Verity Sparks and the Scarlet Hand Read Online Free

baking.”
    “Baking what?” said Poppy, pricking up her ears.
    He turned to Poppy with a smile. “Currant buns, I think. Does that meet with your a-p-p-proval, my dear?” He was clearly used to indulging little girls. “Here she is.”
    Mrs Brandywine was a short woman, almost as wide as she was high. In her striped green dress, she reminded me of an unripe gooseberry. Combined with her plump red cheeks and snub nose, she had a rather comical appearance, but Mr Brandywine clearly adored his dumpling of a wife. He took the plate of cakes, settled her in a chair, fussed over her footstool and shawl, and introduced her as if she were Queen Victoria herself.
    Then it was down to business. Mr Brandywine took out a portfolio and showed us the sketches that were to illustrate my book. I’d been curious to see what the artist made of my Millie. Mrs Morcom had told me I was bound to be disappointed. She was wrong. The artist had captured Millie to the life.
    “Oh, Verity,” whispered Connie. “She’s perfect.”
    “What d-d-id you say, young lady?” asked Mr Brandywine.
    Connie’s shyness got the better of her, but Poppy answered in a loud, clear voice. “She says it’s perfeck. An’ is it tea time?”
    “Indeed it is.” Mr Brandywine closed the portfolio and gestured to the steaming pot.
    “Please help yourselves,” said Mrs Brandywine.
    I was just reaching for a bun when I froze. It was that feeling again. Someone was staring at me. I turned my head and there she was – a tall woman wearing a grey silk dress and an elegant lavender-coloured bonnet. A black hail-spot veil hid her face, but I could see her eyes glittering behind it. Who was she? Why was she gazing at me so intently? Slowly, she raised her veil, revealing a pale, beautiful face.
    I’d seen that face before. It had looked out from its gold frame on my dressing table this morning.

4
MYSTERY WOMAN
    I jumped to my feet. My cup and saucer clattered to the floor and for a second I was distracted by the spilt tea. When I looked up, she was gone.
    I scanned the crowded shop. Too late – the stranger was now just a vanishing blur glimpsed through the plate-glass windows of the Book Bazaar.
    “What is the matter, Verity? What’s wrong?” said Drucilla.
    “She was staring at me, and she … she looked like …”
    Mrs Brandywine’s voice brought me back to myself. “Sit down, dear,” she said. “Never mind the broken cup. Pour her another cup of tea, Henry. Put three lumps of sugar in it.”
    I took a couple of deep breaths. “There was a lady, just over there.” I pointed. “Did nobody see her?” None of them had. “She was staring at me.”
    “And did you recognise her?” asked Mrs Brandywine.
    “Yes, but that’s impossible. The person … the one she resembles is …”
    It couldn’t be my mother. Mama was dead. She’d died in a fire when I was a few months old. But now all sorts of crazy thoughts surged around in my mind. Had Mama somehow escaped the fire? Had she lost her memory? Had she gone on living, unaware of her real identity, forgetting completely her husband and child?
    Or had I just seen a ghost?
    “Verity.” Mrs Brandywine put her hand on my arm and I felt a sudden shock. I jumped. I think we were both startled.
    “I see,” she murmured, and then placed her hand over mine. This time there were no sparks or shocks. She didn’t say anything, but calm seemed to flow from her touch. It was clear Mrs Brandywine had a gift of her own, and I wondered how I could have thought her ridiculous.
    Everyone chatted tactfully while I drank my sweet tea. Eventually, I stopped shaking. Mrs Brandywine’s touch seemed to have restored my good sense, and I realised that it couldn’t have been Mama. Mama would be forty-five if she was still alive, and this woman was much younger than that. And I doubted that a ghost would wear the latest fashions. No, the resemblance was simply a strange coincidence. Strange and almost uncanny, but that