We took Drucilla straight to Shantigar.
Hannah opened the door. Her worried gaze took in only Harold and me at first.
“Verity! Harold!” she cried. “The saints be thanked, you’re safe. I’ve been that frightened for you. You shouldn’t have gone by yourselves and now look at you, you’re wet through …”
Mohan, who must have been keeping an ear open for our return, appeared in the hallway behind her. She turned to him and took his hand.
“Mohan, they’re safe, and–” Then she caught sight of SP helping Drucilla out of the phaeton. A smile began to dawn on her face, and then died. “Mrs Petrov?”
“She wasn’t there,” said Harold. “The kidnappers still have her.”
“Oh no…” Mohan staggered and fell sideways, crashing against the hatstand. Hannah put her arm around him and guided him to the hall chair.
“Sit,” she ordered. “Sit there, you poor man. Why, you’ve been at the master’s bedside with scarcely a break.”
It was true. None of us had seen him for days. Harold had shared the vigil with him, but I’m ashamed to say that I had barely given him a thought.
“You’re exhausted.” Hannah patted Mohan’s shoulder. “You must rest, Mohan. Harold, can you help him to his bedroom?”
Then Hannah called out for George and they sprang into action. In next to no time there was water on the stove so we could wash, a roaring fire, a hot water bottle in Helen’s bed for Drucilla and beef broth heating in a pot.
“That friend of yours went back to town,” Hannah told me. “After lunch. I gave her lamb stew with dumplings. She left a letter for you – it’s on the sideboard.”
It was just a quick note.
The other matter can wait.
Yours, Bedelia Brandywine
The other matter – Della Parker – seemed unimportant right now. Drucilla was here, with us. Safe at last. Now – where was Helen?
Drucilla was not impressed when SP insisted she go straight to bed. He’d sent George off to get Doctor Judd, too, and I could imagine Drucilla’s face when the doctor started one of his lectures about the delicate female constitution.
Nevertheless, she did what SP asked. Complaining all the while, she put on one of Helen’s nightgowns and sat up in bed. I brought her Hannah’s beef broth, and she complained a bit more.
“I’ve had nothing but apples and two plates of rabbit stew,” she pleaded after she’d gulped it down. “Couldn’t I have a lamb chop? Just a little one? And some pudding?”
“That’s my girl,” said SP. “Tough as old boots.”
“Don’t call me an old boot.”
“You’re Cinderella’s glass slipper to me, Drucilla.” She smiled. “Now, darling, if I ask you very nicely, will you try to rest?”
“I will try. And SP?”
“Yes, my darling?”
“Please don’t be harsh with Ben. He’s not all there. He was very good to me, really he was.”
SP nodded and blew her a kiss as he shut the door. A minute later she was snoring in a most unladylike manner.
“She’s not to be disturbed,” said SP, firmly. “Now, Harold, my boy – there’s some unfinished business to attend to. That is, if Ben is still there.”
“I think he will be,” said Harold. “I thought of locking him in but … well, it seemed cruel, somehow.”
“Cruel? After what he did to Drucilla?”
I put my hand on SP’s arm. “She asked you not to be harsh with him, remember?”
SP’s face softened. “Of course.”
Poor Mohan. He was near collapse, but when Harold and SP left, he struggled back out of his room to resume his watch over Mr Petrov.
“I will sit with him,” I offered. “Please, Mohan, let me help.”
Mohan sighed. “Perhaps … a little more rest …”
Mr Petrov was propped up on his pillows with his eyes shut and his hands, curled into claws, folded on his chest. The room was dim and warm, and the drumming of rain on the roof made a soothing sound.
“Shall I just stay here?” I whispered, pointing to a chair next to the door.
“No,” said Mohan. “Sit closer.” Mohan stroked the old man’s hand. “Miss Verity is here to sit with you, sir.”
“Don’t hurry back, Mohan,” I said as he left the room. “Try to sleep.”
Harold had told me Mohan’s theory about Mr Petrov’s care. We should act as if he could hear and understand. So, feeling a bit odd about it, I began to talk to him.
“Good afternoon, Mr Petrov.” I didn’t expect him to reply, and he didn’t. “This afternoon, Harold and I found Drucilla,” I said. His breathing continued, slow and laboured. I kept on, “She was being held prisoner at an abandoned quarry near the Queen of Spades mine, just out of Campbell’s Creek. Harold and SP have gone back there. They want to talk to the old man who was keeping her locked up and find out who employed him. You see, now we know that the Red Gauntlet has nothing to do with the kidnapping, we need to find out who’s behind it. The Red Gauntlet couldn’t have done it because …” I hesitated. Even though it felt like I was talking to myself, I was careful. “Well, because the Red Gauntlet is dead.”
I stopped. Mr Petrov’s lips were moving ever so slightly. Was he thirsty? I dribbled water from a cup into his mouth and he swallowed it.
“Mr Leviny, Papa and Mr Mallard are in Bendigo right now, seeing your lawyer,” I continued. I stopped again. It couldn’t be … could it? He was trying to shape words. I leaned closer. His hand shot out, grasping me around the wrist and I almost screamed.
“What’s wrong? Do you need something?”
His face was frozen, all except for his lips. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified that this was another apoplexy coming on. Should I fetch someone? I tried to stand up but his hand tightened on my forearm.
“Mohan!” I called. “Hannah! Please come quickly!”
Then I heard my name. It was slurred but unmistakable. “Verity …”
“Don’t move, Mr Petrov,” I said. “I’ll get Mohan.”
“No. Tell.”
“You want to tell me something?”
He squeezed my wrist and said again, more urgently, “Tell.” I leaned down and put my ear close to his face. “Helen. Not … Red …”
“Not the Red Gauntlet? Is that what you mean?”
His nod was almost imperceptible. Then he rasped out another word but this time I couldn’t catch on. Scar? Scarf? Cart? What could he mean?
Another word. I grasped this one immediately. It was “hand”. He repeated the two words in a harsh, cracked whisper, but the first was no clearer.
“It’s not the Red Gauntlet, it’s the … I’m sorry, Mr Petrov; I don’t know what you mean. It’s the … the hand; the something hand, but I can’t–”
The grip on my wrist was weaker now. He said each of the two syllables slowly, wearily and then let go of my arm. His eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, pleaded with me to understand.
“Is this right, Mr Petrov? It’s not the Red Gauntlet.” I finally knew what he was trying to tell me. “It’s the Scarlet Hand.”