For a change Mr Mallard was up early. He refused breakfast.
“Tea?” Hannah offered, holding up the pot.
“No. I drink coffee in the morning,” he snapped. “You should know that by now.”
To save Hannah another trip, Harold went back with her to the kitchen.
“Did you sleep well, Mr Mallard?” I was curious. He’d sneaked into his sister’s room in the middle of the night and burned something. Then he’d gone outside for a midnight ramble. What would he say?
“No. Not at all.”
“I slept badly too,” I said. “I was awake most of the night. I heard someone moving about. I thought it was you.”
“Did you?” He paused. “Yes, it was me. I heard the most terrible noise and I went to investigate.”
He was lying. He’d disturbed Mr Snow, not the other way around.
“And I must remember not to hum,” he continued. “It’s a bad habit of mine.”
Suddenly, the name of the tune came to me. It was “Champagne Charlie”; probably my least favourite song in the whole world. My horrible uncle Bill Bird used to sing it when he was on a spree.
Champagne Charlie is my name
Champagne drinking is my game …
An odd song for the music master of a boys’ school to hum …
“Here’s your coffee,” said Harold, coming into the room with the pot.
Without thanking Harold, Mr Mallard poured himself a cup and then left it untouched. “I think I will go and see if the mail has been delivered yet.”
“The first note was left in the carriage house,” said Harold.
“I know that. It doesn’t mean they won’t post something to us.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s much less risky for them than delivering a note by hand. If they’re smart, they’ll have left the district by now.”
“So now you’re an expert on kidnapping, are you?” he sneered.
It turned out that Mr Mallard was right. A few minutes later, we heard him shouting.
“It’s here! It’s in the mail!”
Harold and I hurried out onto the front verandah. Papa, still in his dressing-gown, appeared a few seconds later. Mr Mallard came bounding up the steps with an envelope in his hand and the rest of the morning post scattered behind him. “This is it,” he said. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
The envelope was addressed in capital letters, in the same clumsy script as the other note.
“How I wish SP were here,” I said. SP had some acquaintances in the police force in Bendigo. He’d gone there to consult with them, and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.
“I hope you don’t think I should wait for him,” said Mr Mallard.
That wasn’t what I meant at all, but Mr Mallard was already ripping the envelope open. He pored over the letter. Seconds passed. Papa put his arm around me and hugged me to him. I held my breath.
“May I?” asked Harold. Mr Mallard handed him the letter, and he stood close so Papa and I could read it too.
As before, the writing was inside a crudely drawn red hand.
A THOUSAND POUNDS RANSOM YOU HAVE FOUR DAYS TO GET THE MONEY MORE INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW WE DO NOT FORGET
“A thousand pounds!” I said. “You can buy a house for that. Two houses.”
Harold was appalled. “It’s a fortune – how are we to get that much?”
“That is not for you to worry about, Harold,” said Papa. “It will be arranged.”
Mr Mallard giggled. “Besides, it’s two for the price of one.”
You could have heard a pin drop. The smile faded slowly from Mr Mallard’s face as he realised what he’d said. “That was in bad taste. Forgive me,” he murmured. “The strain … too much …”
“This is not a matter for jokes. Not at all,” said Papa in a frosty tone.
I thought it was time to change the subject. “How will we get the money?” I asked.
“Ernö and I have already made plans. Tomorrow we will take the train to Bendigo to speak to Nicky’s lawyer. He will have to arrange the transfer of funds from Nicky’s bank.”
Then there’d be papers to sign and forms to fill in – and if I knew anything about lawyers and bankers, they’d want everything in triplicate. It would all take time. Meanwhile, Drucilla and Helen were imprisoned, frightened, perhaps hurt. I could have cried from sheer frustration, but I knew we all needed to be patient.
“As Helen’s brother, I insist that I be allowed to go with you.”
Papa sighed. Until now, he had made allowances for Mr Mallard’s odd behaviour but with that earlier remark, Mr Mallard had gone too far, even for Papa’s kindly nature. “If you insist,” he said curtly.
Mr Mallard began to speak, but the look on Papa’s face made him change his mind. He slunk back down the hall to his room.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Clocks ticked and struck the hour, meals were served, tea was poured, morning turned to afternoon and then night. If each minute seemed long and weary to me, how did Drucilla and Helen feel? The thought of them haunted me all that day and half the night. I tossed and turned and only fell asleep towards dawn. When at last I woke, it was past nine o’clock. I had slept in.
I washed and dressed as quickly as I could and hurried to the dining room. As I paused for a few seconds outside the door to catch my breath, I heard voices in the Indian room.
