Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (25 page)

What on earth could he find to say about me? I wasn’t distinctively anything either.

“… are a bit of a mystery. A demure young girl, but I wonder what else your portrait might reveal? And Miss Deane here has a true Celtic beauty, very unusual in such a pure form.”

Who could resist being called an unusually pure Celtic beauty? Mr Riva was a very clever salesman, I thought.

Fred set up the studio for Miss Deane’s portrait with fake rosebushes, papier-mâché columns and a backdrop of puffy clouds in a pale blue sky.

“Are you interested in photography?” Mr Riva asked me as we waited.

“Very much,” I said.

“Perhaps you would like to know how a camera works? The box, or body of the camera contains a dark chamber and a lens. I put my head under the black cloth to line up the sitter and focus the lens – like this.” He demonstrated. “Next, I slide in the plate. Of course it isn’t a china plate.” I laughed politely at his joke. “What we call the plate is really a piece of glass which has been coated with a special light-sensitive emulsion. That is why my assistant brings me the plates in a plate-holder, so the light can’t get at them. It’s at this stage that a bit of photographic trickery can be done to produce a spirit or two.” Mr Riva’s voice was dripping with scorn. He went on to explain that the plate could have a pre-exposed extra figure already on it, or that a plate with a positive image could be already hidden in the plate-holder. Or – and this is what he had done to produce the picture of Lavinia with the two Alans – the fakery could come at the other end of the photographic process.

“One can double-print the final picture from two separate negatives. Do you understand?”

To tell the truth, I didn’t. My brain was overloaded, but what I did understand was that Mr Riva was not, in any shape or form, a spirit photographer.

“And now,” he went on. “It’s only when I want to take the picture that I remove the shutter from the plate and let light enter through the lens.”

“Stand still please, ma’am,” Fred said to Miss Deane, “while Mr Riva counts down.”

Ten seconds might not sound like long, but it is when you have to be a statue. Miss Deane breathed a sigh of relief and shook herself when, with a click, Mr Riva replaced the slide back over the camera. Miss Deane’s sitting was over.

“And now for the young lady,” said Fred.

Posing against the artificial rosebushes, I felt I’d been captured like a butterfly on a pin. But even worse was the terrible sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach. I was scared. But of what?

Click. Mr Riva slid the plate holder out of the camera. I would have to wait until he exposed the plate and printed the image to see if …

I could hardly admit it. Mr Riva had carefully explained to me the process of photography. He’d told me the tricks by which fakes and frauds were produced, and his opinion about ghostly extras was scathing. And yet still, I had a tiny lingering fear. You know the kind. A little seed of doubt, which niggles away at you and won’t let you be.

I wanted to believe that Alexander was reaching out from beyond the grave, saving Papa, helping me. I wanted to hang on to that anchor of hope. But I had to admit that I was afraid. Afraid that when the photograph was developed, I would see beside me another figure, a misty shape with broad shoulders, a mane of greyish hair and a well-trimmed beard. And I would know that Papa was never coming home.

I was feeling shaky by the time I got home. Even though the day was warm, I had begun to shiver. Miss Deane and Mrs Morcom were still chatting, and didn’t notice, but Kathleen came upstairs after me, and more or less ordered me to bed.

“There now,” she said, tucking a blanket around me. “You’re snug as an egg in a hen’s behind. Don’t you stir until the dinner bell, my girl, or I’ll give you a talkin’ to.” She bustled towards the door and then paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Miss Verity,” she said, with her Irish accent sounding stronger than ever. “I know you’re scared. I now you’re swingin’ like the clapper of a bell between hoping for the best and fearing the worst. Don’t you know that’s the way to make yourself sick?” She shook her finger at me. “And what use will you be to the master then?” She gave me a stern look, and added as she left my room, “An’ by the way, Mrs Reilly’s made you some of her consommy.”

Kathleen was right. I must do as Alexander had told me – and Connie too. I must hold on. So after dinner, instead of going back up to my bedroom to fret and worry, I asked Daniel if we could discuss the case with him. I knew he was too busy with Mr Usher to join us on Mount Macedon, but we needed help. It seemed as if we’d come to a dead end.

“What do you think, Daniel?” I asked him. “What should we do next?”

“Well,” he said. “It’s difficult to say.” He picked up the text of the Alan’s letter – I’d written it down for him – and read it again. “He says ‘shocking secret’. Any ideas?”

Miss Deane shrugged. “Other than something about Mrs O’Day’s two late husbands, no.” She sighed. “When a pretty young woman is widowed twice, there are bound to be rumours. You know how people talk. Alan may have heard some of this vicious gossip. It may have even turned him against his wife-to-be. And Andrew, in his grief, has fixed on it as an explanation for his brother’s death. But Verity and I both agree – Mrs O’Day is a most unlikely murderess.”

“Do either of you have any ideas about the photograph?”

I shook my head. “A joke, Mr Riva said. But she wouldn’t think it was funny. She took spirit photographs very seriously.”

“Ah, but obviously he didn’t. Perhaps he was trying to prove to her that such things can be faked.”

Miss Deane and I looked at each other. “What a clever suggestion,” I said.

“This Andrew Ross – I haven’t met him. What’s he like?”

“Grumpy,” said Miss Deane. “And by now, he’s rather angry as well. Called us wretched amateurs.”

“He’s convinced that Mrs O’Day killed his brother,” I said. “I agree, the letter did sound suspicious – but it proves nothing. Daniel, she’s so vague and nervous, I don’t see how she could kill anyone. She just doesn’t have it in her. Mr Ross says she’s acting guilty, and I believe I know why. But when I told him about the spirit photographs and Lavinia’s fear that her husbands will never let her go, he just laughed at the idea. I don’t know what else we can do, really.”

