Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (11 page)

‘How infuriating!’

I slipped the butter knife under the clasp and   tried to prise the lock open. For the third time. No luck. During my years at the orphanage I had forced my way into the odd journal or two (in the interests of friendship and whatnot) and usually the locks gave way easily. But not this one. It was apparently unbreakable.

‘Very strange indeed,’ I said, my heart positively plump with pity for Mother Snagsby. ‘Who locks a recipe book? The poor cow’s off her rocker.’

How else could I explain the fact that Mother Snagsby’s treasured book was locked up like a prison cell? I was certain there was heartbreak at the bottom of this monstrous puzzle. But I didn’t have time to work out what. I had guests to feed – and no recipe book with which to cook from! I recalled that Mother Snagsby was rather fond of Mrs Dickens’ almond cake – and I had helped her bake one only a few weeks before.

My baking skills were rather limited, but I intended to
combine the ingredients with all the talent of an alchemist. Even though it wasn’t one of Mother Snagsby’s family recipes, she would be deeply impressed by my efforts – filled to the brim with loving gratitude.

I made a quick list of the necessary ingredients, then hurried into the pantry. The sugar and eggs were easy to find. The flour was not. For the jar was empty. Which was beastly. I couldn’t be certain how long my sleeping remedy would work on Mother Snagsby – but I very much doubted there was time to run to the shop. What to do?

‘Ezra!’ I said aloud.

Ezra had a small bag of flour in his workshop. I had seen it tucked away behind a stack of wood and boxes. No idea why the old coot would want or need flour, but as it perfectly suited my needs, I was glad of it. But there was a problem. Ezra would want to know
why
I needed the flour, and that might invite questions concerning the whereabouts of Mother Snagsby.

An ingenious and highly complex plan was quickly hatched. I dashed out to the workshop. Peeked through the small window. Ezra was hunched over a thick plank of oak, working at it with a chisel – his back to the door. Perfect. I tiptoed inside, making hardly a sound – for I have all the natural instincts of a church mouse. Ezra began to hum as he worked on the oak plank, and as he did, I quietly moved aside a box or two and
some discarded wood, and scooped up the small sack marked
Flour.
Then I took off at speed towards the kitchen.

The logs were crackling in the stove. The butter and sugar ready for measuring. The eggs expertly separated. So far it was a glorious success. Until I remembered the missing ingredient.

I looked about the kitchen, my heart sinking like a dropped anchor. How was it possible that the one ingredient I had overlooked in an almond cake were the
almonds
? I searched the larder three times, looking in every nook and cranny. Not an almond in sight. Sighing loudly, I gazed out of the kitchen window. Which was terrifically fortunate. My eyes fell upon the almond tree in the back garden.

If I felt slightly idiotic, it soon passed. After all, the tree was in a far corner near the gate and the only person who paid it any attention was Ezra, who sometimes snoozed beneath its faded pink blossoms. I was soon out there collecting fallen almonds, which were scattered amongst the grass like pebbles.

So busy was I with the task that I didn’t see her. All I heard was a branch snap. I looked up, just as the girl leapt out from behind the tree. My hands flew to my mouth in a shockingly timid display, the almonds tumbling from my apron.

She had golden blonde hair. A long white dress. And she stood before me, beaming radiantly. ‘Forgive me,’ said Estelle Dumbleby, her smile dimming. ‘I have startled you.’

‘It’s my own fault, dear. What else is a tree for, other than jumping out from behind it like a crazed lunatic?’

Estelle blushed and looked at the almonds pooled at my feet. She crouched down and began handing them back to me. ‘I would have come the front way,’ she said softly, ‘but I was anxious not to be seen.’ She peered up at me. ‘I should have waited until you were running an errand or walking to the library, but I simply
had
to know if you were able to discover anything about my brother and his connection to the Snagsbys.’

‘Well, of course I have,’ I heard myself say. ‘Been up to my neck in the Snagsbys’ most private business.’

‘How brave you are,’ said Estelle, standing up. ‘And what have you discovered?’

‘That your brother Sebastian didn’t know the Snagsbys at all. The dreary old coots have never heard of him. So you’re barking up the wrong tree there, dear.’

Estelle was frowning violently. ‘It would seem that my own enquiries have been rather more successful than yours, for my brother had business at this house. I know it for a fact.’

‘Highly doubtful – my enquiries were frightfully thorough.’

‘In the year before Sebastian vanished he was rather ill –
nothing life-threatening, but his lungs were badly infected and he was bedridden for many months. My mother employed a nurse to care for him and this young woman and my brother formed a foolish attachment.’ Her voice dropped and her eyes shifted about. ‘They fell in love.’

‘What has that to do with the Snagsbys?’

‘Everything.’ Estelle looked past me to the house, her eyes travelling to the upper windows. ‘The nurse of whom I speak lived here, Ivy.’

That was most unexpected. Estelle seemed pleased to have startled me.

‘Perhaps now you will understand why I am so sure the Snagsbys are involved,’ she said.

‘Was the nurse a lodger?’

Estelle fixed her eyes upon mine. ‘I believe so.’

