There was just us girls and Helen at breakfast the next morning because Mr Petrov, like Papa, had his on a tray in his room.
He had a lengthy morning routine, explained Helen. “Mohan gives him a massage and a salt bath and a morphine poultice every day.”
“What, every day?” asked Poppy. “Then what do you do?”
“What do I do?” A strange, bleak expression passed over Helen’s face. Then she shook her head, as if to get rid of some stray unwelcome thought. “I do charity work. I go visiting. I sew. Which reminds me – I must go into town this morning to buy some embroidery silk.”
“Can we come with you?” Poppy, Connie and I spoke together.
“You would be bored.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” said Poppy.
“And I have a letter to post,” added Connie. She adored her father, and wrote him a long letter every week.
Helen hesitated for a few seconds. She couldn’t hide her reluctance.
Hannah, coming in with hot water for the tea, joined the conversation. “It’ll be a chance for you to show the girls the town, ma’am.”
“Please,” begged Poppy.
What a moody person Helen was, I thought. As cold as marble one minute, warm and affectionate the next. Yesterday evening, she hadn’t been able to get enough of us. Now, it was clear she wished we’d disappear.
“Very well.” Helen stood abruptly. “We will leave at ten.”
It was shopping day in Castlemaine. Unlike yesterday, the streets were busy with horses, vehicles and people. Ladies greeted Helen with smiles and gentlemen raised their hats. A few inquired as to who we were, and Helen did some quick introductions. Very quick they were too, because for some reason, she was in an awful rush for her embroidery thread. She whisked us past a chemist’s, a bakery and a millinery establishment and then stopped in front of a draper’s.
“You may as well stay here, girls,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
“Can’t I come in?” asked Poppy. “I like lookin’ in shops.”
“So do I,” I said.
For a second I thought she was going to order us to stay outside.
“Perhaps you could find some blue ribbon for me.” She gestured to some tables near the entrance and walked quickly to the counter.
Poppy and Connie began to examine the different spools of ribbon but I kept an eye on Helen. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was a habit I’d got from working with SP, assisting with confidential inquiries. You get a nose for mystery, for odd behaviour, for anything that’s not quite right.
This is what I saw. After Helen paid for her silk, the shopgirl reached under the counter and brought out a letter. But she didn’t hand it to Helen. She wrapped it up in brown paper with the silk.
Which was odd. Odder still was that Helen didn’t want any ribbon, after all. And if she’d had any letters, why weren’t they sent to the house?
I already knew the answer. Because she didn’t want anyone to know. Why not? I could think of dozens of reasons, some sinister, some perfectly innocent.
You’re on holiday, I told myself. This isn’t a confidential investigation. And it was none of my business.
It turned out that I had a letter too. When we returned to Shantigar, Hannah handed it to me. Who was it from? I didn’t recognise the handwriting. I opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside.
Dear Verity,
I am sorry if I alarmed you outside the theatre. I did not mean to. Sometimes I get so desperate that
I dropped the sheet of paper as if it were a scorpion. It was from Della Parker. How did she know where I was? How had she managed to get this address? My skin crawled as I imagined her – or someone in her pay – spying, prying, shadowing my every move. Had she come to Alhambra, pretending to be a friend? Even worse, had she followed us up to Castlemaine? I felt like crumpling the letter and throwing it in the rubbish. But that wouldn’t make it go away. I picked it up and read on.
I do foolish things. Forgive me, cousin. I simply want what is mine and I need your help to get it.
Cousin, I cannot believe that you would deliberately commit an injustice. I wrote to my uncle Hiram Parker many times, but he would not acknowledge my existence. He would not even see me. I have letters, papers and documents that prove Waldo Parker was my father. He ran away from home when he was just a boy and his family disinherited him, telling him he would never have any share of the family money. They told everyone he’d died, but it was not true. When you are convinced that I am telling you the truth, I know you will help me.
May I meet with you, so we can talk? You may write to me care of my hotel.
