I stared at the crude black letters. Ransom. Captive. It was like a bad dream. Who could have predicted when we set off this morning for a country drive that it would end like this? The three of us should have been back at Shantigar by now, eating our lunch.
Our lunch … It suddenly occurred to me that Helen, Drucilla and I had not been expected back at Shantigar until one o’clock. It was too soon for anyone to worry. So how had Harold known we were in trouble?
“Harold,” I said slowly. “Why did you come looking for us?”
Harold took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Your father asked me to.”
“Papa?”
“Yes. Somehow he had the idea that you were in danger. Uncle tried to talk him out of it but he wouldn’t rest until I offered to come after you.”
Papa had known. In all those years of belonging to the Society for the Investigation of Psychic Phenomena, Papa had never shown a pinch of supernatural power … until today. There was no real mystery about it. It was love. Tears filled my eyes. Papa loved me so much that he just knew.
“We pass the police station, Verity. It’s on our way. I know what the note said, but if we tell the police, perhaps some mounted men could ride out and track them down.”
I wasn’t sure what we should do. “Harold, the note said not to contact the police or …” I didn’t want to spell it out.
“But if they go after them straightaway, they might catch them.”
Perhaps I was being stubborn, but I didn’t think Harold and I should act before we told Mr Petrov. I shook my head. “We must let your uncle know what’s happened first.”
“Well, at least let me stop at Doctor Judd’s surgery and ask him to come up to Shantigar to look at your shoulder. I have to return his horse to him, anyway.”
“All right. Please, hurry.”
He did. Only a minute or so after Harold led the doctor’s horse down the side lane to the stable, he reappeared at the front gate with the doctor. I’d already met Doctor Judd at Shantigar, for he came every few days to check on Mr Petrov. He was a thin, elderly Scotsman with sparse, close-clipped grey hair and whiskery eyebrows.
He looked me up and down. “The lad tells me you’ve had a fall.”
“Yes,” I said. “I fell from the phaeton and I … I landed awkwardly.”
“Well, I’d best have a look at you.” He climbed up beside me, took my pulse, looked into my eyes and checked my head for bumps and swellings.
“No concussion. Your shoulder is not broken, thank goodness.” His hands were gentle, but I still had to grit my teeth against the pain as he examined me. “It’s most likely a sprain.” He stared for a few seconds at my wrist. It was chafed and raw where the rope had been. “And what have you done to yourself there?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I … I …” I couldn’t think of an explanation.
Dr Judd gave me a shrewd look. “Very well then, Harold. Take her home, and I’ll be up as soon as I’ve seen this last patient.”
Papa was sitting on the front steps, smoking a cigar. He jumped up as soon as we drew near and lifted me down as if I were made of spun glass.
“Veroschka, Veroschka,” he crooned. “I am a foolish old papa – but I was so worried. Never have I been worried like this before; I could not rest until Harold rode out to find you. Thank you, my boy.” He gave Harold such a bear hug it’s a wonder there were no cracked ribs. “And here you are. It was much ado about nothing …” Then Papa stopped. “But Helen and Drucilla, where are they?”
“Yes, where are they?” It was Mr Petrov. Had he been watching and waiting as well? Mohan wheeled him out onto the verandah.
“Oh, Mr Petrov,” I began. “Something dreadful has happened.”
The old man gazed at me steadily. “Go on,” he prompted.
When I finished the story, Mr Petrov shut his eyes and bowed his head. He slumped in his wheelchair like a bag of bones. Mohan put his hand on Mr Petrov’s shoulder and they stayed like that for a few seconds. I wondered what Mohan was feeling. After all, he had been with Mr Petrov for over twenty years. He seemed devoted to him; at times they seemed more like friends than master and servant. This blow would hit them both hard.
Hannah too. I hadn’t noticed her standing in the shadows just inside the door.
“Oh, sir!” With a sob she stepped forwards. “You poor, poor man.” Then she turned away and ran back into the house, murmuring something about lunch.
Lunch! How could any of us eat?
“Uncle,” said Harold. “Don’t you think it would be wisest to send for the police?”
“No,” said the old man. “No. And I forbid you to do it.”
“But it’s not just Helen, Uncle. Miss Deane has been kidnapped as well. What about her family?”