‘I wish I could help, dear,’ I said, suddenly mindful of the time. ‘But I have a great deal on my plate at the present moment and it would seem you are very capable of solving this mystery on your own.’

‘Please, Ivy, do not desert me,’ came the pitiful reply. ‘The truth about my brother lies somewhere in that house and only you can find it.’

Estelle’s lips were trembling delightfully. Tears welled and dropped, flowing from her cheeks in a majestic display of
heartbreak. While Mother Snagsby had made it very clear that the subject of Sebastian Dumbleby was closed, could I really reject this poor creature?

‘Come to my home this Thursday for tea,’ said Estelle, handing me a card with her address on it. ‘If by then you have managed to find out anything that might assist my search, then I would be most grateful.’ She smiled warmly. ‘But if not, my great-uncle and I will have the consolation of your wonderful company.’

She adored me! ‘Of course I will come,’ I said. ‘As for the nurse, let me see what I can find out.’

Estelle kissed my cheek and we parted ways beneath the almond blossoms.

While the cake was baking, I slipped upstairs and returned the recipe book to the pocket of Mother Snagsby’s dress. The old goat was snoring with abandon in the bath, which was a blessing. Then I changed into my blue dress with the white sash. Fixed my hair. Dusted the drawing room and set out the good china for my guests.

By the time I returned to the kitchen the cake was ready. I placed it atop the table and applied the vanilla icing, then set
about nestling each almond in a fetching circular pattern starting from the outside. The job was half completed when I heard Mother Snagsby’s loud groan.

‘My head hurts,’ she wailed.

‘Perfectly normal at your age,’ I called back. ‘I’d be worried if your head
wasn’t
throbbing like you’d been hit on the head with a bucket. Stay where you are and I’ll bring your robe.’

With lightning speed – for I possess all the natural instincts of a recently fired cannonball – I finished placing the almonds and hid the cake in a cupboard by the hearth. I didn’t want to risk Mother Snagsby spotting it and ruining the surprise.

‘Where on earth have you been?’ growled Mother Snagsby, as I slipped on her robe. ‘I have been soaking in this tub for an eternity.’

It was true. Her skin looked positively pickled.

‘Terribly sorry, dear,’ I said, taking her dress off the hook. ‘But I was stupendously busy getting the house in order for our guests.’

Mother Snagsby snatched the dress from my hands. ‘A likely story.’

Her hand plunged into the pocket of her dress and I saw a slight wave of relief cross her beady eyes when she felt her recipe book.

We stepped out into the hall and walked towards Mother
Snagsby’s bedroom, as I detailed all of my activities (leaving out certain moments that might cause her to erupt like a volcano). ‘I have dusted the drawing room, set out the cups and plates for tea, and prepared a tasty treat.’

We paused in the doorway to her room. Mother Snagsby glanced at the clock on the wall.

‘Mrs Roach is not due for half an hour, so there is plenty of time for you to wax the banister. Wear your apron so your dress isn’t spoilt.’

Then she closed the door in my face.

‘I do hope tea will be served promptly,’ declared Mrs Roach, sniffing the air as if she were in a stable. ‘We were just at a lunch thrown by Lady Eckhart to celebrate my birthday. The journey across town was merciless and I am terribly parched, as are my girls.’

‘That’s right, Mother,’ said Bernadette Roach with a nod of her head, ‘we are in desperate need of refreshments. Are we not, sister?’

‘Most definitely,’ said Philomena Roach.

The sisters were perched on the edge of the sofa beside their mother, who sat regally in an armchair. Mrs Roach was as wide as she was tall (which was
very
tall) and had the great fortune of resembling a cowbell. Her girls were about my age and perfectly ordinary in every way – blonde hair worn in ringlets, small brown eyes, inoffensive noses.

‘Hurry along with the tea,’ said Mother Snagsby, waving me towards the door, ‘and bring the refreshments for our guests.’

‘Not right now, dear,’ I said, wedging myself between the
Roach sisters with heartbreaking delicacy. ‘I thought we might engage in some pleasant small talk first. You will find me
fascinatin
g and I promise to look as if I feel the same about you. That way, we might get to know one another and become bosom friends.’

Mrs Roach regarded me with all the fondness of an axe murderer. ‘My girls are very selective when it comes to the company they keep. It is a great risk, taking a child off the streets – one never knows what one is going to get.’

‘It must be beastly, not knowing where you came from,’ offered Bernadette, shifting away from me. ‘You might belong to anyone,
anyone
at all.’

Philomena shuddered at the thought.

‘Fetch the tea,’ said Mother Snagsby, and her voice allowed no room to disobey.

‘Yes, Mother Snagsby.’

Mrs Dickens and I mounted the stairs – me carrying the cake plate, Mrs Dickens the tea tray. The housekeeper stopped at the top to catch her breath.

‘Are they nice girls, then?’ she asked.

‘Monstrous. But it’s clear that they have taken rather a shine to me, which is terribly helpful, as I am told they host the most wonderful parties full of thrilling entertainments.’

Mrs Dickens smiled kindly at me. ‘Some folks take a while to warm up to strangers.’