Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket (14 page)

‘If you have time to sit around talking,’ snapped a cold voice, ‘then you have time to sweep the front steps.’

We both turned as Mother Snagsby swept into the kitchen.

‘After that you can help Mrs Dickens set the drawing room to rights,’ she instructed. ‘It is still in a shocking state after the fiasco yesterday.’

I looked positively grim-faced. ‘About that, dear, I want you to know that I feel
partly
responsible for what –’

‘Save your breath, young lady,’ she snarled. ‘Complete your chores and keep your mouth closed – that is all I require of you.’

Then she turned her back and walked out. Which might have been rather soul-destroying, if not for the brilliant idea that blossomed inside my head. I took my bowl to the sink, all the while unravelling the mystery of Gretel Snagsby.

She wasn’t in Paris at finishing school. No, she was somewhere far more thrilling. The girl had fallen in love with a young man and had run away to be with him. And who was this dashing, yet sickly, young suitor? None other than the missing brother of Estelle Dumbleby, that’s who! Estelle told me that Sebastian had been ill and that he had formed an attachment to his nurse. A nursemaid who lived at the Snagsbys’ home. That girl was Gretel Snagsby!

Their love was of a most secret kind, owing to the fact that
Gretel was a mere coffin maker’s daughter and Sebastian was a genuine aristocrat. Therefore, the young lovers decided to head for the hills and live out their days in exile. Hidden from view, but wondrously together.

And as I grabbed the broom and set off towards the front steps, I felt something like my old self again. How could I not? For now I had
two
missions. To save Rebecca. And to reunite Mother Snagsby with her runaway daughter.

‘But why must you take my keys, lass?’

‘I have to go out on urgent business and I know what a strain it will be dragging yourself up and down the stairs to let me back in.’

The solution to my first – and most pressing – mission came to me while I was wiping cake from the walls in the drawing room. Although my adventure the night before hadn’t been a complete success, I had at least managed to reach Prospa House.

So it was terribly important that I was able to escape my bedroom and try again. But I could hardly rely on the Duchess. Which is why I had to get my hands on the great bunch dangling from Mrs Dickens’ belt.

‘Your mother left strict instructions that you weren’t to leave the house,’ said Mrs Dickens (who was being shockingly difficult).

‘Mother Snagsby is meeting with her accountant and will be gone all afternoon,’ was my perfectly reasonable reply. ‘Besides, Mr Blackhorn’s service is tomorrow and we haven’t enough candles.’

‘But I bought a dozen last week.’

‘You poor, overworked windbag – that was
three
weeks ago,’ I said, sitting her down on the couch. ‘Is it any wonder you forgot to lock my bedroom door last night?’

‘I haven’t felt myself these past few days.’

‘Of course you haven’t. Your brain is faulty, your breath is criminal and your nerves are shattered.’

With heartbreaking tenderness I pushed her against the armrest and untied the keys fixed to her belt. ‘I must insist, Mrs Dickens, that you let me take these and I will return them as soon as I get back. Honestly, dear, you know it makes sense.’

Although the housekeeper had begun to sniffle, wondering aloud what would become of her, she had the good sense to agree with me.

I chose a locksmith in one of the less reputable parts of town. That way, there was no chance that Mrs Dickens or the Snagsbys would discover that I was having the key to my bedroom door copied. The locksmith was a gruff-looking fellow, but he asked few questions and said to come back at two o’clock. The cost would be two shillings. Fortunately, Mrs Dickens had given me five shillings to buy more candles.

Which meant a tidy profit for me. But as I had come by the money dishonestly (the candles Mrs Dickens had purchased last week were hidden in a drawer in the viewing parlour), I felt the only proper thing to do with the remaining three shillings was to spend it on cake and hot chocolate.

With a few hours to spare, I went in search of a suitable teahouse. It was while I was roaming the busy streets that I had a most peculiar feeling. People were rushing past me, this way and that, yet all the while I sensed someone or something shadowing my every step. I spun around. No sign of anyone slightly nefarious.

I darted to the left, vanishing into the shadows of a narrow lane. From this vantage point, wedged between a tavern and a tripe shop, I could watch the passersby. If there was a villain hot on my heels they would soon be revealed.

But no one even slightly underhand caught my attention. Just a gaggle of perfectly ordinary folk going about their business. Including Miss Carnage. Which was a remarkable coincidence!
She passed by. Stopped. Walked back and stared into the darkened alley where I was safely concealed. Turned and looked in the other direction. There was a hardness to her gaze that I had never seen before. A kind of grim determination. Perhaps she had eaten some bad fruit.

I felt the moment was right to step out of the shadows.

