself. The reading room at the library – what could he have been looking at in there? And what was the shocking discovery?” He thought for a few seconds, and then thumped his fist on his desk. “Your carelessness is unforgiveable,” he said. “Unprofessional, and–”

I cut him off and tried to tell him what I’d learned about Lavinia and the spirit photograph, but he lost his temper again.

“Haunted? Poppycock! What was Alan’s letter about then? He’d found out something and was prepared to act. I’ll bet my boots it wasn’t some ridiculous ghost story.” He shook his head. “It seems I was correct in my first judgement. I should never have entrusted this investigation to a pair of females.” He stared challengingly at Miss Deane, but she met his gaze.

“I hope we can prove you wrong, sir,” she said.

“You expect to continue with the case after this appalling bungle?”

“Why not? We have several promising leads–”

“I’ll give you a week,” he interrupted.

“Two,” said Miss Deane.

I thought he was going to blow his top again, but after glaring at us both he said yes.

At least I’d done one thing right, I thought as we exited his office. I’d remembered the address on the back of the photograph in Mrs O’Day’s bedroom. If nothing else, we might be able to solve the mystery of the two Alans.

“Tomorrow,” I said to Miss Deane, “we should go to see Mr Gabriel Riva, Maindample Buildings, Carlton.”

As we walked up the steep flight of stairs to Gabriel Riva’s first-floor studio, I wondered what kind of man we’d find. Was Mr Riva a fake, using the tricks of his trade to squeeze money out of his victims? Or a genuine spirit photographer, someone who could make portraits of the living dead? I didn’t know which I was hoping for.

Mr Riva’s assistant, Fred – a cheerful young man with sandy whiskers – showed us into a waiting room. He told us that Mr Riva wouldn’t be long. Miss Deane sat on the sofa, but I walked around the room with Mrs Morcom, looking at the framed photographs that lined the walls. Did I mention that she’d come along with us? She had no interest in the case, but was curious about the art of photography.

“I’ve been thinking about photographing plants,” she said. “It would be a great help with short-lived flowers. After you’ve finished with Mr Riva, I will pick his brain.”

His pictures were all portraits. Young beauties with bare shoulders and glittering jewels were hung next to old hags. Portly bewhiskered gents in fine suits with gold watch chains were set beside tramps. There were groups of larrikins, manly young footballers, Chinese children such as we’d seen in Little Bourke Street, and an Aboriginal man with patterns of scars on his chest. What a world of contrasts, I thought. Mr Riva must have a very interesting view of life. I wondered if it extended to life after death?

“Good morning, ladies.” The voice was crisp, clear and very confident. I turned round. A tall, slim man stood in the doorway to the studio. He was handsome and well-dressed, with a moustache and pointed beard. “How may I help you?”

Miss Deane introduced the three of us, and told him she wanted to ask him some questions about a photograph he’d taken. He raised his eyebrows. “I know it is not of you, ma’am, or either of your friends. I never forget a face.”

“No,” said Miss Deane. “It’s not any of us.”

She slipped a quick look my way and nodded. It was my cue – a bit obvious, but never mind that – to pay close attention when she named the sitters. I was to watch for anything suspicious in his reaction.

But when Miss Deane said “Mr Alan Ross and Mrs Lavinia O’Day”, Mr Riva simply smiled.

“A very handsome pair,” he said. “Just what a betrothed couple should be. Tell me, are they married yet?”

Miss Deane shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Ross died recently. He drowned not long after the picture was taken.”

“Oh no.” Mr Riva groaned. “They were so in love. It is a tragedy, a real tragedy.” He seemed to me to be completely sincere. Either that, or he was a very good actor.

“You don’t, by any chance, take more … more unusual photographs for your clients?” asked Miss Deane.

“I am a respectable man, ma’am.” He suddenly looked very stern. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“This.” And Miss Deane produced the picture with the two Alans.

“Ah, yes. How Mr Ross laughed when he saw it. He said he was twice the man for being engaged to her.” Mr Riva looked at the photograph with a sad expression on his face. “It was a joke, you see.”

I spoke for the first time. Pointing to the extra figure, I said, “So this was an accident that happened when you developed the film?”

“No, not at all. It was quite deliberate. Mr Ross asked me to do it.”

I was astonished. Lavinia was already fearful about spirit photographs, so why would Alan deliberately alter the engagement portrait so that it looked like one? I tried to remember the letter. Alan had written something about having “proof positive” before he could act. Was this picture part of his plan?

“Do you know why?” I asked. “Did he tell you what he wanted it for?”

“No. I thought that it was just one of those little jokes that couples have. I did what he asked, and didn’t inquire further.”

Miss Deane wanted to pin him down once and for all. “So it’s not a spirit photograph?”

Mr Riva looked almost offended. “Not at all. I have seen many examples of so-called spirit photography, and I can tell you here and now that they are, each and every one of them, fakes. Double exposures, alterations to the photographic plate, the addition of extra photographic material – there are many ways to create the effect, and not one of them involves spirits. Unless the photographer takes a little whisky as he works.” He laughed at his own joke. “No, no. I assure you, Mr Alan Ross asked me to do this.” He picked it up and studied it. “And it’s rather convincing, if I do say so myself.”

“Thank you, Mr Riva,” said Miss Deane, putting the picture back in her valise. “You have been very helpful. We won’t take up any more of your valuable time.”

“You ladies did not wish to have your photographs taken?”

We shook our heads, but Mr Riva said coaxingly, “The sitting is
gratis
– absolutely free – as is the first print. I have an irresistible curiosity about the human face – as you can see by my work out there in the waiting room. I would like to add you to my collection. You are all, if I may say so, very distinct types.”

“No, no,” said Mrs Morcom. “I’m distinctly old, that’s all. I shall want a talk with you, once you’ve finished with these girls.” She poked him in the chest with her gloved finger. “I’ve had a quick look at some of your pictures here, and you’re quite good, you know. Almost an artist.”

Mr Riva didn’t really know what to say to that, but he gave a bow. “It will be my pleasure. You, Miss Sparks …”