Your long-lost cousin,
Della Parker
I was calmer now and I realised that her story could be true. I knew that money and family troubles often went hand in hand. And from what Papa had told me about the Parkers, they’d been quite capable of disinheriting their son. But what could I do about it? Why was Della appealing to me? All of a sudden I understood. Della wanted me to get Papa to help her.
I couldn’t hide this from Papa any more. Della was desperate, and desperate people could become dangerous. And yet … Though she’d frightened me outside the theatre, now that I knew more of her story, I was beginning to feel sorry for her.
Papa was sitting in the Indian room. Helen and Connie had chosen their songs for tonight’s musical soirée at the Levinys’ and he was listening to them practise. He didn’t seem to notice when I slipped onto the sofa next to him.
I didn’t want to startle him, so I put my hand on his arm. “Papa,” I said softly. “I need to talk to you. Can you come with me?”
“Certainly.” He held out his hands to me and I helped him to his feet. “Helen has a very pretty voice,” he continued as we walked arm in arm down the hall. “But it is Connie who is the real artiste. Her playing is exquisite. How will she ever blossom up there on that farm? We must see if we can do something for her.” We reached the verandah and sat down. “Now, what is this about? You look very serious.”
I took his hand in mine. “Papa, have you ever heard of a young woman called Della Parker?”
If I’d worried that the name would shock or alarm him, I needn’t have. Papa merely frowned, as if remembering something unpleasant. He nodded. “Yes, I have heard of her. Why do you ask?”
“She wrote to me.”
“To you?” Papa sat straight up in his chair. “What for?”
“Here,” I said, taking the letter out of my pocket. “Read it.”
He took the letter from me and read it several times. Then he passed his hand over his eyes, shaking his head. “Perhaps I did wrong. Perhaps …”
“What, Papa? Please tell me.”
“Six or seven years ago this young woman approached my lawyers in Toronto with her tale about being Waldo Parker’s child. I had them look into it thoroughly, for Isabella’s sake. But the letters and documents proved nothing.”
“She says the Parker family lied about Waldo’s death. It is possible, isn’t it?”
“No. Waldo Parker ran away from home, it’s true. A few weeks later he returned. He was very ill and died soon afterwards. My lawyer found not only the death certificate but reliable witnesses to Waldo’s burial. It was an open coffin, Veroschka.” He paused to let that fact sink in. “It is very sad. This poor young creature, brought up in orphanages and foster homes, has somehow developed this idée fixe, this obsession about her parentage.”
“But her name – Della Parker?”
“Parker is a common name.” He sighed. “I felt sorry for her. I gave her money. And now she has followed us here. But why?”
“The news of Hiram Parker’s death?”
“But she has no claim, none at all.” He stopped. “What is it, Veroschka?”
“She was at the opera and she handed me a fan. It had a name carved on it – ‘Isabella Savage’.” I hesitated. Papa didn’t like me to talk about my gifts. They worried him. But he had to know about my vision. “As soon as I unwrapped it, I saw Mama. I heard her sing. I believe it really is Mama’s fan.”
Papa shrugged. “It may well have been. Isabella had many fans. She gave them to admirers, she lost them, perhaps some were even stolen. I will send a telegram to SP tomorrow, asking him to get rid of this nuisance. Promise me you will not bother yourself about her any more, ma petite.”
“I won’t, Papa. Though…” There was one thing about her that still puzzled me. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” I said. “She’s not a Parker at all, and yet she resembles Mama.”
Papa stared at me. “She what?”
“She resembles Mama,” I repeated. “Surely you noticed it?”
“No. I never saw her.” Papa began breathing heavily. He pressed his hand to his chest.
“Are you all right, Papa? Do you need a drink of water? Do you need to lie down?”
“Tell me what she looks like.”
I described her well as I could and Papa sat thinking for a minute. Then he said, “I will send a different telegram to SP. He will arrange a meeting. I think I need to see this Della Parker for myself.”