Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand by Susan Green Read Free Book Online Page B

by them. But she scarcely gave them a glance.
    Poppy’s eyes widened when she saw what was set on a stand in the middle of the table.
    “Cor,” she said. “That’s a cake what’s died and gone to ’eaven.” Everyone laughed, and Poppy seemed a bit miffed. “I jus’ meant to say it’s a splendrous cake.”
    “It is indeed. And Hannah is a splendrous cook,” said Mr Petrov. “We are spoiled. It’s a wonder I don’t get fat.”
    “I wish you
would
get fat, Nicholas,” said Helen. She turned to Papa. “I worry about him so. His health broke down completely in India and–”
    “That’s enough, Helen.” Mr Petrov interrupted his wife in a harsh, grating voice. “Our guests don’t want to hear about my illness.”
    He could have been reprimanding a child or a servant. Everyone felt it, even Poppy. The atmosphere was a bit uncomfortable until we started on the cups of tea and cake. That cake! I’d never tasted anything so delicious. Even Connie, who wasn’t a big eater, got stuck in.
    Inside the house a clock chimed, and almost noiselessly Mohan Singh appeared with a mug on a tray.
    “What is that, Nicky?” asked Papa.
    “Goat’s milk. It’s just about the only thing I can digest these days, isn’t it, Mohan?”
    “It is very nourishing,” said Mohan. “But I think your visitors will do you just as much good, sir.” He bowed again and was turning to leave us when Helen called him back. She pointed towards the birdcage.
    “Do take those birds away,” she said. “Put the cage on the back verandah.”
    As soon as Mohan was out of earshot, Mr Petrov said to his wife, “Please speak more politely to him, Helen. Mohan is not just a servant, whatever you may think.”
    Here he was again, correcting Helen as if
she
were a servant. It must be humiliating, and I felt sorry for her. She bit her lip and reached for her sewing basket. She took out a piece of embroidery, and Papa, bless him, turned the conversation.
    “You are an exquisite needlewoman, Helen. You made this beautifully decorated tablecloth too, I think?”
    “Yes, I did.” She held out her work. It was a linen tray cover, and she was edging it with pink roses.
    “Just like the ones in our room,” said Connie. “You’re so clever, Helen.”
    “Isn’t she? Helen must always be stitching or she isn’t happy,” said Mr Petrov.
    “It is for the charity bazaar, Nicholas. Besides, I must have a hobby. You have your birds.”
    “Yes, my birds. You must come down and see the new peacock.”
    She shook her head. “No, thank you, Nicholas. You know how I dislike caged birds.”
    “But this one is special. White ones are very rare.”
    Helen said something under her breath, and I didn’t quite catch what it was, but Mr Petrov replied, “Oh, I know you don’t like them, but they remind me of India.”
    “India! Oh–” Abruptly, Helen got to her feet. “Please excuse me,” she said. “I have a headache.”
    “Dear lady,” began Papa, but she was already gone.
    “Helen doesn’t share my passion for collecting birds,” said Mr Petrov.
    They didn’t seem to share very much at all, I thought. Though Shantigar meant “peaceful home”, it seemed anything but.

8
THE INDIAN ROOM
    With Helen gone, Papa and Mr Petrov settled in to talk about old times. Poppy, Connie and I went back to our room. After unpacking our things, we wondered what we were supposed to do next.
    “I saw a piano in the drawing room,” said Connie, longingly. “Do you suppose I could play?”
    “Better not,” said Poppy. Once again she surprised me with her good sense. “Not while Helen’s asleep. You don’t want to go distrobing her.”
    We decided to explore instead. Though the front garden was laid out with box hedges, flowerbeds and gravel paths, all the land on the eastern side was a thicket of shrubs and creepers. Something rustled. I thought of snakes but Connie, who was a real country girl, told me not to worry.
    “It’s more likely the