Daniel thought for a few seconds. “Well, as SP’s not here, I’ll make a decision. I’ll write to Mr Ross and tell him that our part in the case is finished.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, but I could see that Miss Deane was disappointed. She didn’t want to give up on the case.

“Don’t write just yet, Daniel. After all, Mr Ross has given us two weeks. And we have to return to Forest Edge to get Poppy and Lucifer and collect our things anyway.”

“All right,” said Daniel. “Who knows? You may be able to find out something that will convince Mr Ross you’re right.”

Not likely, I thought, remembering his angry face and the way he ran his hands through his red hair until it stood up on end.

I knew we had to return to Mount Macedon, but as far as I was concerned, the case was now closed.

My spirits began to droop as soon as I saw the humped shape of the Macedon Ranges from the train. In the hazy air I could just make out a thin plume of smoke rising from somewhere near the base. I remembered what Mr Bobbs had told me about the horror of bushfires. He’d been at Macedon one terrible February day more than twenty years ago when the whole mountain was consumed by huge sheets of flame. Black Thursday, the colonials called it, and I hoped this fire was under someone’s control. The Mount looked not blue but a leaden grey in the distance, and I felt grey and gloomy too.

I’d liked being back home. I liked seeing Daniel and Judith and Mrs Morcom, having a visit from Emily and Lottie, not to mention the warm welcome from Mrs Reilly and Kathleen’s unexpected wisdom. We were in the modern age, with telegraph messages and speedy trains, and I knew that at Forest Edge I was only a day – if that – away from Alhambra. But in the back of my mind I was afraid that Papa might return and find I wasn’t there. You see, I
was
holding on tight to my anchor of hope.

Miss Deane, on the other hand, was excited. She was looking forward to seeing Mrs Honeydew. I knew she was going to miss Mrs Honeydew’s friendship once we returned for good to the city. They could write to each other, of course, but that’s not the same as meeting up in the flesh. It’s hard for a governess to make friends, I thought. For all that she seems part of the family, she’s not. It was the same with Mrs Honeydew. As Mrs O’Day’s nurse companion, she had to go wherever her employer wanted.

“I might meet up with the young people from Kinnock Brae again,” she said. “And perhaps there will be another meeting with the Gravensteins. What do you think, Verity?”

“They did say not to wait for an invitation, but to just call in,” I said, trying to dredge up a bit of enthusiasm. Miss Deane was only twenty-three; why shouldn’t she have a bit of fun?

Mr Bobbs collected us from the station and took us straight to Greystones, where we collected Poppy. She was jumping up and down like a flea in a fit, she was so excited to see us. But I was glad she waited until we were out of earshot to tell us about her visit.

“I’m never doin’ that again,” she said. “What a washout! Toby was insifflable.”

“Do you mean insufferable? Was he a bit naughty?”

“A bit?” she scoffed. “Like I said, he was … that thing you said before. An’ I’ll tell you this for free – I don’t like that Mrs Honeydew.”

“Oh, Poppy!” said Miss Deane. “She’s lovely.”

“One night, she give me some o’ that Dr Heartburn’s mixture. I spat it out.”

“That was very rude of you.”

“It’s nasty. It tastes the same as a drunk’s breath smells. An’ there’s somethin’ wrong with Mrs O’Day. She’s … she’s weird.”

It was true. We’d seen Mrs O’Day briefly when we called for Poppy, and she seemed half-asleep, with her eyes unfocused and her speech blurred. I had an awful thought. I’d seen plenty of drunks when I lived with Auntie Sarah, and I wondered if Mrs O’Day had taken to the bottle. All those tragedies could easily drive a person to drink.

Poppy finished up her complaints about her stay at Greystones. She left the worst till last. “An’ I didn’t get to ride Albert after all.”

Mrs Bobbs was waiting for us in the house. She had a small dumpy girl in an over-large apron standing beside her.

“I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am,” she said to Miss Deane, “but Miriam has taken it upon herself to leave us in the lurch. She left a note to say that she has gone off with her sweetheart and will not be back.” She pursed her lips primly.

“Oh, Mrs Bobbs,” Miss Deane began, but Mrs Bobbs had more to say.

“Shocking, I call it, and that girl will never get another job if I have to write her a reference. You mind you listen to that, young Ellen, and learn your lesson.”

Ellen blushed and squirmed.

“I would never have thought it. Such a slyboots she’s been!” said Mrs Bobbs. “But you just don’t know, do you? Still waters run deep. Don’t worry about the house, ma’am. Clara and Susan will do a bit extra while Ellen here learns.”

She went away grumbling to herself and Ellen, with a curtsey and another blush, scuttled off to the kitchen.

“Well that’s a pity,” said Miss Deane. “I liked Miriam.”

I did too. She was rather glum, with that long horse face of hers, but always kind and helpful.

“I’ll just go to the kitchen and have a talk to Ellen,” said Miss Deane. “This must be her first job. Poor thing, she’s so young – I’ll wager she’s terrified.”

“Well, come on, Poppy,” I said. “Let’s go up and unpack your bag.”

“She never did,” said Poppy to me as we walked upstairs.

“Who? What?”

“Miriam never run away with no sweetheart. She didn’t ’ave no sweetheart.”

“Well, as Mrs Bobbs said, you just don’t know.”

“I do know,” insisted Poppy. “She never would. She weren’t int’rested in men and they weren’t int’rested in her. She was looking after ’er old mum in Woodend, what ’ad a bad leg and couldn’t work. She wouldn’t run away.”