“Splendid, splendid.” It was Mr Leviny. He must have arrived early to consult with Papa before they caught the train to Bendigo.
“Do you think it will do any good? After all this time?” Papa sounded unsure.
“Of course it will!” This other voice was loud, boastful, arrogant. I knew immediately who it was. “The mere mention of a reward will get them scurrying around like the vermin they are.”
I opened the door. “Good morning, Papa. And Mr Leviny.” Then I turned to the other visitor. “Good morning, Mr Melmoth.”
“Good morning.” He didn’t even look at me. A newspaper was spread open on one of the side tables, and he was stabbing his finger at an illustration in the middle of a page. “This picture, will get everyone talking. Jog some memories.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then the fun will begin.”
I stood next to Papa so I could get a good look at the paper. The picture Mr Melmoth spoke of showed a campfire in a clearing, surrounded by dark forest. Sprawled next to the fire, oozing blood, was a corpse. You could tell it was a corpse, because there was a body but no head.
The text above it read:
GRUESOME AND GRISLY – OUT OF THE PAST
“Fun?” Papa gazed at the dismembered body and shook his head. “I do not think so, Mr Melmoth.” Then he looked pointedly at the clock. “George has the phaeton ready and we must go, Ernö, or we will miss our train.” He folded the paper. “Thank you, Mr Melmoth, for coming to show us your work. Hannah will show you out. Good day.”
Papa was trying to get rid of him, but Mr Melmoth didn’t take the hint. “When they see this in the Advertiser, they’ll come creeping from their holes,” he gloated. “The Red Gauntlet, indeed. By the time I am finished with him, he will be the Dead Gauntlet!”
“Mr Melmoth,” said Papa with a frown, gesturing towards me. “There is a young lady present.”
“And we really must go,” said Mr Leviny. “Where is Mr Mallard? Is he ready?”
There was a sudden flurry of activity as the gentlemen got their coats, hats and walking sticks. Mr Mallard, still combing his curly hair, came rushing from his bedroom; Mr Melmoth was shown the door; the three gentlemen got into the phaeton; hooves and wheels crunched down the gravel drive and onto the road and they were gone.
Today they would organise the ransom money – but that was only the start. The kidnappers still needed to give us more instructions. The money had to be handed over. Helen and Drucilla had to be returned. Where? When? There was so much that could go wrong.
I picked up the newspaper and went into the dining room. There was still a little bacon and some scrambled egg left in one of the silver dishes, but I wasn’t feeling hungry. Perhaps a cup of tea would be enough for me this morning. Maybe some toast. I would go to the kitchen in a moment. First, I wanted to read the paper.
In the early 1860s, the Red Gauntlet and his gang created a reign of terror in the district. No law-abiding citizen was safe from their depredations. No less a personage than the esteemed member of the judiciary, Judge Collins of Tantamount Park, fell victim to these ruffians. He and Mr Ernest Leviny of Castlemaine, while taking a valuable presentation cup to the Bishop of Sandhurst, were attacked and robbed. Judge Collins was kidnapped and held to ransom; thankfully he was returned to the bosom of his family unharmed. Mr Leviny offered a large reward for the return of the presentation cup, and this still stands.
So this is what Mr Melmoth meant when he’d promised to stir things up and get the cockroaches out of the woodwork. A reward was all very well, but would putting pressure on the Red Gauntlet Gang endanger the two ladies? Mr Melmoth had a score to settle and didn’t care two hoots about Helen or Drucilla. All Mr Melmoth cared about was Mr Melmoth.
Hannah, with perfect timing, came into the room with a tray. “Here’s a fresh pot of tea for you,” she said. “Would you like some toast?”
“Yes, please, Hannah. You must have read my mind.”
“I’ll just take these plates away then I’ll make you some.”
As she passed behind me with a pile of dirty dishes, she caught sight of the newspaper. “What’s that you’re reading, miss?”
“It’s about the Red Gauntlet. That’s why Mr Melmoth was here this morning. He wanted to show us his … Hannah?”
Hannah dumped the dishes on the table, snatched up the paper and scanned it quickly.
“Hannah, what’s wrong?”
She stripped off her apron. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said. Her voice was trembling.
“But what’s wrong, Hannah? What’s the matter?”
She didn’t answer me. “I must go.”
I followed her out into the hall. “Can I help you, Hannah?”
“No, no. Oh my Lord, what’s to be done?” Without her bonnet or gloves, she rushed out of the front door and down the drive.
Mr Melmoth’s article about the Red Gauntlet … That’s what upset Hannah. Upset? She was more than that. Hannah was terrified. Why? What did she have to do with the Red Gauntlet?