‘Ivy!’ exclaimed Miss Carnage, adjusting her thick spectacles. ‘How unexpected! What on earth are you doing in this part of town?’

‘What are
you
doing in this part of town?’

Miss Carnage smiled tightly. ‘I am seeking out books,’ she explained. ‘A man in the next street has a collection of South American history that he hopes might be of some interest to the London Library.’

Which made perfect sense. A librarian’s life is full of such adventures.

‘I’ve had the strangest feeling I was being followed,’ I said next. ‘Then you appear as if out of thin air. Which is violently interesting.’

The librarian blushed. ‘I must make a confession, Ivy – I first spotted you from across the road and I was rather worried that you were on the trail of the unpleasant Miss Always again. So I decided to follow you and make sure that you were safe. Are you terribly cross with me?’

For the briefest of moments I had doubted her. But now I felt terribly foolish.

‘I’m here on most important business,’ I announced. ‘I would tell you all about it, but I’m afraid you would faint from the shock.’

‘Is it …’ Miss Carnage moved awfully close to me. ‘Is it to do with your friend who is far away?’

Miss Carnage was stupendously clever!

‘Yes, dear, in a way.’

‘I do wish you would go to the authorities, Ivy. I am very worried for your friend – and for
you
. Most worried, indeed.’

‘Fear not, Miss Carnage,’ I said, slapping her arm gallantly, ‘I have the matter in hand.’

The librarian folded her arms over her plump belly. She looked wonderfully grave. ‘Yesterday I had reason to open the library vault and … and I was shocked to discover that Ambrose Crabtree’s manuscript was missing. Ivy, please do not feel that I am accusing you of any crime, but I must ask if –’

‘If I stole it and started tampering with the laws of time and space? Never, dear. Not for all the tea in China.’

Miss Carnage was still frowning. ‘I am very pleased to hear it, as I regret ever telling you about that dreadful book.’ Her gaze narrowed. ‘May I ask – have you had any luck locating your friend?’

‘I … I am yet to reach Rebecca.’ For some reason I did not wish to say any more.

‘But you have tried?’ said Miss Carnage carefully.

I nodded my head.

‘Perhaps not hard enough,’ she said rather abruptly. But her face quickly softened and once again she was her old self. ‘What I mean is, if there is some urgency to her situation, then you must do everything that you can – within reason, of course. Perhaps you would let me be of some assistance?’

‘Heavens no,’ I replied. ‘My plate is rather full at the moment, but you would be of no help at all, being a bookworm and whatnot.’

Miss Carnage nodded her head. Smiled faintly. ‘Yes, you are probably right.’

Falling asleep wasn’t the plan. The
plan
was to wait until the house grew dark. Until Mother Snagsby stopped pacing the halls. Then, with my new key, unlock the bedroom door, sneak out of the house and head back to Winslow Street in search of Prospa House.

But as I sat in bed and counted the minutes, sleep had come to claim me. And it was sleep of the deepest kind. I am certain
that I would have not woken until morning, were it not for the Clock Diamond. It came to life in the still night, glowing like a lighthouse, and growing hot against my skin. I woke with a start. Quickly came to my senses. The house was utterly quiet – no sound of Mother Snagsby patrolling outside my door. The battered clock told me it was just past one in the morning. As I fished the necklace out from under my nightdress, the word
Rebecca
rushed to my lips.

I prayed that she would be there.

The night sky above London bloomed then faded inside the mystical stone, a yellow room taking its place. In it, an iron bed. Bare white floor. A chair against the wall. A girl curled up in it, wearing an ivory nightdress. Her face paler than before, dulled and slightly hazy, though the room around her was crisp enough. This time Rebecca wasn’t looking at me. Her gaze was distant.

‘Rebecca,’ I whispered. ‘Rebecca, it’s me, Ivy. Can you hear me, dear? Can you see me?’

The girl began to rock back and forth, her hair falling over her eyes.

‘Are you in Prospa House?’ I asked urgently. ‘Nod your head if that is where you are.’

She made no reply.

‘I will be back there as soon as I can and I will bring you home.’

Rebecca lifted her eyes. Just for a second. Looked right through the stone. Then her head dropped and she was shaking.

‘Talk to me, dear. Tell me exactly where you are so that I might find you.’

Rebecca glanced up suddenly. But not at me. Her eyes glistened with fear. A shadow crossed her face. Then a brutish arm seized her wrist. She screamed, but the sound was muffled and faint. The chair toppled over as the girl was wrenched from view.

I had murder in my heart. Rage in my soul. And I was glad of it!

The walk to Stockwell had passed in a blur. I did not note the three-quarter-moon. Or the rain falling lightly on the cobblestones. I cared little for the fact that I was walking about London in my nightdress. My feet bare.