“She has no family in Victoria,” said Papa. “There are an aunt and a few cousins in Tasmania, but they aren’t close. And I agree with Nicky. No police. We must wait for our instructions. But immediately I will telegraph for SP.”
SP. How could I have forgotten? With Drucilla in danger, he would come rushing up to Castlemaine. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but I was sure he’d find Drucilla and Helen safe and sound, almost as if the kidnapping was some terrible mistake.
“Mohan, please call for George,” said Mr Petrov. “Ask him to go down to the telegraph station. And to the Levinys’ house as well. He must ask Ernö to come to see me on urgent business.” Mohan went off in search of George, and Mr Petrov sank back in his chair, breathing rapidly. “Harold I need to go back inside.”
Papa and I followed them into the Indian room and I sat down. My arm and shoulder were throbbing and I hoped Doctor Judd could give me something for the pain. I knew there was nothing he could give me for the strange sense of unreality that was sweeping over me like a wave. Surely this was all a dream, and I’d wake up soon?
Papa noticed that I was cradling my arm. “You are hurt, Veroschka? Then you must go to bed immediately. We must call for Doctor Judd.”
“I’ve already seen him,” I said. “He said it’s only a sprain.”
“You saw him?” Mr Petrov looked alarmed. “Did you tell him about the kidnapping?”
Harold replied on my behalf. “No, Uncle. He saw that Helen and Drucilla weren’t in the phaeton but he didn’t ask any questions.”
“Good. The note, Harold – where is it?”
“Here it is. I wouldn’t disobey you, Uncle.” Harold flushed. “I won’t go to the police without your permission.”
“I know that, my boy. I just want to see it.”
As Harold fished the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, something else fell out onto the floor. It was a glove, a red leather glove. It lay on the carpet like a bloody handprint.
Mr Petrov sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes fixed on the red glove. “Where did you get that?” He sounded half-strangled.
“It was on the seat of the phaeton,” Harold began, and then he paused. “Uncle … Uncle, are you all right?”
Papa caught Mr Petrov as he pitched forwards out of his chair. Mr Petrov opened his mouth as if to speak. With a choking sound he clutched at his throat and his face contorted like a wax mask melting in flames.
“He’s having a fit,” said Harold. “Let’s get him to the sofa.”
“We need a doctor,” said Papa. “Harold, can you run for Doctor Judd?”
“I can,” said Harold. “But he’s coming anyway. He should be here by now.”
As if it were a play, not a deadly real-life drama, the doorbell rang right on cue.
Papa opened the drawing room door. “We are in here, doctor,” he called down the passage.
Doctor Judd paused in the doorway, sized up the situation, then strode to the sofa and kneeled beside Mr Petrov. It took him half a minute to tell us what was wrong.
“This is apoplexy – commonly called a stroke. The signs are unmistakable. Let’s get him to bed. Harold, you take this side and I’ll take the other. Excuse me, Mr Savinov.”
Papa stepped aside, and I noticed he turned his face away as if he could not bear to look. Had he been reunited with his oldest friend, only to lose him again?
“Ring for Hannah, will you, Verity?” added the doctor as they carried him through the doorway. “And I will want Mohan too. That man is the finest nurse I know.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Papa, putting his head in his hands. “This is unbelievable. First a kidnapping and now Nicky has had a stroke!” His eyes settled on the glove, which was still lying on the carpet. “It was this, wasn’t it, that upset him so?” He stooped and picked it up. “I suppose it belonged to Helen.”
“No,” I said, tugging at the bellpull. “Helen’s were grey. So the bushrangers must have left it. It’s strange, isn’t it? A red glove …”
“A red glove?” repeated Hannah. She’d come into the room so quietly I hadn’t noticed her. She stared at the glove with a bewildered expression. “Why would they leave that? It makes no sense.”
Papa put the glove on the mantlepiece, but Hannah could not stop looking at it, even as she asked Papa, “You rang for me? What was it you needed?”
“Not me, but Doctor Judd,” I said. “He and Harold have taken Mr Petrov to his room. He’s very ill.”
“It is a stroke, Hannah,” said Papa.
“Oh, dear Lord.” She put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath. “Troubles come in threes, they say. What’s next?” And she ran out of the room.